Laboriously, the government began a yearlong project of reconstructing, second by second, what had occurred. The internet rumor machine went into overdrive and dozens of theories were hatched and developed. Lestage himself had orchestrated it in an effort to escape custody; the Russians had done it because whenever anything malevolent transpired, the Russians had to be involved; the CIA/FBI/DEA had done it; the Canadian armed forces, or the American armed forces or, in fact, armed forces from any jurisdiction that came to mind were involved. The usual extremists argued that it was all a hoax somehow orchestrated out of Zurich/Jerusalem. With the police still collecting evidence, Lestage’s trial continued. By 2:00 p.m., the blood was wiped up, crews were arriving to fix the bullet-holed and shattered glass, and extra security was in place. In Courtroom 401, Dana was up.
“Are we all ready to go after that entertaining bit of gunplay we had yesterday morning? Liveliest this outfit’s been in forty years.”
Dana nodded. “Yes m’lord, we’re ready to go.”
There was the usual introduction of the witness to the court, and Dana went through Kumar’s name and occupation. “What is it that you do for a living, Mr. Hanaman?”
“I am an engineer. My company builds submarines and small specialty ships.”
“Where do you work?”
Kumar gave evidence about the businesses in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and California. He gave detailed evidence about his education and the growth of these various businesses. The court was presented with a clear picture of the man and his amazing talents. It was a short afternoon, given the confusion and uncertainty that the uproar of the previous day had caused. The clock went to 3:30, a grudging truncation of the usual afternoon, granted to give the construction and repair crew more time to continue to rehabilitate the courtroom. Given a half hour break and the slow start, Dana, still unsure of where the evidence would go, barely went beyond the point of painting a picture of Kumar’s background and his involvement with Karachi Dry Dock and Engineering and its sister company, Pacific Western Submersibles.
“Now,” she said, “with the clock reaching 3:30, we’ve not mentioned a gentleman by the name of Yousseff Said al-Sabhan. When did you first meet—”
The judge cut her off. “The carpenters need to get back in here. I’m tired. You seem to be switching to a different topic. That will be a good place to start in the morning. We’re adjourned.”
Tyra was immediately on the phone to the president’s chief of staff. “Put me through, Marv. This is important. I don’t care who he is with or what he’s doing.”
Marv knew that Tyra would not push for such an intrusion unless she had a very good reason. The president took the call. “Yes, Tyra?”
“We got a break. Something finally went our way. Kumar testified for an hour or so and did not mention the terrorist attack once, or the connection between him and Yousseff. Wittenberg was just getting to that point when the judge adjourned for the day. If we can figure out a way to adjourn this trial, even for a few days, we can make this problem go away.”
“Do what you have to do, Tyra. Get us the hell out of this.”
“My ass is hanging out a mile. Time to cut me in for half.”
The president didn’t need any time to reflect on that. “Deal,” he said.
“In writing,” she said.
A few more details had to be worked out, but it would easily go her way. She would become fabulously, amazingly wealthy. Hundreds of millions of dollars wealthy. A nice payday for a few simple tasks. She phoned the two agents who had remained behind, Wilder and Fitzpatrick. “I have a job for you guys . . .”
There are many extrajudicial ways to get a trial adjourned.
59
It was well past 2:00 a.m. and the content Wittenberg household was deep in sleep. Tyra Baylor was lurking. For most agents, the chore at hand would be unpleasant in the extreme. A number, mainly those not interested in promotions, would have declined. Not Tyra. The intoxication of the pre-kill thrill was overpowering. These moments were too few and far between. Pushing her mother down the stairs. Burning down the orphanage. The glorious Syrian interrogation. The orgy of wet work required to ensure that Matthew Finnegan’s agenda was advanced. His presidency would have been unsuccessful without her. She lived for these moments when she wielded the power of life or death. Unfortunately, tonight, the moment would not be prolonged; the prey needed to be terminated, not played with.
She screwed the suppressor onto her Beretta and fished around her jacket pocket for her lock-picking tools. She was absolutely silent and descended the stairs like a wraith, picked the lock in seconds and, like smoke, entered Dana’s basement suite.
As the apparition descended the stairs, Bam-Bam, snoring (it was Chris’s one critique of the Saint Bernard), apparently dead to the world, abruptly opened one eye. As Tyra was congratulating herself over the lunar nature of the break-in, Bam-Bam opened his other eye and emitted a deep, soft, belly rumble. Dana turned in her sleep, throwing one arm across Chris’s naked chest. She was oblivious to Bam-Bam’s blast of adrenalin and that he was now crouched, lionlike, at the foot of the bed. Tyra wasn’t familiar with the floor plan, but knew there was a theme to basement suites. Kitchenette, dining/living area, small bathroom, small bedroom. She let her eyes adjust to the dark. There was sufficient light thrown off from various high-tech gadgets for her to see where the bedroom was. She drifted toward the door, gun in hand. The door was not fully shut, and with one hand, she slowly pushed it open. She
