“Our premises start about 800 yards southwest of this bridge,” Kumar replied. “They probably have the place under surveillance. If we follow Napier Mole Road, we will almost certainly be caught, or even if we go through any of the industrial roads or alleyways, we will be captured. I grew up on these docks. My father was a welder here and I know every inch of this place. The entire waterfront is artificially constructed and rests on piers, extending at least twenty or thirty feet inland from the water’s edge. We can easily get in there, and we should be able to come up on the dockside of KDDE. Once inside those buildings, we should be okay for a while. You see by those industrial lights there,” he motioned to acres of sodium halogen industrial lighting following the gentle curve of the harbor. “That’s KDDE. Now there are going to be a few problems,” he added, stepping off a catwalk onto a slime-covered mud bar.
“I can’t wait to hear this one,” Zak muttered, wiping tracks of mud and slime off his shirt. There was a sudden skittering sound behind one of the rotting posts.
“Rats,” said Kumar. “Lots and lots of rats.”
“That’s it,” deadpanned Richard. “I’m turning myself in.”
26
In Guantanamo, Dan Alexander screamed for lawyers, judges, and connected political friends. He boiled and raged and attempted to cajole and bribe for days. All he received were smirks and headshakes, but he did get three square meals a day and was given a copy of the Koran to read. He was told in which direction Mecca lay. Then, on day four, when he had become convinced that he had landed in a Kafka novel, two men from Washington, DC, received permission to see the ranting prisoner. George and Turbee had arrived.
George did most of the talking. Turbee was quaking in his shoes, sick with the thought that what he was doing was criminal. Dan Alexander was in a pitiable state. He had not shaved in days and had lost weight. His eyes were bloodshot and he had huge black circles beneath them. He was in the midst of withdrawal from various chemical substances.
“You two,” breathed Dan. “I should have known that you were involved in this. Let me out now and I will let you live.”
“No, no,” George said with a broad smile. “That’s not how it works.
Here are our terms. Please listen carefully.”
Dan was about to snarl a retort, but George clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Tut, tut,” said George. “You need to listen carefully. First you need to lay off Turbee here. You almost got him killed, and your lack of respect is horrendous. And you need to become TTIC’s strongest proponent. You have all of the political connections with the White House and the House and Senate.” George was enjoying the delicious role, and even Turbee smiled a bit.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Dan said, his incarceration not yet robbing him of his brittle edge.
“Shoosh,” said George. “We haven’t quite finished yet.”
“Yes,” added Turbee. “We have more.”
“Fuck off,” snapped Dan, but with less intensity as Turbee again disappeared behind George.
“Now with that fancy CJ report and all, okay, it says what it says but you leave Turbee the hell alone. It’s a free country and we can put up any website we damn well want to so long as we don’t do it on government time or with government property. Got that?”
“And if I don’t?”
“There’s more,” Turbee said. “You need to let George finish.” Turbee was emboldened, but still stood somewhat behind George.
George went through a laundry list of grievances.
“And if I don’t?” retorted Dan.
“Danno, you have no idea what we can do,” said George, improvising some. “Your assets will not become just temporarily inaccessible, but they will disappear. Your electronic identity will evaporate. You will cease to exist. And the intelligence community will not stuff your spoiled ass into a nice tropical country club like Guantanamo. No, Dan. You will end up in a place like Uzbekistan or some central African dictatorship at the hands of one of those CIA surrogate outfits. Those are rough places, Dan. You could easily loose an appendage or testicle or two. You will end up inside a bottomless pit, wondering after a while who you are or when the nightmare you’re in will end, if it ever does. Got that?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Danno, we hold the keys to get you out of here, right now. You can get on a plane and head back to DC within the hour. But you leave Turbee alone, or this particular problem that you have right now will expand exponentially.”
At length Dan gave in, and did indeed head back to Washington with his credit cards and corporate structures reinstituted. He gave Turbee a baleful glare before they parted company.
George was elated with victory as they flew back to Washington. Turbee wasn’t so sure. “I don’t care what you say, George. Dan’s whole worldview is that ‘mine is bigger than yours.’ He’s lived his whole life that way. Say what you want about throwing him into some dungeon in Uzbekistan. He is going to find some way to get even. I just can’t play that game.”
“Don’t worry, Turb. He’s been tuned up,” George replied, laughing.
As it would turn out, Turbee had the more correct prognosis.
27
Ten o’clock in Courtroom 401 came like a freight train. Leon had ice in his eyes and Dana was weighed down by briefs and volumes of law. Her long brown hair had a messy tangle to it and her jaw had a warlike clench. The prosecution team was coldly eyeing her as though she were a party favor to be unwrapped and discarded. Even the jurors had an angry air about them as they filed into the jury box. The public gallery was stacked, and an overflow room had been set aside for the less fortunate. The customary
