“How do you know Keator?” Amir said.
“We met online. We served in ‘Nam at the same time. Did the same job, so we had something in common.”
“What job?”
“Rats, man. We were rats. We cleared VC tunnels.”
“You never met him?”
“Nah. We just traded e-mails for a couple of years. Then he met a woman. Good one from what he said. Seemed to get his shit together. Heard from him maybe twice a year after that.”
“Why’s he coming here?”
“Hell if I know. Said he needed a place to crash. Sounded like he was in trouble. Maybe you guys are it, huh?”
Worry lined the old man’s face like it had plowed ground there before. Amir knew he was holding out. He turned to Fahrouk.
“Go pull that cushion off the chair.”
Fahrouk gave him a dubious look, then retrieved the seat cushion. Amir snatched it from his hand, took a step and pressed the cushion against Jackson’s left knee. Before either of the two of them had a chance to react, he yanked the Glock from his waistband, shoved the barrel into the cushion and pulled the trigger. The cushion muffled the gunshot from sharp report to dull whump, but it did nothing to stifle Jackson’s shrill yelp of pain.
“What the fuck?” Tears sprang to the old man’s rheumy eyes.
Amir stepped back and waved the Glock at Jackson’s knee. “Tie that off so he doesn’t bleed to death.”
Fahrouk stood unmoving, face ashen, mouth open.
“Fahrouk!” Amir barked.
“You shot him,” Fahrouk said in a small voice. “Holy shit, you shot him! Why the hell do you even have a gun? What are you doing? You shot him!”
“Stop babbling! Move! We don’t have much time here.”
Fahrouk looked around, bewildered, like a lost puppy. “What should I use?”
“I don’t care! Just do it! Use your belt.”
Fahrouk pulled his belt off and knelt next to the wheelchair. Jackson moaned in pain as Fahrouk threaded the belt under Jackson’s thigh and pulled it tight.
“Sorry, man,” Fahrouk muttered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Let’s try again,” Amir said, addressing Jackson. “You told Keator you could get him some new ID. Where’d you have it sent?”
“Fuck you!”
“To his daughter’s house, right? I’ll find it. It’s just a matter of time.”
He saw the last glimmer of hope fade from Jackson’s eyes. “So, go find it.”
“Want me to shoot out the other knee?”
“What the fuck difference would it make?” Jackson spat. “I can’t walk anyway.”
Amir took a step and aimed at Jackson’s right knee.
“Wait, wait!” Jackson said. “Look I didn’t even save Zany’s text, ’cause I don’t want to get involved. Just passed the information on to my sub. And I sure as hell don’t know where he is. Better that way, you know? But I do remember it was a P.O. box in some dinky town outside Charlottesville, Virginia. Scottsville, I think. ‘Dinky,’ get it? Good, huh?”
The old man forced a grimace into a semblance of a smile, sweat coating his brow, talking too much, trying to distract his mind from the pain.
“Where’s Keator going?” Amir said. “What’s he after?”
He grunted, his breathing becoming more labored. “Seriously, punk, go fuck yourself! I don’t know. Wouldn’t tell you if I did. Don’t matter how many joints you shoot out.”
“Come on, Amir,” Fahrouk pleaded. “Let’s get out of here. Leave him alone. He doesn’t know anything.”
Amir considered what Jackson had told him. He had the name of Keator’s next stop—if it went that far. He nodded, stepped to the side of the wheelchair, pressed the cushion against Jackson’s temple with the barrel of the pistol and pulled the trigger.
37
Preston felt foolish and ashamed. He knew all about “stranger-danger.” He knew he wasn’t supposed to get into a car with people he didn’t know. But he hadn’t really intended to go with Mr. Samara, just poke his head inside the limousine and look around. Then before he could even object they’d been moving. And once the car left school, it had seemed pointless to scream and cry and whine.
Mr. Samara had actually been very nice about the whole thing. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who would do those things to kids Preston’s father had warned him about. Mr. Samara had actually apologized for the unexpected change of plans. Well, unexpected to Preston. Getting Preston into the limo and taking him away from school seemed to have been Mr. Samara’s plan all along. But he’d been so nice Preston couldn’t be mad at him. He certainly wasn’t afraid of him. Not after Mr. Samara had lowered the glass between the front seat and the back of the limo to check on Preston and make sure he wasn’t thirsty or didn’t need to use the bathroom.
Preston’s only disappointment came when the limo ride ended too soon after they left school. They stopped abruptly on a quiet street, and Preston heard the front door open and close again. Then the rear door opened and Mr. Samara leaned in, apologizing again for the short ride. He explained that the limo had to be returned because it was needed for another important person that day. Mr. Samara led him to a big SUV, opened the rear door for him and helped him get buckled into his seat. Then Mr. Samara had placed Preston’s backpack on the seat beside him and got behind the wheel. By the time they pulled away from the curb the limo was gone.
With even more apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Samara had promised that where they were going next was even better than a limo.
“Have you ever flown on an airplane?”
Preston had barely been able to contain his excitement. He’d sensed it was wrong to be leaving school this way, but no one had threatened him or spoken a mean word to him. So he’d supposed that Mr. Samara really was who he’d said he was. There’d simply been a change of plans. Even though he wanted to know what the new plans were, something about Mr. Samara warned him not to ask too many questions. He seemed sad. No, not sad, really. Preston knew his mom’s look when she was sad, and this wasn’t quite the same thing. More like Mr. Samara was disappointed. What had Miss Williams called it? Resigned, that was it. As if Mr. Samara wished life had turned out differently, but knew nothing he did would change things.
After a while, Preston saw an airfield out the window, and his exhilaration grew. Mr. Samara had been telling the truth. The SUV drove into the airport and turned down a long taxiway. Several big hangers stood near the end. Mr. Samara stopped outside one of them, got out of the SUV and knocked on a little door that was set into the huge hanger door. The door opened a crack, and Mr. Samara spoke with someone Preston couldn’t see. Mr. Samara walked back to the SIV, and before he got in, the big hanger door started to open. Mr. Samara pulled up slowly, and when the opening was wide enough, he drove into the dim interior.
Preston squirmed in his seat, not scared, exactly, but feeling more the way he did before taking a quiz, or when Ms. Williams called on him in class. He’d expected a regular airport, with a terminal where big jets landed from and took off for places all over the world. He didn’t see anything in this huge, dark hanger.
“Are we still going to Washington, D.C.?” he said in a small voice.
“Of course,” Mr. Samara said.
“But I don’t see an airplane.”
“It’s right over there.” Mr. Samara pointed as he turned the wheel. The SUV curved toward a small, sleek jet.
“Will I see my dad when we get there?” Preston said. “Or my mom?”
Mr. Samara shook his head as he braked the vehicle to a stop. He turned to look at Preston over the seat back.
“This trip is for you. You won this trip, not your parents. Now, come on. We have to hurry. They’re waiting for us.”
Preston unbuckled his seatbelt as Mr. Samara got out, opened the rear door and waited for him. He grabbed his backpack and hopped down to the shiny concrete floor of the hanger. The bottom of the jet’s lowered staircase was a few steps a
way. The hanger brightened as the huge doors opened behind him. He hesitated.
“I don’t have a toothbrush. Or my pajamas.”
Mr. Samara shrugged and waved him toward the airstair. “We’ll buy you some when we get there. You can make a list of the things you need on the plane.”
Preston thought about it, then nodded, threaded his arms through the straps on his backpack and marched up the stairs into the plane.
38
Fending off entreaties by her chief of staff, personal assistant and policy advisor as soon as she set foot inside the Secretary of State’s suite in the Harry S. Truman Building, Abigail Cartwright strode into her office and turned to face her clamoring aides.
“Five minutes,” she ordered. “Give me five minutes, and I promise we’ll get back on schedule.”
She dumped her briefcase on her desk, and hung her suit coat on a hanger. Then she sat in the comfortable leather chair behind her desk and kicked off her shoes. For some reason, whenever they felt tight, they seemed to constrict her thinking, as if squeezing her brain along with her toes.
She’d known Joseph Darzi a long time, and seeing him earlier at the Hay-Adams had given her great pleasure. The time that had passed since they’d last seen each other reminded her of her own rapidly advancing years, a subject she normally avoided at all costs. It wasn’t aging she minded so much. She could deal with the graying hair and the new laugh lines that seemed to appear daily. At least, she told herself they were laugh lines, not creases worn into her face by the worrisome nature of her job. What she really minded was the loss of time to do so many other things. As much of the world as she’d seen in her various posts, especially with the State Department, she still wanted to travel with Daniel on vacations, during time she could devote to both him and her own edification. It’s one thing to see the Louvre during a photo op, and quite another to spend hours strolling through its halls. A view of the Eiffel Tower from the back seat of a limo was not the same as from the Pont Neuf at night, taking in the lights of Paris hand-in-hand with her husband. She still had so much to do.
More worrisome than the rapid passage of years or even affairs of state right now, however, was her meeting with Joseph. She’d known him a long time, had debated ethics with him in college when she was headed in the direction of law school, and he was considering divinity school. Had considered him one of her best friends in Cambridge even after they’d nearly ruined their relationship by stepping to the brink of romantic involvement. After law school and a stint in the prosecutor’s office she’d found him both supportive and a major contributor to her run for state attorney general’s office. All the time she’d known him, how was it possible that she didn’t know he had a wife? Not that it was any of her business, but once Joseph had decided on his path, women hadn’t been part of his life, at least not in terms of a relationship. He’d seemed a confirmed bachelor to her.
But what did she really know about him? He’d been born to immigrant parents who had worked hard and done well, but wanted better for their son than they’d had. His father had been a geologist turned wildcatter, and had started a small gas and oil company in Houston that had quickly grown. Like all energy companies, though, it had experienced its ups and downs, and during one recession, the company had been forced to downsize. A disgruntled former employee had gotten drunk one day, trespassed on the family estate, and had stumbled on Joseph’s father in the garden and shot him. Worse, the man had spray-painted, “Go home sand niggers” on the driveway. His mother had died not long after, broken-hearted. Joseph had dropped out of divinity school after that, she remembered, and, in fact, had dropped off the face of the earth for a few years. She’d been gearing up for her first run at public office when she’d heard from him again.
What to do…? Favoritism coming from her office made her uncomfortable. She also found it difficult to think of saving just one person from the world’s injustice simply because it was expedient when so many needed saving. To put one person’s life and liberty above another’s because of who they were or who they knew or how much money they had felt wrong. But if Joseph had been telling the truth about the woman he wanted her to find, how could she refuse?
She picked up the phone and dialed her personal assistant’s extension. “Carson, I’m ready for you now. Bring Trina and Jeffrey in with you, too, please.”
Her office door opened barely ten seconds later, which meant they’d been champing at the bit right outside all this time. Abigail put a hand to her mouth and coughed to hide a rising smile. Trina Rodriguez, her chief of staff, was first through the door, wearing a stern expression and clutching a leather-bound notepad. Jeffrey Katzenbach, her tall, tonsured and bespectacled policy advisor was on Trina’s heels, one eye blinking from a nervous tic. Her assistant Carson Powell trailed behind with raised shoulders and a look that asked how he was supposed to have stopped them. She waited until her troops were assembled, and held up her hand as Carson was about to launch into the afternoon’s agenda.
“Before we get started, I have a job for all of you,” she said. “Carson may have told you I had lunch with an old friend today—Joseph Darzi, Chairman of Energon.” She saw Trina’s eyebrows go up. “Joseph wants us to find someone and bring her here to the U.S.”
“Where is she now?” Jeffrey said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“He thinks she may be in Iraqi Kurdistan in a Syrian refugee camp. He’s sending over a dossier on her, which should arrive momentarily. Trina, check in with the Red Cross over there and see if they can track her down. Jeffrey, I don’t know what help our own people might be in that area, but reach out to the CIA and our Baghdad and Ankara embassies. See if they can help.”
“I’m sorry, but why are we helping Darzi find this woman?”
“He says she’s his wife.” Abigail swiveled. “Carson, I want you to find out everything you can about Joe Darzi. He disappeared for a few years back when I was in law school. It’s possible he could have gone overseas then and met this woman. But I want to be sure before we stick our necks out. I want to know Joe Darzi’s every coming and going for the past forty years if that’s what it takes. I’ve known him a long time, but I feel like I’m missing something.”
“We’re just supposed to grant this woman asylum when—or if—we find her?” Katzenbach said.
“She’s Druze, according to Darzi,” Abigail said. “If that’s true, we can probably make a case for religious persecution. But that’s something else I want you to look into, Jeffrey. Find out what kind of push-back we might get. Okay, everybody straight? Any questions?”
There were glances all around, but no one raised a hand.
“Then on to business,” Abigail said.
39
Doug strode into his office and quickly closed the door, trying his best to ignore the stares and pitying glances. Concern, support he could understand and accept. But people’s pity pissed him off. How dare they feel sorry for him? As if they knew somehow that Preston would never be found. Doug knew it wasn’t that simple. Of all the children reported missing each year, a quarter were taken by family members. The big problem, Doug knew, was that despite the extremely low odds of a child being abducted in something other than a custody battle, of the children kidnapped by strangers about a hundred a year were murdered. And most of those were killed by their abductors within three hours of being taken.
Four hours had passed since the fake White House staffer had walked Preston off school grounds. Four hours with no phone call, no ransom note, no demands. Four hours of silence, in which Doug’s ears rang with the sound of Sally’s voice telling him, “Bring him home, Doug, please bring him home.” He’d never felt so helpless in his life. He had the weight and power of the U.S. District Attorney’s office behind him, could wield the law like a club of righteousness when it came to investigation, apprehension and prosecution of criminals. But he couldn’t do a damn thing to help find his son.
FBI field agents still filled his
house, their presence reminding him of his impotence, his inability to help. Sally had called her mother and asked her to fly in and help, making him feel guilty for neglecting his wife and his household duties. And he certainly didn’t want to be around to have more heaped on him when Sally’s mom arrived with her recriminating looks.
His only recourse was to throw himself into his work, hoping the distraction would keep him from screaming, from throwing himself at Jensen and his men, pounding on them until they actually did something besides mouth empty promises. He pulled his current files and thumbed through the folders, trying to decide how to prioritize the load. He was going to court in two days, and there were other cases that he had to deal with before the trial consumed his time. He began shuffling the deck of folders into the order that would make most productive use of his time, and was about to start in on the first when a knock made him look up. His boss filled his doorway with the bulk of a former college football running back. Toby Pratt had even gone pro, playing three seasons in the NFL before an injury sidelined him and he started rethinking his career path. Now Pratt ran the district’s national security unit.
“Hey, I heard the news,” Pratt said. “Terrible news about Preston. You must be going out of your mind with worry. I spoke to Jim Scanlon over at FBI a little while ago. We agree that Jensen over in Ann Arbor is top-notch. Probably take Jim’s job here when Jim retires.” He paused. “They’ll get him back.”
“Thanks, Toby,” Doug said. “That means a lot.”
Pratt thrust a chin at the pile on Doug’s desk. “I know you have a lot on your plate. Kathleen and I chatted, and she’s fully prepared to take over as first chair on the Masoud case. You should take some time while they’re looking for Preston. I’m sure Sally could use your support.”
“Are you taking me off the case?” Doug stared him down until he blinked.
“Well, no. Not officially, anyway.”
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