“Can we talk in here?”
“Better we go to my office.”
“I remember when the cooler was the safe place to talk.”
Taking my elbow, he led us out of the cooler, bumped its door closed with his backside and handed the berries to a worker.
“Take a few breaths as we walk,” he said so others wouldn’t hear. “Do you need a drink? I’ve got hard stuff and cold water in my office.”
“Water.”
He closed the office door. I stayed on my feet.
“The DOE representative who was here with Milan this morning just called. He’s coming with information about David.” A quiver cut my words short. “And wants dinner for seven served in the DOE offices.”
“And?”
“I asked him to tell me what he knew. He wouldn’t answer.”
My old friend’s thick, strong cook’s arms surrounded me. I leaned my head on his shoulder, felt his support. “You’re already thinking the worst, Anne. There’s lots of room between what we know and where you’re thinking.”
“I believe David’s alive, but I need to hear that.” The second half of my sentence turned into a plea instead of a statement. “Why is Peterson adding people? He must have some motive beyond cordoning us off from the media?”
He rubbed my back, not a gentle comforting gesture but a quick motion as if to invigorate an athlete preparing for competition. “In all my years working for the DOE, I learned never to guess what might be coming next. They are a bunch of wolves who tend to see the world divided into those who belong in the den and those who pose danger. Just got to stay in the right pack with those folks.”
“Could you and I carry their dinner over to the offices, and then you stay for the meeting? Peterson knows I’m bringing Paul.”
Turning away from me, Terrell opened a desk drawer and picked out a pen. He dismantled it as he spoke.
“Listen to me, Anne. The DOE doesn’t like extra visitors in their meetings. Let Paul eat his dinner.” Terrell slipped a thin, clear sliver from the pen’s interior. He bent toward me. “Without David around, the DOE could get aggressive. It’s important that you keep your stature when dealing with these guys. Show your strength.” I let him slip a hand deep into the back of my summer-weight shirt. I trusted this man, knew whatever he was doing was for my safety. “They’ll see Paul as a protector. You don’t want that.”
He patted the back of my bra with a gentling hand. “You are a highly successful, and visible, civilian businesswoman. Just treat them like an important client.” He straightened. “You’ve got them over a barrel ’cause David isn’t about to leave Ashwood for some other estate like a regular DOE director might be forced to do if the agency didn’t like the managing matron.”
I understood that he and Lao would monitor the meeting through the small device now enmeshed in my clothing.
“Want some water?” Twisting around me, he filled a glass.
“Thank you.” He motioned for me to take a sip. I obeyed. “I don’t want to be the one to carry all the bad news to Paul and Sarah.”
“You shouldn’t assume all is bad, Anne.” He motioned for me to drink more. “You’ve managed this place through plenty of storms. That’s why people, including your father-in-law, call you strong.” Like a breeze in the midst of a still hot day, Terrell’s voice brought me back to the moment. “Deal with this Peterson. Listen to what he has to say. And, as hard as this might be for you, I’d suggest you keep your own counsel around your pal Milan right now.”
“Why do you say that, Terrell?” I finished the water, let him take the glass from my hand. “Do you know something?”
“Remember I played that dual employee role for a lot of years—cook for the Bureau and personal observer for the DOE. Never stood in the way of you and me having a good working relationship, but the higher up the castle wall a person climbs, the trickier it is to please two powers.” Terrell checked the time. “Your friend is about as high on the ladder at the DOE as he can be with his other foot in the Bureau. He likes you as a person or he wouldn’t be so available for matters far below his station.”
“He wants what’s best for the kids. That’s what a guardian does.”
“Just listen to Mr. Peterson and think what you want showing up in official files before you speak. This isn’t a normal time, Anne.” I knew by the way Terrell pulled at one ear that he was deadly serious.
I made my way to the DOE offices alone, walking outdoors. Dark clouds gathered in the sky, the first hint of rain in almost two weeks. Barn cats wandered across the yard, cows mooed in the closer field. David often stood in the yard after returning from his travels to breathe the air, a country man deep within. I tried to gather a deep breath for him, wished I could send it across continents to offer comfort.
An unfamiliar DOE guard and I moved through intricate lockdown security procedures. Inside, overcooled air raised goose bumps on my bare arms. I found a sweater in my office, made a cup of tea, and busied myself. The estate daily report looked stronger than I expected. In regular times, I would look across to David’s office, and if the door stood open, I would tell him the good news. Tonight David’s locked door felt like a bad omen, a barrier no amount of wishing or praying or positive thinking could cross. I tried to hold on to Terrell’s pep talk as I buried myself in a backlog of mail.
That’s how Peterson and Milan found me. They said nothing as they sat in the chairs in front of my desk. I thought of standing, moving us to the table, but I read by where they chose to sit that nothing really awful had happened and stayed still in my chair.
“Director Peterson, you didn’t mention that Executive Milan would be accompanying you.” I used the language of bureaucracy. Rank no longer intimidated me. “Who else are we feeding?”
Neither man responded. The atmosphere felt heavy as if a storm waited to break.
“Milan, I don’t know if you heard that we have been able to attract Terrell back to manage all our on-estate food matters.” I read in his eyes that this was news to him, perhaps distracting him from what was about to happen. “He will be supervising delivery of a light dinner for your crew any time, Mr. Peterson.”
Bureaucratic gamesmanship crept into the meeting as I said, “I haven’t asked him if he still has DOE staff clearance, but at least your guards won’t have to create a totally new file for him.” Peterson’s left eyebrow barely moved upward as I displayed this bit of inside knowledge, and I knew I had stepped back into command from the state of shell-shocked wife.
“Anne, we have news from Paraguay and business to discuss.” Milan spoke, Peterson watched. “If Ashwood has space, the DOE needs beds to station a handful of staff here for the duration. If not, they’ll set up beds in the lower conference room.”
“I could put two in the residence guest room and scatter the rest around our staff sleeping quarters.”
“We prefer they be together in the residence.” Peterson came close to demanding.
“Can’t do it without disrupting rooms of workers.” My voice remained calm. “I would think you’d want them within your secured quarters.”
“We’ll set up in the lower level. I believe there are full bathrooms off the lab space.” Peterson settled back, looking as if this small decision made him winner of our first round.
“Are you going to trust our food or will this be one of those times when DOE provides its own?”
“Why would we be concerned about safety of food for a group of public information specialists?” Peterson flushed, realized he’d put cards on the table before the dealer called the game.
“If your staff will be working with the media, perhaps we should station them at the small building near the gate?” I saw Terrell push a wheeled cart into office central space. He looked my way, and I realized my guests had not closed the door as they entered. “I don’t think that’s what you want me here to discuss. Let’s start with Paraguay.” Terrell’s movements slowed, and I suspected his timing had been promp
ted by monitoring of the conversation.
Milan reached from his chair to close the door. “Let’s remember we’re all on the same side as employees or contractors of the DOE.” I heard a reprimand in his voice, a reminder that the DOE provided Ashwood with very generous financial support. “I understand your discomfort right now. I’d feel the same if my spouse was missing.”
“Why haven’t we located David?” I directed the question to Peterson, disappointed in Milan. “He has the latest tracking chip embedded. You must know where he is.” I looked into his face. “You’re hiding something.”
Peterson stood. “We need assurance of your complete confidentiality.” He held out a hand. “I need any listening devices you might be wearing.”
I stood as well, took a chance that Lao had out-technologized the DOE’s snooping ability. I removed my earpiece and held it out. “This is a business and family home, Director Peterson. We have little need for spyware although our staff sweeps plenty of bits and pieces of the stuff that get planted by government agencies on Ashwood and Giant Pines.”
“Turn that off.” Peterson pointed at my communication piece. “Nothing else?”
“You can wand me, if you wish.” I answered his request and came out from behind my desk. “I assume your folks already cleaned my office before your arrival?”
Milan raised a hand. “I think we’re ready to start.” He lowered his hand, reached into a pocket, and withdrew a small electronic pad. “We do need you to sign this confidentiality agreement.” I sat down as he extended the pad across my desk.
I read through the loosely constructed statement that read like the contract new estate professionals might be required to sign. The possibility of treason or perjury or deep legal liability faded on my second reading of the document which made no mention of the federal government or any of its agencies or bureaus. I read through it a third time, looking for the catch.
“Do you have a concern, Anne?” Milan’s voice sounded like that of my confidant, the man who moved red tape or questioned my personal motives in many difficult points through the years. I looked up and saw kindness in his eyes.
“I don’t really know what I’m signing. I’d like this to be reviewed by legal counsel.”
“You have that right,” Milan replied. “But I suggest we dispense with the document.” He withdrew the pad. “I have no doubt you are a loyal citizen.”
A small cheek motion showed Peterson’s disapproval as he spoke. “We were not entirely forthcoming earlier. You, of course, would know that we are able to track the DOE chips in David’s team and had an exact location when we spoke with you this morning.”
“So, go and get them. That is the sole purpose of your tracking chips. What’s the problem?” My response sounded unsophisticated, emotional. I gathered my thoughts. “There must be a reason you haven’t taken action. Why don’t you tell me more?”
Peterson tried to establish eye contact, but I wasn’t ready to trust him. He gave up, settled in his chair, and started to speak in a low voice that demanded attention.
“The United States has had a military presence in Paraguay for decades to monitor terrorism activities. Not a lot of people think of the Middle East terror groups settling on this side of the world, but Paraguay has been their favorite stew pot for decades.” He stopped. “Did David ever talk about this? Maybe he talked about the gas reserves project the Bolivian government stopped about five years ago? You must remember the time he and a team were airlifted back to a safe base?”
“Wasn’t that a project with military security?” Intuition told me Peterson assumed a lot of pillow talk about our jobs. Stronger intuition suggested I couldn’t begin to guess where this conversation was taking us. “There are many factors about work that David doesn’t tell me.”
The DOE man wanted to continue his exposition. “It is still critical to the future security of this nation that Paraguay be cleared of our enemies and that free access to the natural resources of Paraguay and its neighbors be maintained.” I couldn’t remember any Paraguay natural resources although I’d read about significant irrigation projects supporting development of agriculture in its dry, landlocked lands. Penfeller’s threatened requisition of our harvesting equipment as a national security action began to make sense.
“The advisors put up no fight at the airport because they knew the ‘ambush’ was a U.S. military exercise.” Milan jumped to what I wanted to know. “Not that the ambush squad wore U.S. military garb or identified themselves as such. Certain members of the advisory team were told about the ground action while they were in flight. David would have been one of those individuals.”
“So he is safe with U.S. Army troops pretending to be terrorists?”
“Not exactly.” Peterson stepped back into control. “The group consists of contracted operatives. It is critical that the Paraguay government appears to be connected to this action and these individuals.”
“Let me understand.” Words flowed through my brain, contradictory feelings of relief that David was safe then alarm that the allegiance of hired guns could be swayed by more of whatever they valued—money, influence, free rein. “The U.S. staged this ambush using merchant troops to embarrass the Paraguayan government about the true state of lawlessness in their country. And that will keep access to Bolivia’s resources open?”
Peterson shook his head. “It isn’t really important that you understand the nuances, General Manager Hartford. This is part of a significant military and diplomatic initiative. Your husband and his crew will be recognized as civilian heroes when they return home.”
“But David holds an officer commission as well. Won’t the media find that a contradiction?” I sat forward and leaned on my desk. This time I used the quiet, slow tones of a teacher demanding meticulous attention. “You can play whatever PR games you want, Director Peterson, as long as you do not compromise my husband’s reputation or endanger our family.” I paused. “Now, please give me a simple answer—is my husband safe?”
One, two, three seconds passed. I looked at my data pad and noticed it was six o’clock. Players would be warming up for Ashwood’s Wednesday night softball game. Phoebe and Sarah would be sitting at the dining room table for another language proficiency review. And I waited another second for what appeared to be a difficult answer. I looked to Milan, ignoring Terrell’s caution. “Is this a difficult question?”
Milan stayed quiet in his chair, hands resting on his legs. Peterson shifted position in the next chair, his arms folded across his chest.
“We’d like to believe that David and the team are safe,” Milan said. “There have been a few communication glitches.” He looked at Peterson who nodded, then continued. “Tracking chips indicate the DOE crew has been split up and taken deeper into the countryside than planned. There could be a good reason. But it is a deviation from plan.”
“Someone has been in communication with this contractor’s leaders to ask what’s happening?” I guessed the answer but wanted to hear how Peterson might phrase it.
Milan continued to act as the spokesperson. “Nothing is as simple as we’d like it to be, Anne.” He smiled, a small upward movement of his mouth accompanied by softness in his eyes. “We’ll say there’s nothing we know that would indicate David isn’t safe, but neither Peterson nor I can give you an absolute answer.”
I sat back, watched the two of them, not sure what to say. “Why are you here with a DOE crew?”
Milan sat back, looked in Peterson’s direction. I did the same.
Peterson began speaking as if addressing a recalcitrant audience. “The buildup of American troops in Paraguay is raising questions domestically. The DOE is giving the army guys a chance to stay in the background by assuming responsibility for media management.” He finally blinked, took a breath. “Which is why we are here. We need to put a face on the ambush. The Regan family—you, your children, and David’s parents—provide the kind of story people can understand. Americans are in danger in Pa
raguay. Americans with kids and family right here in the Midwest. We’ll issue news updates from Ashwood.”
“Not my children.” Looking to Milan, I jabbed my forefinger in the air. “You’re their legal guardian. Tell this man that the Regan children will be left alone. My kids are scared their father will be hurt, confused about a news story about having more siblings, and will be absorbing a new brother in days.” I paused. “You will leave them alone.”
“I forgot you were a patriot surrogate, General Manager Hartford.” Peterson’s voice told me he had already thought of ways to connect that phrase with David’s elite intellectual status. “Did I also hear you are expecting a second child of David’s?”
Milan and I looked at each other, mirroring surprise.
“You have that wrong,” I said. “Real wrong. You must have snooped in the wrong person’s medical record.”
“In eight months no one will care that it was a false alarm. The story will play well when added to Ashwood’s family drama. Demonstrate the love of children you share with David. You will be a role model of the new private businesswoman balancing many demands.”
“I want nothing to do with any of this deception.” I controlled my voice. “None of it.”
“General Manager Hartford, unless you want the estate’s valuable combine collected by a national security requisition team tomorrow morning, you will cooperate.”
“We did seek legal counsel on that matter,” I answered, matching his icy tone. “That equipment is privately owned. We have been advised that Ashwood’s equipment can be requisitioned only if there is still a clearly defined need after all machinery has been withdrawn from government-owned estates. I will fight you on this issue.”
“But you don’t have time to stage a fight,” he responded. “You can file court papers today, but not before I have a flatbed here to load whatever Mr. Penfeller might like from your inventory. By the time the courts review your request tomorrow, your equipment will be at the Twin Cities air force base loaded on a cargo jet.” His voice dropped. “The air force can be terribly efficient in times of a national emergency. Like this one.” He paused. “Private legal counsel privilege is trumped by national security needs. Check your Homeland Security provisions.”
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