Chapter 46
Clemency International was a feisty nonprofit headquartered in Dublin, Ireland, but active around the world.
Its lawyers took great pride in being on the front lines of fighting injustice and litigated fiercely to protect those condemned unfairly.
They defended dozens of death row inmates in the United States, where there were courts dedicated to due process.
They also fought in less civilized countries where basic human rights were not as hallowed, and where executions were carried out swiftly.
Cully Pratt was CI’s founder and most active crusader.
For thirty years he had fought against the powers of states and dictators who were determined to mistreat the people and ignore the rule of law.
He was a celebrity in the war against state-sponsored killings, and routinely appeared in American courts, as well as in Pakistan, China, Saudi Arabia, and a dozen countries in Africa.
He had been arrested numerous times, including once by the Taliban in Afghanistan, where he was almost executed.
He enjoyed the attention, gave great interviews, wrote fierce articles and op-ed pieces, and was a colorful brawler in the courtroom.
In early November, he flew to Paris and attempted to contact the FBI office in the U.S.
embassy. He had never met Pascal Goff but knew of him.
When denied a meeting, he sent an encrypted email that read: To Mr. Pascal Goff, office of the FBI.
My name is Cully Pratt, check me out on the internet.
I have valuable information regarding the three American hostages kidnapped in France.
Please do not ignore me. To do so could be disastrous for Alan Stockman, Jason Snyder, and Paul Tanner.
—
They met the following day on a park bench near the statue of Dwight D.
Eisenhower on Avenue des Champs-élysées.
By the time they shook hands, Pascal had the book on Pratt.
He was fifty-nine years old, currently divorced for the third time with several children scattered throughout his marriages, and a warrior who still worked seven days a week as he roamed the globe looking for his next fight.
He wore tortoiseshell glasses and had a head full of wild graying hair that fell almost to his shoulders.
His tailored suit belied his career as a public interest lawyer.
Clemency International had an annual budget of only $10 million, all from private donors, most from left-leaning nonprofits in the United States.
He did not offer a smile and began the conversation with a pleasant “Are you wearing a wire?”
Pascal, ever the perfect gentleman, replied, “No. Are you?”
“I don’t wear wires. Nor do I tap phones, hack computers, eavesdrop on prisoners, or kick in doors without warrants.”
Pascal kept a sappy smile and almost said something like Well, nor do we, but he knew it would not be well received. Pratt had an air, probably a perpetual one, that conveyed contempt for anyone with a badge or some authority.
Pascal said, “Okay. You called this meeting.”
“I’ll keep it brief. We have represented twenty-seven detainees at Gitmo.
‘Enemy combatants,’ as your government euphemistically calls them.
They were all rounded up by your boys after 9/11, all beaten, tortured, and starved, then sent to Gitmo where they spent years in solitary confinement while your government went about its clumsy business of trying to find proof that they were terrorists.
They, of course, found nothing because none of our clients had any connections with terrorists.
Twenty-three of our clients have been released.
Four are still there, waiting for nothing. ”
Pascal watched the traffic on the avenue and nodded along. He knew all of this.
Pratt continued, “I’ve been to Gitmo over thirty times in the past twelve years.
What a miserable place. I know your military prosecutors, and don’t ask what I think of them.
I know dozens of other defense lawyers, most of them Americans.
Brave souls trying to right a horrible wrong.
So, let’s just say I’m connected, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I have been contacted by a source you’ll never know and informed of the three Americans being held.
I don’t know where they are and I don’t know who is holding them.
I do know that none of my clients, past and present, are involved, so don’t hustle about trying to track down my ex-clients.
That would be a colossal waste of time, one that I’m sure your government will pursue with reckless abandon.
The men holding the three Americans are not stupid and they have plenty of contacts.
They catch wind of your spooks trying to find them and things will end badly.
There is a peaceful and satisfactory way out of this if your government will simply behave and play the game. ”
“What do they want?” Pascal asked.
“We’ll discuss that tomorrow when we meet in my office in Dublin.”
“May I ask why Dublin?”
“You may. It’s my turf. I do not trust your government for a split second.
If you knew what I know you wouldn’t trust it either.
My office is on Irish soil and that affords protection.
I don’t have to worry about being watched or hacked.
My office is remarkably free of bugs, wiretaps, unlawful intrusions, the usual dirty tricks your security services so enjoy. ”
Pascal swallowed hard. He couldn’t really argue and it would serve no purpose anyway. “Tomorrow seems rather soon.”
“Not soon enough. Today is November seventh. There is a deadline involved which we’ll discuss tomorrow.
You’re invited to the meeting, and I want you to bring with you a deputy director of the CIA, God knows there are plenty, but I want someone with clout.
I also want a vice-consul from your State Department, someone stationed in Dublin. ”
“A deputy director will have to come from Washington.”
“There are plenty of flights between now and then. Probably a fleet of private jets. Just get it done. Four p.m. tomorrow at my office in the Bridge Street District. I’m sure you boys have the place under surveillance as we speak.
And no funny stuff tomorrow. No wires or hidden mikes.
Our security will check you at the door. ”
“Okay. We’ll be there.”
“Good. And email the names of the other two in your party. That’s three, and no more.”
With that, Cully Martin Pratt stood and walked away without another word.
—
At 3:45 the following afternoon, Pascal Goff and two others entered the reception foyer of Clemency International.
Dexter Maceas had been sent by Trevor Keefe, CIA director, and though he was technically not a deputy director, Pratt had approved him.
The U.S. embassy in Dublin sent its vice-consul, Albert Levondoski, a career State Department troubleshooter.
They were led to a small conference room where they waited for ten minutes.
No one offered coffee or water. The walls were covered with framed photographs of unnamed characters, all of whom, they assumed, were CI clients.
Two security men in dark suits entered, said hello, and asked them to remove their jackets.
They were frisked and scanned with a handheld detector that didn’t beep or glow.
Once cleared, they put on their jackets and followed security to Pratt’s office, a sprawling room with a large cluttered desk in the center and more photographs on the walls, most of which featured Pratt in action either in court or standing before microphones.
Pratt greeted them properly and offered them seats around a small conference table, also cluttered. There was no small talk. Pratt did not apologize for the urgency of the meeting and there was no mention of anything to drink.
He got down to business with “Through some very deep back channels I have been contacted and asked to serve as the intermediary between the group holding the three hostages and your government. I have been informed that the three are safe and in good health, though that could change in an instant if terms are not met. The offer is simple, at least on its face. For the safe release of Stockman, Snyder, and Tanner the price is one hundred million dollars.”
This was received with no reaction. The three, along with their superiors, had speculated all night about the size of the ransom. A hundred million had been tossed around, though it was generally believed to be on the high side.
Before they could respond, Pratt continued: “Before you say what I know you’re going to say, let me assure you that no one involved will believe what you are about to say.
Your position is that you do not negotiate with terrorists, but of course that is just posturing.
That is just something you’re required to say.
The truth is you do and you will. Take a hard line, gentlemen, and you will regret it. ”
Solemn frowns all around. When it was clear Pratt was now waiting, Dexter Maceas said, “And there is a deadline?”
“Yes. If the terms are rejected, the executions will begin. I don’t know exactly when or how, but I suspect it will be by some gruesome method, recorded on video and seen around the world.
Three days later, the second one, and so on.
” A long, heavy pause as this settled in.
Pratt said, “These are not my terms, gentlemen, I’m just the messenger. ”
It was obvious Pratt was uncomfortable being the messenger but was savoring the task of making the Americans squirm. There was little doubt, both in Dublin and Washington, that the terrorists would do exactly what they were threatening to do.
Maceas said, “Okay, got it. Anything else we should know? Is there a deadline for our response?”
“No, but I’d be quick. If you agree, then I’m sure I’ll be given the logistics of the ransom and release.”
A full military operation would be required to rescue the hostages, assuming they could ever be located.
Other than the clues about Algeria, American intelligence had nothing.
The French, the Israelis, even the Algerians, had nothing.
Such an operation would probably cost far more than $100 million.
Maceas said, “Okay, if there’s nothing else, let us report to Washington.”