The president, staring at his feet, listening, raised his head.
“Jake Jackwell did not say that, did he, Grant?”
“Those are as close as I can get to his words, sir. Losing those FBI agents last night has people awfully angry. It’s as if we’re being gunned down by foreigners who came to our country armed and ready for a fight, and all we’re doing is threatening to give them speeding tickets. People are angry, Mr. President. There are two more bodies to be buried. That makes two heavy media events we’ve got to get through. What are you going to do, Mr. President?”
Before President Quaid could answer, McQueeney spoke.
“That’s not fair, Senator, nor is it accurate. Those FBI agents were shot by a US citizen, by a man who thought he was defending his home from what to him could have looked like a break-in in the middle of the night. There were no armed foreigners involved in that shooting. At least get your facts right.”
“Stop thinking like a lawyer, Queen,” Quaid said. “You’re letting the facts get in the way. I’m afraid, Queen, that Jake Jackwell is closer to the general public than we are on this one. He doesn’t see any difference between the foreign citizens on those two boats and the US citizens who got them off the boats, at least not when it comes to taking shots at US agents.”
“With all due respect, sir,” McQueeney retorted, “he’s wrong then.”
“No, he’s not wrong, Queen,” the president answered, making no effort to conceal his impatience with the attorney general. “That guy, whatever his name is, who killed the agents is going to be viewed as much as a foreign agent as the people from the boats. Those new deaths make even the US citizens involved seem like… somebody give me some sort of legal term to use, like…”
“Enemy combatants, sir. That’s what they all are. Enemy combatants, if I may, sir,” interjected one of the two deputy attorneys general.
“Enemy combatant? Does that have some specific legal meaning?” Quaid asked.
“Enemy combatant has a very specific meaning, Mr. President,” the deputy said, seeming to gain confidence with each word. “The Al Qaida detainees at Guantanamo Bay were classified as enemy combatants. That shoe bomber who tried to blow up a flight from London to Boston was called an enemy combatant. The Supreme Court said even US citizens could be labeled enemy combatants. It didn’t matter where they came from, citizen or not. They all got the same labeclass="underline" enemy combatant.”
He looked at his boss, seeking approval to continue. McQueeney sat motionless, exhausted, ignoring him, ignoring the president. The deputy continued.
“Legally, Mr. President, you have the power to label anybody an enemy combatant and no court in the land has jurisdiction to hear any challenge to that designation by you, sir. No judge has the power to hear or decide any case brought by an enemy combatant, thanks to our wise Congress.”
“How can that be?” Quaid asked.
“Mr. President, the defense appropriation act of 2005 stripped the federal courts of jurisdiction to hear any legal proceeding, including an application for a writ of habeas corpus, brought by any enemy combatant detained by this country at the Navy base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.
“A few years later, after some clever lawyers were able to file their habeas petitions within hours of their clients being taken into custody in Afghanistan, before they actually arrived at Gitmo, Congress extended that stripping of court jurisdiction to all cases brought by all persons declared by the president to be enemy combatants. Once you put that label on him, whether he is an Afghan bomb thrower or a Cleveland Boy Scout, he lives outside the laws of the United States of America. He has no rights, or, more accurately, he has all the rights every American has, but he has nowhere to go to enforce any violations of those rights. Congress shut the courthouse doors to everybody who you, Mr. President, declare to be an enemy combatant.”
The President glanced at McQueeney, waiting for her to contradict what the deputy just said. She said nothing.
“Okay,” President Quaid said. “I’ve got the picture. Queen, I hear what you are saying. Young man, thank you for your legal insight. Grant, let’s talk later this afternoon. Keep speaking with people, then give me a call. Me, I have some serious thinking to do. For now, Queen, keep those people fed and comfortable. See what you can come up with for them. And try to keep the news media away from them. I’ll talk with you first thing tomorrow morning.”
After the Oval Office cleared out, the president asked his assistant to locate the First Lady.
Catherine, my love. Don’t abandon me now, of all times. I need you more than ever right now, here with me, Quaid thought. And Catherine, maybe you ought to bring that bright son of a bitch Bobby Brown back here, too.
CHAPTER 21
Debra Reuben spoke sweetly into the telephone, shivering in the damp air, using the pay phone outside the Brooklin, Maine, post office. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to speak to another adult; it had been so long since she’d spoken with anybody but Levi, the Mossad men in Spain or the hard-eyed soldiers in the desert at Dimona, putting aside that little incident at Jost van Dyke.
“Sarah, this is Debbie, Debbie Reuben. I know it’s been a while…” Reuben tried not to sound too desperate. Sarah Goldberg, now Sarah Goldberg-Goldhersh, was Reuben’s sorority sister at Delta Phi Epsilon at Syracuse University. They stayed close for several years after graduation but drifted apart when Sarah became involved with Abram Goldhersh. He’d dragged her, reluctantly at first, then deeper and deeper, into right-wing Jewish politics. Goldhersh was a supporter of Amana, the West Bank settlement movement in Israel. He’d helped found a settlement on the Golan Heights itself but was delegated to return to the US where he was born, to recruit and fundraise. Reuben kept abreast of her friend’s exploits, but only remotely over websites.
Sarah and Abram were carried on the payroll of Abram’s uncle’s jewelry business in Portland, Maine, but few employees there would have recognized them. They crisscrossed the country raising money for the movement. Sometimes, they purchased supplies that not even the government of Israel was anxious for the settlers to have.
Goldhersh became skilled at negotiating the clandestine weapons markets in towns outside American military bases—places where soldiers could make beer money, and more, by smuggling items off the bases. That was one of the other reasons he’d returned to Portland. It was an old seaport. Not too large, not too small. International freighters called regularly, delivering containers from around the world, leaving with containers of American goods. Once in a while, a freighter left for the eastern Mediterranean and Goldhersh could ship a cargo container with “farm supplies” for his former settlement on the Golan. Goldhersh also had access to warehouse space along Portland’s waterfront.
Homeland Security monitored shipping containers entering American ports, but who cared what was shipped out of the country?
Sarah knew most of what her husband did. More often than not, she joined him on his cross-country shopping trips. As they were more and more successful in purchasing such “surplus” military equipment, they cut ties to people outside the movement, partly for security reasons but mostly because they had little time for anything but their work. Debra Reuben had only an inkling of what her former roommate and her husband were doing. They had not spoken in half a dozen years.
On the telephone, Sarah was cold at first; then an incredulous tone came into her voice.