Alex stretched her neck from side to side.
“Is this your moment?” the Mister asked.
“Are we signing our death warrants by continuing?” Alex asked.
The Mister squinted at her, and she nodded.
“This has this eerie feeling of synchronicity here” Alex said.
“Certainly,” the Mister nodded. “Could Admiral Ingram simply be correct? You’re over-qualified for the jobs, and hostage retrieval is a job for the CIA and the Navy SEALs.”
Alex shook her head.
“What?” the Mister asked.
“When I started, a civilian had to get visas to go into most problem countries,” Alex said. “Truthfully, the only people who traveled to dangerous places were people who traveled for work. Some, like you, were in intelligence. But plenty of people worked for oil companies or news outlets or were missionaries — Catholic priests, Mormons, Evangelicals. Most of the time, the news agencies, certainly the oil companies, even religious organizations, kept track of their people. If someone disappeared, I could track their visas and their last communication with their employer and friends. Even the hired killers. I could track them by their travel arrangements.”
“Or visa,” the Mister said with a nod.
“Exactly,” Alex said. “There were . . . anomalies, but most of the time, I knew where to start. But now? Any random person can buy a ticket to the middle of you-name-it war to report for their blog, or to research their yet-unwritten-but-sure-to-be-a-bestselling novel, or to meet up with their secret lover they met on Facebook, or join a not-yet-known terrorist faction. And, they can make these plans on any random library computer or an untraceable Internet café or . . .”
Alex shrugged.
“The work is much harder than it was when I started,” Alex said. “Dad said it was like that when he was tracking guys in prisoner-of-war camps in Asia. But then . . .”
“You knew who was there and mostly who they worked for,” the Mister said with a nod.
“In the past, there were reasons people were held hostage,” Alex said. “In Iran, they worked for the consulate. In Vietnam, they were mostly soldiers or intelligence assets or both.”
The Mister nodded.
“Now, random people get randomly captured by random bad guys with a grudge, or, worse, for-profit kidnappers. Hostage taking is big business all over the world, not just in the places you’d expect it. Families don’t know what to do, so they pay huge ransoms to try to get them back.”
“Which almost always ensures the hostage will be killed,” the Mister said.
“Exactly,” Alex said. “Just this year, I begged this one family not to pay the ransom. They paid. Their relative was murdered. We arrived the same day to pick him up. Who gets blamed?”
The Mister pointed to Alex.
“Exactly. More than once, we dug someone out of hell, and you know what they do as soon as they have the resources to do so? They return to the place they were captured!” Alex said. “One guy was an insurance agent. I asked him what the hell he was doing. You know what he told me? His post about being in a North Korean work camp got a lot of hits on his blog. Hits on a blog! Not anything that might possibly make some modicum of sense, but hits on a blog?”
“And you know the first thing his parents did when he was released?” Alex asked.
The Mister shook his head.
“They went on television blaming the US government for not getting him out sooner,” Alex said. “Like it’s my fault that her son wanted hits on his blog. If her son wanted a pony, would that be my fault, too?”
The Mister gave her an ironic smile.
“So no, it’s not right that the SEALs and the CIA can work out hostage issues,” Alex said. “At the very least, they need a dedicated team of professionals.”
“Or ten,” the Mister said.
“The CIA is computers and data analysts now,” Alex nodded. “They don’t have people in the field to develop the relationships needed . . .”
“To even start the process,” the Mister said.
“I said to Ingram, ‘Don’t take it out on the hostages.’” Alex shook her head. “I mean, what will happen to hostages when we stop working? You remember what happened to Leena?”
“She was just one of the cases while you were recovering,” the Mister said. “The others were just as bad.”
Alex shook her head. She looked away from him for a moment before sighing.
“I’m kind of ranting,” Alex said. “Sorry. It’s always true with dinosaurs. We can’t see our own obsolescence. We fight tooth and nail to defend our relevance when life has already passed us by.”
“You’re not a dinosaur,” the Mister said. “Your assessment is accurate.”
“Yes, but what’s abundantly clear is that I no longer matter in the scheme of things,” Alex said.
“I understand why you say that; it’s just not accurate,” the Mister said. He looked at her and then looked out across the yard. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon. “I guess my question is: Who would want there to be more hostages? Who benefits from more brutality exacted on ridiculous US citizens?”
“That’s kind of paranoid,” Alex said.
“Humor me,” the Mister said.
“You mean if there was a conspiracy?” Alex asked. “You know I don’t like conspiracies.”
“Humor me,” the Mister repeated.
“Let’s see,” Alex said. “Who would benefit from the Fey Team not working? Certainly not hostages. Or the honest tourists who happen to wander into the path of terrorists. Or . . .”
“If you had to say . . .?” the Mister lifted a shoulder in a shrug.
“Military contractors, maybe, soldiers for hire,” Alex said. “They can convince multinational corporations to pay through the nose for protection or possibly hostage retrieval. And . . .”
She turned to look at him.
“Military-industrial complex,” Alex said. “Suppliers, gun makers, munitions, even media companies. Really, anyone who profits from soldiers-on-the-ground war. Images of brutalized citizens often turn reluctant voters into firm supporters of the military. Even just one or two citizens held hostage or murdered in some public way could put pressure our government to enter into another no-win, never-ending conflict.”
“Now, you know who Admiral Ingram might be working for,” the Mister said. “The top .01% of the wealthiest people in the world.”
“Is he?” Alex asked.
“What about those who want to see the world burn?” the Mister asked.
Feeling dejected, Alex shook her head and looked at the garden. The warming morning air held a heavy quality that added to her sense of hopelessness.
“I haven’t heard that he’s working for anyone,” the Mister said in an attempt to get the conversation back on track. “I just have this . . . suspicion, unsubstantiated feeling, I guess.”
Alex looked at him with raised eyebrows. They sat in silent awe of the rising sun.
“Have you spoken with the President?” the Mister asked.
“We touched base last night briefly,” Alex said. “He’s fighting with Congress over some bill or another. They also have a visiting dignitary.”
“Right, there is a state dinner this week,” the Mister said.
“We were supposed to guard it,” Alex said. “I’m sure some SEAL Team has taken our place.”
“If you wanted to, you probably still could guard it,” the Mister said.
Alex gave him an indifferent shrug.
“I’m supposed to work out with the President at lunch today,” Alex said.
“That should be interesting,” the Mister said with an exaggerated cough perfected over decades of chain smoking.
Feeling someone near, they turned to look. Mammy was standing in the doorway. For most of Alex’s life, Mammy had been a large woman, similar to the movie character whose name she’d taken. In preparation for retirement, Mammy lost well over a hundred pounds. Stan
ding on the porch, Mammy was curvy, fit, and gorgeous. Alex’s eyes slid over to look at the Mister. He was shockingly fit and trim as well. She grinned at his pretense of still smoking.
“Breakfast is ready,” Mammy said. “You remember the rules?”
“No shop talk at meals,” Alex said.
“That’s right,” Mammy said. “Can you do that?”
Mammy looked at the Mister and then at Alex. She gave Alex a big smile.
“Come on, girl,” Mammy said. “You’re skin and bones again.”
Mammy put her arm around Alex to navigate her into the house for breakfast.
F
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tuesday morning
October 11 — 8:11 a.m. MDT
City Park Golf Course, Denver, Colorado
Retired General and Senator Patrick Hargreaves walked toward the tenth hole of the City Park Golf Course. Department of Homeland Security Agent Colin Hargreaves, Patrick’s youngest son, walked in front of him, and viral microbiologist Dr. Erin Hargreaves-Mac Clenaghan, Patrick’s youngest child, walked just to the side. They had special permission to play before the course opened as long as they carried their clubs. The course was dotted with other groups of lawyers, doctors, and politicians. Rebecca Hargreaves, Patrick’s wife of nearly forty years, walked in front of them so that she could chat with the governor’s Chief of Staff, who was playing in the foursome in front of them.
Their golf game was a competitive monthly ritual that had begun more than a decade ago when Colin had joined the East High School Golf Team. They’d returned to their game a year or so ago. For the first time in all these years, Erin was two strokes ahead this morning.
“You just have to accept the facts,” Erin said in an imitation of her father. “Some people are simply better than you.”
Colin howled a laugh. When Colin laughed, Rebecca turned when to see what was going on. Colin pointed to Erin, and Rebecca gave her daughter a bright smile. She pointed to her right. Erin turned to see that Patrick’s Secret Service detail were laughing at Erin’s imitation.
“Best not to brag,” Patrick said in pretend earnest.
Everyone in hearing range laughed. Chuckling to himself, Patrick waved Rebecca back. He set a tee for her. She gave him a quick kiss on his lips before setting down her ball. He stroked her backside and moved away.
“Show us what you’ve got!” Erin said, imitating her father again.
Rebecca gave her an appreciative grin before setting to swing. She’d just pulled the club back when a vehicle screeched to a halt on the road adjacent to the golf course, Twenty-third Avenue. The vehicle’s engine revved and an SUV hopped the curb. Patrick’s Secret Service detail as well as the Governor’s Executive Security Unit of the Colorado State Police ran to create a wall between their charges and whatever was coming.
Rebecca looked at Patrick before swinging her club. The ball made a beautiful arch before landing on the green.
“Erin?” Rebecca said firmly. “Play on.”
Erin smiled at her mother before placing the tee. The armored SUV with black tinted windows drew made an abrupt stop near where they were standing. A senior officer in US Army fatigues jumped out of the back seat. He marched across the green toward them. Erin played her turn while the Secret Service checked the officer’s credentials. Once through the line of security, the officer stormed toward them. Erin hit the golf ball. The family watched her ball land near her mother’s.
“Nice,” Colin said. He raised his hand in a high-five.
Patrick spied the man moving in their direction. He gave the man a wry look before bending down to set his tee. He glanced at Colin, whose hand slipped around the handle of his handgun. Patrick nodded to Rebecca.
“Where the hell is your daughter?” US Army Colonel Kyle Sanchez asked.
“Good morning,” Patrick said, as he set his ball down. “Nice to see you, Kyle.”
Without turning to look at the man, Patrick played his turn. The ball sliced fast and low across the fairway.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble she’s in?” Colonel Sanchez asked. “They’re talking court martial!”
“Who?” Patrick asked.
Still not looking at the Colonel, Patrick watched his ball until it fell onto the green. Patrick glanced at the Colonel before moving aside for Colin. Like a rabid terrier, the Colonel stayed on Patrick’s heels. Colin scowled at the man before setting his tee.
“Where is she?” Colonel Sanchez said with red-faced intensity.
“I have two daughters,” Patrick said. “Erin is standing right there.”
He pointed to Erin. She waved at the Colonel.
“Samantha is in court today,” Patrick said. “You might be able to catch her on her cell or possibly when she’s done at the Denver Courthouse. Does that answer your question?”
“Your daughter, Alex,” the Colonel spit at Patrick. “Where is she?”
Rebecca gasped and touched her heart. Her motion was so sudden that the Governor’s Chief of Staff came over to her. Colin gave the Colonel a dark look before smacking the ball. Patrick’s face turned to steel.
“Colonel Sanchez?” Erin asked. “I’d appreciate it if you left right now.”
“What the hell?” Colonel Sanchez asked.
He face reflected his genuine surprise at their response.
“Their son, Alex, was buried five years ago today,” the Governor’s Chief of Staff said with a sniff. She nodded to Patrick’s security detail. “You really should go.”
“Their son, Alex?” Colonel Sanchez asked with growing rage. “Their son?”
Patrick gave the Colonel a disgusted look.
“Excuse me,” Patrick said.
He put his arm around Rebecca’s shoulder and started down the green. Erin gave the Colonel a dark look before following her parents. A tall man, Colin almost knocked the Colonel over when he brushed against his shoulder.
Dumbstruck, the Colonel stood in open-mouthed shock as they walked away from him. He jogged up to Patrick.
“You’re saying that . . .” Colonel Sanchez said. “Actually, I don’t know what you’re saying.”
Patrick stopped short. He nodded to Rebecca, who gave the Colonel a tear-drenched look. Erin reached her mother. Erin put her arm around her mother, and they continued down the fairway.
“I’m saying that my son, Alexander, was killed five years ago,” Patrick said. “I do not appreciate your . . . attitude. His identical twin, Max, is at his grave right now.”
“But, you have a daughter named ‘Alex,’ not a son,” Colonel Sanchez said. “I’ve met her — Alexandra. She’s the Fey. She’s a Lieutenant Colonel. She leads the Fey Team!”
Patrick gave the man a dark look and a rueful shake of his head.
“If you’ll excuse me, we’d like to finish this round and go to be with our son,” Patrick said. “You will not disrupt our day of remembrance and grief.”
While the Colonel gawked, Patrick continued walking down the green. His Secret Service guards followed behind him.
“You can’t just erase her!” Colonel Sanchez said.
“Just watch me,” Patrick said under his breath.
He kept walking until he heard the vehicle door slam shut. The vehicle drove away. Patrick caught up with Rebecca. He put his arm around her.
“You think he bought it?” Rebecca said in a low tone.
“No,” Patrick said. “I’m sure he doesn’t now think that Alexandra never existed. But I do think he gets that we’re serious.”
“As a heart attack,” Erin said with a nod.
Colin watched the SUV drive away before looking at Erin and then at his parents.
“It’s going to be an interesting couple of months,” Colin said.
A fan of wild times, Colin gave his family a crazy grin. Erin laughed so hard that Rebecca joined her. Some of their earlier levity returned.
“Eight more holes and then to Fort Logan,” Patrick said.
“Did you
buy that house in San Diego?” Erin asked.
“That’s tomorrow, dear,” Rebecca smiled at Erin.
“Yeah, Erin, that’s tomorrow,” Colin said in his worst big-brother voice. “One drama at a time.”
Erin laughed.
“Play on!” Patrick said.
Rebecca began the work of putting her ball into the little hole.
FFFFFF
Tuesday midday
October 11 — 12:11 p.m. EST
Washington, DC
The Mister stood on the edge of a basketball court where the President was shooting hoops with Alex. She had been given exactly ten private minutes in his schedule. From where the Mister stood, it looked like she was making the best of it. She had stripped down to a tank top and changed her boots for basketball shoes. The President was similarly dressed. The Secret Service were outside the door. The Mister was allowed in the room only if he didn’t interfere.
The door to the gym opened, and Ben walked into the gymnasium. Prior to retiring, Ben had been the world’s most capable intelligence agent. French at heart, American by choice, he had made a career out of working for any US intelligence agency that could afford him. Most recently, he’d worked for the Department of Homeland Security as Alex and Raz’s boss. He was also Alex’s biological father. Ben nodded to the Mister before coming to stand next to him.
Alex was at ease on the basketball court. The men watched Alex and the President shoot baskets and laugh. Over the last few years, Alex and the President had become trusted colleagues, if not friends. They were having a great time. Ben glanced at the Mister, and he nodded. For most of Ben and the Mister’s lives, they had been the main attraction. They were starting to enjoy their time on the sidelines.
The door to the gymnasium opened with a bang and the one of the principal leaders at National Intelligence stormed into the room. Ben and the Mister turned to look at him. He stopped short in front of them. He was a trim man, a few years younger than they were. Like Ben and the Mister, he’d spent a lifetime in a variety of US intelligence agencies. Ben knew him by the name “Wraith.”
About Face Page 7
