“How was the run today, fellas?” Pete Alexander asked.
“Delightful,” Dominic answered. “Maybe we should try it wearing fifty-pound backpacks.”
“That could be arranged,” Alexander replied.
“Hey, Pete, we used to do that in Force Recon. It ain’t fun,” Brian objected at once. “Turn down the sense of humor, bro,” he added for his brother.
“Well, it’s good to see you’re still in shape,” Pete observed comfortably. He didn’t have to do the morning runs, after all. “So what’s up?”
“I still wish I knew more about our goal here, Pete,” Brian said, looking up from his coffee.
“You’re not the most patient guy in the world, are you?” the training officer shot back.
“Look, in the Marine Corps we train every day, but even when it isn’t clear exactly what we’re training for, we know we’re Marines, and we aren’t getting set up to sell Girl Scout cookies in front of the Wal-Mart”
“What do you think you’re getting set up for now?”
“To kill people without warning, with no rules of engagement that I can recognize. It looks a lot like murder.” Okay, Brian thought, he’d said it out loud. What would happen next? Probably a drive back to Camp Lejeune and the resumption of his career in the Green Machine. Well, it could be worse.
“Okay, well, I guess it’s time,” Alexander conceded. “What if you had orders to terminate somebody’s life?”
“If the orders are legitimate, I carry them out, but the law—the system—allows me to think about how legit the orders are.”
“Okay, a hypothetical. Let’s say you are ordered to terminate the life of a known terrorist. How do you react?” Pete asked.
“That’s easy. You waste him,” Brian answered immediately.
“Why?”
“Terrorists are criminals, but you can’t always arrest them. These people make war on my country, and if I’m ordered to make war back, fine. That’s what I signed on to do, Pete.”
“The system doesn’t always allow us to do that,” Dominic observed.
“But the system does allow us to waste criminals on the spot, in flagrante delicto, like. You did it, and I haven’t heard about any regrets, bro.”
“And you won’t. It’s the same for you. If the President says to do somebody, and you’re in uniform, he’s the Commander in Chief, Aldo. You have the legal right—hell, the duty—to kill anybody he says.”
“Didn’t some Germans make that argument back in 1946?” Brian asked.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that. We’d have to lose a war for that to be a concern. I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”
“Enzo, if what you just said is true, then if the Germans had won World War Two, nobody’d need to care about those six million dead Jews. Is that what you’re saying?”
“People,” Alexander interrupted, “this isn’t a class in legal theory.”
“Enzo’s the lawyer here,” Brian pointed out.
Dominic took the bait: “If the President breaks the law, then the House of Representatives impeaches him and the Senate convicts him, and he’s out on the street, and then he’s subject to criminal sanctions.”
“Okay. But what about the guys who carry out his orders?” Brian responded.
“That all depends,” Pete told them both. “If the outgoing President has given them presidential pardons, what liability do they have?” That answer jerked Dominic’s head back. “None, I suppose. The President has sovereign power to pardon under the Constitution, the way a king did back in the old days. Theoretically, a president could pardon himself, but that would be a real legal can of worms. The Constitution is the supreme law of the land. In effect, the Constitution is God, and there is no appeal from that. You know, except when Ford pardoned Nixon, it’s an area that has never really been looked into. But the Constitution is designed to be reasonably applied by reasonable men. That may be its only weakness. Lawyers are advocates, and that means they’re not always reasonable.”
“So, theoretically speaking, if the President gives you a pardon for killing somebody, you cannot be punished for the crime, right?”
“Correct” Dominic’s face screwed in on itself somewhat. “What are you telling me?”
“Just a hypothetical,” Alexander answered, backing up perceptibly. In any case, it ended the class on legal theory, and Alexander congratulated himself for telling them an awful lot and nothing at all at the same time.
THE CITY names were so alien to him, Mustafa remarked quietly to himself. Shawnee. Okemah. Weleetka. Phoraoh. That was strangest of all. They were not in Egypt, after all. That was a Muslim nation, albeit a confused one, with politics that didn’t recognize the importance of the Faith. But that would be turned around sooner or later. Mustafa stretched in his seat and reached for a smoke. Half a tank of gas still. This Ford surely had a capacious fuel tank in which to burn Muslim oil. They were such ungrateful bastards, the Americans. Islamic countries sold them oil, and what did America give in return? Weapons to the Israelis to kill Arabs with, damned little else. Dirty magazines, alcohol, and other corruption to afflict even the Faithful. But which was worse, to corrupt, or to be corrupted, to be a victim of unbelievers? Someday all would be put right, when the Rule of Allah spanned the world. It would come, someday, and he and his fellow warriors were even now on the leading wave of Allah’s Will. Theirs would be martyrs’ deaths, and that was a proud thing. In due course their families would learn of their fates—they could probably depend on Americans for that—and mourn their deaths, but celebrate their faithfulness. The American police agencies loved to show their efficiency after the battle was already lost. It was enough to make him smile.
DAVE CUNNINGHAM looked his age. He was pushing sixty pretty hard, Jack judged. Thinning gray hair. Bad skin. He’d quit smoking, but not soon enough. But his gray eyes sparkled with the curiosity of a weasel in the Dakotas, seeking after prairie dogs to eat.
“You’re Jack junior?” he asked on coming in.
“Guilty,” Jack admitted. “What did you make of my numbers?”
“Not bad for an amateur,” Cunningham allowed. “Your subject appears to be warehousing and laundering money—for himself, and for somebody else.”
“Who is somebody else?” Wills asked.
“Not sure, but he’s Middle Eastern, and he’s rich, and he’s tight with a buck. Funny. Everybody thinks they throw money around like drunken sailors. Some do,” the accountant observed. “But some are misers. When they let go of the nickel, the buffalo screams.” That showed his age. Buffalo nickels were a thing so far in the past that Jack didn’t even get the joke. Then Cunningham laid some paper on the desk between Ryan and Wills. Three transactions were circled in red.
“He’s a little sloppy. All his questionable transfers are done in ten-thousand-pound slugs. It makes them easy to spot. He disguises them as personal expenses—it goes into that account, probably to hide it from his parents. Saudi accountants tend to be sloppy. I guess it takes over a million of something to get them upset. They probably figure a kid like this can cut loose ten thousand pounds for a particularly nice night with the ladies, or at a casino. Young rich kids like to gamble, though they’re not very good at it. If they live closer to Vegas or Atlantic City, it would do wonders for our balance of trade.”
“Maybe they like European hookers better than ours?” Jack wondered aloud.
“Sonny, in Vegas you can order up a blond, blue-eyed Cambodian donkey and it’ll be at your door half an hour after you set the phone down.” Mafia kingpins had their favorite activities as well, Cunningham had learned over the years. It had originally offended the Methodist grandfather, but with the realization that it was just one more way to track criminals, he’d learned to welcome such expenditures. Corrupt people did corrupt things. Cunningham had also been part of Operation ELEGANT SERPENTS, which had sent six members of Congress to the federal country-club prison at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida, using methods just like this one to track his quarry. He figured it made for high-class caddies for the young fighter pilots who flew out of there, and probably good exercise for the former representatives of the people.
“Dave, is our friend Uda a player?” Jack asked.
Cunningham looked up from his papers. “He surely does wiggle like one, son.”
Jack sat back in his chair with a great feeling of satisfaction. He’d actually accomplished something . . . maybe something important?
THE LAND got a little hilly as they entered Arkansas. Mustafa found that his reactions were a little slow after driving four hundred miles, and so he pulled off at a service plaza and, after filling the car, let Abdullah take the wheel. It was good to stretch. Then it was back onto the highway. Abdullah drove conservatively. They passed only elderly people, and stayed in the right lane to avoid being crushed by the passing truck traffic. In addition to their desire to avoid police notice, there was no real hurry. They had two more days to identify their objective and accomplish their mission. And that was plenty. He wondered what the other three teams were doing. They’d all had shorter distances to cover. One of them was probably already in its target city. Their orders were to select a decent but not opulent hotel less than an hour’s drive from the objective, to conduct a reconnaissance of the objective, and then to confirm their readiness via e-mail, and sit tight until released by Mustafa to accomplish their missions. The simpler the orders, the better, of course, less chance for confusion and mistakes. They were good men, fully briefed. He knew them all. Saeed and Mehdi were, like himself, Saudi in origin, like himself children of wealthy families who’d come to despise their parents for their habit of bootlicking Americans and others like them. Sabawi was Iraqi in origin. Not born to wealth, he had come to be a true believer. A Sunni like the rest, he wanted to be remembered even by the Shi’a majority in his country as a faithful follower of the Prophet. The Shi’a in Iraq, so recently liberated—by unbelievers!—from Sunni rule paraded about their country as though they alone were the Faithful. Sabawi wanted to show the error in that false belief. Mustafa hardly ever concerned himself with such trivia. For him, Islam was a large tent, with room for nearly all . . .