Chapter 56
Assistant US Attorney, Marcel Fauchet, took pride in his work. Of French descent, as his name clearly implied, the young Marcel had forged his way through the halls of Justice with relative ease. A brilliant student of the law, he graduated from Harvard, and passed the bar exam with flourish, one could say. Early in his career, he had demonstrated a real disgust for the criminals that paraded in front of the judges every day. He had no intention of ever becoming a defence attorney. He could not see himself condoning the actions of some of these men and women who vowed to do harm to another human being. For him, all they deserved was the guillotine. It was in such a frame of mind that he entered the visitors’ room at the remand centre.
Flanked by his defence attorney, Mr. David Simmons—a diminutive man who was known around the D.C. legal quarters as a calculating lawyer—Sadir, dressed in the regulation orange jumpsuit, looked at the young man as he sat opposite him. He thought if he could con the whole of the Mossad agency, he would easily fool this guy.
Marcel was young, and his mousy hair, together with his light brown eyes didn’t reveal the audacious trait of character he had used to his advantage on many occasions, successfully, during quite a few trials already. This audacity was dangerous when displayed in court. However, in this instance, Billycan needed someone to take risks to extract information from the suspect and that was the reason for Marcel sitting where he was now.
Simmons nodded and opened the interview with, “Alright, Mr. Fauchet, what can we do for you today?”
“I am here on behalf of Mr. Billycan. Our US Attorney thought you might be able to add a few details to your statement.”
“What sort of details are we talking about?” Simmons’s decisive manner didn’t bother Marcel in the least. He’ll soon shut up, he thought.
Depositing his cuffed wrists in front of him on the tabletop, Sadir thought how naïve the man was. “Would you like me to hand you the needle, too?”
Marcel shook the derision off his shoulders. “That would be helpful, of course, but if you were to plead guilty to a lesser charge and allocute in front of the judge, that would save everyone a lot of trouble…”
“And save the taxpayers a lot of money,” Simmons interjected.
“Actually, the taxpayers are the ones holding the purse-strings, Mr. Simmons, and they’re the ones who want to hear what your client has to say, but more to the point, why he did what he is alleged of doing.”
“Yet, that implies that my client will be willing to take a plea, which is not our intention at this juncture.”
Sadir guffawed. “And you think I am going to dig my own grave? If you think that way, Mr. Fauchet, you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were.”
“You may think me a fool, yes, but I am the one who could recommend offering you a reduced sentence if what we hear would lead us to the truth.”
“And what truth would you like me to utter in front of the judge; that I killed Mr. Slimane myself or shot Ms. Kartz from my desk in D.C.?”
Simmons’s admonishing glance toward his client was unmistakable. The attorney was trying to shut Sadir’s mouth.
The mocking grin on Marcel’s face told Sadir he was heading in the wrong direction with his answers. “No, Mr. Sadir, not at all. We know you didn’t pull the trigger, as you stated on a couple of occasions, but we also know that you convinced the Israelis to send their assassin to do the deed for you.”
Sadir’s reaction was one Marcel expected. The prisoner’s reddened face appeared ready to explode with the next words. “I did no such thing. I didn’t convince anyone to do anything.”
“You keep saying that; harping on the same words in our ears, but we have proof that you did.”
“What sort of proof? You don’t have anything to tie me to these crimes, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“Hold on a little minute here, Mr. Fauchet. What are you saying?” Simmons asked vehemently. “Are you asking my client to finger someone else for the crimes he’s accused of? And if that’s true, what are you offering in exchange for such a testimony?”
Ignoring Simmons’s request for a minute, Marcel ploughed ahead. “Wrong, Mr. Sadir. I am only here to confirm that what you said or wrote is what you meant to say.”
“Don’t say anything else,” Simmons ordered.
Sadir paid no heed to the suggestion. He wrung his hands. He had no idea what Fauchet meant, or where this was leading. “I have nothing to confirm.”
“Oh but you do, Mr. Sadir. Let’s just say, hypothetically now, that you were acting on someone’s orders, what we would like to confirm, if that’s true, of course, is that someone else was the rotten apple in the barrel. You see what I’m getting at?”
“Not a clue!”
“Come, come, Mr. Sadir, you’re not a stupid man. Your career in the CIA tells me that much. So, let’s try to save you from the needle, shall we?”
Simmons was visibly impatient. “You’re tiptoeing around, Fauchet. What is it you want exactly?”
“Who’s the “Puppeteer”, Mr. Sadir? The person you mentioned in your statement. Who’s pulling the strings? That’s what we want to know.”
Simmons’s face paled. “Don’t say anything, until we hear an offer from Mr. Fauchet,” he reiterated more forcefully this time.
Sadir shot him a dismissive glare. “I didn’t say anyone was. Lypsick is the one who suggested it—not me!”
“Yes, that’s what you keep saying, but I put it to you—you know who the puppeteer is.”
“Mr. Fauchet,” Simmons interrupted again, “if you suspect that my client is not this “puppeteer”, why do you want to keep him in here? He should be out there helping you…”
Marcel held up a hand. “It’s a simple case of evidence pointing to your client’s guilt, Mr. Simmons. You remember those little things call evidence, don’t you?”
The disdain in Marcel’s voice was designed to irritate Sadir. He wanted him to talk. Sadir knew who had succeeded in putting him behind bars, piling up evidence against him, and making sure that the ex-CIA man wasn’t going to escape a guilty verdict. However, Sadir didn’t seem ready to give up the name of the person who had pulled the strings.
Sadir was visibly uncomfortable. “Listen, Mr. Fauchet, I’m better in here than out there. You and your US Attorney have no power over the entire CIA. If they’ve got their minds made up to make me the scapegoat in this affair, so be it. I prefer facing 25 years in prison than having my family killed for accepting to make a deal with you.”
Marcel’s jaw lines tightened. “Are you saying that someone has threatened you with doing harm to your wife and children? Do you have proof of that?” He wondered if this wasn’t another way of leading the US Attorney’s office down the garden path again.
“I guess you need reading glasses, Mr. Fauchet,” Simmons put in. “My client has told you—and I believe it’s in his statement—that he was forced to travel to Vancouver against his wishes…”
“Yes, I’ve read that, but nowhere does it say that Mr. Sadir here was menaced in such a way.”
“But, I was!” Sadir blurted. “Lypsick told me that if I didn’t do what he wanted, he would make sure I’d come home to an empty house—or something like that.”
“And you thought you were in danger for your life and that of your family, if you didn’t comply with his request, is that it?”
“Shit, Fauchet, wouldn’t you be if someone in the CIA told you something like that?” When Marcel walked out of the centre toward his car, he had the feeling to convict Sadir was going to be harder than ever. Lypsick was definitely another question mark. How could this CIA agent make such mistakes as to menace the lives of a family openly unless he had other designs in mind? Or the “Puppeteer” did, maybe?
Chapter 57
When Sabrina heard Aziz’s voice, she erupted in a string of questions. “…How did it go? How is she? Is she awake? When can we see her?”
Aziz was sitting in front of
a full breakfast and eating already, which pleased Jay no end. “She’ll be fine... She’s got to rest for a few hours... She still in I.C.U...”
“Have you talked to her yet?”
Still munching on a piece of bacon, Aziz took the phone from beside his ear, looked at it and shook his head. “Sabrina…!”
“Oh! Sorry…, I’ll put you through right now.”
After a moment of silence, Aziz heard James’s voice. “Sabrina tells me Talya will be fine, is that true?”
“Yes, James. I’ve talked to the surgeon who assisted in the operation, and the verdict is good—very good, in fact. She should be walking in a few weeks”—Aziz smiled up at Jay—“With Jay’s help she’ll be on her feet in no time, I’m sure.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in months. When can we come and see her?”
“Probably not before tomorrow, but as soon as they’ll allow visitors, I’ll let you know.”
“What about you? How are you handling it? Will you be okay?”
“Now…, I’ll be just fine, James. It’s up the hill from now.” Aziz took another forkful of scrambled eggs to his mouth. “Will you call Khalid or shall I?”
“Don’t worry about any of that for now, I’ll take care of it. You just take care of Talya and leave the rest to me, okay?”
“Okay, James, but what about the lawyer…?”
“What did I say just now?” James sounded a little flustered.
“Alright, alright, I hear you. I’ll call you when she’s able to receive visitors.”
“You do that... And take care of yourself, do you hear me?”
“We’ll do...”
As soon as Aziz flipped his cell phone closed, he hurried to finish his breakfast under Jay’s amused gaze.