The Cornwalls Are Gone

by James Patterson

  The room has one door, no windows, and just the table and chairs. There are no photos, paintings, or anything else to cheer up this cheerless room, and Wenner thinks that’s part of the plan, for nothing good is going to happen here.

  General Sawyer says, “All right, we’ll begin this…session. Now that Captain Cornwall has joined us, I’ll remind everyone again in this room that there’s to be no recording, note taking, or any other official record of what transpires here. Am I clear?”

  The only person who says anything is Cornwall, who nods and says, “I understand, ma’am.”

  Sawyer says, “Again, I want to remind you, Captain Cornwall, that you are appearing here by yourself, without counsel, and that you agree to this…circumstance.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sawyer clasps her hands and says to her fellow JAG officer, “Colonel Patrick, let’s begin with the narrative and list of particulars.”

  Colonel Patrick starts reading from several sheets of paper, and the room is so silent that Wenner can hear the traffic outside and the overhead thrum of a helicopter. At each pause in the narration, General Sawyer looks to the captain and says, “Is that true, Captain?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The list of particulars goes on and on—assaulting a Tennessee state trooper, stealing license plates, crossing state lines for the purpose of committing offenses under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and then, the first big one.

  “In the town of Three Rivers, Texas, that you shot and killed Ramon Hernandez, a citizen of Mexico.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

  “In the town of Three Rivers, Texas, that you shot and killed Pepe Torres, a citizen of Mexico.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

  “In the town of Three Rivers, Texas, that you kidnapped Javier Abboud, a citizen of Mexico.”

  “That’s correct, sir,” she says again, in the same flat tone of voice.

  “That you did transport Javier Abboud across state lines.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “That at the public library in Victoria, Texas, you did assault Special Agent Rosaria Vasquez of the CID.”

  Only then is there a change, as Cornwall’s voice seems to catch, and then she says, “That’s correct, sir.”

  The long list of particulars then finally ends five minutes later, in Beachside, Florida, where it is charged that Captain Amy Cornwall illegally fired a nonregistered weapon within the city limits.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” she says.

  “And finally,” Colonel Patrick says, “while these alleged offenses were taking place, you, Captain Amy Cornwall, were absent without leave.”

  Cornwall changes her response and says, “Well, that’s pretty damn self-evident, isn’t it?”

  The civilian men smile, but the Army side of the table is not amused. General Sawyer says, “Captain Cornwall, these are incredibly serious charges. I appreciate your willingness to come forward and accept your responsibility…but this is highly unusual.”

  Cornwall says, “Ma’am, it certainly is highly unusual. And I thank you and Colonel Denton for arranging this session. Now, may I ask your indulgence to speak for five minutes?”

  General Sawyer says, “Colonel Denton, do you mind?”

  His fists are clenched on the table. “No,” he finally says. “Not at all.”

  “Good,” Sawyer says. “Captain Cornwall, proceed…and I hope you choose your words carefully, because at this moment, you’re looking at a life sentence in Leavenworth. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you intend to make this statement by yourself and with no counsel?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  General Sawyer says, “Then you may proceed.”

  Cornwall says, “Ma’am, all of these events occurred while I was in the process of rescuing my family. And—”

  The general gently raps a knuckle on the table. “I’m sorry, Captain, that’s not the Army’s concern. Do you have anything else to say?”

  The room is silent. Cornwall’s face looks like it’s been carved out of cold, gray granite.

  “You bet your ass I do,” she says. “General.”

  CHAPTER 90

  MAYBE THE people in this closed and stuffy office think they’re going to intimidate me, but I doubt any of them—with the exception of one—has ever been in a shelter at an FOB in Afghanistan, knowing you’re completely surrounded by enemies who would delight in slitting your throat.

  So I have nothing to lose. My career in the Army is about to crash in one big, impressive ball of flame and debris, and the next five minutes will determine whether there’s going to be a surviving parachute or not.

  I say, “General, my apologies for the last statement. I wanted to make sure you and everyone else in this room are paying attention.”

  With a dry tone in her voice, the general says, “I think you can count on that. Proceed. You have your five minutes.”

  I look at each and every face—including my boss, Colonel Denton, who looks like he wants to leap across the table and throttle me—and I say, “This entire series of events began at FOB Healy in Afghanistan. A number of months ago, a prisoner in my custody, Mohammed Noor, was found dead in his holding cell. At the time, Mister Noor claimed to have been a simple farmer, but later research on my part revealed that he was an agronomy expert who was in the employ of a transnational organization called Mercador Holdings.”

  Everyone is paying attention, but it seems the near civilian—with a deep tan—is now paying strict attention indeed.

  “Mercador Holdings is linked to a Mexican criminal organization, the Veracruz cartel. Members of this cartel kidnapped my husband and daughter six days ago from our home. I was then contacted by the head of the cartel, a Pelayo Abboud, who at the time was based in Beachside, Florida. In exchange for me kidnapping an individual in the custody of a competing cartel, the El Baja cartel, and bringing him to Abboud in Florida, my husband and Denise would be released.”

  One of the civilian males says, “And you didn’t contact the CID? Or FBI?”

  “No,” I say. “I was specifically warned not to do so. I had no choice. It was my husband and daughter.”

  “But why were they taken, and how were you involved?” the same civilian asks.

  “My husband, Tom, is a journalist. He was working on a book about the international drug trade, the cartels, and the banks that support them. His work took him to the El Baja cartel. They offered him a former bank official as a news source that knew the intricacies of their rival, the Veracruz cartel. They did this in the hope of crippling their competition. But Abboud of the Veracruz cartel acted first, kidnapping my family and having me, in turn, kidnap the news source to bring him to Abboud.”

  “And this news source was Pelayo Abboud’s father, Javier?” General Sawyer asks.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I reply.

  “Who was killed in the shootout at Beachside?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Said shooting also resulting in the death of Warrant Officer Rosaria Vasquez, a special agent with the CID, who had been investigating you and your travels?” the general asks.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She looks at her watch again. “This is all fascinating, but—”

  “General—”

  “Yes?”

  I think of the last few minutes, and the phone call I had received that had caused me to be late. The unexpected phone call had come from Freddy, a.k.a. Major Fredericka West, executive officer for the Second Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, who had said, “I know your fat ass is in one tight sling, and I’m here to free it up, so just listen.”

  Which is what I did.

  I say, “General, information has come to me concerning more in-depth intelligence about the two cartels, the Afghan farmer who was killed while in my custody, how and why Warrant Officer Vasquez was given information to track me, and how this is all conne
cted. May I proceed?”

  Major Wenner is leaning forward, just to the side of Colonel Denton, listening to Captain Cornwall. To him she seems like some sort of robot or android, reciting bits of information over and over again in a flat and emotionless tone even though it will do her no good.

  And then General Sawyer says, “Yes, you may proceed.”

  Cornwall is now staring right in the direction of her superior officer, Colonel Denton, and Wenner feels like the chair he’s sitting in has suddenly compressed around him, not allowing him to move an inch.

  Cornwall says, “At the initial investigation back in Afghanistan, the farmer named Mohammed Noor was in the possession of a business card with the name of Mercador Holdings and a phone number based in Mexico. At the time, I requested the information on this business card be traced. I was told the company name and the phone number were fake.”

  Wenner can’t breathe anymore, and even Denton is stiff and unmoving next to him.

  “That information was wrong,” Cornwall says. “The person conducting that research at FOB Healy was hiding the real information from me and the Army. The person who did that is in the employ of the El Baja cartel, and has been so for more than a year.”

  General Sawyer says, “Who is it?”

  Cornwall continues her long and deep stare.

  “Major Bruno Wenner,” she says. “Who was with my unit in Afghanistan at the time.”

  CHAPTER 91

  I HAVE to give the traitorous son of a bitch credit, for he doesn’t flinch or raise his eyebrows, or even yell at me. He just keeps sitting there, to the right and slightly behind our mutual boss, Colonel Hugh Denton.

  Colonel Denton starts to speak, but General Sawyer cuts him off. “That’s a pretty serious accusation, Captain Cornwall.”

  “I know,” I say.

  From my coat pocket I remove a small thumb drive, which I put on the shiny surface of the conference room table and which contains an info dump from my dear friend Freddy.

  “On this thumb drive is a video excerpt from a classified surveillance system at FOB Healy. This particular system was observing the only entrance and exit into the server system room that supported the surveillance stations covering all of the interrogation cells located at the base. Major Wenner is shown entering this room and departing sixty seconds later. Maintenance records show that the camera aimed at Mister Noor’s cell failed at this time, and that he was beaten to death shortly thereafter.”

  I refuse to look in Wenner’s direction. I say, “Also on this thumb drive are documents, bank statements, and records of phone conversations between cartel representatives and Major Wenner, who has an anonymous numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands. The major was also receiving payments from banks representing both the El Baja and Veracruz cartels. He was playing both ends against the middle. If you excuse the phrasing, Captain Wenner was making a killing.”

  No word from anyone.

  I say, “As part of this arrangement, Major Wenner was also giving information he gathered from both cartels to Senior Warrant Officer Fred McCarthy of the CID in Quantico, who in turn was passing it to Warrant Officer Vasquez. If Vasquez had succeeded in her mission to halt me from freeing the older Mister Abboud, Major Wenner was to be handsomely compensated by the El Baja cartel. If not, his additional compensation would have come from the Veracruz cartel. Payment would have been made, no matter what.”

  The silence is deathly still.

  One of the civilians, the nearest one with the heavy tan, is slowly moving his chair back.

  “Finally, I learned yesterday that the body of Lieutenant Preston Baker of my unit was found in a wooded area on this base, an apparent suicide. Lieutenant Baker served with me in Afghanistan and provided me with vital information concerning my prisoner’s connection to Mercador Holdings. I would suggest that the appropriate investigators re-examine the circumstances of his death, with a close look at Captain Wenner’s whereabouts at the time of the shooting.”

  Wenner tenses up. The facade he’s carefully built over the years to suffer through his military service and leave with a fat bank account has just been blown away, like a Texas trailer park in the middle of a tornado. No time to think of how temptation came his way, how he gladly seized the temptation with both hands, and how he had planned to leave the Army when his latest term of service was up and then disappear forever.

  Again, no time to think.

  Just burst out of this chair and haul ass before anyone can react. A good run will take him to his car, and then he can roar out before word gets to the gate to block him from leaving.

  A heavy hand is on his shoulder, squeezing hard. Wenner turns. It’s the tanned man that he’s certain is from the CIA, and the man leans into him and says, “Move out of this chair and I’ll snap your neck, son.”

  The two civilians at the desk look stunned. Colonel Denton is slumped in his chair. General Sawyer and Colonel Patrick from JAG are looking at each other, as if to say, What now? And Major Wenner is sitting like a carved chunk of wood, face pale, and the tanned civilian man has a hand squeezing his right shoulder. That man is looking at me with hard and knowledgeable eyes.

  I clear my throat.

  “Any questions?”

  CHAPTER 92

  PELAYO ABBOUD wakes up with a start, wondering where he is, and then he instantly relaxes. He’s in a luxurious leather seat in one of his several private jets, somewhere over Mexican airspace. He sighs. At his side is a tumbler of Buchanan’s whiskey and ice cubes, and he picks it up and takes a satisfying sip. His usual drink is native Coca-Cola, but this drink is part of a celebration.

  He made it out of the States just an hour ago, having spent three days hiding out at a private airfield near Beachside and having the wound in his lower right leg cleaned and dressed.

  A lot of things went to hell, but he’s alive and breathing and on this jet, and there’s plenty of good work waiting to be done.

  Across from him, also sitting in the same type of deep leather seat, is Casper Khourery, who is reading that day’s Miami Herald. Pelayo reaches out with a foot, gently kicks Casper’s shin.

  He looks up. “Yes, jefe?”

  “How soon before we land?”

  Casper looks at his big watch. “About ten minutes, jefe.”

  “Very good.” He looks over at the mountainous and rough terrain of his home nation, and thinks of the riches he and others have managed to wrest from this desperate land. Despite the setbacks, his crew will soon be doing the same in Afghanistan. That poor nation produces 90 percent of the world’s opium, and Pelayo plans to grab his share and expand his market beyond the Americas.

  He finishes his drink. A very small part of him wishes the old man was alive to see what his cursed son has been able to do, and a very large part of him is looking forward to letting the other cartels and other family members know that he, Pelayo Abboud, would never, ever give up in his quest.

  There’s a soft thump-thump as the landing gear is lowered, and Pelayo puts the empty glass down, tightens his seat belt.

  He says, “You did good work there, in Beachside, keeping your cool, doing what had to be done.”

  Casper says, “Thank you, jefe. But we lost so much…several of our workers, sensitive communications equipment, and too many questions being raised about the resort and its financing.”

  Pelayo leans over, gently pats Casper’s closest leg. “Minor issues, that is all. All great firms, all great concerns like ours, can afford to suffer the occasional setback. And with you at my side, well, you did well, in shooting that little girl.”

  Casper stays quiet, folds up the newspaper, carefully puts it at his side.

  Pelayo says, “Tomorrow, a special project, just for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Track down the Cornwalls, find out where they are, kill them both. Use whatever resources you need, but don’t take too much time. I want that matter settled.”

  “All right.”

  “Sav
e their heads,” Pelayo says with relish, remembering his earlier plan for that young Denise Cornwall. “Freeze them. We will send them to their respective superiors.”

  “As you wish, jefe.”

  Pelayo looks out again, sees the wide and long pavement of the runway.

  He loves his life.

  CHAPTER 93

  AT A remote lake in central Maine, Tom Cornwall is sitting in an old gray Adirondack chair, watching his family at play. Denise and Amy are swimming and splashing each other, squealing and laughing. There’s a small dock with a pontoon boat tied up to it, and a comfortable cottage that has a wonderful view of the lake and the nearby mountains.

  There are other residents on the lake, who wave at them as they take the pontoon boat out, or as they walk side by side along the dirt roads linking the cottages on this rural shore.

  His wrist itches. He gently traces his fingers over the bandages, wondering how his burnt skin is healing, wondering how the sickness inside of him is healing as well.

  The past days have been a blur of packing, flying, driving, and getting used to this slice of country paradise, and along the way, apologies, apologies, apologies.

  He apologized to Amy the day he and Denise were rescued at Beachside, and the day after that, and the day after that.

  Each time Amy has given him a slim smile, and said, “That’s nice, Tom. We’ll talk later.”

  He wonders when and how later will come.

  And if the sickness inside of him will ever go away.

  He looks at his fingers, tracing the bandage on his arm, the fingers that held that cutting tool, killing the young Afghan who had been ready to kill him.

  One of the many surprises during these past days is feeling no regret or guilt at having done that.