Yousseff himself had provided photographs and blueprints of the Allegro Star to the Americans. Turbee had been given the specific task of programming a bot search that would coordinate the many American satellites flying above the Indian Ocean and have them commence a systematic grid search looking for a craft with the dimensions and configuration of the Allegro Star.
As Turbee was creating the necessary flowcharts for such a task his cell phone rang. “Yes?” he answered hesitantly.
There was a brief pause. “Turbee? Is this Hamilton Turbee?” came Richard’s voice over the sat phone connection.
“Yes. Richard? Is that you?”
Richard pieced together what had happened. “Turbee, listen carefully. Get to one of the side boardrooms before you talk.” Turbee did so, and Richard, in due course, continued. “We were trying to repair Zak’s arm, and we must have accidently tripped a call-the-last-called-number instruction on the sat phone. Zak, Kumar, and I are safe. We have left Karachi Harbor in an experimental ship called the Allegro Star. We are heading toward the Indian Ocean.”
“I’m not supposed to be talking to you,” Turbee whispered. “The entire American military is after you guys. They say you’ve gone rogue. The instructions are to sink your ship with the three of you on it.”
“Turbee, we are going to put an end to that. Before we are done, everyone will know who the real rogues are.”
“That may be so, Richard. But these guys are serious. They have arrested Liam. Marched him right out of here in handcuffs. The admiral himself has been arrested. According to Dan they were both dirty. Getting Kumar out of Inzar Ghar was a rogue operation. I’m not sure where it’s going.” Turbee was speaking quickly but softly, terrified that he would be overheard or that the call would be intercepted by some other agency.
“Turbee, they are going to search by drone and satellite. Try to direct them away from us, Turb. We’re off the west coast of India heading southeast. Try to get them to prioritize other areas. We’ll survive this.”
“Okay, Richard.”
“We may need your help here again in a day or two. We will call again.” Richard disconnected the call.
Turbee pocketed the phone and returned to the control room. He had a glazed expression on his face. George, sitting beside him, noticed his friend’s disquiet. “Hey, Turbee, are you okay? You’re looking a little off.”
Turbee shook his head. “George, I’m feeling kind of sick.”
Back on the Allegro Star Richard looked at Zak, shaking his head. “They’ve lost their minds in DC. They’ve arrested two sterling patriots. Liam and the admiral are accused of going rogue. Buckingham was right. The admiral wanted Kumar out of Inzar Ghar so he could talk. Tell the world who was really behind the Colorado attack. If they’re prepared to arrest people like that, they will blow us out of the water the first chance they get.” “So what the hell are we going to do?” asked Zak.
Richard looked at him and shrugged.
32
Another day was about to unfold in Courtroom 401. Dana’s computers were set up, but no little Trojan had appeared. There was no Lee Penn-Garrett in the courtroom and no magical order from the Court of Appeal. Tired as a cliché, weak from jail, cold, dirty, and unshowered, she slouched toward the counsel table. She had come to rely on Penn-Garrett. As the clerk bellowed, “Order in the court,” Dana stood up and frantically scoured the entire gallery. No octogenarian attorneys armed with appellate orders. She was on her own.
“Holy cow,” said McGhee, not even bothering to whisper. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“You been dumpster diving?” chimed Danson.
Judge Mordecai gave her a piercing glare. “Continue with cross-examination,” he said, nodding in Dana’s direction.
“Yes, my lord,” said Dana, slowly rising to her feet and walking to the end of counsel table, where she preferred to be while on her feet. She gave her third computer a 180-degree turn, so that if Turbee were inclined to make an appearance she would see it.
Once again Dana was flustered. Looking for her notes, she knocked over her water glass. The desk surface in front of her became a lake, with clusters of notes and documents floating between texts and computers, flotsam in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
“Do you need a moment to compose yourself, Ms. Wittenberg?” the judge asked sarcastically.
“No, no, my lord, I’m good. The night in cells composed me wonderfully,” she said as she fished her cross-examination notes out of the current with one hand and plucked Kleenex after Kleenex from the clerk’s box with the other, hoping to soak up most of the mess. The entire peanut gallery saw the clumsy move, and a titter murmured through the crowd.
“She’s got to be doing this on purpose,” Archambault whispered to Sheff. “Some kind of theater deal maybe? Cutting-edge lawyering?”
“Maybe she’s trying to gain the sympathy of the jury,” Sheff responded in muted tones. “Who knows? Who cares?”
Dana had prepared to examine Indy on the missing documents, but PennGarrett was nowhere to be seen. She had hoped that Turbee would feed her a few questions, but was unaware he was awash in a guilt crisis. She had notes prepared, notes that were now unreadable because of the latest water glass disaster. She began, somewhat aimlessly, to ask Indy further questions about the Lestage mine.
“You’ve testified about all of the drugs and guns that you found in Devil’s Anvil,” Dana began.
“I have,” he responded calmly.
“Millions of dollars of Canadian money, American money, cocaine, heroin, and marijuana. That’s what you found.”
“I did.”
“Why is she going over this?” said McGhee in a loud whisper. “She’s repeating the case for us.”
“Again,” Archambault added. “When you’re doing your own trials, think of how she’s working, and then do the exact opposite.” Snickers waxed and waned.
Dana heard the remark but persevered. “All of this was toward the end of the long tunnel that that connected southern British Columbia to northern Montana?”
“Yes. That was
