The Pelican Brief (3 page)

Callahan stared at her in mock frustration. She had left his apartment three hours earlier after a long night of wine and law. But he had not mentioned
Nash
to her.

“Well, well, Ms. Shaw. Why is Rosenberg upset?”

“He thinks the New Jersey statute violates the Second Amendment.” She did not look at the professor.

“That’s good. And for the benefit of the rest of the class, what does the statute do?”

“Outlaws semiautomatic machine guns, among other things.”

“Wonderful. And just for fun, what did Mr. Nash possess at the time of his arrest?”

“An AK-47 assault rifle.”

“And what happened to him?”

“He was convicted, sentenced to three years, and appealed.” She knew the details.

“What was Mr. Nash’s occupation?”

“The opinion wasn’t specific, but there was mention of an additional charge of drug trafficking. He had no criminal record at the time of his arrest.”

“So he was a dope pusher with an AK-47. But he has a friend in Rosenberg, doesn’t he?”

“Of course.” She was watching him now. The tension had eased. Most eyes followed him as he paced slowly, looking around the room, selecting another victim. More often than not, Darby dominated these
lectures, and Callahan wanted a broader participation.

“Why do you suppose Rosenberg is sympathetic?” he asked the class.

“He loves dope pushers.” It was Sallinger, wounded but trying to rally. Callahan placed a premium on class discussion. He smiled at his prey, as if to welcome him back to the bloodletting.

“You think so, Mr. Sallinger?”

“Sure. Dope pushers, child fondlers, gunrunners, terrorists. Rosenberg greatly admires these people. They are his weak and abused children, so he must protect them.” Sallinger was trying to appear righteously indignant.

“And, in your learned opinion, Mr. Sallinger, what should be done with these people?”

“Simple. They should have a fair trial with a good lawyer, then a fair, speedy appeal, then punished if they are guilty.” Sallinger was perilously close to sounding like a law-and-order right-winger, a cardinal sin among Tulane law students.

Callahan folded his arms. “Please continue.”

Sallinger smelled a trap, but plowed ahead. There was nothing to lose. “I mean, we’ve read case after case where Rosenberg has tried to rewrite the Constitution to create a new loophole to exclude evidence to allow an obviously guilty defendant to go free. It’s almost sickening. He thinks all prisons are cruel and unusual places, so therefore, under the Eighth Amendment, all prisoners should go free. Thankfully, he’s in the minority now, a shrinking minority.”

“You like the direction of the Court, do you,
Mr. Sallinger?” Callahan was at once smiling and frowning.

“Damned right I do.”

“Are you one of those normal, red-blooded, patriotic, middle-of-the-road Americans who wish the old bastard would die in his sleep?”

There were a few chuckles around the room. It was safer to laugh now. Sallinger knew better than to answer truthfully. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” he said, almost embarrassed.

Callahan was pacing again. “Well, thank you, Mr. Sallinger. I always enjoy your comments. You have, as usual, provided us with the layman’s view of the law.”

The laughter was much louder. Sallinger’s cheeks flushed and he sank in his seat.

Callahan did not smile. “I would like to raise the intellectual level of this discussion, okay. Now, Ms. Shaw, why is Rosenberg sympathetic to Nash?”

“The Second Amendment grants the people the right to keep and bear arms. To Justice Rosenberg, it is literal and absolute. Nothing should be banned. If Nash wants to possess an AK-47, or a hand grenade, or a bazooka, the state of New Jersey cannot pass a law prohibiting it.”

“Do you agree with him?”

“No, and I’m not alone. It’s an eight-to-one decision. No one followed him.”

“What’s the rationale of the other eight?”

“It’s obvious, really. The states have compelling reasons to prohibit the sale and possession of certain types of arms. The interests of the state of New Jersey outweigh the Second Amendment rights of Mr. Nash.
Society cannot allow individuals to own sophisticated weaponry.”

Callahan watched her carefully. Attractive female law students were rare at Tulane, but when he found one he moved in quickly. Over the past eight years, he had been quite successful. Easy work, for the most part. The women arrived at law school liberated and loose. Darby had been different. He first spotted her in the library during the second semester of her first year, and it took a month to get her to dinner.

“Who wrote the majority opinion?” he asked her.

“Runyan.”

“And you agree with him?”

“Yes. It’s an easy case, really.”

“Then what happened to Rosenberg?”

“I think he hates the rest of the Court.”

“So he dissents just for the hell of it.”

“Often, yes. His opinions are becoming more indefensible. Take
Nash
. For a liberal like Rosenberg, the issue of gun control is easy. He should have written the majority opinion, and ten years ago he would have. In
Fordice v. Oregon
, a 1977 case, he took a much narrower interpretation of the Second Amendment. His inconsistencies are almost embarrassing.”

Callahan had forgotten
Fordice
. “Are you suggesting Justice Rosenberg is senile?”

Much like a punch-drunk fighter, Sallinger waded in for the final round. “He’s crazy as hell, and you know it. You can’t defend his opinions.”

“Not always, Mr. Sallinger, but at least he’s still there.”

“His body’s there, but he’s brain-dead.”

“He’s breathing, Mr. Sallinger.”

“Yeah, breathing with a machine. They have to pump oxygen up his nose.”

“But it counts, Mr. Sallinger. He’s the last of the great judicial activists, and he’s still breathing.”

“You’d better call and check,” Sallinger said as his words trailed off. He’d said enough. No, he’d said too much. He lowered his head as the professor glared at him. He hunkered down next to his notebook, and started wondering why he’d said all that.

Callahan stared him down, then began pacing again. It was indeed a bad hangover.

3
________

AT LEAST he looked like an old farmer, with straw hat, clean bib overalls, neatly pressed khaki work shirt, boots. He chewed tobacco and spat in the black water beneath the pier. He chewed like a farmer. His pickup, though of recent model, was sufficiently weathered and had a dusty-road look about it. North Carolina plates. It was a hundred yards away, parked in the sand at the other end of the pier.

It was midnight Monday, the first Monday in October, and for the next thirty minutes he was to wait in the dark coolness of the deserted pier, chewing pensively, resting on the railing while staring intently at the sea. He was alone, as he knew he would be. It was planned that way. This pier at this hour was always deserted. The headlights of an occasional car flickered along the shoreline, but the headlights never stopped at this hour.

He watched the red and blue channel lights far from shore. He checked his watch without moving his head. The clouds were low and thick, and it
would be difficult to see it until it was almost to the pier. It was planned this way.

The pickup was not from North Carolina, and neither was the farmer. The license plates had been stolen from a wrecked truck at a scrap yard near Durham. The pickup had been stolen in Baton Rouge. The farmer was not from anywhere, and performed none of the thievery. He was a pro, and so someone else did the dirty little deeds.

Twenty minutes into the wait, a dark object floated in the direction of the pier. A quiet, muffled engine hummed and grew louder. The object became a small craft of some sort with a camouflaged silhouette crouching low and working the motor. The farmer moved not an inch in anticipation. The humming stopped and the black rubber raft stalled in the calm water thirty feet from the pier. There were no headlights coming or going along the shore.

The farmer carefully placed a cigarette between his lips, lit it, puffed twice, then thumped it down, halfway to the raft.

“What kind of cigarette?” the man on the water asked upward. He could see the outline of the farmer on the railing, but not the face.

“Lucky Strike,” the farmer answered. These passwords made for such a silly game. How many other black rubber rafts could be expected to drift in from the Atlantic and pinpoint this ancient pier at this precise hour? Silly, but oh so important.

“Luke?” came the voice from the boat.

“Sam,” replied the farmer. The name was Khamel, not Sam, but Sam would do for the next five minutes until Khamel parked his raft.

Khamel did not answer, was not required to, but quickly started the engine and guided the raft along the edge of the pier to the beach. Luke followed from above. They met at the pickup without a handshake. Khamel placed his black Adidas gym bag between them on the seat, and the truck started along the shoreline.

Luke drove and Khamel smoked, and both did a perfect job of ignoring each other. Their eyes did not dare meet. With Khamel’s heavy beard, dark glasses, and black turtleneck, his face was ominous but impossible to identify. Luke did not want to see it. Part of his assignment, in addition to receiving this stranger from the sea, was to refrain from looking at him. It was easy, really. The face was wanted in nine countries.

Across the bridge at Manteo, Luke lit another Lucky Strike and determined they had met before. It had been a brief but precisely timed meeting at the airport in Rome, five or six years earlier, as best he could remember. There had been no introductions. It took place in a rest room. Luke, then an impeccably tailored American executive, had placed an eelskin attaché case next to the wall next to the washbasin where he slowly rinsed his hands, and suddenly it was gone. He caught a glimpse of the man—this Khamel, he was now certain—in the mirror. Thirty minutes later, the attaché case exploded between the legs of the British ambassador to Nigeria.

In the guarded whispers of his invisible brotherhood, Luke had often heard of Khamel, a man of many names and faces and languages, an assassin who struck quickly and left no trail, a fastidious killer
who roamed the world but could never be found. As they rode north in the darkness, Luke settled low in his seat, the brim of his hat almost on his nose, limp wrist across the wheel, trying to remember the stories he’d heard about his passenger. Amazing feats of terror. There was the British ambassador. The ambush of seventeen Israeli soldiers on the West Bank in 1990 had been credited to Khamel. He was the only suspect in the 1985 car-bomb murders of a wealthy German banker and his family. His fee for that one was rumored to have been three million, cash. Most intelligence experts believed he was the mastermind of the 1981 attempt to kill the Pope. But then, Khamel was blamed for almost every unsolved terrorist attack and assassination. He was easy to blame because no one was certain he existed.

This excited Luke. Khamel was about to perform on American soil. The targets were unknown to Luke, but important blood was about to be shed.

________

At dawn, the stolen farm truck stopped at the corner of Thirty-first and M streets in Georgetown. Khamel grabbed his gym bag, said nothing, and hit the sidewalk. He walked east a few blocks to the Four Seasons Hotel, bought a
Post
in the lobby, and casually rode the elevator to the seventh floor. At precisely seven-fifteen, he knocked on a door at the end of the hall. “Yes?” a nervous voice asked from inside.

“Looking for Mr. Sneller,” Khamel said slowly in a perfect generic American tongue as he stuck his thumb over the peephole.

“Mr. Sneller?”

“Yes. Edwin F. Sneller.”

The knob did not turn or click, and the door did not open. A few seconds passed, and a white envelope eased from under the door. Khamel picked it up. “Okay,” he said loud enough for Sneller or whoever he was to hear.

“It’s next door,” Sneller said. “I’ll await your call.” He sounded like an American. Unlike Luke, he’d never seen Khamel, and had no desire to, really. Luke had seen him twice now, and was indeed lucky to be alive.

Khamel’s room had two beds and a small table near the window. The shades were drawn tightly; no chance of sunlight. He placed his gym bag on one bed, next to two thick briefcases. He walked to the window and peeked out, then to the phone.

“It’s me,” he said to Sneller. “Tell me about the car.”

“It’s parked on the street. Plain white Ford with Connecticut plates. The keys are on the table.” Sneller spoke slowly.

“Stolen?”

“Of course, but sanitized. It’s clean.”

“I’ll leave it at Dulles shortly after midnight. I want it destroyed, okay?” The English was perfect.

“Those are my instructions. Yes.” Sneller was proper and efficient.

“It’s very important, okay? I intend to leave the gun in the car. Guns leave bullets and people see cars, so it’s important to completely destroy the car and everything in it. Understand?”

“Those are my instructions,” Sneller repeated. He
did not appreciate this lecture. He was no novice at the killing game.

Khamel sat on the edge of the bed. “The four million was received a week ago, a day late I should add. I’m now in D.C., so I want the next three.”

“It will be wired before noon. That was the agreement.”

“Yes, but I’m worried about the agreement. You were a day late, remember?”

This irritated Sneller, and since the killer was in the next room and not about to come out, he could sound a bit irritated. “The bank’s fault, not ours.”

This irritated Khamel. “Fine. I want you and your bank to wire the next three million to the account in Zurich as soon as New York opens. That will be about two hours from now. I’ll be checking.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, and I want no problem when the job is finished. I’ll be in Paris in twenty-four hours, and from there I’ll go straight to Zurich. I want all the money waiting for me when I arrive.”

“It will be there, if the job is finished.”

Khamel smiled to himself. “The job will be finished, Mr. Sneller, by midnight. That is, if your information is correct.”