Chapter 33
A politician from his hometown in North Carolina knew the chief of staff for one of the U.S.
senators from the state. Phone calls were made, letters written, strings pulled, and two months after passing the bar exam Stuart moved to Atlanta and began his new career at the Department of Justice.
He worked hard and impressed his superiors, but grew to hate the office.
He had grown up on a farm and loved the outdoors.
After two boring years, he got a lucky break when one of his former bosses became an assistant to a deputy director handling the prosecutions of suspected terrorists at Guantánamo Bay.
It was a forty-five-square-mile naval base on Cuban soil and important for maintaining operations in the Caribbean, at least according to the American government.
Castro and his gang hated its existence but were not willing to start a war over it.
The nominal rent checks paid by the United States were never cashed.
The legend was that Castro kept them in a box in his office.
—
Looking at her notes, Rae Claire said, “You went there to investigate and prosecute some of the detainees.”
“I was part of a team, one team of many, who went there to follow the orders of the higher-ups in the U.S. government.”
“Who was the chief prosecutor in charge of your team?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Michael Moody, U.S. Army. He assisted Major Willis Napier, who I had met at the Justice Department in Atlanta. Captain Napier asked me to join the team and that’s how I was sent to Gitmo. I was by far the lowest-ranking military prosecutor there.”
“Did you prosecute Al Awari Hassan?”
“Do you know the answers to these questions? I assume you do. I assume you guys know virtually everything about my past, not to mention the present. I see you have an impressive stack of notes there. Where is this going?”
“Just a few questions.”
“About Gitmo? I hated the place. It’s why I quit, left the Justice Department, and looked for something else.”
“Why did you hate it?”
“Come on, darling. Are we going to waste the next hour talking about my miserable little career as a military prosecutor? The answer is no. I’m not going there with you guys. I’m getting frustrated, okay?”
Webb pecked on his laptop but did not look up. Rae Claire, though, watched every twitch of Stuart’s body language and measured every word he uttered. Reluctantly, she smiled and said, “Just basic background, Nash. Isn’t that what your friends call you? Nash?”
“Most of them. You can too. Your choice.”
“Thanks. May I ask again why you hated Gitmo?”
“Have you been there?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Oh, of course not.”
Stuart exhaled in frustration and rolled his eyes.
He looked hard at Webb, who was captivated by his screen.
Stuart glanced at his watch and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe he was missing so much of the seminar.
He took a sip of coffee, gave her a fake little smile, and said, “Okay. I’ll play along for ten more minutes, then I’m leaving. Got it?”
She did not respond.
“The first time I went to Gitmo was in March of 2012. I was the rookie on a team of five military prosecutors sent there to investigate an alleged terrorist named Sayman al-Darbi, a Saudi national captured by our boys in Pakistan. He had been in custody for six years and we—you, me, the CIA, the U.S. military—had nothing in the file that even remotely linked him to Al Qaeda. Nonetheless, in keeping with our protocol, he had been abused, tortured, and beaten to hell and back by U.S. soldiers in the Kandahar prison in Afghanistan. He had confessed nothing because he knew nothing. Your boys, the CIA, roughed him up some more, damn near killed him, and when it was obvious he knew nothing, he was shipped to Gitmo for more abuse. We, the military prosecutors, were supposed to put together a case that did not exist, like the vast majority of the cases down there. This was 2012. There were over six hundred prisoners, or detainees, or enemy combatants, however we chose to define them, in Gitmo. At least ninety percent had no connections to terrorism.” He took another drink of coffee and said, “I could go on about Gitmo and what’s happened there, and still happening, but I don’t want to waste your time. ”
Rae Claire said, “This is not about Gitmo. This is about a covert operation to rescue three former American servicemen who we believe are being held together by the same group.”
“You brought up Gitmo, not me.”
“I did, but not to debate it.”
“Good, then move along please. The clock is ticking and we’re not making progress, at least none that I can see.”
Webb looked up from his screen and said, “Obviously, Stuart, we believe these thugs here have a connection to Gitmo. So do you. The goal is to make you an even more attractive target during your little honeymoon in Paris.”
“And how will they know about my involvement with Gitmo?”
“Add it to your résumé. Act as though you’re proud of your service. We’ll help you juice up your background. We think these guys are pretty thorough and if we’re lucky they’ll take an interest in you.”
“So I’ll be lucky enough to get kidnapped?” he snapped with a flash of anger.
He took a deep breath, tossed his pen on the table, and unloaded.
“This whole thing is crazy. You’re nuts and I’ll be an even bigger nut if I sign up for this boondoggle.
Why should I trust you? Why should I get involved with the CIA?
Hell, I know how inept it can be. I’ve seen Gitmo up close and personal.
I’ve seen your screwups. How could we forget the CIA cheerleading the war in Iraq, along with, of course, the White House?
The lies, the cover-ups, the meddling around the world.
I’ve read books about your misadventures. ”
For a moment, the small room was without oxygen as they tried to breathe. Webb studied the ceiling; Rae Claire, the table. Without another word, Stuart stood and left the room, not slamming the door but closing it with enough authority to leave doubt about whether he planned to return.
Minutes passed before Webb asked, “Will he come back?”
Calmly, Rae Claire said, “Yes.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“He’s a patriot. Plus, he needs the adrenaline. He skydives, climbs cliffs, races dirt bikes. He likes the thrill. He’s fearless.”
“Everything you want in a husband.”
“I didn’t say that.”
—
Ten minutes later the door opened and Nash walked in. He took his seat and said, “Now, where were we?”
Rae Claire said, “If you say no, then we’ll go to our next prospect.”
“Who I’m sure does not quite stack up.”
“He’s a distant second.”
“How long will that delay the operation?”
Rae Claire looked at Webb, who shrugged and said, “Maybe a year.”
“Gotta question,” Stuart said, drinking more coffee. “These three guys—any connection to Gitmo?”
Both shook their heads no. Rae Claire said, “Just some military service.”
“And what makes you think the gang will strike again?”
Webb said, “It’s a long shot. We’ve already established that, but we’re playing offense now, not sitting back and waiting. If the mission fails, you two lovebirds come home in one piece and sort out your future.”
Stuart looked at Rae Claire and said, “So, you’re willing to muddy your past with a quickie wedding and even quicker divorce?”
“Yes. I’d rather avoid a sham wedding, but the operation needs my fictional character. This is my career, Nash. Hopefully, I’m in for life.”
Webb said, “Needless to say, if the operation is successful, then Rae Claire gets a nice pat on the back.”
Stuart absorbed this and, with perfect timing, asked, “And what do I get?”
—
In a city filled with powerful politicians and the people they attracted, as well as spies, agents, and operatives of all varieties, the streets were busy with black, four-door sport utility vehicles, all perfectly shined.
They either darted through traffic with apparent impunity to any rules of the road, or they waited forever at the curb, their darkened windows concealing the identities of their drivers, if in fact anyone was actually inside.
However, since spooks were trained to move in shadows without attracting attention, the SUV that took Stuart and his new friends to lunch was not black and finely detailed and would never get a second look.
It was painted gray, in need of a good wash, at least ten years old, and licensed, ostensibly, to an owner in Maryland.
It left the Diplomat slowly, careful not to break any laws.
Its driver was dressed like any suburban mom on the way to Saturday morning soccer, but she had a dutiful air about her that said she, too, was on the same team as her passengers.
Stuart sat behind her, his backpack between his feet, his seminar drudgery a thing of the past. As they rode in silence, he had no idea where they were going and wasn’t about to ask, and he couldn’t help but feel somewhat violated.
He’d been stalked. He’d been selected and put on a list of potential ex-soldiers with law degrees, now needed again in service to their country.
They had dug through his past, found no bad behavior, and determined that he was the first choice.
Or was he? He would never know if there had been another first choice who’d had the good sense to walk away.
Perhaps there had been others. He could ask his dear Rae Claire about this but would she answer truthfully?
It really didn’t matter. The decision was now squarely in front of him.
Their interactions with other prospects were irrelevant.
After twenty minutes in traffic, the gray SUV turned off Connecticut Avenue, stopped on a side street, and Webb quickly opened the front passenger door.
“We’re here,” Rae Claire said to Stuart.
“Where?” he asked as he unsnapped his seatbelt. He got out and the driver pulled away.
They began a leisurely walk along the busy sidewalk. It was Saturday, June 18, and summer had arrived with a vengeance. Stuart drifted with the foot traffic, Rae Claire on one side, Webb on the other, neither offering a word. Real spies, Stuart thought to himself.
They entered a narrow restaurant with the kitchen by the front window and tables down one wall. Without a word from the host, they followed him to the rear and took their seats at a table set for four.
“Someone joining us?” Stuart asked, already fed up with the cloak-and-dagger nonsense. He glanced at his watch and said, for the fun of it, “Looks like we should eat fast or we’ll miss the seminar.”
Webb laughed and said, “Hell, it’s Saturday. Let’s blow it off.”
“Good idea,” Stuart said. “So where were we?”
A waitress appeared and asked about drinks. Ice water all around.
Webb took a long look toward the front and said, “I suppose you’ve heard of Trevor Keefe, director of the CIA.”
“Sure.”
“He’s run the place for the past eight years. He’d like to say hello.” Webb was standing as he spoke. Trevor Keefe was suddenly at the table, offering a hand, saying, “Mr. Nash, it’s a pleasure.”
Stuart was too surprised to attempt to stand. The hand was in his face so he shook it.
“Please keep your seat,” Keefe said, sliding into his.
Stuart recognized him, vaguely. In keeping with tradition, CIA bosses avoided the press as much as possible and went about their business far away from the front page.
Stuart recalled a recent magazine profile on Keefe and his early efforts to revive morale after the agency’s Iraq War debacle.
Keefe barely acknowledged Rae Claire and Webb, and was obviously a man in a hurry. He asked for sparkling water and told the waiter he would not be staying for lunch.
“How are things progressing?” he asked in Rae Claire’s direction.
She flashed a rare smile and said, “Almost there, don’t you think, Stuart?”
“I don’t know. There’s a lot on the table, some things I don’t know yet.”
“Such is the nature of our business, I’m afraid.”
“True, but it’s not my business, Mr. Keefe. I’m not one of you, don’t want to be. Right now I’m thinking I’d rather go back home and be left alone. Stay single for a few more years.”
Keefe waved him off and said, “Don’t get hung up on the marriage subplot. That’s a minor irritation and it’ll be over before you know it. Me, I’m on my third already.” He laughed, then Rae Claire and Webb followed suit. Stuart did not see the humor.
Suddenly frowning, Keefe asked, “Have we talked about money?”
“No,” Stuart said. “But it’s time to give it a go. You’re asking a lot of your new recruit. A fake wedding that’s not so fake, then the excitement of being kidnapped by a dangerous gang.”
“A million, cash, off the books,” Keefe said, like a mob boss.
They knew he was earning $81,000 as an entry-level assistant U.S.
attorney in Charlotte. He was living in a small new condo in a downtown high-rise that he bought the year before for $230,000, almost all of it mortgaged.
They knew a lot about his finances and there was nothing unusual or interesting.
He had borrowed a few bucks for law school but paid it back.
His family was comfortable but not wealthy.
Stuart’s father had bought and sold timberland for years and loved the bargaining. One of his favorites was to take the first offer, then double it, then gauge the reaction.
Stu shook his head and said, “That’s not enough. Two million.”
Keefe flinched slightly. Rae Claire’s face revealed nothing. Webb was lost behind a menu, but absorbing everything.
Keefe asked, “How do you figure that?”
“Simple. Alan Stockman, Jason Snyder, and Paul Tanner fetched two million each. Seems to be the going rate.”
Keefe shrugged and seemed to buy it. “Okay, two million. Half up front, half when the mission is over.”
“Not quite. There’s a decent chance I won’t be around when the mission is over. Just like there’s a decent chance those three are already dead. I want half now and half when my bride and I get to Paris. Just call it a wedding gift.”
“All right, all right,” Keefe said. “It’s just a bunch of zeros.”
Yes, and it was not Keefe’s money anyway.
With that settled, Keefe glanced at his watch and said, “Gotta go. Just remember that this project has the highest priority. I was in the Oval Office yesterday afternoon and briefed the president, vice president, and secretary of state. We will use every resource possible to protect you. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“We believe those three soldiers are still alive and we believe that you can bring them home.”
Stuart nodded but did not reply.
“Do we have a deal?” Keefe asked.
“No. Give me twenty-four hours. Alone. No one following.”
“You got it.”
Keefe took a sip of his sparkling water and said to Rae Claire, “We’ll talk tomorrow. Gotta run.”