Jaros watched the screen impassively. So far all of Michael’s information had checked out, but nothing truly classified had been shared yet. The spokesperson for the Secretary-General began talking again, and Michael saw the Commandant’s body posture stiffen.
“Following a request by the UN Security Council, International Criminal Court Prosecutor Yejida Matunga will begin a joint investigation into allegations of war crimes stemming from evidence and eyewitness accounts at the Parnaas Refugee Camp near the Orlisian border.” Matunga took the podium, gave a brief statement, and began accepting questions. Two or three reporters asked about the situation. Michael tensed when the spokesperson called on the world affairs reporter from the Washington Post.
Please tell me Father got to her in time…
“It is my understanding that many of these eyewitness accounts are from the Refugee Crisis Coalition, currently working in the Parnaas camp. How much consideration will be given to the coalition and in particular the testimony of coalition leader, Sophie Swenda?”
Jaros didn’t move as the reporter took her seat and the prosecutor said that the Refugee Crisis Coalition would indeed be called upon for testimony and that their records would be subpoenaed by the Office of the Prosecutor.
“Anyone with information germane to the investigation could be called upon to testify. We expect that list to include Ms. Swenda and other members of the coalition executive committee, especially those with firsthand contact with the refugees who are alleged to have had war crimes visited upon them,” she concluded, and the spokesperson called for the next question. Jaros closed the computer and turned to face Michael, his face impassive.
“Sophie Swenda.” The Commandant tapped his pen on the desk. “How is my dear Sophie?”
“Lying in the infirmary, suffering from dysentery.” At least that much was true.
Jaros’ face clouded over. “I am distressed to hear this. You will convey my good wishes for recovery to her?”
He nodded. Just the sound of Sophie’s name on this madman’s lips made him want to commit an atrocity of his own.
“It appears that Sophie holds a great deal of influence over my fate,” Jaros said with a twisted smile.
“So it does. In fact, you would do well to stay in the good graces of the entire coalition executive team, I believe.”
Jaros pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed. Although it is hard to imagine what else I could do to make them feel more welcome here in this new Soviet territory. We have already given them all our hospitality.”
Michael bit the inside of his lip to keep from screaming. “Perhaps I could offer a suggestion.”
“I thought you might,” the Commandant said dryly.
“I first recommend clemency for the refugees. The kind of clemency that ensures no further ‘accidents’ of any kind occur.”
“A wise suggestion. But many have already met with unfortunate mishaps. What of them?”
“What’s done is done, Commandant. It cannot be changed. Nor can it be denied as the coalition has documented many of those affected. That documentation is already in New York, I should add. Of course, those refugees will be carefully monitored in the coming weeks to ensure none of them meets with any further accidents.” Jaros’ eyes blazed at Michael’s warning.
He continued. “Perhaps offering specific aid – or permitting the coalition to do so – could repair some of the damage? Many international interests would be willing to assist. I suggest you seek Dr. Shah’s advice on this matter.” Translation: Anjali can recommend plastic surgeons around the world who could fix up the men you have mutilated.
“A unique goodwill gesture!” Jaros cried gleefully. Michael nearly broke a piece off the chair keeping his hands to himself. “Your advice is sound, Mr. Trent. Have you any more for me?”
Michael paused for effect, thinking. “The unfortunate young man back in the coalition camp…” He waited to see if Jaros would pick up the thread.
“The one Sophie used to develop the vaccine that stopped the pneumonia outbreak?” Jaros asked carelessly. “What of him? My guards tell me he is on the brink of death. Has he died?”
Michael looked at the Commandant, aware of the irony of the question. Was he dead? You might be after tonight, said a helpful voice in the back of his mind.
The person he’d been when he’d left for Orlisia last summer no longer existed. Most of him had been burned away by his horrifying time in the resistance. The remaining part had died as he had sat beside Sophie’s bed, watching her fight against the dysentery and realizing what an utter fool he had been for the last decade. Perhaps the terrible act he’d visited on her earlier that day was the final echo of a lifetime of pride and misplaced anger.