by Tony Lavely
Unfolding it didn’t answer as many questions as she’d hoped. Almost in a daze, she allowed the paper to drift to the table where Willie picked it up. When he looked the question, she nodded.
“Printed. Short. ‘Mrs. Jamse. Please accept our belated condolences on the loss of your husband. Like you, we will miss him terribly. We must meet tomorrow. Explanations are due you. Bring your ward.’ That’s it, except for a phone number. New York area code.”
Beckie permitted the next few minutes of conversation to ebb and flow, listening but not contributing to the theories rising and falling with the conversation.
“Maurice,” she finally said, “is this consistent with the other messages, or do you know?”
“The brusque and uninformative nature, yes. Ian always met with them… elsewhere. In answer to your next question, I believe it happenstance that most of the meetings were while you were in Miami.”
“And my ‘ward’? He must mean Solène; Amy’s been out from under my thumb for a year, now. Why would he want her?”
Willie and Rich began to speak together; Beckie pointed to Rich first. “Two possible reasons, given that we have no idea who he is: he wants to use her as a lever on you, or he wants you—and us—to think she’ll be safe, that there’s no risk associated with the visit.”
Willie nodded as she pointed to him. “Most likely, both.”
Beckie reached back to pull her ponytail over her shoulder. After a few seconds playing with it, she said, “Tell me the odds that he knows who she is.”
This sparked another round of spirited discussion interrupted by Beth’s return. “The Carl Vinson is scheduled to leave San Diego that Monday at 0630. Rumor has it she’s headed to the Middle East, but there’s no official confirmation, because of possible protests and demonstrations.”
“And the Carl Vinson is?”
“She’s a super-carrier,” Willie answered. “While she’s home-ported in San Diego, she can reach the Straits of Hormuz almost as quickly as a Norfolk-based ship.” He paused. “As long as she’s not bringing a battle group with her. They tend to slow her down.”
“Thanks. When is Barbara due in?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, I think.”
“I’ll wait to talk with her. I have to go to Miami in the morning anyway; I’ll call…” She waved the paper. “… whoever tomorrow night.”
Beckie called her doctor to confirm her appointment and make one for Solène, since as far as the girl would say, she’d not recently been examined. “Why,” she’d asked. “I’m not sick.”
“Preventive medicine,” Beckie responded, keeping the heat from her voice. “How about birth control?”
“No need!” The girl’s forlorn expression made Beckie laugh.
“We’ll go anyway,” she said.
She’d eventually chivvied Solène aboard the air taxi with a promise of sightseeing in South Beach… And shopping, too, though sightseeing seemed to be a greater attraction as long as the threatened rain held off. She sent Solène to her examination first, expecting no unusual outcomes, and once her own exam was complete, they both sat with the doctor for the after-exam talk.
There were no unusual findings to dismay Beckie; however, the doctor recommended Solène begin birth control “unless you desire to be surprised?” Beckie had looked at Solène for a long second, trying to decide what she had told the doctor, and the woman, perhaps realizing Beckie’s confusion, said, “She has no experience, but in school, those things can come about quickly. But, if you are uncomfortable with the idea—”
“No! Surprised, but in favor. Millie’s been in touch with you, right? Dr Ardan?”
“She has. Would she prefer to write this prescription?”
“No, but our pharmacy would be the best place to fill it, I think.”
“This should do.” She handed Solène a piece of paper. “I will contact Dr. Ardan to say that you are fine and the baby is doing just as we expect. I’ll see you next month, then. Solène, unless something is bothering you, tell the nurse outside to arrange your appointment next year.”
Crossing the lobby to the exit, Beckie was disappointed to see a light rain falling. She followed Solène to the revolving door; a man on the entrance side allowed her through but jammed it with Beckie caught inside. A car had stopped directly in front of the doorway; a small blue light flashed rapidly. A tall man in a light tan trench coat took Solène’s arm and hustled her toward the car’s open door. Beckie threw herself against the stationary wall of glass, but while it shuddered pleasingly, the man held it from turning. The third time she threw herself against the revolving door, the car pulled away. Solène’s face, her panic obvious, pressed against the window. As soon as the car was gone, another, blue light flashing, took its place.
A not-quite-as-tall man emerged from the back seat and ran to the door. The one holding the door had clearly been waiting; he now allowed the door to turn until the man outside could capture Beckie as she exploded from the glass prison.
As soon as the first car had left, Beckie knew she wouldn’t fight these people, couldn’t until she knew how to get Solène back, safe. That didn’t mean being polite, or pleasant, or falling all over herself to be… what was that word? Docile? She slammed her shoulder into the man waiting, and a bit of joy filled her as he staggered and fell toward the car. Not gonna be docile! Following him, she expected the man behind to prevent her damaging this one; she leaned over him and shouted, “You better fucking well have an explanation for this! I want to see Solène back, right fucking now!” She straightened and stood silent.
The man who’d held the door came up behind her, but only reached to give the other one a hand. He was chuckling, almost under his breath, and Beckie felt her anger at him rise until… “If you don’t stop that insane fucking giggling, I’ll shut your mouth for you.” She’d lowered her voice until it was a growl, raw and uncouth. His look of shock and fear? That’s the reaction I want! She shook out her skirt, ready to hike it up and kick.
The man from the car had regained his feet; he rubbed his hand where it’d scraped the door jamb. “No one said you were trained, Mrs. Jamse. Please get in. We’ll follow, was that Amy who was with you?”
Beckie’s eyes were wide, but she snapped her mouth closed. No need to give them information. The blue light means LEA of some sort. As she stepped back to give him room, she realized that if she’d come through the door first, the scene would have played out exactly the same, except she’d be in the first car and Solène would be back here. She glanced up and then down the sidewalk; yellow tape blocked other citizens from intruding. More tan raincoats were directing pedestrians to alternate routes. Damn. This is serious.
She turned back to stare at the two men.
“Please get in the car, Mrs. Jamse. We need to talk to you, and the sooner that’s done, the quicker you and Amy’ll be on your way.”
She clutched her purse to her chest and slid in. The men followed, one behind her, the other rushing to open the far door before she could flee through it. He made sure she stayed between them.
Beckie had no reason to open a conversation; apparently that wasn’t the men’s brief either. The driver headed south, which meant to Beckie toward downtown Miami. As he drove, he reached out the window and retrieved the blue light.
Confusion was uppermost in Beckie’s mind. The only thing she could even imagine this being caused by was the Rose Creek job, and that seemed so unlikely that she put it out of her mind. The buff envelope? No, Maurice said that was the sign of the Rose Creek group. As the car slithered through mid-afternoon traffic, she mentally listed each job the team had underway or on the books. She listed them backwards. The result was the same: nothing could have roused the interest of any agency in the US. Another replay, this time testing the possibility that an aggrieved foreign entity was acting through whomever, but those odds seemed long as well.
Since chance had determined the order they’d been grabbed, Beckie expected that they’d both arri
ve safe. Afterwards wasn’t nearly as clear, nor was Solène’s fate. That would be her first objective: regain control of Solène. Hope they give enough away that I can accomplish it. They didn’t take my purse. Why? Not that I have anything there but my phones. Shoulda accepted the aggravation at Customs and brought the Sig. Another missed chance, she berated herself.
As Beckie mentally smacked herself, the car nosed down a ramp into an underground parking garage. While there were large white arrows to follow, there was nothing to identify who might be using the space. Beckie couldn’t even see a warning sign to indicate surveillance, though she recognized the half-softball size enclosures that in most universes held cameras.
The driver made his way to a lined stall adjacent to an elevator. The parking space was marked “reserved” and the elevator had no call buttons, just a key-pad lock.
Driver-man keyed a longish combination into the lock, and opened the rear door closest. Beckie was out and waiting for the door to open, still between the two men. Driver-man returned to the car.
Inside the elevator cab, the man who’d blocked the revolving door keyed another lock; the door whooshed closed and the cab shot upwards.
Beckie’s glance around was rewarded with nothing. Except for the pad to operate the lock and the light seeping from a panel in the ceiling, the interior was blank, all stainless steel. Gotta be the US… Probably the FBI. No one else could be this paranoid. She thought back, then grinned internally as she recognized that she had no data to make that claim. Any LEA could be that paranoid.
When the door slid open, her guards escorted her around a corner to a long hallway, and then down it to a dark wooden door with a brass ‘C14’ decorating it, at about head height. The man knocked, but quietly. Beckie wondered if it was loud enough to hear. There was no response, but the man opened it and waved her in.
The room held a conference table, a sideboard with a tray, some glasses and a pitcher of what looked like water. Sweat beaded its outside. At the end away from the door, matching dark wood covered a presentation board. Windows in the left wall, opposite the sideboard, gave on an ocean view, which oriented Beckie: she was facing about south. A dozen chairs surrounded the table. She started a little, neither end had a chair. Everyone’s equal? She couldn’t reconcile that with any LE agency she could think of. The air smelled… cool, with a hint of artificial freshener, and as the man who’d been in the car left, closing the door behind him, she heard faint whispers.
Her second survey, seeking the source of the sound, was interrupted by a hand on her elbow. She snapped around, ready to punch or kick, whichever would accomplish the feat, but the man stepped back just enough to signal his reluctance. I’ll take it that way, anyway. “There,” he said and pointed to the table.
An iPad tablet had been placed behind a chair back. Laying on the dark shiny table-top, it was the source of the whispering.
The image on the screen was Solène, sitting on what looked like a comfortable sofa or maybe a love-seat. A small table beside her had a plate with a sandwich and chips… Sure, give her chips! She’ll give you the keys to the kingdom for chips! And a can of Coke.
There was nothing to identify the location. Beckie shrank into herself a little. I can see that she’s okay, and if anything happens, but I got no clue where she is. As she watched, Solène sipped from the can before saying… Beckie thought she was asking about Beckie, where she was and what was going on, but the volume was too low to be sure. Even with the obvious agitation Solène displayed, the voices were no more than a susurrus. And the camera wasn’t located where Beckie could read Solène’s lips.
She dropped into the chair and reached for the iPad, but the man held up his hand. “Please don’t. We’ve put it here so you can see Amy and not worry about her while we talk.” He looked at his watch. “Just a couple of minutes, now. We didn’t run into as much traffic as we expected.”
Beckie glanced again at the screen, then placed her purse on the chair next to hers. As she opened it, she said, “No weapons. Getting out my phone. You won’t want me to miss any check-in calls I have scheduled.”
“We know.”
What does that mean? He looked in here? No way! Unless… Customs checked it. If they’re working with him… Shit. What is going on? Beckie began the mental jobs review once more.
Five minutes slipped by before a quiet knock sounded and the door opened. The woman who entered looked to be between thirty-five and fifty-five, and would under other circumstances be pleasant looking, except for a scar that lined her right cheek down to her throat. Completely healed, it still commanded attention. When Beckie forced her gaze to move on, the woman wore a severe skirt with a tailored blouse, stockings or tights and sensible leather shoes. Her graying brown hair had been trimmed almost as short as Amy’s had.
Beckie sat a bit straighter. The woman’s purposeful stride as she made her way to a chair across from Beckie gave hope that her role would allow information flow. Any information.
“Mrs. Jamse. As my note said, please accept…” It is Rose Creek. What the hell… She was still speaking. “… on the loss of your husband. We already miss him, although not to the extent you do, I am certain. Please call me Chelsie. My last name is of no consequence.”
“Very well, Chelsie. Since my last name is of consequence, we’ll continue to use it. What the… What do you mean by snatching… Solène Dalila…” She tapped Solène’s image on the iPad’s screen. “… a foreign national… and I don’t know why Customs didn’t report that to you, and myself, with a big enough scene that it might show up on 7News tonight at six.”
Chelsie’s mouth had dropped, just enough to be noticeable, and Beckie grinned inside. Before the woman could say anything, however, Beckie continued, “I received your note, if I make the assumption that the unsigned, unidentified, printed in Helvetica on an ink-jet printer missive actually came from you, and decided, since I had no reason to do otherwise, to keep my doctor’s appointment today and contact you later tonight. Apparently that wasn’t suitable; grabbing me off the street met your needs better.”
Beckie got out of her seat and stepped to the sideboard. “May I have some water? I’d really prefer bottled, with an unbroken seal, though I guess you can get doctored water in sealed containers, too, if you want to.”
Chelsie tipped her head in the man’s direction; he nodded and slipped out the door.
“While we’re alone—”
“Give me a fucking break! We’re no more alone than if we were standing in the middle of the Orange Bowl on New Year’s. I’ll bet the number of mikes and cameras can’t be counted on the fingers and toes of both of us.” She slammed herself back into the chair. “What do you want?”
“It’s much less what we want than what the country needs.”
“Flag and country, eh? I’m not real big on either of those, and I can make a strong argument that you and I aren’t thinking the same flag and country. So—”
A small knock heralded the door opening; the man placed a cold bottle of water, unopened, by Beckie’s hand. “Thanks.” She broke the seal and drank. Kinda surprised that old Chelsie, or her lapdog, didn’t pour a glass from the pitcher to show me it’s safe. Maybe it isn’t!
She set the bottle down beside her phone. “If you aren’t going to tell me what you need, what jam I’m supposed to help you out of… or into, how about I take Solène and leave?”
“Your late husband had no qualms about assisting us…”
Beckie took a moment to quell her anger. Still, she felt astonished that the woman’s face hadn’t melted from the fire of her gaze. Should have. She touched her cheek where the scars from Syria showed under the make-up. “How long has it been?”
“What? How long—”
“Since you’ve been allowed out with the ones doing the work? The ones like you were, getting scars and…” She took a deep breath. Getting angry won’t advance anything. She started again. “If Ian, Mr. Jamse, had no qualms about assisting you, or
anyone, it is because he had information that spoke to him of the utility, the benefit to people, not to some vague, nebulous ‘country’ concept, but a way to help real people. Some one talked to him. No one grabbed him and a mate, shoved them in a car and threatened him with ‘country!’ Do you understand? Are you going to talk about what you need now? Or…” Beckie stood, pushing the chair back against the wall and picked up her phone and her purse. “… shall I just walk out?”
“Please sit.” The man didn’t move, merely spoke.
“Bring the girl in here, Jim. Please.” She looked to Beckie. “If you wish?”
“I do. I can control what she does with what she hears.”
Chelsie nodded. “She’s one floor down. In the meantime, I need to explain the contract your husband agreed to accept, knowing that we were rigging it to fail.”
Beckie sat quiet for the minutes the woman needed to review the history of the agency’s way of grooming terror suspects until they were ready to act, providing them with most, but not quite all, of the necessary ingredients, and arresting them when they attempted to act. About five minutes in, Solène came through the door; after a quick hug and ‘are you okay?’ she took a seat next to Beckie and listened.
The litany of cases—some had been published, and Beckie recalled reading about them—worried Beckie. These cases dealt with bombs, typically, and more of a show-off kind of attack. You could hardly call Times Square or a Christmas tree-lighting ceremony more than a terrorist publicity stunt. Casualties would have occurred, but probably not many. Certainly not many relative to, for example, the daily car-bombings still occurring all over the Middle-East. Or 9-11.
