“Well, yes, him too,” Stuart conceded. “We’d like to start with this human interest article. Test the waters, if you will. And then we’ll go from there.”
It wasn’t quite what Matt had wanted but it was a start.
After the men hung up, Matt checked Bellows’ email message and began to read the revised version of the article that Stuart had sent him. Tweaked it? The guy butchered it! Matt had begun the article by describing the subjugation to which the Afghans had found themselves under the Taliban and al-Qaeda and then moved on to describe the indignities the Afghan people experienced under the coalition forces and the foreign firms now handling the reconstruction work. Bellows had taken it out. All of it. Gone. His article sought to compare the various “dictatorships” under which the Afghan people had found themselves over the years. “Imperialism is still imperialism even if the conqueror says the conquered will be better off.” That was the general theme but apparently not an interesting one to Stuart Bellows, ad man turned censor.
Matt began to explore the websites of some other publications. In all, the articles on the Middle East seemed pretty superficial. A few reports touched on the issues Matt had identified and wanted to explore but even these were very general and without any significant details. No mainstream publications seemed to have any in-depth articles describing the more controversial aspects of the U.S. military operations in the Middle East. He searched the columns of some journalists that could normally be counted on for really good investigative reporting. For some, he was not able to locate recent articles about the Middle East. For others, he found articles that were relatively benign, boring actually.
“Sellouts,” Matt muttered as he continued to navigate his way through the Internet.
He started looking at some of the less mainstream periodicals, the so-called liberal media. These outlets were considered more open-minded, more forward-thinking. The first one he tried was Mother Jones, a monthly that had been turning out hard-hitting investigative journalism from the far left for almost 40 years. He found and then clicked on the Mother Jones link from the drop-down list of his favorite websites.
He got an error message. He tried again and got the same response. Matt typed in “motherjones.com.”
Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage.
He typed the domain name again, this time careful to check his spelling.
HTTP 404 - Not Found.
Frustrated, Matt went to his list of favorites and picked the link to The Nation.
Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage.
“Damn!” Matt muttered to an empty room. “What the…”
Matt knew that some of these independent sites had limited funding but couldn’t imagine that in the relatively short amount of time he had been out of the country two of the largest ones had gone out of business.
Matt looked closely at the error message appearing on his screen. He had never seen this one before. “Web Site Blocked by Protegere Wall Filter” the message read. Matt didn’t get it. He hadn’t installed any new filters. He checked some other websites on his favorites list. He got through to most of them, but for others, he received error messages. Matt sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair.
This sounded like a job for the Geek Squad, Matt thought.
Before logging out, he went back to his email messages. There was nothing from Stephen Cross. There was, however, another email from Alex Doren, again requesting an interview. Matt was impressed with the guy’s persistence, but he still wasn’t interested in opening that old wound and certainly not so someone else could exploit it. He had more important matters to attend to than helping a fellow journalist with his stories. He needed to get his own stories published, and at this rate it didn’t look like an easy task.
CHAPTER SIX
THE NEXT MORNING Matt began tracking down some of his former colleagues. After his run-in with the commissioner, he had left the country rather abruptly without explaining what he was doing or even saying goodbye. It had been nearly impossible for him to keep in touch while he was in Afghanistan, but now he wanted to reach out to his fellow journalists who were connected to some of the most well-known publications in the country. He was counting on them for some suggestions about how to handle The Chronicle or find somewhere else that would appreciate what he had to offer.
His first call was to Yvonne Alfonso at The Sentinel. Yvonne was Cuban-American, born in the United States to parents of Cuban descent and a shining star in the growing Hispanic community. She was bright and articulate and, after only a couple of years of writing obituaries, had earned a top spot in The Sentinel. There, she began a regular feature dealing with issues important to first-and second-generation Cuban-Americans. She wrote about the latest developments with the Castro regime and explained the logistics of traveling or sending money to Cuba. Over the years, she had developed quite a loyal following of readers. Matt dialed her direct line and, after several rings, was connected to voice mail.
“You have reached the office of Rosa Perez …,” the message began.
Matt hung up and dialed again. When he got the same message, Matt assumed he had an old number for Yvonne and pressed “0.” A receptionist picked up after several rings.
“Good afternoon. You have reached The Sentinel, your best source for news in the Sunshine State. How may I help you?”
“Hi. I’m trying to reach Yvonne Alfonso.”
“There’s no one working here by that name.”
“Are you sure? She’s been there for several years.”
“I’m positive. I’ve been here for several weeks.”
Matt sighed. “Okay, can you tell me where she’s working now?”
“No, I can’t,” was the clipped response.
“Can you check your records, please? I’m an old friend and need to get in touch with her.”
“One second,” the receptionist huffed.
It felt more like several minutes before she came back on the line. “I don’t have any information on Ms. Alfonso. I have no idea where she’s working now.”
“Thanks very much for all your help. Have a great day,” he said cheerfully to a dead phone line.
Matt called Yvonne’s cell phone, got voice mail and left a message.
Next, Matt tried Mo Al-Ahmed, a television journalist who worked for the local CBS news bureau. Over the years, Mo had covered more wars, ethnic cleansings and national tragedies than any person Matt knew — including Stephen Cross. Lately, Mo had been spending most of his time in the Middle East. Born in the U.S. to Saudi-American parents, he spoke Arabic fluently. His culture and education made it possible for him to speak with major political figures and world business leaders. Mo explained better than anyone the Arab-Muslim perspective of the religious totalitarianism that gave rise to much of the conflict in the Middle East. His reporting had earned him tremendous respect not only in the United States but also abroad, where the U.S. journalism community didn’t have the type of cachet it once had.
Not everyone, however, was crazy about how Mo covered the Middle East. Mo had been quick to praise the post-9/11 Administration for taking on Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda, but he also criticized the Administration for using the tremendous upsurge in patriotism, bipartisanship and volunteerism to drive through a narrow right-wing agenda. He condemned the Muslim extremism that had become rooted in the educational systems and left much of the Muslim world in a backward state regarding technology and science. He also criticized religious leaders, pseudo intellectuals and educators in the Middle East who used their power, positions and oil wealth to spread an intolerant brand of Islam.
Matt’s call to Mo’s cell phone went straight to voice mail so he assumed that Mo was travelling. Since Matt was growing frustrated, not to mention hungry, he decided he would head over to Mo’s parents’ restaurant in Ft. Lauderdale. He wasn’t likely to catch his old friend there but he could get an update on his whereabouts not to mention a good meal. Matt grabbed his keys an
d headed out.
There were no customers in the restaurant when Matt arrived. Mo’s little sister Mina was inside with her back to the entrance as she set the tables. Mo’s father was standing in front of the cash register counting money. A bell chimed when Matt walked through the front door. Mina turned around to deliver a greeting to the new customer. Her father closed the register and looked up. Matt watched as the standard issue welcome for potential customers was replaced with looks of surprise, then happiness to see him and then something else.
“Oh, Matt,” Mina cried dropping the silverware that was in her hands on to the table. She ran across the room and straight into his arms.
“Hey, Mina,” Matt said down at the head pressed firmly against his chest. This was not a typical greeting from the painfully shy Mina. He tried to step back, but her arms were wound tightly around his waist, her face buried in the front of his shirt.
“What’s going on, Mina? I haven’t been gone that long,” he joked weakly as he awkwardly patted her back. He couldn’t see her face, but from behind the curtain of thick black hair it sounded like she was crying.
He looked up at Mr. Al-Ahmed. The sorrow in the man’s eyes blindsided Matt, and he was suddenly overcome with dread.
Mr. Al-Ahmed put the “Closed” sign on the door as Mina led Matt to a table in the back corner. After getting him settled, Mina went to the kitchen. She soon returned with a pot of tea and four cups. After she was done pouring the hot tea, she sat down next to her father. As she settled in, her father reached over and covered her hand with his own. Mrs. Al-Ahmed came out from the back wiping her hands on the apron tied to her waist. She hugged Matt warmly and then sat down beside her husband.
“For the last several months, Mohammed has been traveling back and forth between Syria and Egypt,” Mr. Al-Ahmed began.
He spoke slowly and with a slight accent. “We received word from him regularly — phone calls or email messages. Every day, we watched the newscasts of the violence over there and feared the worst. On those days when we hadn’t heard from Mohammed, we worried he had been injured — or worse. But he always kept in touch.”
He paused to catch his breath, and Mrs. Al-Ahmed reached out and touched her husband’s hand.
“Last month,” Mo’s father continued, “he called to say he was returning to the States. This time, he was going to stay for a while.”
“We were so happy,” Mrs. Al-Ahmed quietly interrupted, looking over at her husband before she continued. “We hadn’t seen him in so long.”
“He was returning through Jordan,” Mo’s father continued. “He was going to stop there for a week or so to do some interviews. But then he was coming home to us.”
The older man paused for a moment before continuing. “He called when he landed in Jordan. He knew his mother was worried about him. We missed the call, but he left a message.”
Matt looked around the table. From the looks on their faces earlier, he had assumed the worst. Dread was giving way to shock and confusion.
“What happened?”
“We never heard from him again.” Mr. Al-Ahmed responded as he used one of the table napkins to pat his eyes.
“Where is he? Is he still in Jordan? Did he go back to the Middle East?
“We don’t know,” Mrs. Al-Ahmed replied.
“We hired a private investigator,” Mr. Al-Ahmed explained. “He went to Jordan and talked to everyone that came into contact with my son over the last few weeks. He was able to confirm that Mohammed was booked on a flight leaving Jordan, stopping in Frankfurt and then arriving in Miami. He went to the airport in Amman but the officials there would not tell him anything. They wouldn’t even confirm whether he got on the flight. But this investigator was able to confirm through the Frankfurt officials that he did not arrive there. Finally, someone working at the airport told the investigator that when Mohammed was trying to board the plane in Jordan, he was approached by three men.” He hesitated. “There was … an argument. A heated discussion. We don’t know exactly. But Mohammed left with these men. He didn’t get on the flight. This man, the man who saw Mohammed, said that it didn’t look like my son left willingly and that the men he went with were dressed in uniforms like Jordanian military.”
Mo’s mother and sister were crying softly. Mr. Al-Ahmed leaned over and murmured something in his wife’s ear.
“So was he arrested?” Matt finally asked.
Mr. Al-Ahmed turned back to Matt and shrugged his shoulders. “The private investigator was never able to find any records indicating that Mohammed had been arrested — by the Jordanian police or the military. Both deny they have him or even detained him.”
“What about the U.S. government?” Matt asked. “Did you try to contact the U.S. Embassy in Jordan?”
“Of course. They said they would make some inquiries, but they haven’t gotten back to us. We keep calling but they say they don’t know anything.”
“What more can we do, Matt?” Mr. Al-Ahmed said urgently.
Mrs. Al-Ahmed reached past her husband and grabbed Matt’s hand tightly. “You must help us, Matt.” She looked at him with eyes filled with tears. “Please. We don’t know what else to do.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING Matt called Bob Sandberg, a war correspondent for the Washington Post whom he had met through Stephen. Bob was the veteran of the group, having spent time in Bosnia, Haiti and Iraq and having covered more wars than most career military officers. He was also the most cynical, no doubt after years of witnessing American soldiers at their best and the government agencies for which they served at their very worst. With his rapier wit, Bob was known for delivering narrative as deadly as rifle shots.
Bob arrived in Iraq before the war started and then traveled back and forth between Iraq and the United States for several years. Three years after President Bush declared the end of military operations, when it was clear that military operations were not at all over and wouldn’t be any time soon, Bob found out that his bride, the fellow journalist he had married after many years as an avowed bachelor, was pregnant with twin boys. Almost overnight, his priorities had changed, and he returned to the States permanently.
Matt knew that since returning, Bob had been covering national politics for the Post. He still had to deal with warring factions and covert operations and the bad guy was harder to identify, but at least he didn’t have to travel with armed guards and he wasn’t ducking live bullets on a daily basis.
Matt called Bob’s home in Bethesda, Maryland. A woman answered the phone on the third ring. Since Matt didn’t recognize the voice, he identified himself and asked to speak with Bob.
Before the person answering the phone could respond, he heard a voice in the background asking “Who is it, Sandra?”
Although muffled, Matt could still hear. “Someone by the name of Matt Connelly. He’s looking for Bob.”
Matt heard shuffling and more voices in the background. Finally, a new voice came on the line. “Matt, it’s Marie.”
“Hey, Marie. Is Bob there? I just got back from Afghanistan and wanted to catch up.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Uh, if I’ve called at a bad time, I can call back later,” Matt finally said.
“No, that’s okay,” Marie said. “Welcome back, Matt. I’m glad you’re home safe.”
“Thank you. It’s good to be back. I was hoping to catch Bob,” Matt reminded her.
Another long pause.
“Marie, are you still there?”
“Ummm… You don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“I don’t know how to tell you this.” Her voice sounded slightly off, distant but also slow and slurred, like she had been drinking.
“Tell me what, Marie? What’s going on?”
“Bob died three weeks ago.”
“Oh, my God,” Matt exclaimed. He fumbled for the right words. “Marie, I had no idea. I’m so sorry.” The words hung in the air awkward
ly but they were all he had.
“How are you holding up?” Matt asked after a moment.
“I’m managing,” she replied simply.
“What happened?”
He could hear the sound of a child fussing in the background and someone attempting to quiet the child.
“They say it was an accident,” Marie began slowly before lowering her voice and continuing more quickly, “but, Matt, I know that’s not right.”
Before he could respond, he heard the woman in the background. “Marie …”
“Matt, no one will listen to me but I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.” The child’s sobs grew louder.
“It’s a bad time, Matt,” Marie continued. “My sister’s here. She’s been helping me out.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bother you.”
“It’s no bother, Matt. I have to go now, but I would like to talk to you. Can you come visit me?”
“Of course, Marie.”
“How soon can you come?” she said in a whisper.
Before he could respond, there was the sound of activity and then someone else was on the line.
“This is an extremely difficult time for us, Mr. Connelly,” the new voice said. Marie’s sister, Matt assumed.
“I understand,” he stammered.
“Marie’s quite upset right now. I have to hang up the phone.”
“Okay,” Matt said weakly.
Then for the second time in as many days, Matt was left listening to dead air.
Matt had debated his next call since first meeting with the Al-Ahmed family. He hated calling in favors and this one was particularly difficult, but Mo was in trouble and this was the only way Matt knew to help him.
He waited until after noon before doing it. Her assistant would be at lunch so she would answer the phone directly. It would be more difficult for her to dodge his call, if she was still so inclined.
She picked up on the second ring.
“Dana Fried,” the familiar voice said in a clipped tone.
He hesitated briefly.
Operation Mockingbird Page 5