“And what of our other clients, Roger?” Lang went on, his palms raised in supplication. “Each one of them harbors its trove of dirty secrets. If we were so reckless as to expose those of the most powerful country in the world, how could our clientele trust us not to reveal theirs?”
As much he wished otherwise, Zorn could not refute Lang’s arguments. So he agreed to delay signing the termination letters for a week while Lang explored merger options with Larry Lawless. But one week became two weeks, and then three. Now Zorn was on his way to Walter Lang’s office once again to revisit the issue.
Before crossing the hall to see the chairman, Zorn stepped into his own office and opened his laptop to check the secure email account he shared with Jack Nagy. It had been three weeks without news from Margaret Slattery about Nagy’s daughter. So Zorn jotted off a brief message to the retired spy that he had no news. A moment later he logged out of the account feeling guilty for having let Nagy down.
Leaving briefcase and laptop on his desk, Zorn crossed the hall and entered the chairman’s office. Lang was seated in a leather club chair with his back to the window, reading a spiral-bound document that appeared to be a financial prospectus of some kind. He wore his customary summer attire, a beige three-piece suit made of raw silk, a white cotton dress shirt, French-stripe knitted tie, and hand-woven leather loafers. Lang raised his head and greeted Zorn with a welcoming smile before setting the prospectus face down on the low table before him. Zorn took a seat in an identical leather chair opposite Lang’s.
Unlike the rest of the building, Walter Lang’s office was anything but post-modern. Decorated with faithful adherence to a 1920s French Art Deco style, it looked more like the library of a stuffy men’s club than an executive’s office. The walls were of dark wood paneling where they weren’t lined with shelves displaying war memorabilia that Lang and Zorn’s father had collected over the years. On the broad walnut desk adorned with floral marquetry, Zorn recognized the black-and-white marble desk set that his father had given Lang on the latter’s fiftieth birthday, with its nickel-trimmed alarm clock and twin inkwells whose lids hid paper clips and rubber bands.
But despite the muted atmosphere of the room, Zorn’s mood was anything but subdued. All weekend, a storm had been brewing inside his head and it was about to break. The chairman seemed to recognize the warning signs in his partner and avoided being the first to speak. He regarded the younger man with an attitude that blended sympathy with the resolve he would need to resist the other’s intensity.
Zorn broke the silence by wishing Lang a good morning before speaking his mind.
“I’ve been thinking about the merger talks,” he began. “I agreed to let you handle the negotiations with the understanding that you and Lawless would reach a deal quickly. And on simple cash-for-shares terms. But that’s not what happened, is it?”
“No,” Lang answered in a casual tone. “Tetra insists on a stock-for-stock swap and won’t budge. We’ve been looking for a middle way but haven’t found one.”
“I’m worried about the risk of adverse publicity,” Zorn went on. “If we were to accept Tetra’s stock as payment and then bad news broke about the ESM program, our entire gain on the sale could go up in smoke.”
“Adverse publicity is always a risk, Roger, whether we merge or not. If scandal were to hit today, it would hurt Tetra as much as it would hurt us. We’re all keen to prevent that. So what would you have us do?”
“The risk arises from the detainee abuses, which Tetra and DHS have taken pains to hide from us. Why should we share the risks of exposure when we aren’t the ones who committed the wrongs?”
“What exactly then would you propose, Roger? You don’t really mean to call off the merger, do you?”
“If we can’t finalize a deal promptly on an all-cash basis, then yes. I would execute the termination letters without further delay. That way, we could assert that we quit the program promptly upon learning of the abuses.”
“Patience, Roger, patience. Lawless has been a tough negotiator, but I believe we’re very close to an agreement.”
“What makes you think so? How can you trust Lawless?”
“I trust Larry as much or as little as I would trust any opposing negotiator,” Lang answered with a weary smile.
“Oh? How long have you known him?”
“Let’s see. If memory serves, we met at the Africa Aerospace and Defense trade show four or five years ago.”
“Odd that you didn’t mention it then. Or when you sought my permission to negotiate with him. By the way, do you know Larry’s nickname from his Iraq War days?”
“No, tell me” Lang said, with a tired expression.
“In D.C., they call him the Thief of Baghdad.”
“How charming,” Lang sniffed. “As it happens, the main reason I didn’t tell you I knew Larry is that I didn’t want you to think I had any influence over him. He and I are acquaintances, not friends.”
“Be that as it may, Walter, you and Lawless have been negotiating for weeks. Whatever your relationship with him may be, it hasn’t produced a deal. So if you still favor a merger, maybe I should take over the talks, eh? You’ve played the good cop with him. I could play the bad one.”
Zorn had no desire to follow through on the threat, but he expected it would rattle Lang and perhaps spur him to action. The idea of selling Zorn Security to Tetra Corporation was distasteful enough. For the talks to drag on endlessly while the risk of scandal mounted was inexcusable.
“I’m afraid that your replacing me won’t work,” the older man answered,” shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “My sources tell me that you’ve grown out of favor with Tetra and are no longer well-received there. To my mind, that makes it unlikely you could be an effective negotiator.”
Zorn gave a laugh that turned sour in the air.
“And who might that source be? Larry Lawless?”
“Actually, no,” Lang replied with feigned innocence. “It was Brandon Choe. Hasn’t he spoken to you about it?”
“No, he hasn’t. So perhaps you’ll share with me how he could have reached such a conclusion?”
“If you insist. Brandon said that Patrick Craven didn’t take kindly to your challenging the legality of the emergency measures before you left Washington. He and the Tetra people fear you may have aligned yourself with the program’s critics. According to Brandon’s sources, they suspect you of having gone soft on the intifada.”
The assertion was so outrageous it made Zorn’s blood boil. Whoever Choe’s sources were, it was clear they had an axe to grind. What’s more, it infuriated Zorn that Tetra had bad-mouthed him to Choe and, even worse, that Choe had repeated the complaint to Lang.
“So is Brandon insinuating that I’ve become persona non grata at Tetra and DHS?”
“That might be a bit too strong,” Lang replied with a trace of a smile. “Persona half grata, perhaps?”
The old soldier let out a strangled laugh.
“Whether I’m favored over there or not isn’t the point,” Zorn continued. “I’m not willing to let negotiations drag on forever. With each passing day, I sense a growing risk of disclosures. You said yourself that adverse publicity could hurt us as much as it hurt Tetra.”
Lang scratched the side of his neck with his index finger and shot Zorn a puzzled look.
“You seem to worry a great deal about these coming disclosures. But so far you haven’t offered any evidence of them. If you’re proposing to call off our merger talks on that basis, where is the proof? Are we to walk away from our U.S. business and bankrupt the company on your word alone? What documents or photos can you show to prove that the bodies you saw aboard the plane were alive? Or that those American-looking women you saw weren’t Canadian or British or Irish?”
As corporate officers of Zorn Security, Lang and Zorn each had a clear duty to protect minority shareholders and creditors. Zorn had no doubt that terminating the ESM contracts abruptly would cause losses. But he couldn�
��t shake the feeling that Lang was using fear of those losses as a pretext to keep the merger talks alive.
“Hard proof isn’t so easy to come by, Walter, when you’re not allowed to bring in a camera or a smartphone,” Zorn answered, his voice turning cold. “And all the documentary evidence I’ve seen is classified. For now, you’ll have to accept my word for it. But if the American public could see what I’ve seen, I believe they’d demand an immediate end to what’s being done in their name. And, one day soon, I expect they will demand it, because such massive misconduct can’t stay secret forever.”
“But it doesn’t need to stay secret forever, Roger. Just until the intifada is over. Then your public will lose interest and come to see the abuses as collateral damage of war. In my experience, public memory is exceedingly short.”
Zorn paused to collect his thoughts. He had come to Lang’s office to demand an end to the merger talks, not to prove DHS and Tetra wrongdoing beyond a reasonable doubt.
“Now see here, Walter. If you can’t wrap up the merger talks quickly, I’d rather end them now, terminate our ESM contracts, and withdraw from the U.S. market altogether. I propose we give Lawless an ultimatum: meet our price with an immediate all-cash transaction, or we walk away.”
Lang’s jaw dropped, and for a moment he was speechless.
“But, Roger, that would burn our bridges. Tetra has rejected a cash deal again and again. Currently, their best offer is a stock swap with a two-year lockup.”
“When did they make that offer?”
“Late last week. I meant to tell…”
But Zorn wouldn’t let him finish.
“They made a counteroffer last week and you didn’t see fit to tell me? You may be chairman, Walter, but I’m the majority shareholder and you have no right to withhold that information from me.”
Zorn felt his temperature rising. He paused to collect himself before addressing Lang again.
“Walter, please inform Tetra that we require an immediate cash transaction at our original asking price, with no lockup period. It’s that or no deal. And if you’re not comfortable delivering my message to your friend Larry, I’ll be happy to do it myself.”
When Zorn left Walter Lang’s office, the business day was still hours away from opening in Washington. So even if Lang were to leave a message for Lawless to return his call immediately, the response wouldn’t likely come until mid-afternoon in Toulouse.
With that timing in mind, Zorn retired to his office to continue working. Except that the confrontation with Lang had left him unable to focus. He was scarcely halfway through his morning emails when it occurred to him to check the account that he shared with Margaret Slattery for further news about Nagy’s daughter.
Zorn logged on and his heart leapt on finding a draft message that she had left for him over the weekend. It read as follows:
“Must go out shortly so I’ll make this brief:
1.Female bombing suspects seen at transit base have been returned to U.S. but their exact location remains unknown.
2.Over the past week, jihadist bombings and mass shootings have multiplied, with Antifa foot soldiers joining Islamist demonstrations and claiming credit for bombings.
3.Systematic roundups of Antifa members have begun, with high Triage scorers being sent secretly to offshore sites to keep them out of the courts.
4.Repatriations have stepped up, with many Muslim detainees sent to a U.S. facility in Niger near a U.S. drone base east of the French-run uranium mines at Arlit.
5.From your present location, can you learn more about the Arlit repatriation facility? Details needed urgently. FYI, Tetra’s man in charge is said to be Max Steiner.”
Just before noon, Roger Zorn exited the elevator in the Zorn Security headquarters lobby and headed across the marble floor to take lunch. He looked straight ahead as he went, his mind still mulling over Slattery’s message. Thus he failed to notice an athletic-looking man in his thirties who stepped out from behind a support column into his path.
"Cliff Weaver?" the man greeted him with an amused smile. It was Clayton, the co-pilot who had warned him at Corvus Base to take a different return flight and later informed him of the loadmaster Randy’s murder. Since encountering Clayton on a Rosslyn street before leaving Washington, Zorn had not heard a word from him.
"Clay!" Zorn greeted the pilot as he reached out to shake his hand. "I've been awaiting your call. Where have you been?"
"Working for Zorn Logistics here in Europe," the pilot replied with a broad grin.
"But how can that be? You never came to see me.”
"It turns out I didn’t need to. Your European operation had a severe shortage of experienced C-130 pilots. So I applied directly for a cargo-hauling slot and got it."
"But why did you wait till now to get in touch?"
"I thought I’d keep a low profile till I settled in," Clayton replied. "But just as I was starting to feel at home, they offered me a transfer to Dubai. Larger aircraft, more flight time, higher rank. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. But I wanted to see you before I left."
"Well, I'm pleased you did, Clay. But tell me, have you eaten lunch?"
"Not yet."
"Then come with me," Zorn offered, gesturing toward the door. "We'll dine at a small place down the block that serves regional specialties you won't find anywhere else."
When they reached the street, Zorn glanced behind them to see whether his security men were following. They were.
"I want to hear all about what you've been doing," Zorn continued as he steered his guest toward a neighboring office building whose ground floor contained a row of shops and restaurants. "Where have you been flying?"
"All around the Mediterranean," Clayton replied. "But mostly North Africa."
"Is that so! Where in North Africa?"
"A sleepy little town in northern Niger by the uranium mines. It’s called Arlit."
Chapter Nineteen: Repatriation
"The thing that matters is not what you bear, but how you bear it."
–Lucius Seneca
EARLY AUGUST, ARLIT, NIGER
A hooded Amjad Ibrahim stepped off the bus and felt the desert sun beating down on his back and legs through the khaki shirt and trousers he received just before flying across the Atlantic. In the distance he heard the twanging of rope against a flagpole. Behind him, a wag called out, "Thank God, a yacht club!"
Rough hands seized Amjad by his shoulders and moved him to a spot a dozen paces from where he stood. Around him he could hear the labored breathing of other prisoners through their hoods.
A few moments later, a deep command voice called out, "Prisoners may remove their head coverings. Welcome to the Sahara."
Amjad raised his bound hands to his head and removed the hood from his head and let it fall to the ground. For half a minute, the sunlight dazzled his eyes and he could barely make out the shapes of fellow detainees. He drew several deep breaths. Compared with the stale air inside the hood, the sand-laden desert air felt crisp and clean.
When his eyes adjusted to the bright mid-afternoon sun, Amjad looked around him. The men on his bus had been released into a fenced-in pen. Beyond the double-layer fence topped by razor wire were more pens, and beyond them a series of spacious yards partially sheltered under open-air tents made of a desert-camouflage mesh. The facility stood on a low hill overlooking a rock-strewn desert landscape. Outside the wire lay a vast wasteland of chaos where nothing stirred but the wind.
Amjad still couldn’t believe what had happened to him. From the day of his arrest, all the way through his interrogation, his stay at a tropical detention camp, his transport across the Atlantic, and now this god-forsaken anthill, nothing had made sense to him. It had to be some kind of Kafkaesque bureaucratic error. But if it were, how had it happened to so many others? And even if the U.S. government considered him a dangerous Islamist who had to be sent away, why move him to Africa? Why not to Bangladesh, the land of his birth, where he could rely on family
to help him back onto his feet? How would he ever make it home from so remote a place as this? How would he find his wife and children again? And how would he survive?
For the thousandth time, Amjad wondered whether all he saw and felt were merely an illusion, a nightmarish figment of his imagination. Then he remembered the test he had learned in his undergraduate psychology course, a test to distinguish between hallucination and reality.
He pressed on his eyeballs with the first two fingers of each hand. If what he saw were real, the objects would appear fuzzy when he removed the fingers and opened his eyes. If hallucinations, the images would remain clear. He waited a few seconds and opened his eyes to badly blurred images of prisoners, fences, rocks and sand. His heart sank. Suddenly a verse from the Book of Job went through his mind.
"For that which I so greatly feared is come upon me, and the thing which I dreaded has come to pass."
It was the verse his wife’s pastor had recited in church on the Sunday before his arrest. Then he remembered another verse, this one from the Sufi poet, Rumi, whose work he had studied in his youth.
"Life, what an idiotic dream!"
Roger Zorn closed the laptop computer on the meal tray before him as his company's French-built Falcon 2000S corporate jet descended toward the runway in northern Niger, roughly a hundred miles south of the Algerian border. Seen from the air, the earth below was a blasted desert landscape of endless ochre sands and outcrops of dull gray rock.
The private jet landed and taxied along the windswept runway of Arlit Airport before veering toward the passenger terminal, a low dun-hued structure that squatted beside an austere concrete tower. Through his window, Zorn could see a pair of tan-colored SUVs and an olive-drab pickup truck parked nearby. When the cabin door opened, a lean Frenchman with short-cropped gray hair entered the aircraft.
Root and Branch Page 28