by Penny Reid
Everyone had stopped knitting and was staring at Sandra, including me. I’d learned long ago to always pause and reflect whenever Sandra offered an opinion; I was doing that now.
So I was surprised when Elizabeth said, “That wasn’t very nice.”
“What?” Sandra cast a wide-eyed gaze to Elizabeth.
“You just accused Fiona of living her life with her head in the sand,” Marie supplied, frowning at Sandra.
“No. I didn’t. I just accused her of living with bottled-up emotions,” Sandra countered.
“Well, that’s not nice either.” Marie poked Sandra, her frown deepening.
“She didn’t say it to be mean,” I defended my friend. “She said it because she’s concerned.”
“See?” Sandra lifted her hand toward me. “Look how reasonable she’s being. That’s not normal. And she doesn’t have the excuse of being a psychiatrist, like I do. Non-psychiatrists shouldn’t be that well-adjusted, it’s a problem.”
“Still . . .” Marie continued to glower at Sandra.
“Don’t give me that face. I know you care about Fiona, too. I know you’ve noticed how exhausted and stressed out she is. Someone had to say something.”
I knew I wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgewise with those two arguing. Yet, even if I could, I wouldn’t know what to say. Of course I needed to prioritize my own feelings, but I hadn’t quite figured out how to do that, not yet, not with two kids and a frequently absent spouse. In truth, I thought I’d been doing rather well over the last few years handling everything on my own, and still squeezing out time for myself.
For example, Tuesday night knit night was sacred, something I did for me, for my sanity, and I recognized how essential it was. I never missed a week if I could help it.
Presently, I was convinced recent events beyond my control—interrupted sleep being the major factor—had disturbed the delicate balance, which in turn had caused the headaches, which in turn had caused the exhaustion, which in turn had caused the loss of appetite.
I just need an extra eight hours in every day for the next four weeks to get everything back on track. Yep. Just eight hours.
“It’s her own business.” Marie shook her head.
“Says the agnostic.” Sandra stuck her tongue out at Marie.
Marie giggled. “Real mature, Christian.”
Marie and Sandra continued to mock-argue. I took the opportunity to marinate in Sandra’s observations and check my phone for messages from Greg. Still nothing.
His lack of response was starting to piss me off.
And based on Sandra’s observations about me, I decided to give in to those feelings. I was pissed off. I was angry with Greg. I was angry because I’d apologized and been honest, and he was giving me the silent treatment, and that was unlike him.
Not cool.
Not only that, but Greg hadn’t done the dishes on Saturday like he’d professed. He’d made muffins with the kids then piled everything into the sink to soak. That wasn’t doing the dishes. That was leaving the dishes in the sink for someone else to do the dishes.
As I was scowling at my phone, it rang, the number read RESERVED. My heart leapt to my throat; international calls frequently came through as reserved numbers. All thoughts of unwashed dishes fled.
I didn’t excuse myself from the conversation, knowing my friends would understand; instead, I jumped from my chair and moved to the window as I accepted the call.
“Hello? Greg?”
A short pause followed, a slight hissing coming through on the other end, and then, “No, Fiona. It’s Spenser.”
I frowned, standing straighter, glancing out the window and backing away from it. The last person I’d expected to hear from was Spenser Banks. He’d been my handler at the CIA when I’d resigned. I’d considered him a friend, but when I left the service nine years ago he’d cut me off, and stopped returning my phone calls.
Over the years I’d heard bits and pieces about his wellbeing from mutual friends. He’d never married, never had a family; I wasn’t surprised. He was a company man all the way.
“Oh, uh . . . Hi, Spenser. What-I mean . . . how can I help?”
The line was quiet for several seconds, I heard him sigh. Now I was worried. Spenser Banks never sighed. He was the least expressive person on the planet. If there were an Olympic sport for being the least expressive, he would win the gold medal.
“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it.”
“Okay. Say it.”
“Greg was abducted Sunday after arriving at Lagos International Airport. We have reason to believe he . . .”
Spenser continued speaking, but I did not continue listening. I was stuck on the first sentence and wasn’t ready to move to the second, or a third.
My first thought was to check the calendar. We were perilously close to April Fool’s Day, maybe it had snuck up on me.
. . . but no. It was still the middle of March.
And Spenser Banks was still talking.
“Wait!” I held my hand up even though he couldn’t see me. “Stop. Stop talking.”
Peripherally, I became aware that the knitting group girls had stopped talking when I gave this order, and they were looking at me.
I turned my back to them and tried to rearrange my thoughts. “Spenser, is this an April Fool’s Day joke? Did Greg put you up to this?”
“Fiona, when have you ever known me to joke or voluntarily interact with Greg Archer?” he responded grimly.
I nodded and tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. Greg and Spenser never got along. My hand started to shake and my knees were weak. I sank to the floor, pressing my side against the wall under the window, and closed my eyes. I needed to focus. I needed to think.
It took a full minute to quiet my mind, to bottle up the chaotic tangle of panic and anxiety and fear. A long dormant facet of my personality came out of nowhere, forced me to focus, to breathe, to calm the fuck down. And I did.
“Okay, start from the beginning. What’s going on?”
“Greg was abducted after leaving Lagos International airport. We believe he was taken off the coast of Bayelsa.”
Bayelsa . . .
Bayelsa was in Nigeria. Not in South Africa. My heart constricted with hope.
“No. No wait, he’s not in Nigeria.” My eyes flew open. “He wouldn’t have left the airport in Lagos. His assignment is in South Africa.”
“Fiona, he’s been in Nigeria for the last two months. We suspect he and six others were tracked from the airport at Lagos to the crew boat. They were swarmed on their way to the rig in the Gulf of Guinea.”
Focus. Breathe. And calm the fuck down.
“No, Spenser. He told me—”
“Then he lied, Fiona.”
The room was rocking, and then it was spinning. I closed my eyes again and braced myself against the wall at my side.
Lied? To me? Every molecule of my being rejected this claim as impossible. Greg would never lie to me, not about something this important. Nope.
Spenser cleared his throat and continued, “He lied to you. Greg has been in Nigeria since January.”
Since January?
“He was just home. He was home for twenty-four hours. I just saw him.”
The room was spinning faster. I forced it to stop.
“This isn’t a phone call I wanted to make, but when it came across my desk I thought you should know.”
“What are you doing . . . I mean, what is the CIA doing to get them back?”
Spenser cleared his throat a second time, and I knew at once what his answer was going to be.
Nothing.
They were doing nothing.
I gripped my stomach because it lurched. I forced it to stop.
Focus. Breathe. And calm the fuck down.
“Greg is a private contractor for Nautical Oil, Fiona. As you know, Nautical Oil is a British company. He’s not there in any capacity for the US government. Greg is part of
a special task force to clean up the ecological damage created by Big Oil over the last twenty years. Buhari, the Nigerian president, is demanding action, cutting off access to supply lines until Big Oil cleans up their mess.”
“Greg is part of a task force in Nigeria,” I repeated, trying the words on for size.
I felt a hand close over my shoulder and a presence at my side. I opened my eyes briefly to determine who was standing so close to me. It was Quinn. But he wasn’t standing. He was crouching next to me, his glacial gaze piercing into mine, silently asking me if he could help.
I nodded yes, answering the question in Quinn’s eyes, as Spenser continued. “For the last few months, the local police have been successful negotiating the release of foreign nationals—specifically oil workers—for ransom.”
“Negotiating? The US doesn’t negotiate.”
“You know there’s been a relaxing of US policy on negotiating ransom. We’re not authorized to negotiate or intervene, that’s true. But family members won’t be penalized, not anymore.”
“Just a moment, Spenser. Let me make sure I’ve got this straight.” I caught Quinn’s eye again, making sure he was listening. “You believe Greg was abducted Sunday after leaving the Lagos airport in Nigeria. He and six others were followed and their boat was overpowered on the way to a rig in the Gulf of Guinea. The US government is doing nothing to recover the hostages. Instead, it’s been suggested that we rely on the local police to negotiate a ransom for his release. Do I have that right?”
“You have it right,” Spenser confirmed.
From his place next to me, Quinn didn’t say Fuck so much as breathed it. He closed his eyes and shook his head, grinding his teeth.
I stared at the carpet, quickly debating and discarding potential plans of action. I said and thought at the same time, “I have to go over there. I have to get him.”
“That’s not advisable.” I heard Spenser shift in his seat, his voice lower, as though he didn’t want to be overheard. “Your discharge contract with the CIA is standard, and mandates you’re disallowed from foreign travel without State Department clearance. I can guarantee, you will not be given clearance for travel to Nigeria.”
“How can you guarantee that, Spenser?”
“Because I would personally make sure of it,” he replied, sounding determined, and not even a little sorry.
I gritted my teeth and breathed in and out through my nose. “Spense—”
“And even if you were eventually given the okay, it would take months. If you disregard the terms of your contract, you will be arrested and held for treason.”
I heard his words, I understood his meaning, but I also knew I gave no fucks about what the CIA, or the State Department, or Spenser Banks said I could or could not do.
I was going to Nigeria.
I was going to rescue my husband.
And no one would be able to stop me.
***
“Nigeria and the Gulf of Guinea rank fifth in kidnappings of oil workers.” Dan set a hot cup of coffee in front of me and claimed the chair at my right.
Elizabeth pushed the cup of coffee away from me. “She doesn’t need that. She needs food.”
“It’s decaf.” Dan pushed the cup back within my reach. “And, I know nobody asked me, but if I were in her situation I’d be a basket case, looking for something a lot stronger than coffee.”
The four of us—Dan, Quinn, Elizabeth, and I—were at Dan’s place. Elizabeth insisted on staying with me; she’d been monitoring my heart rate and blood pressure since I fell to my knees in her apartment. Dan also lived in the same building as Quinn and Janie, Nico and Elizabeth, and Alex and Sandra. It made sense, since Quinn’s company owned the building, or at least part of it.
I nodded, ignoring Elizabeth and Dan’s squabble, and processed the information about the kidnapping statistics. I knew Nigeria ranked in the top ten, but I had no idea they were so high on the list. I hadn’t been keeping up with the CIA factsheets, having traded global crises for kid crises nine years ago, upon discovering I was pregnant with Jack.
“I thought Boko Haram had been marginalized over the last year.” Quinn sat on Dan’s other side. He’d refused a cup of coffee in favor of a glass of whiskey.
Boko Haram was a terrorist group that had infiltrated Nigeria, easily done since the government had been riddled with corruption fueled by oil money.
That was, until recently.
Dan shrugged. “Yes and no. Buhari has been effective in driving them back and mostly out of Nigeria, but they still have their hands in things, at least that’s what my contacts in the Agency tell me.”
Buhari—aka President Muhammadu Buhari—had vowed to crush Boko Haram when he took office in Nigeria. Furthermore, rumor had it he was determined to clean up the oil industry.
I hated being out of the loop, being the least knowledgeable person in the room. I had to remind myself that Quinn and Dan lived and breathed these topics every day. International corporate security was their business. When I was a field agent, national security was my every day.
Now my every day was folding laundry, kissing boo-boos, and working on engineering schematics in the middle of the night.
“I don’t think this is Boko Haram.” Quinn’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “They haven’t been behind any of the recent kidnappings, their numbers are dwindling. It’s been mostly pirates and privateers holding foreigners for ransom.”
It didn’t matter to me who had Greg. The issue wasn’t the who or the why.
I placed both my hands flat on the table. “We need a plan. How are we going to get me into Nigeria?”
Quinn and Elizabeth traded a look while Dan studied the contents of his coffee cup.
Quinn twisted his whiskey glass in what I recognized as a nervous habit. “Fiona, look—”
“No.” I shook my head. “We’re not wasting time discussing whether I should go. I’m going. Now, how are you getting me into the country?”
Silence stretched, and was only broken by a knock on the front door. Dan sighed and stood, walking to the entranceway to see who was in the hall. He returned a moment later with Alex trailing after him.
Alex started talking as soon as we came into view. “How far have you gotten? Because according to the CIA intel sheet, it’s not Boko Haram, if that’s what you’re thinking. CIA thinks they were taken by a corrupt faction of the government.” Alex sat at the table, taking the spot across from me, and opened his laptop.
Alex the hacker, getting down to business. His perfunctory attitude made me smirk. I really liked this kid.
“Have they made any ransom demands?” When I spoke, my voice was coolly collected and my emotions were duct-taped, gagged, and locked away.
“Yes.” He didn’t glance up from his laptop. “But they made the demand to the United Kingdom, not to the US.”
“They think he’s a British citizen?” Elizabeth studied me. “Does he have dual citizenship with the UK?”
“He probably told his captors he’s from the UK, which was smart. Up until recently, US citizens were killed more often than not because the US didn’t negotiate. But EU countries do negotiate,” Quinn hypothesized.
I agreed with him, Greg had probably been trying to buy time.
“I don’t think they’re actually interested in negotiating. I think they’ll take the ransom, but I don’t think they’ll let him go.” Alex’s gaze flickered between Quinn and me. “Your contact at the CIA, Banks, he said Greg was part of a task force, contracted by Nautical Oil.”
Dan frowned at Alex. “How did you know that? Didn’t Sandra just get hold of you?”
He shook his head. “I record all cell phone calls coming in or out of the building. I listened to the call.”
“And you turned down that job with the NSA why?” I could tell Dan was trying to keep his temper.
“Irrelevant,” Alex said, dismissing the question, and continued with his previous train of thought. “I believe this all
boils down to oil . . . that rhymed. Boil and oil.”
Sandra always pointed out when she would make an inadvertent rhyme. He must’ve picked up this quirk since they’d been married.
“How so?” Elizabeth pressed.
“Well, Nigeria has been oil rich for decades, but very little of that money makes it to the people of Nigeria. And the ecological damage to the country has been significant, with Big Oil companies ignoring the devastation, and corrupt factions of the government turning a blind eye while lining their pockets. Knowing Greg,” Alex paused, meeting my gaze, and for the first time since he’d entered the apartment, allowed a hint of emotion to penetrate his mask of efficiency.
“Go on,” I prompted.
His voice was softer when he continued, as though he were speaking just to me. “Knowing Greg, he’s not going to pander or pull any punches. He was probably going to recommend some very harsh reforms—if he hadn’t already—and shed some light on the corruption, both within Nautical Oil and the Nigerian government. His first priority would be the people of Nigeria and the environment. I’m guessing he wasn’t very popular with corrupt officials.”
Everything Alex said made sense. Greg was passionate about doing the right thing. He was gifted at swaying hearts and minds because of this passion. But if those hearts and minds were corrupt, his message wouldn’t be welcome.
“Even if we pay the ransom, you don’t think he’ll live,” I said, stating the obvious, fighting a tidal wave of nausea as I did so. I couldn’t panic, I couldn’t think about it, I couldn’t allow myself to feel. Not yet.
Alex nodded, holding my gaze. “We need to go in and get him. I think the ransom is a red herring.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. “I have some friends in Nigeria, from med school, part of Doctors Without Borders. They might be able to help, give Fiona a place to stay, provide a cover.”
