The Tears of Dark Water (59 page)

As soon as their cab pulled away, Ismail looked at Megan. “I made you a promise. Now it is time to fulfill it. I will tell you what happened on the sailboat.”

“Thank God,” she said, exhaling audibly.

He tilted his head. “Yes, but only when the work is done.”

She put up her hands. “The trial starts in two weeks. I don’t have time for any more favors.”

“Do you want justice?” he asked, interrogating her with his eyes.

She sighed. “Of course.”

“Then I need your help.”

Megan

Norfolk, Virginia

June 1, 2012

From a legal perspective, it was madness, at once risible and absurd, but Megan knew she would do it exactly as Ismail had asked. He had won her over long ago, just as he had won over Paul. She listened to his story for three straight hours, pausing only to ask clarifying questions. He was candid with her, and his memory was astonishing in its detail. She tested his recollection by asking him to recount exchanges in the negotiations that she had memorized from the recordings. His error rate was impossibly low. He rehearsed sentences and paragraphs with near verbatim accuracy.

She had thought it before, but his story proved it. He was a prodigy. His brain operated on a level of complexity that would make the average person’s head spin. Like a game theorist, he saw every choice he made within a matrix of possible scenarios, all of which had probabilities and contingencies that, if realized, would influence the outcome. He populated the matrix with evaluative judgments of the people around him and updated it in real-time so his decisions were always fresh, future-oriented, and non-reactive. In this way, he had kept the government guessing while he sailed the
Renaissance
toward Somalia and nearly escaped the barricade with $1.8 million in cash. It was also how he had managed to turn his capture and imprisonment into a path to liberation for Yasmin and Khadija.

But he wasn’t infallible. He couldn’t see the end from the beginning. When he made a mistake in his calculations, or when a person acted contrary to his interest, his matrix collapsed like a tapestry unraveling from a single thread. As he told it, he had made two such mistakes—first, in trusting that Paul spoke for the government when he promised to let them go; and, second, in believing that the money would satisfy his men, notwithstanding the fact that he had betrayed them.

He laid it all out in black and white—the choices made by all the parties that led to the moment of the shooting. And then he revealed the last piece of the puzzle—the reason he had concealed the truth until now and would not disclose it publicly until the trial. It was at this point that his tale turned from a tragedy into a doomsday prophecy. Megan understood the cold, hard logic of the sacrifice he had to make, but she couldn’t bear the thought of watching him commit suicide.

She left the Chesapeake Correction Center in a daze and drove toward Washington, pushing her Jaguar far above the speed limit. She reached the Capitol in record time and took the Beltway west toward Arlington. Her house was in the District, but she didn’t want to go home tonight. Simon had moved out two months ago after trying, but failing, to adhere to the rule of strict monogamy. He was renting an apartment in Georgetown that gave him freedom to conduct his affairs without oversight. Megan had already spoken to a divorce attorney, and she expected him to sign the papers without a fight. He had always been fair in love and war. It was fidelity he had never managed to achieve.

Just before nine in the evening, Megan knocked on Paul’s door. She had thought about calling ahead, but she didn’t want to explain herself over the phone. She needed to talk about it in person.

He opened the door, dressed in his gym clothes, and stared at her in surprise. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“No,” she replied. “I need some company.” When he stepped aside, she walked into the living room and sat heavily on the couch. “Do you have any vodka?”

He shook his head. “Only bourbon and port.”

She laughed dryly. “You’re such a bachelor. What about wine?”

He held up a bottle of red. “I have a Montepulciano that won a bunch of awards.”

“That’ll do fine.”

He poured two glasses and handed her one before sitting on a chair nearby. “Is it Simon?” he asked. “I know it’s been hard.”

“Not really,” she said, grateful for the distraction. “I saw it coming. I wanted to make it work, but I can’t do it anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Meg. He’s a fool to let you go.” He took a sip of his wine and gazed at her. “It’s Ismail, isn’t it? He told you something.”

She nodded slowly. She had to be careful not to transgress the bounds of confidentiality. “You were right about him. He’s not who anyone thinks he is.”

“I know. I talked to his mother. She told me about his family.”

Megan nodded. It was why she had asked him to chauffeur Khadija and Yasmin. “That’s not what I mean. The back story doesn’t explain everything.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re talking about the shooting.”

The emotions welled up in her again. “He’s the brightest person I’ve ever met. He has so much potential. He could be the next president of Somalia.” She felt a tear break loose. “I can’t save him, Paul. The jury is never going to believe him. They’re going to give him the death penalty.”

She watched as her brother moved to the couch and pulled her into his embrace. His instinct was impeccable. For as long as she could remember, he had known exactly what she needed. She nestled her head against his chest, at home in his arms.

In time, he spoke. “There was a moment out on the water when I knew I’d lost control. I gave him the opening he needed, but I couldn’t make him take it. The choice was his to make.” Paul ran his fingers through her hair. “This is no different. He isn’t yours to save.”

Megan was silent for a long time, drifting in the ether of pain. She knew he was right, but the implications of what he said extended much farther than the case. She remembered their dinner in Beaver Creek. She hadn’t been in any condition to talk about the past, about Kyle. But now she felt differently. If she was going to survive the trial, she had to accept what she couldn’t change.

“There was something you wanted to tell me in Colorado,” she said. “What was it?”

He looked into her eyes. “You really want to do this?”

She braced herself. “I do.”

He took her hand. “I wanted to say that what happened that day wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault. It was Kyle’s choice. We have to live with it, but we didn’t make it happen.”

In the moments that followed, she was there and she wasn’t there. She saw Paul’s face, but he was younger and clad in his football jersey. She saw him trying desperately to calm Kyle down. She saw his blue eyes darken at the sound of the gunshots. She saw him run to Kyle and lift him off the floor, tears coating his face and mixing with his brother’s blood. And then she saw his expression change. She saw him turn toward her and tell her not to look, to leave the den and find a phone. She heard her mother shrieking hysterically. She didn’t need a psychologist to tell her that the horror that had taken their father from them would claim their mother’s sanity as well. She went with Paul because he was the only person in the world she could trust. She trusted him still.

“I need help letting it go,” she said. “I want to, but I don’t know how.”

He spoke with clarity: “Come with me to Annandale. We’ll do it together.”

She winced, feeling profoundly vulnerable. “I can’t right now. I need to focus on the trial.”

He touched her cheek. “Take your time. When you’re ready, let me know.”

“Can I stay here tonight?” she asked.

“Stay as long as you want.”

She looked at his piano and saw the lights of the city behind it. “Will you play me something?”

He nodded and moved to the bench, placing his fingers on the keys. After a moment’s thought, he began to play. She recognized the piece immediately—an iconic collaboration between Bruce Hornsby and Don Henley that came out the year after Kyle died. It had been their anthem in the days of their mourning, and, afterward, as they struggled to believe in hope again.

It was called “The End of the Innocence.”

Paul

Norfolk, Virginia

June 22, 2012

The courtroom was hushed when Derrick entered it. He walked briskly up the aisle, looking straight ahead and ignoring the packed gallery. He was the first witness of the day and the second of the trial—Gabriel Masters, the captain of the
Gettysburg
, had gone before him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vanessa sitting next to Curtis and Yvonne. She was dressed in a demure white pantsuit, her hair pulled back in a French twist. He made no attempt to acknowledge her. What he had to say wasn’t going to satisfy anyone in the prosecutorial camp—neither the government, nor the Parker family. He had no idea how Vanessa would react to his testimony, or whether she would want to speak to him again.

He walked through the bar, nodding at Clyde Barrington, who was standing at the podium, and took his oath in front of the clerk.

“Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the woman intoned.

“I do,” he said, and took the witness stand, glancing only briefly at the sixteen people in the jury box. He knew that to make an impression on them he was supposed to be friendly. But he didn’t owe any favors to the government. He would tell the truth and let the jurors sort it out.

“Please state your name for the record,” Barrington began, and Derrick complied, focusing on the Assistant U.S. Attorney and ignoring Ismail and Megan to his left and Vanessa behind him.

Since the jury had already heard from Captain Masters, Barrington kept Derrick’s testimony simple and direct, establishing his credentials, elucidating the theory behind hostage negotiation, and leading him through the high points of his negotiation with Ismail—he called him “Ibrahim” for clarity—by admitting the audio recordings into evidence.

After playing the clip in which Derrick and Ismail discussed the Quran, Barrington said: “Can you explain to the jury what your objective was in these early negotiations?”

“I wanted to get him talking, to open up a channel of communication and develop a rapport,” Derrick explained. “It’s critical in a negotiation that both sides believe that they’re dealing with the right person who can make binding decisions to end the standoff. I was trying to build his trust and get a sense for his trustworthiness.”

Barrington moved from the podium to the floor in front of the bench. “Did there come a time where Ibrahim broke off contact with you and reached out to the Parker family directly?”

“Yes,” Derrick said. “That was on the second day of the crisis. Ibrahim spoke with Vanessa Parker by satellite phone. He demanded five million dollars and set a deadline for the following Monday.”

“Did this tactic surprise you?”

“It took all of us by surprise. Somali pirates don’t usually negotiate a ransom until they reach land. When Ismail contacted the family, he was over five hundred miles from the coast. We had to decide if he was serious or if he was using it as a diversion to buy time.”

“What was your opinion?”

Derrick glanced at Ismail. “My instinct told me he meant what he said.”

Barrington moved toward the jury box. “Did the government have authority to
stop
him from negotiating with the family?”

“No. It’s not illegal to pay money to pirates, only to terrorist organizations. At the same time, we had control of the physical environment. Whatever the family agreed to do, it was our decision, ultimately, whether we let the pirates reach the coast.”

“What was the government’s position on that?” Barrington asked.

Against his better judgment, Derrick glanced at Vanessa. He shouldn’t have done it. When she met his eyes, he lost his train of thought. After a pause, he said, “Our orders were clear. We weren’t allowed to let them make landfall.”

“Even if the family paid them a ransom?”

Derrick nodded. “That’s right.”

Barrington looked thoughtful. “What was the thinking behind that?”

Derrick took a breath. “It is the policy of the United States to prevent hostage takers from profiting off the kidnapping of Americans. When we can stop it from happening, we do.”

The prosecutor returned to the podium. “Did the family negotiate with the pirates?”

“Yes,” Derrick said. “Curtis Parker, Daniel’s father, took the lead. They agreed on 1.8 million dollars.”

“What did you do while they were negotiating?”

Derrick shifted in his seat. “My counterpart in Annapolis sent us recordings of the ransom calls. I followed them closely. I also had conversations with Captain Masters and the SEAL commander about the end game. The Navy’s tactical options were limited while the
Renaissance
was moving. But we knew we would have an opening as soon as the sailboat reached the drop point.”