Terminal Justice Read online

  “Did you double-check military bases there?” Woody asked. “You said that the Russians have or had a base there.”

  “I also said that they gave it back to the Somalis. Actually it happened a little differently from what I initially said. The Russians had a few bases along the Gulf of Aden and the Bab el Mandeb that leads in and out of the Red Sea, but the Somalis gave them over to us when the Soviets supported Ethiopia in its war with Somalia. The bases are pretty much useless these days. Knowing that, I then asked what’s happening in Somalia that could interest anyone enough to commit a felony? The only answer I came up with is the famine.”

  “This is groundwork we’ve already covered,” Woody responded wearily. He wondered if all CIA agents insisted on recounting ideas already agreed upon.

  “I know, but be patient,” Stephanie snapped back. “The people most likely to be interested in famine in foreign countries are the UN, contributing governments, and private relief agencies.”

  “We know the UN wouldn’t break into your computers, nor would any country contributing to the relief efforts. That leaves us with private relief agencies—and one you haven’t mentioned.”

  “I assume you refer to a person or persons who feel the need to avenge the death of military personnel.”

  “It’s possible,” Woody said firmly. “Such things are not unheard of. And it wouldn’t be just our country either. Pakistan and France took some pretty heavy hits. And what about someone in Somalia itself? Maybe someone there is planning a coup.”

  “Doubtful on all counts,” Stephanie replied. “Revenge is a powerful motive, but the object of that revenge, Mohammed Farah Aidid, is out of the game since he died a few years back. As far as a Somali group or individual doing the deed, well, why? To what end?”

  “It’s not necessary for us to know the why, just the possibilities so that we can investigate.”

  “Let’s face it,” Stephanie said. “Somalia is not a technologically sophisticated country. The computer break-in would have required advanced knowledge and equipment.”

  “True, but they could have bought it.”

  “Granted, but I still don’t like it. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “I suppose you have a hunch.”

  “A reasoned guess. Listen, Woody, the only people who have a strong enough motive for accessing our files are these special relief organizations. They have an interest in protecting their people and saving the lives of the nationals.”

  “But which one?” Woody asked abruptly. “There are a couple of dozen such groups over there now, especially with the latest famine.”

  “More like scores of them from our country and the rest of the Western world. But I have an idea which one it might be. One organization is large enough and powerful enough to pull off the crime. And they have been in the neighborhood of other questionable activities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Colombia. There was a drug lord by the name of Manuel Herzog who was on the verge of building the largest cocaine cartel the world has ever seen. One day he went to see his daughter in a school play, but he never arrived. He was found in the jungle two days later with a broken neck—a broken neck he didn’t get falling down. One of our case workers, a former army ranger, saw and recognized an old army buddy in a nearby village. The man’s name is Roger Walczynske, and he’s known to work for Barringston Relief.”

  “It could be coincidence.”

  “Of course it could, but there’s more.” Stephanie’s excitement caused her to speak faster. “Normally I would write the killing off to a competitive cartel, but Walczynske’s presence in the country couldn’t be verified through passports, hotel registry, airline tickets, or any other means. It appears, on the surface at least, that he stole into Colombia.”

  “That’s still pretty weak.”

  “Hang on. In Cambodia, a year ago, several political prisoners were rescued. They had been tortured by the Khmer Rouge for years. They, along with their families, were smuggled out of the country. Most settled in Europe, and one of our people had the opportunity to debrief them. They described a man who meets the physical description of this Walczynske. Altogether, there are fourteen documented events where a person associated with Barringston Relief was in the area of a crime.”

  “They’re everywhere,” Woody protested. “We could say the same thing about the CIA.”

  “You could and you’d be right, but I know that the Company had nothing to do with those particular events.”

  “You’re still on thin ice.”

  “I warned you up-front that this was skimpy at best, but I think it’s a viable lead. Don’t you?”

  Woody exhaled noisily into the receiver of the phone. “Yes, I do. Mind you, I’m not saying I agree with presupposition, but, and I can’t tell you how much it hurts me to say this, I don’t have anything better. I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Why?” Stephanie was puzzled.

  “Because I’ve been contributing to Barringston Relief for several years. It was my wife’s idea at first. They do a wonderful work.”

  “I never took you for the type to respond to impassioned pleas to ease world suffering.”

  “It shouldn’t surprise you,” Woody said defensively. “Two types of people go into the FBI: those who want action and those who want to make a difference.”

  “And you’re of the latter.”

  “I like to think so,” Woody said firmly.

  “I like to think so too. So what do we do now?” Stephanie asked pointedly.

  “That is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” He paused in thought. “You’re right about not having enough evidence to get a search warrant, but it’s worth a try. I’ve had some luck with Judge Willimon. He’s been known to grant warrants with little reason, but not without something. The question is whether we can make the little we have look like more. If we do get the warrant, we’ll need to proceed carefully. Barringston Relief is underwritten by Barringston Industries, and they have enough bucks to tie us up in court so long that our great-grandchildren will be called to testify Not only that, he is well connected to people in the Senate and the House. So let’s tread wisely. Let’s start with simple surveillance on the building and the key employees, especially the organization’s head, Archibald Jr.”

  “Can’t do it,” Stephanie interjected. “He’s out of the country. Went to Africa days ago. East Africa, I might add. At present he’s in Ethiopia.”

  “Isn’t that interesting? Should I ask how you came by that little bit of information?” Woody inquired with mischief in his voice.

  “We have our ways,” Stephanie quipped. “It’s not all that difficult—I called and asked to speak to him. His staff told me he wasn’t in, and they also told me where he was. Part of their public relations, I guess.”

  “Do you have any way of keeping track of him over there?”

  “Not really,” Stephanie replied. “The CIA is not nearly as ubiquitous as some think.”

  “Do you know if our mysterious friend, Walczynske, is with him?”

  “No,” she said bluntly. “Given time we might be able to track him down, however.”

  “Let me see what I can do about that warrant. I wonder if we could recruit an insider, someone who may know what’s going on.”

  “It’s worth pursuing,” Stephanie said. “As long as he or she doesn’t give us away.”

  “Let’s get started,” Woody said. “I’ll check on the warrant; you see if you can find more on Roger Walczynske. And let’s make sure—”

  “We move carefully,” Stephanie finished. “Got it.”

  To David the Ethiopian morning seemed matchless. The sun had only been up for an hour and was quickly expelling the darkness with radiant light that bathed the high cloud-shrouded mountains. The air was cool and clear. It was one of the advantages of being in the highlands of Ethiopia instead of the low desert regions where temperatures routinely rose above the one-hundred-degree mark. Still
, David knew that the day would be warm and the thin air a challenge to breathe. He also knew the day would bring another encounter with the wretched souls who populated the camp. More people would die, people who would have seen their last sunrise and taken their last few breaths of the pure air. Yet David knew that he would be able to face the poverty and pain successfully, not because he had become callous but because he had crossed over from shock to involvement.

  Kristen’s words the night before had struck him deeply, but instead of wounding him they caused him to look back on his life and, more important, his faith. After walking Kristen to her tent, which she shared with Sheila and two other female workers, he had returned to his own tent. Lying on his cot, he stared at the canvas ceiling. It fluttered at the whim of a light African wind and reassessed his own existence. Kristen had been right, he told himself. And seeing the enormous needs of others had prompted him to once again be thankful for all that God had given him. He knew that he had received far more than he had ever been forced to surrender, and it would be the height of hubris and an affront to God to wallow in sorrow.

  There was nothing to do but get on with the act of living. As he lay on the cot feeling the cool night air creep in through the flimsy tent walls, he recalled a passage of Scripture he had preached on many times in his fifteen years of ministry: Jesus’ feeding of the five thousand. The miracle was simple in its approach but dramatic in its effect. The details of the event were as clear in David’s mind as if he had actually been there to see the fainting masses of the faithful who had followed Jesus a great distance without food. He could hear in his mind the disciples’ question as they asked what should be done and Jesus’ cryptic response: “You feed them.” Three powerful words that seemed to make no sense. “You feed them.” How? With what? The answer to those questions became clear when Jesus miraculously transformed the lunch of a young boy into food for thousands.

  “You feed them.” David heard the words of one of his own sermons come back to him: “What is little in our hands is abundance in the hands of Jesus. What seems impossible to us is routine with God. The secret is to take what we have at hand and surrender it to Jesus. That’s when the difference will be made.” It was time for David to listen to his own message, to heed his own admonition. That night, with a wind that carried the cry of a hyena on its wispy billows, Dr. David O’Neal reacquainted himself with his God and with his purpose.

  Now outside his tent he took in long breaths of cool air and sipped coffee made by the camp cook. The day seemed brighter and filled with more light. It struck him as strange that he should feel so good in a camp so filled with pain and hopelessness. Maybe he could do something to ease the suffering and lift some of the despair. He knew he couldn’t do it all, not today and not tomorrow, but bit by bit he could help a few, and that was important.

  A.J., Peter, Sheila, Kristen, and Dr. Goodwin looked weary from yesterday’s work as they walked toward David.

  “Good morning,” A.J. said. “How are you today?”

  “Outstanding, but I’ll get better.”

  “That’s good …,” A.J. paused as the oxymoronic phrase sank in. He looked at David for a moment, then at the plastic cup he held in his hand. “You get that in the cook’s tent?” David nodded. “I think I need some. Let’s go to breakfast.”

  The group, less Kristen and David, moved toward the large tent that housed some of the food supplies.

  Kristen gazed in puzzlement at David for a moment. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I feel more than all right,” David said, beaming a large addictive smile. “Thanks to you.” He stepped toward her, kissed her on the forehead, and placed his arm around her shoulders. “Shall we join the others?” The speechless Kristen smiled and nodded. Five steps later she placed her arm around his waist.

  Breakfast was Spartan by Western standards but munificent in the famine area. It consisted of injera flatbread, coffee, rice, and powdered eggs. The twelve workers ate breakfast early so that they would be free to begin the morning food and medicine distribution. It was a time of needed human contact with those who understood the need and dignity of the work in which they were involved. Depression, anxiety, and homesickness were not uncommon among the remarkable workers, and any chance to receive encouragement from one another or from outsiders was welcome. It was also a time to conduct business, communicate problems, make plans, and designate the work for the day.

  “What will we do next?” Kristen asked. “Are we off to Somalia?”

  “No,” A.J. said, shaking his head. “That was part of the original plan, but I’m not certain that would be wise right now.”

  “Has something happened?” Peter inquired.

  “Things are a little unsettled, but nothing to get worried about. Unless something changes radically, we’ll stay in Ethiopia,” A.J. explained. “I plan to make arrangements for a helicopter to fly us into the more severely impacted areas.”

  “What do we do today?” Peter asked.

  “I’m sure they could use some help around here,” A.J. said. “You and I need to meet with Dr. Goodwin about his need for future workers. I’ll be trying to make some contacts back in the States about a few things. Fortunately our satellite link is working well. Any messages you want sent home?” No one did.

  After the breakfast meeting David and Kristen walked from the tent to begin their work. “You sure seem … open today,” Kristen offered. “Did you have a revelatory dream last night?”

  “Sort of,” David grinned. “Actually I just spent the night thinking about what you’ve been telling me. You are right, you know. As right as rain, as my mother used to say. I have been too consumed with myself and not with others. I often preached about living outside ourselves and about practicing the Christian faith as a way of life rather than as a set of beliefs. I decided that it was time to start living the way I wanted to feel instead of the way I actually felt. I have known for years that emotions are blind and unreasoning and that I shouldn’t let them control my life. I’m grateful to you for helping open my eyes again.”

  Kristen’s first response was to stop. David stopped too. She looked at him with wonder and joy in her eyes; she reached out and hugged him deeply. The embrace was short but meaningful and conveyed thoughts that could not be spoken. It struck David as odd that such a good and healthy affection as love should blossom in the surroundings of despair. But such is the mystery of life.

  The growing darkness was appreciated by the weary Barringston travelers as they sat in front of their tent drinking water. The sun had dropped below the desert horizon, but the September heat in the lowlands of Ethiopia was still oppressive, and they longed for the cooler nights of the highlands they had left behind over a week before. Fewer trees provided shade, and only low-lying hills broke the monotony of the surrounding land.

  They had left Dr. Goodwin’s camp by helicopter and were given a guided tour of the Ethiopian mountain country. The pilot had flown down the deep and wide chasm through which the rapidly flowing Blue Nile rushed. The locals called the river Abbai, and it fed directly into the mighty Nile as it flowed north into the Mediterranean Sea. The pilot, an Ethiopian from Addis Ababa who spoke clear English, gave a nonstop monologue on the sights. He flew over several Ethiopian churches, some carved into the sides of cliffs or out of the hillsides. Many were cross-shaped, a configuration that could be seen clearly from the air. David was surprised to learn that Ethiopia had a longer Christian history than any European country. He wanted to visit one of the churches to see the priests who maintained such ancient traditions, but he knew that would have to wait until a future trip. As they flew over one church, they saw a line of priests in colorful vestments and acolytes dressed in white.

  The pilot then flew over several small villages that were comprised of round thatched-roof huts called tukuls surrounded by groves of eucalyptus. Many villages were deserted.

  The pilot steered east and did his best to ease the bumps caused by the rising thermal
s from the desert floor. “I don’t know why you want to come here,” he said seriously. “It is cooler and the living is easier in the mountains. Here there is nothing but starvation.”

  “That’s why we want to come here,” A.J. said. “That compound over there is one of mine. I want to see how they’re doing.” The pilot nodded and made his way to a spot one hundred meters from the last row of tents to keep the inevitable spray of dust and sand kicked up by the craft’s high-speed rotors away from the camp.

  Eight days later the band of travelers had visited six camps and worked in four, starting first in the heart of the near desolate Ogaden and moving closer to the Somali border. Everyone was proud of the work they had done, but they were near physical and emotional exhaustion. The days had merged with the nights and the night had melded into days, yet they did their work stoically and without a whisper of complaint.

  Kristen, when she wasn’t helping the camp staffs, maintained a photo diary that included video for possible public relations use later. Peter interviewed the paid staff to see what personal needs they had and what help could be provided to make their work easier. A.J. met with the head of each camp, planned strategy, made decisions, and ordered supplies through the satellite link. Sheila stayed close to A.J., offering only a few words of communication from time to time.

  David continued to relish the work, although he, like the others, was taken aback by the extreme need of the people in the Ogaden area. Many of them were refugees from the famine in Somalia and had traveled a great distance across the dry, unforgiving land to one of the feeding centers on the Ethiopian side of the border. Their plight seemed infinitely worse than what David had seen in the highlands. The children displayed the swollen abdomen, the vacant eyes, the mucous-streaked noses and lips of those who had been forced to take hunger as a travel companion. Half of all the children David saw had lost at least one parent to the famine. Some, especially the young, walked aimlessly around the camp with dirty fingers perpetually pressed into their mouths as if some minute bit of nourishment might be derived from their own skin. The lucky ones were cared for by an older sibling.