84

YEMEN

Wyatt rode blindfolded in the backseat between the two guards he had dubbed Larry and Curly. Moe was driving, and Saleet Zafar rode shotgun. Wyatt’s captors had switched vehicles; they were now in an old Land Rover with much more room. Wyatt was not handcuffed, and as far as he knew, nobody was pointing a gun at him. They had started late in the afternoon, and Saleet said they would be arriving at their destination right around dusk.

The ride was bumpy and the seat uncomfortable. The springs and shocks in the SUV had long ago deteriorated, and every jolt reminded Wyatt that his ribs had not yet recovered.

But he wasn’t complaining. He had asked to go to the site where the drone missile had killed innocent civilians who were not even aligned with the Houthis, the site where a photo had been taken of Admiral Towers sacrificing a lamb. As they rode, Saleet and Wyatt talked in English, raising their voices to be heard over the wind blowing in the windows.

“In our culture, sacrificing sheep is asking for forgiveness,” Saleet explained. He told Wyatt that the parents of the young men and women who were killed by the drone strike had met with Admiral Towers. The admiral told them the strike had been a terrible mistake and that his heart grieved for them. He offered reparations to the families, though he acknowledged that no amount of money could make things right. The fathers said that they would not keep anything in their hearts against the American soldiers, even though they had hated them since the moment of the drone strike. One of the fathers, through a translator, told Admiral Towers that he had planned to be a suicide bomber until the sacrifice was made.

“But unknown to Admiral Towers, there was another father who was not there on that day. His only daughter, annihilated by the drone strike, had been twenty-two years old and pregnant at the time. Her father swore to take his revenge on America, and you will be meeting him in just a few hours.”

This was more than even Wyatt had expected. “Is it safe to do that?”

“Safety is a relative thing, my friend,” Saleet said. “Allah’s will must be done. But this man has the same interest in keeping you alive that the rest of us do. You are the one who will tell our story. You are the one who will expose the American president and her advisers who caused such great heartache. If we harm you, we would destroy any chance of punishing the ones responsible for such atrocities.”

Wyatt had instinctively understood this to be the case, but it was still a little troubling to hear it stated so bluntly. “Is this man now working with the Houthis?” Wyatt asked.

“I should let him answer that,” Saleet said.

They hit a major pothole, bouncing Wyatt around, and he cursed loudly.

The guards started arguing in Arabic, and for a moment, Saleet joined them. He then switched to English for Wyatt’s sake.

“These men guarding us are with the al Islah party, composed primarily of Yemen’s Muslim Brotherhood,” Saleet explained. “They are sworn enemies of the Houthis and at times work with al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. They are doing this only as a personal favor to me because they know that you are the only hope to keep me alive.”

“Are you working with al Qaeda?” Wyatt asked. The tribal alliances in Yemen were confusing, but there was nothing ambiguous about al Qaeda.

“I do not work with anyone, Mr. Jackson. I preach what Allah tells me to preach. Al Qaeda would like me to continue preaching. In that respect only, our interests are aligned. But I have never recruited for al Qaeda or tried to justify their terrorism or suicide bombings.”

Over the years, Wyatt had learned not to judge his clients. If they paid the retainer, he was their man. But this one would not be easy. Even he understood that anyone aligned with al Qaeda was an enemy of the United States. He suddenly felt the urge for a smoke. “Ask these guys what they did with my cigars,” he said.

Saleet spoke to the men in Arabic. Then, to Wyatt: “They said they kept them as payment. But they are happy to share some of their qat.”

“I’ll pass.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes before Saleet picked up where he left off. “The man you will meet in a few hours swore revenge on the Americans. He found a way to connect with the CIA and began providing valuable information. He played the role of informant for nearly eighteen months, waiting and praying for the right opportunity. When Cameron Holloman and Prince Abdulaziz were captured, he provided the Americans with information on where they were being held and the layout of Sana’a Central Prison. But he also informed the Houthis that the Americans were planning a rescue operation.”

It took Wyatt a second to digest this last piece of information. If Saleet was telling the truth, Wyatt was about to meet the double agent who had betrayed the CIA and caused the death of the American SEALs.

“What’s his name?” Wyatt asked.

“Mokhtar al-Bakri. The Americans called him Pinocchio.”

“Why haven’t the Americans killed him?”

At this, Saleet laughed. “For the same reason they have not killed me. They have not yet found him.”

“Why is he willing to meet with me?”

“Because he wants the world to know that he has exacted revenge for his daughter.”

Wyatt thought about this. “And he knows that I will tell the world as part of my case.”

“Precisely,” Saleet said.

The whole thing was starting to make sense now. Perhaps the CIA had tapped Holloman’s phone or had been illegally monitoring his e-mail. However they did it, they had learned that Holloman had met with the Houthi leaders. When the CIA killed them several days later, other Houthis believed Holloman had been working with the CIA, so they arrested him and sentenced him to death. Then this man nicknamed Pinocchio, who had been building credibility with the Americans, told the CIA where Holloman was being held and then double-crossed the Americans by telling the Houthis that the Special Forces were on their way.

But it still left one huge question. “Did the CIA or Director Marcano know that Pinocchio was going to betray the mission? Because if they didn’t, our entire case falls apart.”

“I realize that, Mr. Jackson,” Saleet said. “And I would like for you to hear that straight from the lips of al-Bakri himself. I will translate for you, and if he has no objection, I will videotape what he says on my phone.”

For once, Wyatt was out of questions that his host could answer. He sat back and tried to relax, getting jostled about by the guards on both sides. If al-Bakri provided the testimony that Saleet believed he would, Wyatt would have to find a way to preserve it and get it in front of Judge Solberg.

But even though he had personally filed the lawsuit and traveled halfway around the world to locate witnesses, Wyatt still found the whole thing hard to believe. Did Marcano and the president really know that al-Bakri was going to betray the American mission? And were they so coldhearted that they would order the men to go forward anyway, knowing that they were sending them to their death?

In a few hours, Wyatt would have his answer.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

After the morning session, Paige left the Supreme Court building and held an impromptu press conference on the plaza out front. With Wellington and Kristen at her side, she expressed confidence that the Court would allow the case to go forward. The families of the men who died for their country deserved their day in court.

After she completed her brief remarks, the first question dealt with the grand jury proceedings. “As Justice Deegan noted, it would be inappropriate for me to comment on that,” Paige said. She deflected a few more questions, and then Kristen stepped up to the bank of microphones and told everyone what a great job her lawyer had done. She too expressed confidence in the outcome and said that Troy would be proud. She took a few questions of her own, mostly softballs respectfully lobbed at a gold-star wife, and then the three members of SEAL Team Nine made their way through the mob of reporters, down the steps, across the street, and back to the hotel.

They agreed to change into comfortable clothes and grab some lunch. Paige was suddenly starving because she had eaten so little in the last few days. When she walked into her hotel room, she fell backward on the bed, closed her eyes, and said a prayer of thanks. She felt the tension seep out of her body for the first time in weeks. Sure, she still had to worry about the grand jury and a possible indictment and a thousand other things. But she had acquitted herself well at court today, and she had done everything possible to salvage the case. She thought about Wyatt and wondered how things were going in Yemen. She couldn’t wait to give him a blow-by-blow of the argument, embellishing her answers a little—the same way he would have if he were telling the story.

She still didn’t know what had happened on Good Friday and why everything had gone so wrong. But right now, in this moment of post-argument euphoria, she actually felt like they might have a chance to win this case. Justice Torres had asked some troubling questions, but if she stuck with her friends on the liberal side of the Court, and if Taj Deegan joined them, Paige would have a historic five-four decision in her first case at the high court. And if Wyatt could get testimony from Saleet Zafar, they might blow this case wide open.

It was nice to dream, if only for a moment. She allowed herself to bask in the glow of imagined victory and then willed herself to rise from the bed. She removed the diamond ring from her necklace and placed it carefully back into the box. She changed into her jeans and a sweatshirt, then headed out the door to join the others for lunch.