The flight went smoothly. He’d put in for back leave, left Burke-Bowden in charge, and flown commercial from Washington direct to Amsterdam. In civvies, since he wasn’t under orders. He’d treated himself to business class. Considering what might be in store.
At Schiphol he halted a few meters from the EU check-in booths. Beyond them, barely restrained by customs agents in gray-blue uniforms, a scrum of reporters surged like wind-driven swells against a stone breakwater. They held up cell phones and digital recorders. Somebody hot must be due in. Royalty, a celebrity, an influencer. But as his passport was being stamped he suddenly made out what they were yelling.
“Admiral! Admiral Lenson! Do you have a comment—”
Past the booth, and he was in it, like chum in a boil of bluefish. He fended off mics and hands, trying to elbow through. Resisting the temptation to cover his face. One guy yelled, “Are you pleading guilty, Dan?”
Another, in a German accent: “Are you sorry you left them to die?”
A less hostile voice, a woman’s: “What made you decide to extradite yourself?”
Just … fucking … great. From the looks of things, his case, or maybe his self-surrender, was blowing up the internet.
They badgered him all the way out of the terminal, but he shook them at last at the taxi stand. In the cab, he canceled his dot-com reservation for the Ambassade, and asked the driver to take him to an inexpensive place near the train station. “And wait until I check in, please.”
He ended up at a budget three-story on Weteringschans. Signed in, dropped his overnighter in a cramped basement room, then was off again. He’d scheduled an hour’s sit-down with the historian and architect at the Scheepvaartmuseum, the Netherlands’ primary maritime museum.
Dating from 1656, the five-story stone structure, only a little smaller than Bancroft, had been built on dredged spoil too. The historian told him the pilings had held up, despite seepage and fill creep from the surrounding canals. He also led Dan through the three-masted East Indiaman moored out back, where he barked his forehead painfully on a low beam in the cheese room.
It was good to have some at least semiofficial business to take care of. Still, it was hard to shake the gnawing at his gut.
The ICC could award prison sentences of up to thirty years.
The next morning dawned dark and raining hard. Of course … He borrowed an umbrella at the front desk. It came in handy on the way to the station, as water poured from a deck-gray sky.
After forty-five minutes on a sparkling-clean, extremely fast electric train, he debarked at The Hague.
Koninginnegracht 14H was an unobtrusive façade of opaque glass with a small brass CORRIS & PARTNERS sign. Beneath that, INCASSO EN JURIDISCH ADVIES. Which pretty much defined what he was here for, if he understood Dutch. Fortunately, the media seemed to have lost him. He touched a buzzer and the door clicked.
This was the first time he’d met his counsel, though of course they’d had phone and video conversations since Blair hooked him up.
Mukhtar Corris was slight and steel-spectacled in a gray suit with nearly invisible pinstripes. His tie, too, was gray, but in a slightly different pattern of … trilobites? Dan, in a travel-rumpled sport coat and slacks, suddenly felt underdressed.
In a book-lined study the attorney poured him hot tea and settled behind a desk. Facing him, yet some feet away. A fiftyish woman with severely bobbed gray hair set a recorder between them, then took a seat against the wall. Corris introduced her as Margaretha. The furniture was so modern and angular it looked painful, all chrome, leather, and weirdly bent wood. A framed quotation on the wall read Every injustice committed against an individual is, in the end, experienced by all humanity.
“Peter Kropotkin,” Corris said, noticing him noticing it. “You know his work?”
“No. Sorry.”
The attorney seemed wary. Dan doubted it was because he didn’t recognize some writer. He wondered how many mass murderers, ex-presidents, and agents of genocide had warmed this same obviously expensive but acutely uncomfortable chair his ass now occupied. Corris shrugged. “Perhaps a bit dated by now … your forehead. You have been injured?”
Dan touched the bump. “It’s nothing. Banged it on a low overhead this morning.”
“Ah, that’s good. That it is nothing. So. Let us review our situation.” He gazed at the ceiling, as if speaking by rote. “The ICC hears accusations against individuals. In your case, Admiral, for a war crime. The US is not a signatory to the Rome Treaty, but you’re here voluntarily, defending yourself in person. That’s a point in your favor. It should count with the court.”
Corris’s Swiss-German accent was thick, but Dan could follow. “Okay.” He crossed his legs, trying not to fidget. Really, the chair seemed designed to torment its occupant. Frankly, he’d rather be taking a ship into battle. And representation at this level didn’t come cheap. A thousand bucks an hour … why was he doing this, again?
“Now, the process. The Office of the Prosecutor conducted a preliminary examination. What we call proprio motu—on their own initiative—but actually, at the request of the Berlin government. The OTP asks three questions: Does the ICC have jurisdiction; is the accusation not already being dealt with by a national court; and would a prosecution be in the interests of justice? They concluded all three tests applied in your case.”
Corris blinked, then dug a finger beneath the spectacles. “The OTP interviewed the surviving victims and others relevant to the allegations. I submitted a statement in your defense and a plea for dismissal. I had hoped the prosecution would recommend against continuing your case, after the preliminary examination. Their advice is nearly always followed by the court. Unfortunately, they did not … Are you with me so far?”
Dan shifted on his seat, but his back and neck still protested. “Uh … yeah.”
“The OTP gathered enough evidence, mainly from the officers and crew of the vessel in question, to conclude prosecution was warranted. Then things halted for a few months, since other cases were ahead of yours. Meanwhile, I took steps to identify your accusers, and interviewed three of them.”
Corris paused, blinking again; turned away. “Excuse me.” He slid open a drawer, tilted his head back, and applied eye drops. Margaretha edged the recorder closer.
Dan nodded. “The people you interviewed—did they include Reinhard Geisinger?” The tanker’s captain.
The attorney blotted his cheek with a tissue. “Yes. That was a particularly painful conversation.”
Dan nodded, swallowing. He didn’t want to relive all that. But he’d have to, over and over again.
If he wanted to defend himself, and walk free.
He’d mustered a scratch force, Task Group 779.1, the Ryukyus Maritime Defense Coalition Task Group, at the start of the war. His orders were to close the Miyako Strait, north of Taiwan, and position USS Savo Island to cover Taipei until the Franklin Roosevelt strike group could arrive.
Savo had rendezvoused with GNS Stuttgart, a German-flagged tanker, to take on personnel, cargo, and fuel when the submarine struck. Out of the blue, despite Dan’s dense and, he’d thought, well-positioned ASW screen.
He felt the strike as a thump against the soles of his boots, conducted through the sea and then the cruiser’s steel. Black smoke burst above the replenishment ship’s afterdeck. The hit was on the far side, away from him.
He shouted, “OOD: Breakaway, breakaway! Right hard rudder. All ahead flank as soon as the stern clears. Stream the Nixie. Helo control: Get Red Hawk back in the air … sonobuoys, MAD run. Boatswain: Sound general quarters! Set Zebra, Aegis to active, Goblin alert. Sea Whiz in automatic mode.”
The boatswain put it out over the 1MC, adding, “This is no drill” as Savo heeled hard, accelerating.
When he’d looked back, the stricken tanker was on fire, smoke streaming in the wind.
“Ringmaster, this is Steel Hammer. Shortshot. I say again, Shortshot. Over,” the tactical circuit announced. Dan was on the 21MC with Sonar when Curtis Wilbur, one of his screen units, reported that the torpedo had been fired from within their protective screen.
The enemy sub was inside the wire. It could even now be generating a firing solution on Savo, the only antiballistic-capable unit.
Then the radio crackled. “This is Captain Geisinger. We have taken a torpedo. Flooding. Fire. Request assistance.”
Dan grabbed the mic. “We are prosecuting the sub that torpedoed you. Over.”
“That is good but … I need help here. Fire’s out of control.… Over.”
He’d racked his brain. But lying alongside to render assistance risked losing another ship. “This is Savo. Nailing this guy takes priority. You’re on your own, Captain. If you have to abandon, do so in a timely manner. Over.”
“I protest this decision. You are running away. You can save us. All I need is help. Firefighters.”
Reluctantly, Dan had released the Transmit button. Leaving the ship, and its crew, to their fate. Later he’d sent his helo back, and lily-padded the survivors to Okinawa for treatment. Most had made it. But not all.
The attacker had escaped, so skillful and stealthy they’d never laid a glove on it. But at least he hadn’t lost any of his other ships.
He still thought he’d made the right decision.
But he’d always regretted not having had another choice.
He coughed into a fist, realizing both Corris and the assistant were staring. He forced a tormented smile. “Sorry. You were saying?”
Corris nodded. “The Pre-Trial Chamber made the determination to confirm the charges, and issued the indictment and summons to appear.
“Now, as I believe I told you before, the trial process begins slowly, then moves very expeditiously indeed.
“I will accompany you in this afternoon. Once officially surrendered, you’ll be taken into custody. Not to a cell, but you will not be permitted to leave the city.
“Tomorrow or the day after will be your initial appearance. I will be there with my team. The proceedings will be conducted in your language. The judges will confirm you are the accused and determine whether you understand the charges. Both prosecution and defense will make opening statements, our first chance to argue for exoneration.
“At that point I will introduce another motion to dismiss. Since the judges have already decided there’s enough evidence for trial, I doubt that will succeed. But we should take every opportunity.” Corris finished his tea, then refreshed both cups. “I presume we are in agreement thus far?”
“So far.” Dan was half regretting he’d started this ball rolling. No, not him. Berlin had started it.
“Now, did you bring the documents I mentioned? Those governing your actions at the time?”
“I tried.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately, wartime instructions are still classified. All I could obtain were copies of the ship’s logs. That should help with any timeline questions.”
Corris drew air through his teeth. He didn’t comment further, but Dan didn’t need an explanation. After the Nuremberg trials, claiming he was acting under orders wasn’t a defense. But absent them, he could be saddled with deliberate mass murder.
Margaretha stood, and said something in German or Dutch. Corris smiled and rose too. “If you will excuse me … another client. You are welcome to stay here until we head over. Or take a lunch. It might perhaps be best to enjoy your noontime.”
Dan rose too. Getting the message: it might be the last meal he’d eat in freedom for quite a while.
Maybe even, ever.
The rain had let up, though it was still drizzling. He found an outdoor café with an awning but the bratwurst and sauerkraut, though obviously good quality, seemed to wedge somewhere below his breastbone. He walked back to the office and he and Corris drove over to the ICC. Halfway there he realized his overnight bag was still at the hotel. Well, Corris had said he’d be back. He just couldn’t leave town.
The ICC complex loomed ahead. Smaller buildings whose windows formed a checkerboard of black, gray, and white surrounded a central tower of onyx concrete and blue glass. This central block was clad in metal gridwork, as if the building itself were being caged.
Corris parked in a gated lot, slotting a passcard into a turnstile. Cameras stared down as they walked to the front entrance, past an enormous folded-steel sculpture that reminded Dan unpleasantly of the twisted metal left after the missile attack on USS Hornet in the South China Sea. A sign read COUR PENALE INTERNATIONALE/INTERNATIONAL CRIMINAL COURT.
The front doors were flanked by vertical stainless-steel panels that conjured another image: the bars of a cell. Corris squeezed his arm; apparently previous clients had balked here. “Bon courage,” he murmured. “You’re doing the right thing.”
Dan couldn’t think of a response. Actually, he was feeling less and less sure that was really true.
And, suddenly, there they were again, the scrum and tumult of gleaming lenses, avid, flushed faces with open mouths, converging from the porticos where they’d sheltered from the rain. He tried to ignore them, but it was hard. A dark-haired woman yelled, “Will you compensate Gunter Hemler’s children?” One of the dead crewmen, Dan assumed. Another shout, in an American accent: “Has the Navy abandoned you, Admiral? Letting you face the music alone?”
“I need to make a statement,” he asided to Corris.
“I advise not, Admiral.”
“It’ll be short.”
“I strongly advise—”
“A statement,” Dan yelled. His tormentors backed off. Cameras focused. He swallowed. Yeah, maybe a bad idea. But he had to make a couple of things clear.
“I’m here of my own volition,” he said. “No one’s abandoned me. I’ve been called before a court of law. I intend to prove my innocence. Beyond that, no further comment.”
They howled for more, shoving mics in his face, but Corris stepped between him and the mob and they retreated a few steps, aiming their phones up to take in the gridded façade.
The lobby held a colorful display of national flags. The signatories of the Rome Treaty, apparently. He looked in vain for the Stars and Stripes. Six men and women in business attire stood waiting. Corris announced, “Admiral Daniel V. Lenson is surrendering.”
A tall, Scandinavian-looking blonde stepped forward. She didn’t extend a hand, so Dan didn’t either. She held out a clipboard. Corris signed it, then Dan. She looked him up and down, then leaned in, squinting. “You have injured your head.”
“A bump. Yesterday. Nothing to worry about.”
She gestured to one of the others, who stepped in to take a close-up with his phone. “Follow me please, Admiral,” she said.
“Um, my attorney. Can he accompany me?”
She looked surprised. “Oh, yes, of course.”
Staffers stared as they walked through the building. Outside again, they traversed a water-filled trench that seemed less a moat, though it might also serve that purpose, than an architectural decoration. The stone pavement was gray as the sky and slick with the rain. Why, in the movies, did it seem to rain every time someone went to prison? A white van waited at the end of the walkway. Two uniformed men stood by it, holding rifles muzzle down.
Dan halted. “What’s this?”
“The detention center,” the woman said, looking surprised again. She frowned at Corris, who seemed taken aback. “Heb je hem dit niet uitgelegd, raadgever?”
The attorney tapped his palm with a fist. “Hij gaat niet vluchten. Is het detentiecentrum echt nodig? Ik dacht—”
They argued for a moment, then she turned to Dan. “I am sorry. There was obviously a misunderstanding. The only possible place for you is the detention center. I’m not sure why your attorney thought otherwise. Your phone, please.” She held out her hand, glancing toward the guards. One swung open the back door of the van.
Feeling like a condemned aristocrat mounting a tumbril, he climbed in.
The detention center had to be fairly close, judging by the brief ride, but he wasn’t sure where. After debarking into a covered portico, he was marched down a long, brightly lit, white-walled corridor. The beautifully polished floors reflected his face. But the heavy-looking, evenly spaced gray steel doors made it perfectly clear what this place was.
His cell was equally immaculate. It smelled of disinfectant, and didn’t look to have been used much. A desk, with a lamp. A wooden chair. A narrow, dorm-style bed. A sink, with a steel mirror, toothpaste, brush, soap, and towel. It reminded him of his old midshipman room, though Bancroft didn’t have stainless-steel toilets. Or flat-screen TVs. Maybe a better comparison would be the hotel he’d stayed in on the North Slope last year. Unlike that, though, this room had a window.
Corris stood wringing his hands. “I am desolated, Admiral. I thought we had an agreement otherwise.”
“No, no. It’s okay,” Dan said, though he didn’t feel okay. He’d stuck his fingers into an alien machine, and now the gears were dragging him in.
“You may have twenty minutes with your attorney.” The blonde glanced at her smartwatch. “Then we will be closing the visiting hours. Twintig minuten, niet meer.”
Dan handed Corris the umbrella. “I borrowed this from my hotel. And I left my overnight bag there, with my meds. Could you see that—”
“Certainly. Certainly! But I will petition for you to be released to my custody after the initial hearing. You are not a flight risk, after all. There’s a legal library down the hall. Computer terminals,” Corris said. “And a gym. It is not a bad place for a short stay.”
Dan thought being released seemed unlikely. The door to his cell was open, though. Maybe that was a good sign.
After more reassurances, Corris left. No guards paced the hall. He closed the door gingerly. It didn’t lock. Another good sign? Giving him the privacy to slide off the bed and sink to his knees on the polished, exquisitely clean floor.
Bowing his head, he asked for help. For wisdom, to do the right thing. Unsure as always who, or what, he was addressing.
But strength had always been there, when he’d asked.
Was he doing the right thing? His own government said he didn’t have to be here. (Though not forbidding him to come.) Was he standing up for justice, or just being incredibly fucking naïve?
Once again, then, he thought of the mids. How could he teach responsibility, if he ducked being held to account? Or lecture about integrity, if he waffled and skated?
On his knees still, locked fists to closed eyes, he considered praying for a dismissal. But at last didn’t. It wasn’t in his hands. He’d just try to be content with that.
He climbed back to his feet. Examined his face in the mirror. Brushed his teeth. Then turned to his neatly made-up bed, tore it apart, and made it up again, the Annapolis way.