Locked On Part 14

The prisoner said nothing, but Cochrane could tell he understood her. She'd worked almost exclusively with those whose native language was other than her own, and she had no trouble discerning either recognition or befuddlement. She continued, "I am an attorney for the Progressive Const.i.tution Initiative. U.S. Attorney General Michael Brannigan has decided that your case will be handled in U.S. District Court for the Western District of Virginia. The AG's office will be preparing the prosecution against you, and my organization has been retained to provide you with your defense. Do you understand me so far?"

She waited a moment for a response, but the man known as Prisoner 09341-000 just stared back at her.

"We can expect this to be a lengthy process, certainly over a year in duration, likely closer to two years. Before that can even begin, there are several preliminary steps we need to-"

"I would like to speak with someone from Amnesty International about my illegal imprisonment."

Cochrane nodded sympathetically but said, "I am afraid I am not in a position to make that happen. I a.s.sure you that I am working in your interests, and the first order of business will be to a.s.sess the conditions of your confinement so that you are afforded proper care and treatment."

The Emir just repeated himself. "I would like to speak with someone from Amnesty International about my illegal imprisonment."

"Sir, you are lucky that you are speaking to anyone at all."

"I would like to speak to someone from Amnesty International about my-"

Cochrane sighed. "Mr. Yasin. I know your playbook. One of your manuals was picked up by American Special Forces soldiers in Kandahar a few years ago. It laid out, in minute detail, instructions for dealing with capture and captivity.

"I knew you would ask for a representative of Amnesty International. I am not with Amnesty International, true, but I am with an organization that will be much more beneficial to you in the long run."

Yasin stared at her for a long moment, holding the receiver to his ear. Then he spoke again, altering the script. "You have given that speech before."

"Indeed. I have represented many men and one or two women that the United States has labeled enemy combatants. Every last one of you has read that manual. You may be the first person I've spoken to who likely wrote some of the manual." She smiled when she said this.

Yasin did not respond.

Cochrane continued, "I understand how you must feel. Don't talk for now. Just listen to what I have to say. The President of the United States and the attorney general have personally spoken with the director of the Bureau of Prisons to stress how important it is that you have confidential conversations with your legal team."

"My . . . my what?"

"Your legal team. Myself, and other attorneys from PCI, that is the Progressive Const.i.tution Initiative, who you will meet in the coming months."

The Emir did not speak.

"I'm sorry. Are you having trouble understanding me? Should I arrange for a translator?"

The Emir understood the woman perfectly. It wasn't the English language that was slowing down his portion of the conversation, it was, rather, his astonishment that the Americans were, after all this time, going to put him on trial. He stared at the fat woman with the short gray hair. She looked to him like a man, a very ugly man who dressed in women's clothing.

He smiled at her slowly. Saif Rahman Yasin had long known that it was only the fool's luck of geography that the United States of America had survived two-hundred-plus years on this earth. If these imbeciles had their nation lifted out of their hemisphere and dropped into the center of the Middle East, with their childlike acquiescence to those who would do them harm, they would not survive a single year.

"Miss, are you saying that there is no one listening to what we say?"

"No one, Mr. Yasin."

The Emir shook his head and grunted. "Preposterous."

"I a.s.sure you, you can speak freely with me."

"That would be insane."

"We have a Const.i.tution that allows you some rights, Mr. Yasin. It's what makes my country great. Unfortunately, the climate in my country is against people of color, people of other races and religious beliefs. For this reason, you are not afforded all the benefits of our Const.i.tution. But still . . . you get some. You have the right to confidential meetings with your legal counsel."

He saw now that she was telling the truth. And he fought back a smile.

Yes . . . that is what makes your country great.

It is populated with fools like you.

"Very well," he said. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Today, only the conditions of your confinement. The warden and the FBI team in charge of your custody have shown me the Special Administrative Measures that you are under. They tell me that when you arrived here all your rules were explained to you."

The Emir said, "It was worse in the other places."

Cochrane raised a small wrinkled hand. "Okay, now is probably a good time to go through some of our ground rules. I can go into more detail when we actually begin working on your case, but for now I will just say that I am not allowed to record any detail of your capture or detainment before you arrived here at ADX Florence three months ago. In fact, I am required to inform you that you are not allowed to tell me about anything that happened before you were transferred into federal custody from"-she chose her next words carefully-"from where you came from before."

"I am not allowed?"

"I'm afraid not."

Yasin shook his head slowly, incredulously. "And what will my punishment be if I violate that arrangement?" He winked at the woman in front of him. "Will they put me in jail?"

Judith Cochrane laughed. Quickly she caught herself. "I can understand that this is a unique situation. The government is making this up as they go along. They are having some . . . growing pains in deciding how to handle your situation. They have a track record of trying so-called enemy combatants in federal court, though, and I can a.s.sure you my organization will hold the attorney general's office to high standards during your trial."

"ADX Florence? Is that what this place is called?"

"Yes. I'm sorry; I should have known that was not clear to you. You are in a federal prison in Colorado. Anyway . . . tell me about your treatment here."

He held her gaze as he said, "My treatment here is better than my treatment at the other places."

Cochrane gave another sympathetic nod, a gesture she'd made a million times in her long career of defending the indefensible. "I'm sorry, Mr. Yasin. That part of your ordeal will never be a part of our discussions."

"And why is that?"

"We had to agree to this condition in order to be allowed access to you. Your time in U.S. custody is divided, and the dividing line is the moment you came here, the moment you entered the federal system. Everything before that, I a.s.sume, involved the U.S. military and intelligence community, and that will not be part of your defense. If we force this issue at all, the Department of Justice will just remand you back to military custody and you will be sent to Guantanamo Bay, and G.o.d knows what will happen to you there."

The Emir thought this over for a few moments and then said, "Very well."

"Now, then. How often are you allowed to bathe?"

"To . . . bathe?" What madness is this? thought the Emir. If a woman asked him this in the Pakistani tribal regions where he'd spent much of the past few years, she would be flogged to death surrounded by a crowd of gleeful onlookers.

"Yes. I need to know about your hygiene. Whether or not your physical needs are being met. The bathroom facilities, are they acceptable to you?"

"In my culture, Judith Cochrane, it is not proper for a man to discuss this with a woman."

She nodded. "I understand. This is not comfortable for you. It is awkward for me. But I a.s.sure you, Mr. Yasin, I am working in your interests."

"There is no reason for you to be interested in my toilet habits. I want to know what you will do about my trial."

Cochrane smiled. "As I said, it is a slow process. Immediately we will pet.i.tion for a writ of habeas corpus. This is a demand that you be taken before the judge, who will then determine if the prison system has the authority to hold you. The writ will be denied, it won't go anywhere, it never does, but it puts the system on notice that we will vigorously attend to your case."

"Miss Cochrane, if you were vigorous about defending me, you would listen to my explanation of how I was captured. It was wholly illegal."

"I told you. That is off-limits by agreement with the Justice Department."

"Why would they do that? Because they have something to hide?"

"Of course they have something to hide. There is no legal justification for the United States' kidnapping of you. I know that and you know that. But that is what happened." She sighed. "If I am going to represent you, you are going to have to trust me. Can you please do that for me?"

The Emir looked at her face. It was imploring, sincere, earnest. Ridiculous. He would play along for now. "I would like a paper and pencil. I would like to make some sketches."

"Sketches? Why?"

"Just to pa.s.s the time."

She nodded, looked around the room. "I think I can persuade DOJ that that is a reasonable request. I will get to work on that as soon as I get back to my hotel."

"Thank you."

"You are welcome. Now . . . recreation. I would like to hear about what your recreation consists of. Would you care to talk about that?"

"I would prefer we talk about the torture I endured at the hands of American spies."

Cochrane folded her notebook with another long sigh. "I will be back in three days. Hopefully by then you will have something to sketch with and some paper; I should be able to manage that with a letter to the attorney general. In the meantime, think about what I've told you today. Think about our ground rules, but also please think about ways you can benefit from a trial. You need to consider this as an opportunity for you and your . . . your cause. You can, with my help, stick a finger in the eye of the American government. Wouldn't you like that?"

"And you have helped others stick their fingers in the eye of America?"

Cochrane smiled proudly. "Many times, Mr. Yasin. I told you I have a lot of experience in this."

"You told me you have a lot of clients in prison. That is not experience that I find particularly impressive in an attorney."

Now she spoke defensively. "Those clients are in prison, but they are not on death row. And they are not in a military stockade, unlike a lot of others. The supermax prison is not the worst fate."

"Martyrdom is preferred."

"Well, I won't help you with that. If you want to be dragged into a dark corner of this place and given a lethal injection, you manage that on your own. But I know men like you, Mr. Yasin. That's not what you want."

The Emir kept a faint smile on his lips, but it was just for show. In his head he was thinking, No, Judith Cochrane. You do not know any man like me.

But when he spoke he said, "I am sorry I have not been more pleasant. I have forgotten my manners in the many months since my last conversation with a kind soul."

The sixty-one-year-old American woman melted in front of him. She even leaned forward toward the gla.s.s part.i.tion, closing the distance between the two of them. "I will make things better for you, Saif Rahman Yasin. Just trust me. Let me get to work on the paper and pencil; perhaps I can arrange a little privacy for you, or a little more s.p.a.ce. As I tell my clients, this will always be a prison, not paradise, but I will make it better."

"I understand that. Paradise awaits me; this is merely the waiting room. I would choose it to be more luxurious, but the suffering I endure now will only serve me in paradise."

"That's one way to look at it." Judith Cochrane smiled.

"I'll see you in three days."

"Thank you, Ms. Cochrane." The Emir c.o.c.ked his head and smiled. "I am sorry. How rude. Is it Mrs. or Miss?"

"I am unmarried," replied Judith, warmth filling her fleshy cheeks and jowls.

Yasin smiled. "I see."

Jack Ryan Jr. arrived at Liberty Crossing, the name given the campus of the National Counterterrorism Center, just after eleven a.m. He had a lunch date with Mary Pat Foley, but Mary Pat asked him to come early for a personal tour of the building.

At first Mary Pat had suggested she and Jack dine at the restaurant there at NCTC after the tour. But Junior had made clear that there would be a business component to the lunch, and for that reason he preferred they went someplace off-site and quiet where they could talk shop. Mary Pat Foley was the only person at Liberty Crossing who knew of the existence of The Campus, and Jack wanted to keep it that way.

Jack pulled to the front gate in his yellow H3; he showed his ID to a tough-looking guard who checked his name off a list of approved visitors on his computer. The guard waved the Hummer through, and Jack continued on to his meeting with the number-two NCTC executive.

She met him in the lobby, helped him get his credentials, and together they shot up an elevator to the operations center. This was Mary Pat's realm, and she made certain to spend a portion of each day walking among the a.n.a.lysts working here, making herself available to anyone who needed a moment of the deputy director's time.

The room was impressive; there were dozens of workstations facing several large wall displays. The huge open s.p.a.ce amazed Ryan; he couldn't help but compare it to his own shop, which, although possessing state-of-the-art technology, did not look nearly as cool as the NCTC's setup. Still, Jack realized, he and his fellow a.n.a.lysts were privy to virtually every bit of intelligence that flashed across the monitors around him.

Mary Pat enjoyed the role of tour guide for young Ryan, as she explained that more than sixteen agencies worked together here at the National Counterterrorism Center, compiling, prioritizing, and a.n.a.lyzing data that came to it from intelligence sources across the U.S. intelligence community as well as directly from foreign partners.

This op center, she explained, was up and running twenty-four/seven, and she was proud of its impressive feat of coordination in a bureaucracy such as the U.S. federal government.

Mary Pat did not bother any of the a.n.a.lysts working at their desks as she and Jack wove through the busy operations center-if each person in the room had to stop what they were doing each time a VIP was ushered by, little important work would get done-but she did direct Jack to a workstation near the hallway that led to her office. Here Jack noticed a gorgeous girl about his age with mid-length dark hair in a ponytail.

Mrs. Foley finished her spiel on the virtues of interagency cooperation with a shrug. "That's how it's supposed to work, anyway. We do pretty well, most of the time, but like anything else, we are only as good as the data we a.n.a.lyze. Better product means better conclusions."

Jack nodded. It was the same with him. He was looking forward to getting out of the building so he could share with Mary Pat the excellent product he had brought with him.

"Thanks for the tour."

"You bet. Let's go eat. But first, I'd like you to meet someone."

"Great," said Jack, and he caught himself hoping it was the good-looking girl busy at her desk right next to them.

"Melanie, do you have a second?"

To Ryan's pleasure, the girl with the chestnut hair stood and turned around. She wore a light blue b.u.t.ton-down shirt and a navy knee-length pencil skirt. Jack saw a navy jacket over the back of her swivel chair. "Jack Ryan Jr., meet Melanie Kraft. She's my newest star here at the op center."

The two shook hands with smiles.

Melanie said, "Mary Pat, when I joined, you didn't tell me I would get to meet celebrities."

"Junior's not a celebrity. He's family."

Ryan groaned inwardly at being called Junior in front of this girl. Jack thought she was stunning; he had a hard time turning away from her bright, friendly eyes.