Intercept (10 page)

“Are you Yousaf Mohammed?” asked Tom Renton through the wire.

“I am.”

“Then take a look at this piece of paper and tell me if you recognize the address.”

Yousaf looked at Tom, who smiled and surreptitiously nodded, at the same time signaling friendship and urgency.

Yousaf replied, quick as a flash, “Yessir. That’s where I live. In Peshawar, North West Frontier Province.”

The trained mind, which had won the Pakistani a degree in chemical engineering, and then gained him entry into the University of London, was still functioning. Almost as well as the intuition that had saved him from death over and over.

James Myerson turned to Staff Sergeant Biff and requested the cell door be opened. Biff obliged and the two armed guards went in first, rifles raised. Degree or no degree, Yousaf ’s formidable reputation had preceded
him into this place. No chances were taken on him, neither would the regime ever relax their unshakeable belief that Yousaf was a terrorist, a killer, a bomb maker, guilty of mass murder in Baghdad, Iraq, and had assassinated a senior U.S. diplomat.

There had been nights when Yousaf had hallucinated and then muttered to himself, partly as a result of extreme sleep deprivation, and partly due to the administration of tranquilizers designed to keep him calm. On these nights, Sergeant Ransom would walk softly in his desert combat boots and stand outside in the corridor with an Arabic interpreter, trying to pick up the gist of Yousaf’s rantings as they strained their ears in the silence of the sweltering hot night.

They entered the cell, right behind the guards. The door was slammed shut behind them. Yousaf, standing up now, faced them from the back of the cell, and James asked him if he was prepared to answer his questions. Once more he confirmed that he and his colleague were there to help Yousaf gain his freedom, and that they were in the pay of the Saudi clerics.

The man who had, without question, committed every one of the crimes of which he was accused, had nothing to lose. In truth, the Americans did not know the half of it. Yousaf had been involved in the production of possibly fifty car bombs in the gloomy rubble-strewn cellars of Northern Baghdad.

He had killed and maimed dozens of young U.S. combat troops. He had been a sniper, an assassin, and a rocket operator. Up in the Hindu Kush, he’d been one of al-Qaeda’s top battle technicians, planning assaults on small groups of U.S. special forces. Twice he had slammed a Stinger missile into U.S. helicopters and brought them both down with no survivors.

For two bits, Biff Ransom would have shot him right then and there. James Myerson, however, whose principal duty was to keep the Epstein
billing clock running hard, was more kindly disposed toward his bearded meal-ticket.

“Yousaf,” he said, “I have to ask you this. Are you guilty of any of the crimes with which you have been charged?”

“No, I am not,” replied the terrorist. “They have always said I shot some American official and bombed a hotel in Baghdad. I’ve never even been to Iraq. I’ve always lived in Pakistan, around the Swat Valley, or Peshawar, near the border. ”

“Papers? Documents?” asked James. “Passport, credit cards?”

“I’ve never had a passport. I never left the area. And I’m too poor to have a credit card. I’m just a farmer.”

Biff rolled his eyes heavenward. James pressed on. “Did you live in the village where you were arrested?”

“No. I was just visiting Ibrahim. You don’t need passports in the mountains. There’s no checks. It’s hard to know whether you are in Afghan or Pakistan.”

James nodded. “Did the military tribunal find you guilty of any crimes?”

“I think so. But I didn’t know what they were saying. I heard the officer recommend that I could never be let out of here. And I’ve been here ever since.”

“Have you had contact with your family?”

“I’ve lost touch. I’m alone now.”

At this point Biff Ransom could restrain himself no longer. “Speaks pretty good English for a poor mountain farmer. Guys who’ve never been out of the fucking peach groves.”

“I imagine there’s a lot of English spoken in a city like Peshawar,” replied Tom Renton patiently. “He could have learned. The Brits ruled the place for generations, right?”

“Have you read the tribunal report on this guy and his pal?”

“Not yet.”

“May I ask you a couple of questions?”

“Sure, Staff Sergeant, go right ahead.”

“Do you think we’re all stupid? Do you think it was some kind of a fluke that the SEALs went in and hauled out a couple of goat-herders who just happened to speak fluent English in one of the most remote, backward, and illiterate areas in the fucking universe?”

“Staff Sergeant,” interjected James, “We can’t answer that. We have no idea whether it was a fluke or not. And, I suggest, neither do you.”

“Just checking. Sir,” answered Biff, who was appalled, as ever, at the dogged literal minds of visiting lawyers, men who probably earned more in a year than he would in a lifetime.

“Yousaf,” said James quietly, “I am going to review the evidence of your case. And then I am going to file an application in Washington for a legal appeal on your behalf. I anticipate you may be free to return to Pakistan within four months. Maybe sooner.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Yousaf, trying to affect a facial expression that was both grateful and ingenuous.

“And just one more thing,” said James quietly, “Do you have any other friends in here who might also be released under the same system we are using for you? That’s the obvious illegality of locking people up without trial for the rest of their lives, even though there’s no proof of guilt.”

“Ibrahim and I have two friends in here. Number Eleven and Number Fifteen. They are innocent and have never been to a proper courtroom, just the one full of military officers.”

“I need to know their names,” said James, “Otherwise we can do nothing.”

“I don’t think they have ever revealed their names,” said Yousaf. “And they have no documents. Like me.”

“Then I guess they’ll have to stay right here,” said Tom.

“Sir,” replied Yousaf, “the man in cell number eleven is Ben al-Turabi. Number fifteen is Abu Hassan Akbar.”

“What were they charged with?”

“I don’t know if they were ever charged. They’re both just here, forever. Ben was only a student when he arrived.”

“Yeah, and I’m the quarterback for the Cowboys,” growled Biff.

James Myerson grinned good-naturedly, and said, “I wonder, Staff Sergeant, whether you could take us along the corridor to visit Mr. al-Turabi and Mr. Akbar.”

“No problem.”

By now the word had whipped around Camp Five Detention Center that two hotshot lawyers from Washington were in Guantanamo with a brief to secure the release of jihadist prisoners. The Great Osama had come through at last, with heavy sums of money and top attorneys to speak for the Muslim warriors.

By the time Myerson and Renton reached al-Turabi’s tiny cell, the excitement in the air was intense.

“Welcome to my humble world,” beamed Ben.

Renton formalized his identity, confirming Ben’s name, and that he had been briefly accused by the tribunal of having committed various crimes against humanity before his arrest in the mountains. But that was several years ago and since then Ben had been held without charge or trial.

The two lawyers went through the same broad-brush procedures with both Ben and Abu Hassan Akbar, who strongly denied he had ever fired a rocket or a bomb at anyone, did not know how to make one, and had been in Baghdad helping the Red Cross when he was arrested.

“They mistake me for very bad men,” he assured them.

“Holy Shit,” breathed Staff Sergeant Ransom.

Akbar told Renton and Myerson there had been lawyers here before to try to obtain his release but nothing had worked. The military had neither tried nor released him. He had almost given up hope of justice.

James Myerson told him there was now hope, since Akbar could not be denied his day in court, and it would be a civilian court at that, presided over by a civilian judge. He and his colleague would argue the appeal, and there was a real chance of freedom for Abu Hassan.

Cutting short the interviews, James and Tom established that both the prisoners had been born in Gaza City and had cut their teeth with Yasser Arafat’s terrorists. They told both men they would be furnished with proper addresses, and from now on would use their proper names.

The lawyers then retired to the offices of Colonel Andy Powell to request access to the files on Ibrahim, Yousaf, Ben, and Abu Hassan. This was formally granted, but the most difficult part came when the files were produced. These four men were accused with some of the most shocking crimes of modern times, particularly Akbar, whom Tom remembered “had killed all those kids at the Be’er Shiva bar mitzvah.”

Even the ruthless James was slightly shaken by the level of criminal he was being asked to liberate. But the image of Josh Epstein stood stark before him, and he made his copies, studied the documents, and resolved to keep that billing clock ticking above 12th Street, no matter what.

 

THEY ARRIVED BACK
in Washington the following evening and began work immediately on filing for the writ of
habeas corpus
. When the documents were completed, they were dispatched to the Pentagon and on to Guantanamo for the signatures of all four prisoners, plus those of the Joint Detention Group commander, who was required to sign off on the releases of the detainees.

The case was filed and allocated a slot on the appeals court calendar for Monday morning, February 19, coming before Chief Judge Stanford Osborne, who would be assisted in his deliberations by Judge Art Cameron and Judge Merrick Rosser. These details were expedited with zero delays.

The appeal would be heard in Court 11, on the fourth floor of the E. Barrett Prettyman Courthouse, named for the brilliant Truman-appointed chief judge, the man who was selected to decide whether Frances Gary Powers had handled himself correctly after his U-2 spy plane was shot down over the Soviet Union in 1962.

This monumental courthouse also contained judicial officers and staff, the probation office, the circuit library, and circuit executives offices, all guarded by squads of hard-eyed U.S. marshals. It is a cathedral to the majesty of American law, and on February 19, within its massive gray concrete walls, a ruling would be made upon a truly stunning application for the release of dangerous men. It was an appeal that was in danger of causing Harry Truman to rise up in fury from his grave in Jackson County, Missouri.

Proceedings were conducted in the lowest possible key. The left-wing bias of the United States media ensured the minimum was written about the appeal, and neither did the op-ed pages spend much time discussing the wisdom of granting these astonishing human rights to foreign terrorists whom the military believed were guilty of murder, mayhem, and other dreadful crimes against the United States, who ought not to be alive, never mind freed.

But the law of the land had been decreed. Justice Kennedy had decided that the moral and fair standards of justice practiced for centuries by the United States ought not to be put on hold just because a bunch of Middle Eastern maniacs were running around killing people. America’s rules of just and equitable behavior must be seen to be enacted at all times. Most of the judges believed that, and the president really believed it. Which was why, at 0730 on the morning of February 19, a military night flight from Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, touched down lightly at Andrews Air Force Base northeast of Washington, DC.

Disembarking, still in manacles, surrounded by armed army guards, were the four terrorist killers, Ibrahim Sharif, Yousaf Mohammed, Ben al-Turabi, and Abu Hassan Akbar. A military prison van awaited them, and they were taken immediately to 12th Street for a final meeting with their lawyers.

At 0943 they were led to the bank of elevators in the great appeals court building on Constitution Avenue, and from there they were escorted up to the courtroom on the fourth floor.

They would not be permitted to speak during the hearing. The petitioning lawyer, James Myerson, would plead his case for the release of the men, and the military, formally objecting, would be granted just five minutes to make their case. Their view was simply stated, that Ibrahaim, Yousaf, Ben, and Abu should be returned to Guantanamo and locked up immediately, with their cell keys hurled into the sprawling minefield to the north of the compound. Biff Ransom would probably have gone one step further.

Cases such as this were essentially unknown territory. There was, as yet, no tried and tested formula. An appeal was not a trial. There would be no witnesses. And each side was permitted two lawyers maximum. In this instance, only one would speak for each side.

The judges had already read submissions from each side, and accepted the writ of
habeas corpus.
The format for the hearing had been worked out only on the previous evening by the clerk to the court, and he acquiesced to the request by James Myerson that the appeals by the four petitioners should be heard jointly and severally, rather than in four separate hearings.

There were, however, many people occupying the seats behind the hub of the courtroom, and the entire fourth floor was in the iron-grip of the U.S. marshalls, off limits to the public, out-of-bounds even to the legal profession.