Hellfire (Sisters In Law Book 2) Page 8

  "So we've got your back now?"

  "In a manner of speaking, yes, you do. I'm counting on the press to keep the playing field level."

  The man from the AP wasn't finished. "What precautions have you taken?"

  "We're under armed guard twenty-four-seven. My family is surrounded by bodyguards, as is my staff."

  "You're taking this seriously."

  "Wouldn't you? I mean, any group that would fire a Hellfire missile into a civilian wedding party could be expected to use the same kind of insanity against the lawyers who sue them for it. Frankly, I don't trust any of these bastards. Least of all the government."

  "And the DuMont brothers."

  "You've got me there. Maybe I should have placed them at the head of the line. So everyone, thanks for coming. We'll keep you updated with press releases as the case progresses."

  "And we'll watch your back," said Angela from the Tribune.

  "Thank you for that."

  * * *

  In Washington, D.C., a terse conversation was held just minutes after the press conference concluded.

  Gathered around the desk of Edlund Dumont were his brother Wilfred and Randall C. Maxwelle, their military-commercial interface guru. The DuMonts were steaming and Maxwelle was trying to play down the damage inflicted moments before by Christine Susmann.

  "Bitch named us in her lawsuit and named us on live TV," said the rage-filled Edlund. His fist slammed down on his desk and papers jumped and pens rattled. "Damn her! How did we miss our opportunity to silence her before the lawsuit was filed?" He looked dead ahead at Maxwelle as he said this, his eyes accusing and threatening.

  Maxwelle swallowed hard. Always the Naval Academy cool head in most situations, he was feeling the heat. "I don't think the damage is that severe at all," he said, struggling within himself to find a reason for his words. "I mean--I mean-"

  "You mean, hell!" Edlund shouted. "Your team missed her and Wilfred's team killed the Syrian woman's family. What kind of huge damn mess have you given me here? I'm up to my eyeballs with both of you."

  "That's not fair," said Wilfred evenly. He was the older brother and his tone was meant to remind Edlund of that important fact. "My group was protecting American oil interests when the strike occurred. Now as for Randall, I don't--"

  "Now wait," said Randall, breaking in where few if any ever dared break in, "For my part, I've hired the best out there. Granted the results were less than expected, but that wasn't through any fault attributable to me. I hired the right people; they let us down. It's that simple."

  "I was going to say," said Wilfred, "before I was interrupted--" looking hard at Maxwelle, "that we've spent a ton of money to fix this mess. Why didn't someone just pay off this woman and the collateral family members still alive? Isn't that our usual take on these things?"

  "Right enough," said Edlund, still fuming. "Why didn't we just spread some money around? Randall?"

  "The Syrian woman was in fact approached. Three times. Two times in the hospital and again after she first called the American lawyer. She was offered ten million to let it go. We even offered to move her anywhere in the world she wanted to go and help her start over."

  "And?"

  "Basically she told us to go screw ourselves. Nicer words, of course."

  "Of course. She's Middle Eastern and proper."

  "Wouldn't want to anger the gods," said Edlund.

  "Or the Prophet," said Maxwelle.

  "Careful there," said Wilfred. "We might be being recorded in here."

  The men shared a laugh, finally, once the brutal posturing and finger-pointing was done.

  Beneath the desk where they sat, piggybacking on a bolt was a tiny listening device, placed there by Althea Berenson, whose new duties at Blackguard gave her access to the brothers' offices. Edlund's office was bugged; Wilfred's office was bugged as well. Maxwelle's soon would be. Plus she had untraceable no-bread-crumbs access to the top-secret computer network that ran between the military, the White House, and Blackguard. Data packets were being intercepted and analyzed by the hour.

  Jokes about the gods, about the Prophet, and questions about the life expectancy of Sevi al-Assad were ill conceived, as far as Althea Berenson was concerned, as she listened from two floors below in the Watergate Complex.

  The hard drives recording it would convince others of the same.

  16

  They had first met one month ago in Syria.

  Hussein came into the physical rehab compound in Aleppo to introduce himself to Sevi and inquire whether their interests might align.

  She said she knew nothing about him. He tried to explain.

  "I appear to be working for a company called Blackguard. In truth, I am a jihadist who wants only to see terrorist attacks carried out against the United States."

  Sevi nodded. Their interests just might align, she thought. She leaned against the wall and pushed away, extending her frozen knee behind. It was an exercise meant to limber up the knee all but destroyed in the missile attack. The timing of the exercise with this man's appearance in the room wasn't lost on her: he wanted to attack the U.S. So did she.

  "A jihadist? As am I," said Sevi, grimacing as she pushed herself away from the wall. "But how did you find me?"

  "Everyone knows about you. In ISIS your name is a rallying cry. The drone strike against your wedding celebration has caused our ranks to swell. Recruitment is up over a thousand percent, thanks to the stupid Americans and their ignorant Blackguard ally."

  "Then I am glad," said Sevi. "Our interests might align at that. I am in touch with an American lawyer who will sue the government for me. Is there an opening there for you? I think there is for me."

  "Are you going to America? Or is she coming here?"

  "Both," said Sevi. "She's coming here to talk. If she likes what she hears, she'll be taking me to America with her. The lawsuit will progress. At the end of it, I expect to strike a school full of children. With a bomb."

  "I would join you in doing that, if you wish."

  "What can you offer me?"

  "For one thing, both Blackguard and the government of the U.S. will be out to prevent your lawyer's trip here and back. I can help make her journey here to visit you a safe one."

  "You would do that how?"

  "Act as her bodyguard."

  "Why would she let you help her?"

  "She will have protection when she comes here. I will take that over myself."

  "That will work?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "What about in the U.S.? What can you offer there?"

  "My idea is about notoriety. Bombing a school is one thing. But bombing a school in the name of your murdered family is quite another. You have the chance for a huge public relations coup among the Arab world. I would like to be part of that. I can help organize the attack on the school. I can provide the ingredients for your bomb. I can even plant it for you. But you will send a video to the press and take credit for the attack in the name of your loved ones who were killed by the government. ISIS recruitments will soar after that."

  "So you would like to use me?" She changed legs and now extended her left leg behind her as she pushed away from the wall. A bead of sweat broke out on her forehead as she bore weight on the injured limb. It was excruciating to load it with full body weight. Something she would forever loathe the Americans for doing to her.

  "Yes, we would like to use you."

  "That can't be all bad. From my perspective, I still get my revenge and ISIS sees its numbers swell. I like that."

  Hussein shifted his weight from leg to leg as he watched the woman perform the painful exercises. At just that moment a therapist came by and massaged the injured leg. "How's that?" she asked the Syrian woman.

  "Hurts."

  "Good," said the therapist. "Recovery is painful. No pain--"

  "I know, no pain no gain. Thank you."

  The therapist wandered off to the next patient. Sevi glanced at Hussein and rolled her eyes. "
Do you see what they've left me with?"

  "Pain. Loneliness from the loss of your loved ones and pain from the loss of your body functions."

  "If you only knew. The spinal pain is only controlled with large doses of narcotics every day."

  "I am sorry."

  "It's not your place to be sorry. You didn't cause this."

  "What do you say we meet after you're finished here? We can discuss this in more detail." He checked from side to side around the room. No one was listening, however, and his shoulders relaxed.

  "I can do that. I will meet you downstairs in one hour. That gives me time for the rubdown and the therapy pool. Fair enough?"

  An hour later they were downstairs on the sidewalk. They walked a block south to a small cafe and ordered coffee and pastries. At the front of the shop, just beside the large window, was an empty table just then vacated. Sevi headed for it and claimed the closest chair.

  "Now," she said to Hussein as he took the opposite chair. "Let's talk about how we kill American school children."

  "And let's talk about how we trigger a rise in ISIS numbers."

  Sevi tasted her pastry and licked the fingers of her eating hand. She nodded at the pastry and held it up.

  "Sometimes we are left with life's smallest pleasures. Sugar where there is only the taste of death."

  "So it is," said Hussein. He took a bite of his own pastry. "Now let me tell you my story. Let me tell you what the Americans did to me and to my wife."

  Sevi's eyes fixed him with great interest. "A missile? You too?"

  "Just as bad. Remember George Bush's 'Shock and Awe' the night he attacked Baghdad?"

  "I do. It was on CNN."

  "Right. Well, my wife and I were working late in the Defense building. A Cruise missile buried her under six floors of debris while I was out at our car retrieving a thermos of coffee."

  "No."

  "Yes."

  "So they made you a soldier."

  He nodded violently. "Just like you, Sevi al-Assad. Our stories are the same."

  "So you work with ISIS but you also have skin in the game, as the Americans say."

  "I also have skin in the game, as the Americans say."

  "So it is. Then we shall work together, you and me."

  "Yes," he said, finishing off his pastry. "Yes, we shall."

  17

  The Sisters in Law met for Wednesday lunch the week after Christine returned from Turkey with Sevi. This time the meeting was in Martha's Grillet, an upscale Lakeshore hideout featuring a menu without prices. Christine said she was paying, so no one minded that they had no clue how much their orders would cost. Least of all Christine. Winona arrived first. She was wearing a silver gray suit with pink shirt and black tie. Her lithe frame carried the ensemble well and, as usual, she turned heads as she was shown to their table. Christine arrived next. She was loaded with a leather briefcase she couldn't leave in the Mercedes out in valet parking lest someone make off with her bag and, indirectly, her entire lawsuit. Then came Althea, who had come into town on an overnight pass from Blackguard with the excuse she needed to connect with her kids.

  They had barely been seated and were making drink orders when, to the surprise of Winona and Althea, Sevi al-Assad joined them. She was supporting herself with a new black enamel cane with an ivory grip and she wore blue jeans and a blue Ralph Lauren shirt with the horse and rider on the shirt breast. Her limp was noticeable and Christine recognized the grimace on Sevi's face--which was always there when she walked around.

  "Sevi," cried Christine, "you did come. Thank you for that. Everyone, this is Sevi al-Assad, our newest client."

  Hands were shaken all around and Christine stood while Sevi took the fourth chair. Her back was to the large domino of plate glass windows that opened onto the lake. She pulled her chair in and checked around the room. The restaurant was jammed; it was half past noon and Winona had made the reservation last week to secure the table they now were gathered around. Sevi squeezed the lemon wedge into her water glass and inserted the lemon into her mouth. She started chewing.

  "So," said Sevi, "Christine told me I would meet my team. You are all going to be working on my lawsuit? I'm impressed!"

  Winona smiled. "We are. I'll be doing witness workups and field investigations."

  Althea said, "And I'll be providing adverse statements and documents. You might call me the smoking gun lady."

  "Smoking gun lady. I like that," said Christine. Then, to Sevi, "And I'm heading up the team and preparing the case for trial. With Ed Mitchell, I'll be actually taking the case to trial."

  "What's that mean, taking the case to trial?" asked Sevi.

  "Appearing in court. We have filed your case in the District Court and one day--maybe in five or six months, we will go to court and have a jury listen to the evidence. I will ask witness questions and communicate with the judge and jury."

  "And what will I do?"

  "You will testify. You will sit in a chair and look at the jury and tell them your story."

  "Will you help me get ready to do that?"

  "Of course," said Christine.

  "We'll all help you," Winona added. "It's a team effort to present your story in the best light possible."

  "Speaking of which," said Althea, then she stopped and looked at Christine. "Can I speak freely here?"

  "You mean is Sevi in our inner circle?" said Christine. "Yes, she is. We have no secrets from her."

  "Well," said Althea, "I have tiny microphones planted in the offices of Blackguard's owners, Sevi. Anyway, the brothers have been wondering why no one made an effort just to buy your silence."

  "Which begs the question," said Christine. "Should we go to the brothers with a pre-trial settlement demand this early in the case?"

  "Would that be good?" asked Sevi.

  Christine shrugged. "We never know. Actually, we don't know anything, not without asking. But in a case like this you can bet there's lots of information the DuMont brothers don't want to see the light of day. So maybe settlement is a possibility at this stage. I believe it very well could be."

  "What do you mean, 'don't want to see the light of day'?"

  "I mean, they might want to buy your silence rather than allow company secrets to become public."

  "So my story wouldn't be told?"

  "That, and so their complicity wouldn't become known to the world. They would rather have no one know how close they are to the American drone attacks."

  "So the world wouldn't know the DuMonts gave the order to kill my family if I settled?"

  "Pretty much," said Winona as she accepted her iced tea from the drinks waiter. The others received theirs. "If you accept money at this stage the volume gets turned off. No one hears your story."

  "Then I won't do that," said Sevi. "I want the world to know about my family and about the DuMont brothers. I want the world to know how the U.S. government murdered my loved ones."

  "Of course you do, sweetheart," said Althea. "No one can blame you for that."

  "How much would they offer me?" asked Sevi, more out of curiosity than anything else, as she had made it clear she wouldn't entertain settlement talks.

  "Maybe five million. Maybe twenty," said Christine. "Somewhere in there. Not enough."

  Sevi smiled and touched Christine's hand. "I am glad to hear you say that. Not enough. It won't bring back my loved ones, no matter how much I get."

  Said Althea, playing devil's advocate, "Then why go after them at all? Is this only about publicity? Because if it is, I'm a journalist. I can do your story and get worldwide syndication. The whole world will know, if that's your angle."

  "Would that be a good idea?" Sevi asked Christine. "Why not just do a story?"

  "Because stories are news one day and gone the next. A trial moves at a snail's pace and lingers and lingers. The story is told day after day. It can go on for a month. The impact is increased a hundredfold by a trial."

  "Makes sense. We'll have a trial. No news s
tory."

  "Good on you, girl," said Althea. "I wasn't trying to talk you out of a trial."

  "I know. You were only explaining my options. That I can appreciate."

  The talk then turned to local gossip. Through it all, Sevi paid close attention. Christine got the feeling the young woman had come to learn about America in general and about Chicago in particular. She listened to every word, missing nothing.

  A lull in the conversation prompted Winona to blurt out, as much a surprise to her as anyone at the table, "Gorman is leaving me."

  "What?" exclaimed Christine. "Girlfriend!" said Althea.

  Winona swallowed hard. "He told me the day I flew to London."

  "The twit?" questioned Althea.

  "The twit," said Winona. "It was bound to happen."

  "Your husband is with another woman?" asked Sevi.

  "My husband has been having affairs with one woman after another for years. This time is different. This time he says he's in love and he's leaving me for her."

  "I am sorry," said Christine. "The bastard. Will you want me to nail him for you?"

  "Divorce case? Not yet. I think I'll make him file if he's serious. It will make both families hate him all the more."

  "That's right," said Althea, "his mother likes you better than she likes her own son."

  "That's what she's told me. At least a jillion times. Everyone knows he's a two-timer. Not that I've told them anything, because I haven't."

  "What will you do?" said Sevi. "In my country it is customary for men to have several wives. Not so here?"

  "No, darling girl," said Althea, "Not so here. And if some asshole tries to convince you otherwise, please remind him you're no longer living in the Stone Age. We have Arabs in America who are just looking for naive Arab girls to lure them into three-ways and four-ways."

  "Three-ways? Means what?"

  "You know, multiple wives."

  "Not in America?"

  "Not on your life," said Althea. "You better have my cell number. Give me your phone."