Hidden Threat

by Anthony Tata

  “You lying bitch! It doesn’t say that. I have the Army paperwork.”

  “You must not have reviewed it very carefully Amanda, because Major Ross handed me a copy as well.”

  Amanda fumed.

  “So then, are we good to go?” Riley asked, turning away toward her desk.

  Amanda balled her fists, wrinkling the documents she held in her hand.

  A minute passed where Amanda stood motionless, as if she were a mannequin in a storefront window. Riley sat at her desk, shuffled some papers, picked up the phone and made a call, saying, “Yes, about the Garrett case. I think we’ll be able to wrap this up rather quickly. . . . No, I’m afraid not. She just really appears to despise her father. . . . That’s fine. I’ll finish the other paperwork and send her back.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Hmm?” Riley looked up with a look of confusion, as if she had forgotten Amanda was still there.

  “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re not privy to that information. It’s confidential.” She wrinkled her nose and went back to the paperwork on her desk.

  “What do I need to do?”

  Again, feigning distraction, Riley looked up, and with aggravation said, “Do, for what?”

  “To get the money. We’re talking about four hundred and fifty thousand dollars here—money my dad wanted me to have. Who are you to say I can’t have it, anyway?”

  “I, young lady, have been named in your father’s will as the person to determine whether or not you are mature enough to receive the money that he really does want you to have. That,” she emphasized, “is who I am.”

  “We can sue, you know?”

  “Of course, and by the time you’re my age, God forbid, you may get the money.”

  Amanda tapped her foot as she stood in front of Riley’s desk. With folded arms, she said again, “Okay, what do I have to do?”

  “Well, Amanda, for starters, you have to take a seat over there and talk to me.”

  “Fine.”

  “Now, as long as you’re doing this voluntarily, I’m happy to talk to you.”

  Amanda sat on the sofa this time. She crossed her legs and leaned back into the large tan cushion. The two females stared at one another for several minutes without speaking a word. Riley detected chemistry, both good and bad, on many levels. Running through her mind were so many thoughts about how she was going to complete her mission with Amanda. Her instructions were very specific.

  Riley slid her chair back from her desk. Before standing, she opened a drawer. She slid her fingers across the glass of a picture frame. A smiling soldier stared up at her from the desk drawer. God, give me strength, she asked silently.

  She had received the letter the same day that Amanda had been notified, she presumed. Major Ross had arrived at her office, sat down with her, and they had a good cry together. He had given her the relevant portion of Zachary Garrett’s will, giving her the responsibility to conduct seven sessions with Amanda before the Army released the insurance money.

  She slid the drawer closed, stood, and walked toward Amanda. “Anything to drink?” she asked.

  “No, thank you,” Amanda replied.

  Riley summoned her courage and then asked a simple question.

  “Can you tell me the seven worst things your father ever did to you?”

  “Where do you want me to start? He was always missing child support; he never came to visit; he was mean to my mom and grandmother; he always created problems when we were together; he was always disrupting stuff I wanted to do . . . need me to continue?”

  “Just pick one. Child support?”

  “Sure.” Amanda shrugged.

  “When did he miss child support, Amanda?”

  “I don’t know, always, sometimes. Mom would tell me.”

  “Any chance mom wasn’t being straight with you?”

  Amanda stood up. “Don’t ever say that! My mother and grandmother raised me.”

  “Sit down, Amanda, and I will throw you out of here if you do that again. Do you understand? It will cost you $450,000.”

  That seemed to get her attention.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “It just kind of happened.”

  “I understand.” And she did. Riley was beginning to get the picture. Not that there had been much doubt before, but seeing Amanda’s reaction to a mild suggestion that her mother might have misled her convinced her that they had a lot of work to do.

  “So tell me, again, Amanda, do you remember any one time that your mother told you that your father missed child support?”

  Amanda seemed to be thinking, wrinkling her brow. “Well, I remember one time, because Jake and I were going to go up to the lake to go skiing, you know? And Mom said I couldn’t go because there was no money, and that Dad had missed a child support payment.”

  Riley thought for a moment. “And so you could not put gas in your Mercedes, was that it?”

  Amanda understood this jab and wasn’t going to take it lying down. “Look, lady, he missed the child support that month. My grandmother bought me that car.”

  “Is that so? Okay, that would have been when?”

  “June or July two years ago.”

  Riley stood, walked across her office and picked up a large brown box. She carried the box to her seat, placed it on the desk, and pulled from it a large accordion folder.

  “In here is every one of your father’s pay statements. Child support payments were deducted directly from his pay, sent to a clearing house in South Carolina, and then it was forwarded to your mother’s bank account. Your father received a notice every time the transaction was completed. He kept all of the receipts. Now I want you to find the one he missed. They are in dated order. Go back as far as you like. I’ll give you a few minutes.”

  Riley stood, leaving Amanda with the box. On her way out she sang, “Remember, $450,000.”

  She walked past her receptionist, into the hallway, and went into the same restroom Amanda had stopped in initially. She leaned against the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Please give me a sign of hope here, God.

  She walked outside, picked up a hot tea from the Starbucks next door and enjoyed the sunshine while sipping it slowly. On her way back in, she spied a young man across the parking lot leaning against a truck, and figured him for Amanda’s boyfriend. Riding the elevator up, she tossed another thought around in her mind.

  “So, what have we found?”

  Amanda stared at her for a moment. After a long silence, she said, “Well, South Carolina probably screwed it up somewhere, because mom would never lie to me.”

  “So, he didn’t miss a payment? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I couldn’t find anywhere he did, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I came back too soon. Please, take some time and review all—”

  “No. I don’t need to do that. I looked at most of them . . .” she trailed off, looking away. After an awkward moment, she looked back up at Riley when she didn’t say anything. “What?”

  “You tell me.”

  “What do you want me to say, that he didn’t miss a payment? Okay, he didn’t.”

  “I just want you to say what you see, Amanda. What are the facts before you? Not filtered through anyone’s eyes but only yours. If we were in court right now, and you were on the witness stand, I would approach you and say, ‘Isn’t it true, Miss Amanda Garrett, that your father never missed a child support payment?’” Riley deepened her voice and strode across the room with theatrical practice, waving her arms as she did so.

  Amanda smiled, weakly wiped at her face, and said, “Funny.”

  “Judge, may I treat the young lady as a hostile witness?” Riley turned toward the window wall, as if there was a judge there.

  “Okay. Okay. He didn’t miss a child support payment.”

  Riley walked over to her desk, leaned forward with her hands on the matting, stared directly at a Peggy
Hopper painting, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Colonel Zachary Garrett never missed a child support payment.” Turning toward Amanda, she said, “Witness, you are excused until tomorrow.”

  With a long slender arm, full of bracelets, she pointed at the door. “Go see that hunk boyfriend of yours.”

  Amanda wrinkled her forehead, stood, and walked out of the door. “Whatever.”

  Riley watched her depart, waited a few minutes, and then sat at her desk. She opened her desk drawer and held the framed photo in her hands for what seemed an eternity. Tears were streaming down her face as she placed the photo back on her desk where it had been for two years.

  Why, damnit? Why? Then, a moment later, after a few more tears, she shook her head. I can’t do this by myself.

  Riley punched her intercom box and told her assistant to go home. She pulled a bottle of red wine from the cabinet opposite the window wall, poured a glass, and took a long sip.

  She cried and drank. Her thoughts swung from one end of the spectrum to the other. She was flattered and privileged that she could honor Zachary’s death by helping his daughter. On the other hand, was it an unfair burden to place on her?

  No, it was a privilege, she concluded. It was what he’d wanted, and she would give him that. There were so many other things she had wanted to give him.

  She poured the last of the wine. Standing, she picked up her glass and walked to the window. You get one shot at true love, she thought to herself. One shot.

  She recalled the day Zachary was leaving for Afghanistan. She was crying, holding him tight. She had driven him from his house in Sanford to Fort Bragg. He was dressed in his Army combat uniform with a Special Forces patch on his shoulder. They were parked outside of the headquarters.

  He pulled her to him, kissed her on the lips and then the forehead.

  “I’ll miss you,” she said, crying into his uniform, “again. Last time was hard, but this time, Zach. I don’t know; just be careful.”

  “One last time, baby. I’ve got to go do this. Then I’ll come down to Charlotte, we’ll get married.”

  “I want that for us, Zach. I want to meet Amanda. And I want to give her a brother or sister, you know.”

  “We’ll do that, Riley. That’s what I want.”

  “You be careful.”

  Zach pulled away, grabbed his rucksack, and kissed her one more time. He got out of the car, walked around to the driver’s side and leaned into the window to kiss her face, wet with tears. He smiled at her with his crooked grin as he pulled away.

  “Don’t worry, babe, I’m good to go.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Northwest Frontier Province, Pakistan

  Tuesday

  Colonel Zachary Garrett opened his eyes. He had been dreaming about Amanda. She was five years old and wearing red shorts and a green T-shirt with a single flower in the center.

  “Daddy’s got to go to work, baby girl.”

  The young Amanda grabbed her daddy’s watch and said, “Five minutes.” She held up her small hand, spreading her fingers, and then she leaned into her father, hugging him. “You’re not going anywhere for five minutes.”

  “Daddy’s not going anywhere, ever, baby girl.”

  The pain surged through his body as if carried by an electrical current. He was wounded, but not in a debilitating way, he prayed. Amanda’s face hovered in front of him for an instant, smiling, loving, and pure. What hurt more, his wounds or the memories?

  To the best of his knowledge he had been held in this stone cave prison for at least three days. He remembered the helicopter taking off without him and the blinding whirl of snow all around. Had he been able to leave behind the weapon? Had they found it? Perhaps he would never find out. Then two men were upon him so quickly that he was unable to maneuver against them. He knew he had been shot twice as he was carrying Jergens to the helicopter. Then the explosion, and all hell broke loose. Two men, screaming Arabic at him, one holding a knife to his throat. He’d resisted, but one of the men had apparently butt-stroked him on the head, knocking him unconscious.

  He heard unintelligible voices beyond the pile of rocks that blocked his egress. On three sides of his confines was solid rock, a cave. Stacked to his front were large boulders that allowed him only small slivers of light. Occasionally he would see a dark shadow pass across the tiny gaps between the rocks. Twice, he had been given food. The first time, a pair of hands had removed a flat rectangular rock about the size of a laptop and slid a tray of rice and cold lamb onto the ledge. The second time, he had been given an American combat ration, Meal Ready to Eat, or MRE.

  Zach calculated that the preponderance of Arabic and lack of Pashto or Dari languages indicated he was being held by Al Qaeda. There were other groups operating in the area, such as the Taliban, but Al Qaeda was imported, and they spoke Arabic.

  If it was Al Qaeda, then they had been right about their target. They had been onto bin Laden.

  The rocks began shifting in front of him. One by one, two pairs of hands removed smaller rocks, followed by larger ones. Soon there was a hole large enough for him to crawl through. The bore of an AK-47 assault rifle poked through, then shook twice away from him. It was, he figured, the international symbol for “get over here, asshole.”

  He looked down at himself. His uniform was shredded, his feet bare. He had no weapon. They had even found the knife he kept strapped to his ankle. They had cut his pant leg, and someone had performed minor surgery on him. The bullet wounds were covered with dirty gauze.

  Again, the weapon shook in front of him, followed by a voice ordering him forward. “Come. Come.”

  For a moment, he thought of grabbing the muzzle of the AK-47 and snatching it from his captor’s hands. Surely though, there were others behind this one. He wouldn’t stand a chance backed into the corner of this cave.

  “Boots,” Zach called out. “I need my boots.”

  A deafening blast exploded in his makeshift cell. The muzzle emitted flame, and the bullet struck the wall.

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming.” He looked through the hole and saw more than five men dressed in traditional tribal garb. The flowing white robes, sheepskin vests, and brown wool Pakols, or black turbans, all reinforced his conviction that his captors were Al Qaeda.

  As he crawled through the hole, two men on either side roughly grabbed him and yanked him through. The sharp rock scraped at his bullet wounds, causing him to grimace. One of the guards immediately pushed him against the wall and snapped plastic flex cuffs around his wrists.

  Once he was standing, another man came into the cave. He could see about fifty feet of large cavern to his front, then the tunnel took a turn to his right. He saw ammunition boxes stacked high along the walls. Every man he could see had at least one weapon. Light was minimal but passable. Everyone stared at him for a moment and then turned toward the new figure in the cave.

  “Colonel Garrett, I am the Scientist. Our leader has instructed me to talk to you. Won’t you follow me, please?”

  Garrett paused. The Scientist? They had a complete dossier on this man, Mullah Rahman.

  “Rahman?” Garrett’s voice echoed in the cave.

  Rahman, who had moved to within ten feet of him, smiled a yellow-toothed grin. “I see you have studied hard, Colonel. Knowing my name should only make you more fearful.”

  Zach was impressed with the man’s English. It was practiced and smooth. He knew Rahman had studied in Great Britain. He knew that Rahman was revered by the jihadists as one of their most brutal leaders.

  “Then I think I’ll join you,” he growled.

  As he began to walk, the six guards fell in behind him. Rahman was to his immediate front, preceded by two more guards.

  They stopped while the lead guard moved a large curtain out of the way and the other stood to the opposite side. Someone checked his flex cuff. It was secure.

  Rahman led him past the drapes and into a brightly lit bowl of rock. They had exited the cave, for the most
part, but were still surrounded on all four sides by solid granite.

  There was an AK-47 leaning against the rocks next to a man sitting on a prayer mat. Zach could not determine how tall he was, but he seemed lanky. The man’s face was covered so that only his eyes were visible. They were black holes against the dirty white sheet wrapped across his face.

  This can’t be happening. Is this bin Laden? Zach’s mind reeled. He looked at Rahman and back at the man seated on the prayer mat. He knew that Rahman was just behind Zawahiri on the Al Qaeda organization chart and it was Rahman who was escorting him. This is crazy! Then he looked to his right and saw a man holding a small digital video camera. Again, looking down at the mat, he saw a newspaper with Arabic writing, and he quickly began to understand.

  “Are you done taking in your surroundings?”

  “Just wishing I had a GPS device on me right now,” Garrett quipped.

  “I want to introduce you to a man you have been seeking but are unable to find. You are in the presence of the great one, so pay proper respect. Please bow.”

  Zach looked at the Scientist and scoffed. “Kiss my ass.”

  He felt a swift blow to his rib cage. He gasped for air as he doubled over, hugging his stomach. He hadn’t been hit like that since Billy Johnson took a cheap shot at him in high school football.

  “Now, please bow,” the Scientist said calmly, “or we will make you bow.”

  Zach stood erect again and remained motionless, spitting up small amounts of blood. Two men fell upon him in a torrent of boots and rifle butts, pushing him back down to the ground. He thought he saw the digital camera guy filming the entire scene.

  Please don’t let Amanda see this, was his first and only thought before a foot into his sternum forced the wind from his lungs. He buckled to his knees.

  “Ah, I see you are a wise man, Colonel.”

  “Go to hell,” he spat, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth.

  “We are already there, my friend, trust me.” The Scientist lowered his face to within an inch of Zach’s.