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VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA
When she returned from her run on Wednesday morning, Paige had a text message waiting from Wellington. Wellington had embedded a link, and Paige immediately clicked on it.
The link was to an Arabian news source complete with pictures that showed the smoking crater on a city street in Aden, Yemen. The Saudis had taken responsibility for the strike, but the locals were saying they saw an American drone.
Still sweaty, Paige sat down at her computer and searched for every article she could find. Wyatt was supposed to have met with Zafar. But he was also supposed to be returning to Dulles International Airport tonight, flying out of Dubai.
The articles were confusing and contradictory. Some said that American drones had bombed a car during the evening prayer time on the busy streets of Aden. Innocent civilians, including many small children, had been killed. But the news agency for Saudi Arabia said the missiles had been fired from Saudi planes resulting in precise hits on Saleet Zafar and one of his lieutenants. Both of the men were allegedly plotting a terrorist attack in the port city of Aden.
Paige surveyed the photographs, but they were not helpful. Whoever had fired the missile had created a gaping crater, but there was no way of telling how many people had died. Nor was there any mention of an American among the casualties.
She called Gazala Holloman, but Gazala had not heard a word from Wyatt either. The news of Zafar’s death was a shock to Gazala. “He was a good friend to Cameron,” she said, and Paige could hear the sorrow in her voice. “He was a faithful servant of Allah.”
Paige, Wellington, and Kristen burned up the phone calls and text messages all day Wednesday, trying to piece together what had happened. The real panic set in early Wednesday evening, when they learned that Wyatt had not boarded his scheduled flight to Dulles. They talked about calling the State Department, but they didn’t want to jump the gun. They would have to reveal that Wyatt had planned on meeting with Saleet somewhere in Yemen. What if Wyatt was just delayed in his return? They kept texting and e-mailing him, hoping against hope that he would eventually respond.
After a sleepless night, everyone agreed that Paige should call Congressman Mason. He had been helpful in the initial investigation; maybe he could pull some strings now.
It took him most of Thursday to return Paige’s call. She explained that Wyatt had flown to Dubai and was planning on meeting with Saleet Zafar in Yemen. She told him what little she knew about Zafar’s death and the fact that Wyatt had not returned on his Wednesday-evening flight. Mason said he would look into it right away and get back to her.
Meanwhile, Paige and Wellington checked every flight from Dubai to D.C. and other East Coast cities, telling the airline representatives that they were supposed to pick up Wyatt at the airport. But nobody at the airlines had heard from him.
Congressman Mason had given Paige his cell phone number, and she called him back Thursday evening. The State Department seemed to be stonewalling him. There was a record of Wyatt clearing customs in the UAE when he entered the country but nothing more. Mason promised to call Paige as soon as he heard something.
That same night, Wellington called Wyatt’s son, but he didn’t even know that Wyatt had flown to the Middle East. He asked Wellington to let him know as soon as he heard any news.
By late Thursday night, a sense of foreboding had descended on Paige. She pulled up the photos of the devastating air strike again, just to make sure she hadn’t missed something. On the one hand, it would be just like Wyatt to come bounding back into the country two days late and wonder why everyone had been so worried. But that faint hope faded as Paige dissected the circumstances, trying to stay as objective as possible. This attack had all the markings of an American drone strike. It was a precise hit on a Muslim cleric, something her country had done before. And if they knew that Wyatt Jackson was in the vehicle with Saleet Zafar, the CIA could have annihilated every piece of evidence against them with one strategic missile.
Lawyers learn early in their careers that coincidence is the first cousin to cover-up. Coincidence should never be trusted—closer inquiry almost always revealed the fingerprints of manipulation and deception.
It was too coincidental that a drone strike against Zafar had occurred so soon after he had been scheduled to meet with Wyatt. Too coincidental that Wyatt had not been heard from since. A more plausible explanation was that CIA agents had followed Wyatt and that Zafar had walked into their trap. The only question in Paige’s mind still to be answered was whether Wyatt had been killed along with him.
Paige woke on Friday morning too emotionally drained for a run. She had been up most of the night glued to her computer, searching for any new information on the Aden attack. She had managed only a few hours’ sleep, and even that time had been racked with nightmares.
She drank her coffee and got dressed before the sun came up. She stepped outside and surveyed the parking lot, looking for nondescript sedans that might belong to the FBI. Every day since the grand jury hearing had been a day that Paige spent looking over her shoulder. Today would be no exception.
She stepped back into her condo and tried to force down a bowl of cereal. She had eaten very little in the last two days, worried sick about Wyatt and the FBI and the impending Supreme Court decision.
The pundits had predicted that the Court would act quickly, within just a few days. It was election season, and the chief justice would not want this decision hanging out there during the last few weeks before people went to the polls. Moreover, it was an emergency appeal, and the only question was whether Judge Solberg had adopted the right process or whether she should have dismissed the case on the basis of state secrets. Most experts believed the Court would issue a quick and concise ruling. Even those experts who predicted more lengthy written opinions speculated that two opinions had already been drafted—one supporting Solberg and the other throwing the case out. The only question was which side Justices Torres and Deegan would join. Which opinion would become the majority? Which would be the dissent?
Paige checked the SCOTUS blog that morning as she had done every day that week, but there was no announcement that the decision would be coming down that day. At 8 a.m. she got into her car and drove to Pungo Kennels, where Wyatt had boarded Clients for the week that he was gone. Paige explained to the lady at the desk that Wyatt had been delayed and that she was there to pick up Clients. The woman had Paige sign several documents and, after going to the back, reappeared a few minutes later with Wyatt’s big golden retriever pulling at the leash. Clients jumped up on Paige and started licking her as if Paige had been his lifelong friend.
“Clients is the best dog,” the woman gushed. “He loves everyone.”
Paige thanked the lady and left with Clients. She put him in the backseat, but before she could climb in the driver’s seat, Clients had bounded up front and was riding shotgun, his head swiveling this way and that, excited to have his freedom.
“If you’re going to stay with me for a few days, we’ve got to have an understanding,” Paige said. “No licking. No shedding. And no riding in the front seat.”
Clients leaned toward her as if he understood every word. He put a big yellow paw on Paige’s arm and leaned over to lick her.
“No! What did I say?”
Clients tilted his head as if he didn’t quite understand—a pathetic, endearing look that Paige couldn’t resist.
“Okay,” she said. “You can ride up front. But this licking stuff has to stop.”
Clients wagged his tail and sat straight up, his tongue hanging out. It actually made Paige feel a little better just to have Wyatt’s dog with her.
“We’ll have to stop at the puppy store and get some food,” Paige said as she backed out of the parking spot. “If you’re good, maybe we can get a bone and a toy as well.”
She glanced over at the happy dog riding next to her. She wasn’t exactly a dog person, but she couldn’t leave Clients in the kennel indefinitely.
“Wyatt Jackson, you owe me,” Paige said.
Fifteen minutes later, in the pet store, getting pulled from one aisle to the next by Clients, Paige received a text from Wellington.
She stopped and sent a reply.
Paige looked at her watch. There were no other emergency cases on the Court’s docket to be decided. In less than ninety minutes she would know if her case against Philip Kilpatrick and John Marcano was going to survive or whether it would die at the hands of the nation’s highest court.