The Lawyer And The Killer Ch 09

Part Nine

Cleaning Up the Mess

Two Sudanese soldiers untied and cut the duct tape from his arms, legs, and torso. Battutta, Shawn's sadistic torturer, looked at the men, "Turn him around."

They turned him around. To say they turned him was a misnomer. He was so exhausted they had to hold him up.

Battutta looked over his handiwork; the exhaustion, the fear, the degradation, "Hold him still." He took a small wooden rod and smashed it into Shawn's nose, flattening it, "There. That should send a message to anyone he meets to stay out of the Sudan."

The two soldiers lifted the bloodied crippled remains of what had been a vibrant fearless man, and carried him out to a waiting truck.

Considering Shawn's potential as a poster child for the Islamic Revolutionary Movement he was to be kept alive till such time they needed him to make a thorough public confession, rescind his heretical religious beliefs, and adopt Islam. Shawn was to be used not just as an example warning foreigners to stay out of the Sudan; he was also to be used as an international advertisement for the legitimacy of the Islamic faith, and the supposed legality of the terrorist forces opposing western intrusion.

He was thrown in the back of an SUV to be taken southwest through the central heartland of the Sudan to a southern military installation. He was to be kept there, just outside the town of al Ubbayid where he would be rehabilitated, nourished and completely brainwashed. It was a smallish Muslim stronghold, but well away from potential interference by Christian Dinkas or anybody else with an interest in causing trouble.

As the SUV rolled along the rutted roads the two soldiers commented to each other about the ultimate bad end their passenger was to face. They had no idea that, even in his distressed condition, Shawn was still alert enough to hear and understand everything they said.

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Kim had watched as the two women, Kia and Shai, had been carted off. He knew there was no hope of rescue if he tried any form of direct intervention. His best and probably only hope was to escape south and west.

He'd considered a move to the east toward Ethiopia, but trashed the notion figuring that's where they'd be expecting him. However, to the southwest was the Central African Republic. Economically that country was a basket case; relying very heavily on foreign aid. Luckily almost all the foreign sustenance that went to the C.A.R. came through the United Nations. Even better, the C.A.R. had been a French colony.

He knew, in spite of the popular notion, nearly all the former French colonies had very cordial relations with France, and that meant good relations with the West in general. Better still was the fact that Kim had a passable understanding of French, and French was generally the second language of nearly everyone in that country.

Best of all, the majority of the Central African population was Christian, and those that weren't retained their original religious beliefs. Islam was a distant third in the religious hierarchy of the country.

So off to the southwest Kim started. It wasn't long before he was able to latch on to a truck convoy loaded with merchandise headed west. He kept his mouth closed and his eyes open. He was lucky. The truck driver was a member of the Gbaya tribe, the C.A.R.'s largest ethnic group. The Gbaya and the other largest group, the Banda both had low opinions of the Muslim Sudanese. Kim had found safety.

After a four day trip across the arid southern Sahara Kim started to note an increase in vegetation. He knew he was getting close to his destination. There were no official border crossing points. The region was too lightly populated, but he knew when they crossed into the C.A.R.

They rolled into a small town. The change of scenery, and the greener environment was most welcome. His host, the driver, announced this was where he should get off. He pointed out a nearby residence where he would be welcomed, fed, and be given some fresh clothing. Kim was glad he'd scooped up a healthy portion of the money that had been lying loose at their lost campground. It seemed everyone everywhere recognized American money.

After a two day rest Kim found a ride into the main city of the C.A.R. and its capital, Bangui. He got there and located a UN station. From the UN site he was directed to a covert American military station. He got the officer in charge to listen, and pretty soon his story was relayed back to the United States.

Kim knew it wouldn't be long before the place would be crawling with U.S. military personnel. Kim, being a member of the R.O.K. secret service, had known for some time about Shawn's military connections. Kim also knew that old American credo, 'no man left behind' was the clincher that was going to save Shawn, Kia, and Shai.

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Back in the United States, in Washington D.C., the news of Shawn McClellan's survival shot through the tangled winding halls of the Pentagon like a bolt of lightning. CID headquarters contacted Delta, Delta made arrangements with air and naval forces. Seven days after Kim's first arrival in the Central African Republic two hundred elite U.S. shock troops had boots on the ground outside Bangui.

Maps were studied, intelligence reports were electronically transmitted back and forth between the USA and Bangui. By the eighth day the helicopters were already in the air.

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Shawn stumbled about in the hot, cramped, dirty cell. His nose had been partially repaired, and some medical attention had been given his other wounds. His genitalia were sore, but otherwise there were no side affects down there. He had no idea where he was, or whether he would last another day, but at least he knew he was still intact.

Suddenly all hell broke loose. From Shawn's tiny domicile all he knew was that thick clouds of dust whirled around outside. His small prison quickly became an unbreathable crypt. He heard the crackling sound of gunfire outside. He was instantly alert. Those weren't the deathly rattle of Russian manufactured AK47s . He was listening to the joyous rat-tat of American M16s. To his great joy he heard the shouts of orders and counter orders; all in English!

On the outside the two Delta teams assigned to rescue McClellan had already broken through the poorly guarded outer perimeter. Inside the main compound almost immediately the hired gunmen of the Sudanese military were either laying down their weapons in surrender, writhing on the ground in pain, slumped or lying on the soil dead, or in full flight.

The magical power of the United States had swept in and rescued an errant warrior. Seconds later Shawn found himself surrounded by American combat and medical personnel. Long festering wounds, savage torture scars, and the ravages of deliberate neglect were being ameliorated by the best hands in the world.

Alive! Shawn couldn't cry. His body was too dehydrated, but he could salute. He could hold an arm out and acknowledge the unmatched dedication and professionalism of the best troops from the best military in the world. Shawn McClellan had been saved.

As the helicopter carrying Shawn lifted off a smiling friendly face looked down on him, "You knew we couldn't let them have you."

Shawn reached up with his hand, "Kim!"

"We got you out. You're on your way home. I'm sure you'll have a lot to confide."

"What about Kia and Shai?' asked Shawn.

Kim wrapped a comforting arm about his best friend's shoulder, "We know where they are, and we know who has them. Their rescue is being handled through the United Nations. I expect they'll be in New York in a matter of days."

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Kim wasn't far off. His report to CID had been transmitted to world health organizations in New York, and the Ethiopian, Nepali, and the Republic of Korea's embassies.

The Sudanese government had been put on the spot. More than a score of nations, including leading Arab republics, were suddenly after them. Even more meaningful, the Sudanese military had to secretly admit to the rescue of the American. The Sudanese army had no idea where or how many US military units were already operating in the southern Sudan.

Just as scary secret intelligence reports had revealed that elite assault units of French Foreign Legion had quietly gone on maneuvers. Scarier still, reports had come in that pro-western Hindu Gurkha forces normally located in eastern Asia had disappeared. Intelligence reports from the Saudi government gave every indication they were somewhere in flight between southeastern Asia and Addis Ababa, capital of Ethiopia.

The Sudanese high command was rightfully correct to be afraid of the destabilizing impact of US Special Forces on the loose somewhere in their country. They had every reason to be genuinely alarmed about the unexpected disappearance of elite French Foreign Legion forces perhaps headed their way, but the movement of Hindu Gurkhas brought real terror. American troops were always tightly disciplined. They'd get what they were after and get out. French Foreign Legion forces were disciplined but distinctly anti-Arab. They'd get in and out with malice. But Hindu Gurkhas were not only highly disciplined, anti-Arab and anti-Muslim, but they were absolutely lethal. A handful of Nepali Gurkhas on the loose in the trackless wastes of the Sudan, Indo-Aryans all, could be devastating.

Out of Khartoum messages were sent to military personnel in Omdurman. General Suleiman had been ordered to personally bring the two women to the capital. Upon their arrival in Khartoum Kia and Shai were treated and feted as though they were distinguished foreign dignitaries, which was in fact what they actually were. They were personally welcomed to the Presidential Palace by the President and leaders of the National Congress, that country's ruling party. They were asked to tell their story for the foreign press.

Outside the halls of the Presidential Palace certain other ranking Sudanese leaders, as well as selected foreign military attaches' had mysteriously disappeared. Captain Raspar had been summarily shot, as had the entire membership of the ill famed Mustafa Squadron. General Suleiman, after signing off on the details of a secret investigation that had uncovered the misdeeds of Raspar, had disappeared. A certain Yemeni terrorist, Ibn Battutta or somebody answering to his description, had been caught and strangled.

By the time the ladies had been rescued, cleaned up, and given their fifteen minutes of spotlight before the press in the Sudan all the responsible people had either been killed or had vanished. With the profound love and gratitude of the Sudanese people they were put on a plane for Germany; there to receive a little well deserved rest and recuperation. Any claims they might make of Sudanese misbehavior would be met with respectful audiences everywhere, but no concrete evidence, other than the disruption of a small aid station would ever be proved.

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Shai and Kia got their rest in Germany and were whisked off to New York to be given the opportunity to testify before key world aid specialists about the need for continuing efforts to help the struggling Dinka, but already their story was stale news, explosive combat between the Koreas, flooding in Pakistan, and the threat of nuclear proliferation had all already overshadowed their story. Thanks to the ever present, always active, 24-7, news cycle, Sudanese perfidy would forever remain only a rumor.

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The Bugler Sounds Recall:

Shawn's and Susan's problems were two entirely different, totally irrelevant, matters. What happened to a 'has been' divorce lawyer or an erratic aid worker, perhaps CID agent and suspected syndicate killer were hardly worthy news stories. Beyond the man and woman, the only people with any ongoing interest included Mark Miller, a befuddled FBI agent, Todd Bitterman, a smarmy syndicate shill, Oscar Camulos a middle level syndicate operative, and one old semi-retired Douglass MacArthur devotee Warrant Officer.

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Can Susan and Shawn Get Their Lives Back?

Susan had Todd Bitterman on the telephone, "Todd we need to talk."

"Susan I've missed you so much. You know how I feel about you." Todd wanted to see her again. He'd left her apartment in a huff some weeks before. His underworld boss, Oscar Camulos, still had an interest in the woman, and was determined to get what he wanted. That meant putting the screws to his trained monkey Todd Bitterman.

"Todd I do like you, but things have changed. You know there was someone else before I met you. I think he's still alive. He might even be back in the United States, and I need to see him."

"I'll do all I can." Was Todd's response, "But if it's the man I think it is, he's wanted by the FBI. I'm sorry Susan, but I don't think there's much future in that one."

Susan didn't want to hurt Todd, but she needed to see Shawn before she made any decisions. Besides it was Shawn. Just the mention of his name, now that she knew he was alive, sent magical shivers up her spine, "Todd where can we meet to straighten things out?"

Todd thought it over and suggested a popular restaurant in Georgetown. Susan agreed in principle, and a day and time was set up.

Of course Bitterman's phone was electronically monitored, not only by the FBI but by the CID as well.

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The evening of the Bitterman Slattery dinner date arrived. Susan had selected the location within the restaurant. She'd picked a table almost dead center in the main dining room; she wanted no scenes. The restaurant he'd chosen was suitably called the Embers.

Shawn, accompanied by a fellow CID agent, a warrant officer of some reputation, made their arrangements for the same evening. The warrant officer knew everything. He knew who was going to be there, where they were sitting, and he'd had the site wired.

The warrant officer had chosen a table just a few spaces distant from the Slattery Bitterman table. He had his reasons for his involvement in whatever happened; reasons only he knew.

The least well informed person regarding the evening's activities was Shawn. He'd been ordered to appear at the restaurant, and appear in dress uniform. The warrant officer had set their reservations for a slightly earlier time. He placed Shawn in a seat with his back facing the Bitterman Slattery location. Shawn was in an excellent place to hear much of what went on at Susan's table, but he would be unable to see or interpret any body language. By the same token it was the warrant officer's hope that the Slattery woman wouldn't hear anything Shawn might say.

Dinnertime:

The warrant officer chuckled as he drove to the restaurant. Not only was he going to get an excellent meal, but with luck, a terrific show might follow. It would be fun to see who was who and what was what. He chuckled again. How did that old country song go? 'Who's cheatin who, and who's bein true, who don't even care anymore, and who's car is parked next door?'

Really he wanted it to work out. The FBI agent he'd been tracking was nobody. It had been easy to get his superiors to redirect Agent Miller for a few days. Bitterman on the other hand was a hunk of worthless shit; a real piece of work, totally one of Oscar Camulos's creatures. The evening was really all about Shawn. What a great guy. He deserved a break. And the girl? She was still a mystery. He knew Shawn loved her. He believed in Shawn. If he loved her, then she was probably worth it.

Todd Bitterman was angry and he was under the gun. He'd long since stopped having any real feelings for Susan. After all she'd jilted him for some shit faced foreign aid worker.

Camulos wanted the girl for his own sick reasons, reasons that had little to do with real sex. But Todd still wanted the girl. He wanted to have her, and then turn her over to the pig Camulos. He'd been thinking about it all week. How could he get the girl in the sack with him; then get her professionally under the thumb of his boss.

Todd laughed out loud, "Wouldn't it be fun, he'd nail Susan, and then turn her over to Camulos. She'd be become Princess Leah to Camulos's Jabba the Hut! Beauty and the Beast! And her hero, the stupid aid worker, he'd be forever on the outside looking in. Ha!" He turned up the car radio, "Oh what a night!"

Bitterman was in his Lexus. He was dressed in a black three piece pin striped suit; white shirt, dark tie, sharply tailored vest. He had on black wing tipped shoes, with matching black socks. This was a special occasion so he wore his richest looking Rolex watch, Tiger's eye pinky ring, and his favorite musk aroma cologne. He'd trimmed his narrow black mustache so that it sat closely just above his upper lip. Fully clothed, dripping with cologne, and mustache well trimmed he looked and felt rich.

The CID Chief Warrant Officer was attired in his dress blue uniform. Short hair cut, white walls on the side. No cologne or perfume, openly old fashioned he preferred the manly smell of Dial soap. He wasn't going anywhere, and there was nobody he wanted to impress. He intended to stay as unobtrusive as possible and just watch and hear what went on.

Shawn arrived early and saw his superior, the damned old warrant officer who'd given him more breaks and chances than any man ever deserved. Shawn loved the bastard. If he had ever known or met his father, he hoped he was half the man this old son of a bitch was, ram rod straight in posture and in character. The old fart was everything Shawn had ever hoped to be. He knew he'd let the old man down.

Shawn was garbed as ordered, in his dress blues. He hadn't done much in life, was at best only a sergeant, but he had his jewelry on. Aside from his dearest personal possession, the Timex watch Susan had bought him, he was wearing his military decorations. Most of it was the usual stuff, but sandwiched in between the crap were two Bronze Stars. He knew he'd failed the man he saw at the table, but he still had his stars; the marks of a real man, a man who maybe at least twice had done the best things a man could do; shown courage in the face of danger. He was proud of that. He wanted that old man at the table to be proud of them too.

As far as his overall appearance, well, Shawn wasn't anything particularly great. Only average in height, just barely six feet, a little stooped since his time in the Sudan. He still had his catcher's mitt scar, but now he carried a slightly off center nose thanks to his Yemeni torturer. For a military man he'd always kept his hair a little on the shaggy side; perhaps as a mark of defiance, and he had a mustache, that was a little shaggy too. If he were on the parade ground tonight he knew it wouldn't pass inspection.

He'd cleaned up, shaved, and splashed on a little Old Spice. He'd always liked the spicy smell. The man who'd enrolled him in little league so long ago had used Old Spice too.

Shawn was proud but a little ashamed. He wished he was as good as the man he was meeting tonight.

Todd Bitterman was seated at the table Susan had chosen. The restaurant was perhaps three quarters full. He was feeling like a million bucks. He glanced around. There weren't many men in his league. There were a couple of soldiers nearby; boy scouts he liked to call them. A man in the corner looked like he belonged at a MacDonald's. There were a few others scattered about, but he was confident. He was the only real man in the place.

Susan walked in. Todd saw her. It was like the parting of the Red Sea. She was magnificent. She had on a rich heavy cotton black dress. The hem came just above her knees.

She had to be wearing flesh toned nylons. The dress was an open shouldered piece; had a slightly raised ruffled collar that wrapped comfortably around her long delicate neck. The collar seemed to slowly cross over her smallish but shapely breasts. He wondered if anything in front held the dress together, or did it gap open to allow a look at that delicious décolletage.