Counterplay Read online

  Turbee, like many others in the intelligence community, was perplexed by the Colorado Commission report. Yousseff Said al-Sabhan was clearly the directing mind of the attack. Why had his name not been mentioned?

  Why was Yousseff suddenly a great friend of the administration, opening Afghanistan to American corporations?

  With Zak and Richard safely back in Islamabad, Turbee, now bored but unable to sleep, began flipping through a number of video feeds and YouTube channels looking for anything of interest. He paused for a few moments when a complex search bot that was crawling through cyberspace looking for connections to the Colorado attack led him to Trial TV, an Atlanta-based courtwatching cable channel. The station was replaying a video segment from a courtroom in Vancouver, Canada. Five seconds stretched into minutes. The trial being replayed had some passing interest to him. Leon Lestage, familiar to the TTIC analysts, was fighting a lifetime in a Canadian jail for his role in the Colorado River terrorist attack. Initially it was the subject matter that locked his attention, but it was the actors that kept him there. Four razorsharp lawyers against one pale, inexperienced, stumbling attorney, mumbling through a trial in front of a cantankerous crank of a judge. Turbee recognized the chord.

  7

  Sheff’s opening statement was so brilliantly developed and nuanced that Dana was ready to throw in the towel right there. Leon was obviously guilty; just give him life without parole and be done with it. The day was a nonstop death spiral for Leon, whom the jury detested more by the minute. She loathed him, likely more than the jury did.

  Leon stood charged, in a Canadian courtroom, with conspiracy to murder more than 20,000 people in the US by destroying the dams on the upper Colorado River. Part of the crime had in fact taken place in Canada. Leon possessed, among other things, a coal mine called Devil’s Anvil in the Canadian Rockies, nestled near the junction of the Alberta, BC, and Montana borders. The mine had been built by his grandfather, and some of its lower tunnels meandered below the US/Canada border. Leon had extended those tunnels, and one of them resurfaced in the Flathead Valley, several miles south of the border. Leon had extended a railway track system along the southernmost tunnel.“Product,” i.e., heroin, was brought into BC along the unpatrolled northern mountain fjords along the Pacific, taken through the mine and into Montana. To double his already staggering profits, he brought guns and cocaine north and sold those in the lucrative Canadian markets.

  Leon’s key connection was an Afghan drug baron by the name of Yousseff Said al-Sabhan. Yousseff had cornered the opium—and through it—the heroin markets in Afghanistan. He shipped into the American marketplace via Devil’s Anvil.

  One day Yousseff approached Leon with a new product. It was still heroin, he said, just manufactured a little differently, and packaged a little differently. It made no difference to Leon what it looked like. Drugs were drugs and money was money and he had both in abundance. It was a large load, and Yousseff paid him a $25 million bonus to pull it through the mine.

  Leon was a thoroughly despicable, scum-of-the-earth drug dealer with few redeeming characteristics. The FBI had fingered him within hours of the investigation of the terrorist attack. They had uncovered who the suicide bombers and the planners were and had gained access to their computers. The data trails all seemed to point in one direction—to Leon Lestage. He was picked up by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police within hours, and the legal war that was now raging had begun, first with the simple possession and trafficking charges, then with the unsuccessful attempt by the Americans to have him extradited, and now, the charges he was presently facing. He had already set a number of legal records. No one in Canada (or in the US, for that matter) had ever been charged with conspiracy to murder 20,000 people. The indictment itself was 330 pages long.

  While Leon would not be facing the death penalty, his fate, if convicted, would not be pleasant. He would be placed in permanent solitary confinement, in a concrete tomb of a cell, with one hour each day permitted for exercise. He would soon be wishing for death. The evidence against him was staggering. The emails from multiple sources pointed to him as the primary operator. One brick of Semtex, the explosive that was used in the terror attack, was found at Devil’s Anvil. There was even a motive. He did it for money. The day of the attack, $25 million, was deposited in the International Bank of Barbuda. Prosecutors presented incontrovertible documents from the bank and placed them in front of the jury.

  All of this was laid out in beautiful prose, shored up by photographs and charts and diagrams in just such a manner that Leon’s guilt, beyond a reasonable doubt, was clearly established before the trial even began. Many on the jury had expressions on their faces that said: So why exactly are we here? Isn’t it obvious that this guy did it?

  Certainly Dana was of that opinion. Her client was so obviously guilty that she would play the role the system required of her, the evidence would be presented in a few weeks, there would be a guilty verdict, and that would be the end of that. Just a few weeks of hell, no more, she swore.

  8

  The sleek Gulfstream G650 came to a halt in front of the control tower at Bagram Airfield north of Kabul, Afghanistan. Yousseff Said al-Sabhan nodded as he noted the many construction projects now underway at the base. A third runway, 12,000 feet in length, was under construction. A 1,200-acre extension had been added to the base. There were excavators, bulldozers, and trucks everywhere. The permanent population of the base now exceeded 15,000 people. Large American mining companies and engineering firms maintained offices and storage facilities at the base. There were multiple restaurants, stores, movie theaters, and apartment complexes clustered around the main tower. The US military was considering changing the name from Bagram Airfield to Bagram City. The Americans now had a massive military presence in the center of the grand chessboard that was Central Asia, all because Yousseff permitted it.

  Yousseff was ushered through the terminal and into a large underground bunker complex, at the center of which the American ambassador to Afghanistan maintained an office. He chaffed as he went past the metal detectors and scanners that were common in every American station in the Middle East and stormed into the inner office of General Samuel Eggleston.

  “Yousseff, what a pleasant—”

  “I have a fortress in the Sefid Koh that has just been invaded by American gunmen. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sam?”

  “What are you talking about, Yousseff? No mission has been authorized in that area. I would be briefed on any military action in Afghanistan. Or Pakistan, for that matter. State would ask for my views, or at the very least give me advance warning. The Americans are not involved in any military action in the Sefid Koh.”

  “At least thirty of my men are dead,” continued Yousseff, angrily. “The purpose of the mission was to free Kumar Hanaman. That operation appears to have succeeded.”

  “It could not have been an American operation, Yousseff. That sort of thing does not occur without my knowledge. What makes you think it was an American operation?”

  “The security system at Inzar Ghar is state of the art. My people think that a cell phone was hacked, and from there hackers Bluetoothed into the system. I have technicians looking at it now. But they tell me the signal was transmitted from a drone, an American drone flying in the vicinity. That means it was you. And I want Kumar brought back to me.”

  “Assuming it was us for a minute, why the urgency about one particular prisoner?”

  “I am not going to tell you the details, Sam. What I will tell you is that the information he possesses has the potential of destroying my business.”

  “But what if we can’t find him?”

  “There is a simple answer to that,” Yousseff snapped. “A very simple answer. If Kumar is not brought back to me, Bagram will be returned to the Russians. Or the Chinese. Your American business ventures will be expelled from here. The natural gas, the copper, the rare metals, all that is of value here will be taken over by the state. Our state
. Afghanistan.”

  “Yousseff, that cannot happen. You cannot on a whim, on a suspicion, evict us from our bases, especially this one. We have many billions of dollars invested here.”

  “Do not test me, Sam. I own the government of Afghanistan. If Mr. Hanaman is not brought back to me forthwith, a resolution will be passed by our government to expel you. To kick you out of Bagram. You and your military and your companies and your colonialization plans. If you refuse to leave, further motions will be passed declaring that you are now invaders. If you still do not leave, a further resolution will be passed soliciting the assistance of either the Russians or the Chinese to expel you from our lands. Do you really want that?”

  General Eggleston was silent for a full minute as he considered the proposal. The rumbling of jet engines could be heard in the distance, and even here, deep underground and in the center of the base, there was a faint smell of jet fuel. Bagram was a vital point in developing the vast wealth of Central Asia. This was far beyond his pay grade.

  “Yousseff, the United States values its relationship with Afghanistan. Its wealth is being exploited to our mutual benefit. The president will be advised of this within the hour. We will do whatever is possible to return this prisoner to you.”

  “You do not really need to go that far, Sam. If you find him, put a bullet in his head.”

  “I will pass along the message,” the general replied. “He will never testify in Washington. We will deal with this internally. There will be no need to involve the Russians or the Chinese.”

  “General, he does not need to be in Washington to reveal to the world whatever his theory of the Colorado terrorist attack might be. Your job is to ensure he will never have contact with the media. Any media. Don’t assume that the only reporters and hearing rooms on the planet are in Washington or New York,” said Yousseff. “If Kumar makes a public statement anywhere, General, anywhere on the planet, your days in Afghanistan and in Bagram are done. I trust we understand one another.” Without further ado, he rose from his chair and returned to his jet.

  The general turned to one of his senior assistants. “Get the secretary of defense on the line,” he ordered. “On the secure line. Immediately.”

  Fifteen minutes later Calvin Jones came on the line. “Sam, I’m still in bed. It’s Saturday. What’s all the commotion about?”

  “CJ, we have a problem. You need to notify the president immediately.

  We have a serious issue . . . .”

  9

  Afully uniformed Marine awkwardly marched into the presidential bedroom and saluted. “There is a priority one call from the secretary of defense, sir,” he said. He was attempting to ignore Tyra Baylor, who was sitting in a recliner a few feet away, wearing a white robe and not much else, reading the presidential daily brief. The PDF was a highly classified intelligence document. The president was still in bed, his naked, white-haired chest surfacing above an assortment of sheets and blankets.

  “Just toss me the phone, Jonathon,” he said. “You may be excused.” The relieved Marine did precisely that, marching out double time.

  “Put it on speaker,” urged Tyra, which the president promptly did.

  “CJ, it’s pretty early in the morning. Less than six hours since we talked last. What’s up?”

  “Sir,” said the secretary of defense, “there has been a development. I have just received a call from General Eggleston, the commander of Bagram AFB. Yousseff paid him a personal visit. He is totally pissed that Kumar Hanaman was broken out of Inzar Ghar. He says it was Americans who did it. He either wants Kumar brought back to him, or dead, or he will boot us out of Afghanistan. He said all deals are off.”

  “Damn. CJ, we need to mobilize every resource that we have. This is worse than we thought. And much more pressing.”

  “Are you suggesting that our entire military and intelligence community should be notified? Like absolutely everybody, sir?”

  “Right on the ball, CJ. That’s why you’re in charge of the most powerful military in the world. Yes, you idiot. We must use every resource at our disposal to find Kumar. Find him and silence him.” The president disconnected the call. “Damn it, Tyra. Damn. This could unglue everything.”

  “Sir,” Tyra said, “give me some authority to investigate this. The logical starting points would be our embassies in Islamabad and Kabul. From there we can go through the DDI, and the directors and deputy directors of the various intelligence agencies. We were going to bring in the admiral anyway. Also bring in the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Pershing. We will get to the bottom of this and fix it. We can fix this, Matt.”

  “I don’t need to tell you, Tyra, what will happen to our personal interests if this goes sideways.”

  “No, sir, you don’t. If you go down, I go down. But rather than obsess about the unthinkable, let’s be more positive about the day.”

  “What could possibly be positive about any of this?”

  She tweaked one of his chest hairs. “There was a comm-link set up. We will know within hours how that was done, and then we will know who did it. From there it should be a simple matter to get the culprits, and once we have them, we have Kumar. Don’t despair about this, Matt. It’s a little bump in the road. He’s not going to talk to anyone.”

  10

  It was day two of the trial and the first Crown witness was on the stand. Leon was sitting, surrounded by bulletproof glass, in a prisoner’s dock reserved for the most violent and dangerous offenders. The only way he could communicate with his counsel was by passing a note to one of the sheriffs sitting on each side of the dock. It was handed to Dana.

  “He’s asking nothing but leading questions. Do something!” was all the note said. It was true that the questioning had gone on for twenty minutes without a single objection. Dana stood up and uncomfortably objected to Archambault’s latest question.

  “Objection, m’lord,” she said, trying to hide the fear in her voice.

  Archambault stopped and looked at Dana with irritation.

  “Objection to what?” snapped Judge Mordecai.

  “He’s asking leading questions, sir.”

  “So he is. Now what’s your problem?”

  “Well, um, well, he’s not allowed to do that.”

  “Yes he can.”

  “The textbook says he can’t, m’lord,” she said, holding an out-of-date copy of Blackstone on Criminal Evidence, quivering with the thought of contradicting Judge Mordecai.

  “Well read it all, Ms. Wittenberg,” snapped the judge. “Mr. Archambault is allowed to ask leading questions on nonessential points. The witness is describing the scene. Is there any issue with the scene?” “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Then he can lead on the scene. You are interrupting Mr. Archambault. And this trial is going to take a lot longer than scheduled if throughout it we need to teach you the basics of the law of evidence. Now sit down and shut up.”

  Dana sat, her ears and cheeks crimson, highlighting the long, thin scar. Her mind was so flustered that she began typing random things into one of her computers. Archambault took advantage of it. “Of course I will not lead on essential matters, m’lord,” he said graciously, and promptly began leading on every contentious issue in the case.

  Another thirty minutes of questioning went by. Archambault was leading evidence about the mine itself.

  “Mr. Dennis Lestage knew where the power switch for the generator supplying electricity for the mine was, didn’t he?” “Yes, sir,” replied the corporal.

  “And he appeared to you to be familiar with the layout of the mine?”

  Before Corporal Gray could answer, Judge Mordecai instructed the witness not to answer. “Ms. Wittenberg?” he said. Dana’s head was hiding behind a large video screen. “Ms. Wittenberg?” This time Judge Mordecai’s voice was raised a semi-octave and had increased by a good ten decibels.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Now those are leading questions. Are you going to let that pass?”


  “No m’lord. No. I object. He’s leading on important things now.”

  “See? You’re learning. Now pay attention and protect your client’s interests.”

  Dana mumbled something and sat down, her nose an inch from the keyboard, waiting for the next question, but not before she heard one of the juniors, McGhee, stage-whispering, “Nice job, Little Puppy.”

  She would have sunk lower, but her nose was already touching the keyboard. Leon Lestage was becoming concerned. The optics of having four prosecutors and a judge pound on the little guy were definitely attractive, but the proceedings were not going well. Leon was shrewd, and knew enough street-smart criminal law to engineer a mistrial. Maybe it was time to pull the pin on Judge Mordecai’s traveling road show, but then he would need to start over, with new counsel, who would need a few more million as well. For the first time in the endlessly complex legal tapestry in which he had become ensnared, he felt a twinge of anxiety course through him. He banished that soon enough. Leon Lestage could power his way through anything. He would give it a week or two.

  It took the better part of the day, but by the end of Corporal Gray’s testimony, the backdrop of the case had been craftily woven together. Archambault sat down and was promptly congratulated by Sheff for the skillful job. The judge looked at Dana, who was still attempting to make herself disappear.