by Glen Robins
Amy had sat on that rock to soak up the golden rays of the sun. Collin had tried to sneak a quick, candid picture to capture the moment forever. She must’ve known what he was up to and struck the pose that was now the photo he pulled up most often when he felt her slipping away, when the distance between them became unbearable.
The moment the flight attendant leaned over and nudged his shoulder, he realized he was drawing unwanted attention to himself. “Sir, are you OK? Can I get you something?” Her British accent was gentle and low, but laced with urgency.
Collin found himself clutching the phone with both hands and holding it to his nose and lips, eyes shut tightly. With his elbows on his knees, he swayed forward and back in his seat. His breath was drawn through his pursed mouth and across his teeth in quick, short bursts, making a sharp hissing sound. He didn’t know how long he had been at it or at what point he had drifted away, but the moment he became aware of what he was doing, he was mortified and self-conscious. Heat welled up from his neck and engulfed his face, pushing out from his eye sockets, causing him to turn away from the concerned flight attendant. This was the kind of awkward situation he most wanted to avoid.
The woman in the aisle seat reached across the empty space between them. She was a middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her long, dark hair. Her hand was on Collin’s forearm, squeezing it gently.
Collin cleared his throat and surveyed his surroundings, his eyes wide and darting. He shouldn’t have gone there. He shouldn’t have opened those photos and given his memories a chance to grab control. His safety and freedom depended on his ability to stay sharp.
Against Lukas’s advice, he had loaded this digital family photo album onto his phone. This was his first indulgence in a very long time.
“I’m fine, thank you,” he lied, shaking his head and wincing with embarrassment. “It’s just been a really long week.” His voice was thin and wispy. The two women were empathetic.
The woman in the aisle seat peered at the picture on the phone, uninvited. “She’s downright beautiful, she is. Your girlfriend, I presume?” More of a Northern English accent, perhaps Scottish, but he couldn’t be certain. In any case, her soothing voice and charming accent brought a wan smile to his face, blunting any ill feelings.
Still struggling to re-enter the present, Collin sheepishly nodded toward the phone. “My wife, actually.” His voice ragged, barely audible
“You miss her, don’t you? Can’t say I blame you at all.” Shooting her eyes toward the phone, she added, “Gorgeous, I say. Just gorgeous.” The way her words bounced and rolled was almost musical, engaging his mind in their sounds instead of the paralysis brought on by the searing pain his memories produced, unleashed by a glance at his favorite picture.
Smiling now and still very attentive, the flight attendant asked again if she could be of service. He shook his head. She locked eyes with him just long enough for him to know she was concerned, then turned and continued down the aisle.
The business woman added a closing statement before turning back to the computer on her own lap. “Bet you’ll be glad to get home now, won’t you?”
He just nodded as he pressed the button at the top to lock the screen and put the phone in a pocket in his backpack. She couldn’t have known, and he couldn’t tell her, that he had no home.
Collin lingered in the moment, mouth open, ready to speak, but rather than start a conversation, he turned away and looked out the window. Better to stick with Lukas’s advice: lay low and try not to draw any attention.
He rubbed his hand across his face from his forehead to his chin, smoothed his shirt, and stared out the window. He clinched his eyes and tried to push away the memory. The deep moaning sound of a big rig’s brakes locking up. The squeal of tires. The crunching of metal.
The business woman was soon re-absorbed in her own world—laptop open, earphones in, keyboard clicking. Occasionally, she looked at Collin as if to check on him, making sure he was OK. Collin opened his laptop and pretended to work. Open in front of him was his journal—a travel log he kept for Amy, chronicling the sights, sounds, smells, and food he had taken in during his wanderings. She had wanted so badly to travel the world with him. It was one of her fondest dreams, so Collin did what he could to share his experiences. This was his labor of love. His show of undying devotion.
He couldn’t work. His mind was locked in a battle to push back the pain and he stared blankly at the screen until he gave up and put the computer away. He spent the rest of the flight wrestling with his memories.
After the plane landed and taxied to the gate, the business woman leaned over to him one last time and said, “All the best to you now. You take care of that pretty little wife of yours when you’re back to the States, won’t you? Be sure you don’t take things for granted, you hear?”
Collin managed a half-smile and nodded to her, unable to speak because of the knot caught in his throat at hearing those words. They were well-intentioned, he knew, but uninformed.
Collin stayed in his seat, looking out the window, biting his lower lip. High pitched screams. Rocks slamming against metal. Silence. His insides went numb. He couldn’t move.
He waited until the crowd thinned out so he could maneuver unobstructed through the aisle of the plane. His pace was lethargic until he entered the main corridor. When he noticed himself isolated and exposed in the wide expanse of the terminal, he quickened his steps to catch a group of passengers, walking at the edge of the crowd, keeping pace with them, becoming just another face in an unfamiliar place.
Despite his prior anxiety, Collin easily cleared customs in Hamburg. From the curb outside the terminal, he caught the branded shuttle to the Marriott downtown. He checked in, speaking few words but in perfect German, even using a German name, passport, and credit card. In his room, Collin turned on CNN and watched it for an hour before opening his backpack. Again, no mention of him or of his case. A sigh of relief and a twist of disappointment ran through him.
He could now relax for a short while. He needed rest. He needed time to sort through the myriad thoughts tumbling around his brain. Tonight he would order room service and read a book—a perfect way to unwind and escape his situation until he could bring his memories under control and push them back into the far recesses of his mind. Sleep would help. It usually did, yet it was increasingly difficult to come by. The memories chased him and frightened him, much the same as the two men in the shades.
But first, a shower.
Dry, warm, and relaxed after his shower, Collin put on his old sweat pants and favorite T-shirt, ready to spend some time with a book. He looked forward to letting his mind go somewhere else. It was only 8:00 p.m., but he was physically and mentally drained.
Just as he stretched out on the bed, book in hand, his phone rumbled on the wooden nightstand. A text from Lukas. “Get out. Now. The two guys from Heathrow just landed in Hamburg.”
Chapter Two
Huntington Beach, CA
April 30
She sat still in the high-backed, Queen Ann wing chair. Her back was ramrod straight, and her aqua blue eyes were fixed on her hands, which were clasped together and perched atop her knee. They caught her attention. Maybe because she needed a distraction. The conversation had grown so tense and so heated she needed an outlet, something else to concentrate on. For the moment, the age spots appearing on the backs of her hands filled the need. But, at age sixty-three, Sarah Cook determined she was allowed to start showing her years of experience.
Despite the recent appearance of the age spots, Sarah’s blond hair had yet to turn gray. Most people guessed her age ten years younger. Her square jaw and deep-set eyes gave her a no-nonsense, determined look to match her personality.
“Agent Crabtree, with all due respect, you are wrong, plain and simple,” she said with conviction, her eyes still fixed on her hands.
Across from Sarah Cook, two FBI agents sat on an elegant sofa trimmed with dark cherry wood legs and arm rests. The c
ushions were covered in silky fabric the color of desert sand. Between them a cherry wood coffee table with ornate bronze foil inlays held up an oversized historical picture book of Huntington Beach. The hardwood floor was partially covered by a plush, Persian rug. A row of rectangular transom windows along the tops of the sixteen foot walls let in natural light that bathed the room.
“I wish I was, Mrs. Cook. I really do. For your sake and his, I wish I was wrong.” At fifty-eight, Reggie Crabtree was only three years from retirement. The white hairs adorning his temples showed his maturity. His mustache, however, was still jet black. The skin of his face was a few shades lighter but still taut and lean. He was in fine shape for a veteran agent of twenty-seven years, though more paunchy than he liked.
Reggie’s partner, a thirty-four-year-old hot shot recently brought into his unit, was being groomed to replace him upon his retirement. Agent Spinner McCoy spoke for the first time this visit. His Texan accent was tempered by his desire to sound as professional as possible, but it was, nonetheless, unmistakable. “Ma’am, we’re not making this up. You saw the photographs. They’re real. You identified your son yourself.”
“Yes, I did, but . . .”
“But, Mrs. Cook, the problem is these photos were taken in the Bahamas ten days ago. Collin flew there the day before under a false ID, ma’am. We believe this meeting was not coincidental. Why else would he travel under an assumed name with a counterfeit passport?” McCoy said.
“That does not prove that he is in league with this alleged terrorist as you say,” protested Sarah. “I believe with all my heart that he is the victim of an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Mrs. Cook, if that is true, we need some evidence to prove it,” said McCoy. “This set of photos, taken in London two days ago, shows otherwise. That’s Pho Nam Penh seated next to Collin.” The former football star was a large man. Even his suit coat could not conceal the muscles filling the sleeves. But his voice was kind and the accent endearing. “We’re asking for your cooperation. Our main target is the man he is with, but we have had a very difficult time tracking him. We’re hoping you can help.”
“As I’ve told you, I know nothing about that man. This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on him.”
Reggie resumed the questioning. “Did Collin ever mention anything about these meetings to you?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Did he inform you that he was taking a trip, or did he happen to mention where he was going?”
“No. He hasn’t said anything to us about any plans.”
“Did he discuss the content of his meetings with his attorney, a Mr. Shane Dupree, or anyone else?”
Sarah sighed. “I have to admit I don’t know anything about what he was doing or thinking or who he was meeting. After he was released from the hospital, Collin was a completely different person. He used to be so gregarious and fun-loving. He was talkative and funny. We used to have a very open relationship. All that changed, though. After the accident, he just closed up. He barely spoke to me or anyone else.” Sarah studied her hands again, her voice dry and distant.
Both Reggie and Spinner had read the California Highway Patrol report and were familiar with the circumstances surrounding Collin’s hospitalization. The CHP had sent Sergeant Terrance Draft to Collin’s home when he didn’t answer either his home or cell phone. Sergeant Draft found Collin Cook lying on his living room floor in a pool of blood, vomit, and shattered glass from the coffee table. A cell phone lay a few feet away. Collin was breathing but not conscious. A gash on his forehead continued to ooze blood. He suffered a concussion, had his head sewn together with thirteen stitches, and spent three days in the hospital, but most of his wounds were unseen and had yet to heal.
They also knew what precipitated Collin’s injury. A thick silence hung in the air as all present reverently reflected upon the events that overturned Collin’s life.
Reggie breached the quiet. “That’s understandable, considering his loss,” he said just above a whisper. “We’re just trying to determine why he met with this Pho Nam Penh and what he may have discussed with him, that’s all.”
McCoy paused, then returned to the business at hand. “I’d like to shift our conversation, if we can, Mrs. Cook, to your last communication with him.”
“Agent McCoy, if I may,” said Henry Cook as he entered the living room from a foyer behind Sarah’s chair, the sound of the garage door closing behind him. Henry was tall and trim, with a full shock of white hair.
This was the second meeting between the Cooks and these two FBI agents, and the first time they had visited the Cook home. The first meeting was in early December, nearly six months prior, and the agents did more listening than talking that time. The Cooks had requested that meeting after Collin no-showed for Thanksgiving. No RSVP. No phone call. That worried Sarah and Henry. When Collin’s closest friend, Rob Howell, informed them that Collin was even avoiding him, their concern reached the level where they felt it necessary to bring in the federal authorities to help find him.
In the past two weeks, however, the agents had turned up much unpleasant information regarding Collin and his activities. They came to sort it out with the Cooks in person. Crabtree and McCoy arrived with photos and accusations instead of help and support.
“Of course, Mr. Cook,” McCoy said with a polite nod in Henry’s direction as Henry pulled the twin Queen Ann chair closer to his wife and reached for her hand.
“We have not heard from our son in over six months. We haven’t had what I would call a normal conversation with him since before the accident last July. That accident, as you might imagine, changed everything for Collin. His whole life was sent into turmoil and he has not yet recovered, it appears.”
Reggie looked at Sarah, then back to Henry. “That’s what we’re afraid of, Mr. and Mrs. Cook. Considering that everything changed for your son as you say, we think it’s plausible that he is working with Pho Nam Penh, either willingly or not. Penh is crafty, sophisticated, and extremely elusive. We want to know how Collin’s involved and why. We also want any information we can get on Penh.”
“Our son is not a criminal, Agent Crabtree,” barked Henry. “He would never do anything to hurt anyone.”
Sarah added, “Everyone who knows him knows he’s a peacemaker. You don’t know him, or you wouldn’t be making these rash accusations.”
“Mrs. Cook, what we know is that Collin received a $30 million settlement. We also know that within seconds of that money electronically entering his account, all $30 million disappeared, having been routed and rerouted so quickly and expertly there is no way to trace it. The trail dead-ended. The level of sophistication required to do that is extremely high, Mrs. Cook. Where might your son have learned how to instantaneously hide $30 million?” Reggie studied her face, reading every nuance of her reaction.
Sarah stuttered and stammered and looked confused. She and Henry shared a puzzled exchange. “I don’t have any idea, Agent Crabtree.”
“We do,” said McCoy as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Pho Nam Penh’s syndicate is known for carrying out this sort of electronic financial trickery. It’s very advanced and requires the use of specially devised algorithms. Why do you think your son would go to such lengths? And how did he acquire the know-how to do it?”
Reggie chimed in. “These are just some of the questions that point to your son’s involvement with Pho Nam Penh.”
“I resent the implications here,” said Henry. “This is all highly speculative. Collin is a bright kid with a fair amount of computer experience. Who’s to say he couldn’t go online and learn this overnight?”
“Okay, Mr. Cook,” Reggie said. “Let’s presume that’s what happened. Let’s say he learned the fine art of opening and closing multiple foreign accounts—numbered accounts, the kind that require secure authorization and no identification—online like you suggest. And let’s say he learned the intricate programming algorithms required to move large sums of money not
once, not twice, but multiple times into multiple accounts spread across multiple countries, without leaving a trail. Now the question is why? Why would he do that?”
Again Henry and Sarah were dumbfounded. Instead of protesting, they fell silent. Henry’s gaze dropped, as did his shoulders. He turned to his wife and squeezed her hand. Sarah let out a sob as a tear formed in the corner of her eye. Both were speechless.
Reggie continued, “Pho Nam Penh is an enemy of the United States, and anyone associated with him is under considerable suspicion. If you’ve listened to the news or read the paper, you realize how many security breaches there have been at the banks, credit card companies, and other financial institutions over the past several months.”
Henry and Sarah each nodded their heads.
“Over the past few weeks, we’ve gathered some information regarding this man and his organization, but we’re still unable to track them or monitor their activities. They like to be invisible. But we caught a break. These photos appeared on the Internet, clearly showing your son in conference with this man. Two days later, there was a security breach at the Royal Bank of Scotland, a bank your son had visited the day before meeting Penh. That’s when he became a person of interest and a subject of our investigation. It’s our job to stop Pho Nam Penh and his organization before he strikes again and undermines the security of the United States. If you want to help your son and your country, you will cooperate with our investigation.”
“None of this proves he’s guilty,” said Sarah. Her voice was laced with the righteous indignation of a protective mother. “Our son may be going through a very difficult time, but he is not a terrorist.”
“Let’s focus on what we have in common, Mrs. Cook,” said Reggie. “We all want Collin to come home. We all want to help him put his life back together and move on. We all want to make sure he is not working for, cooperating with, or taking orders from a known enemy of the United States. Help us bring him home. We’ll find out what he knows. If what you say is true, and all goes well, you’ll have your son back, and we’ll have some clues to help us bring Pho Nam Penh to justice. Is that a reasonable request?”
