Waking Wolfe

by S L Shelton

  “Details,” she interrupted. “There are a million details in a relationship, like a bag full of excuses waiting to be popped open and fished out.”

  I looked at her for a moment, letting her words sink in.

  When I didn’t respond, she continued. “A relationship is about emotion—nothing else. When you get scared by something in a relationship, you start fishing for those details so you can convince yourself you have a reason to leave. All you’re doing is letting the fear in your head try to outwit your heart. Sorry...all they are doing is letting their heads try to outwit their hearts.”

  Her insight seemed to awaken something in me. I smiled. She patted me on the leg as she rose, grabbing her pack before slinging it across her shoulder. “Good luck, youngster.” She turned onto the path and marched toward the parking lot.

  I sat for a moment longer, contemplating Lily’s words—and my next step. Fear welled up in me as it dawned on me that none of my insight made any difference if Barb wasn’t willing as well.

  “Details,” I said aloud. With that punctuation, I suddenly had the energy and the courage to try.

  “Thank you, Lily!” I yelled into the woods in the direction of the path.

  I heard a burst of laughter echoing back at me from the woods.

  It was getting late in the day. The daytime crowd at Carderock had started to thin out, and the teenage tourists were starting to show up. They stumbled down the rock pathways to the river, clowning around on the boulders and showing off for their girlfriends. Some even attempted to imitate the climbers by trying to stick on the walls of rock, only to pop off after a few seconds when their weak, soft hands and their soft-edged basketball shoes failed to cling.

  I pulled my phone out to call Barb’s number when I realized the time. She would be getting on her flight soon. I hit dial, and it rang four times before going to voicemail.

  “Hi, this is Barbara. Leave a message,” her voice chirped. Beep.

  “Hi, Barb. I know you’re probably at the airport and this message would have been better delivered in person, or even better, on Saturday morning when it would have mattered.

  “I’m sorry… The words ‘being supportive and understanding’ should have been seamlessly and effortlessly followed by ‘partner, boyfriend, or significant other’. I failed miserably in telling you where I stood.”

  “It’s an old habit that… I’m sorry. I sound so pathetic right now, but I hope it underscores how much you mean to me.”

  I paused, suddenly remembering that I was talking to voicemail. I punched end on my phone, leaving my message as it stood for better or worse.

  Breathing a deep sigh of relief from the simple act of taking the first step toward patching things up, I leaned back on my pack and let the late afternoon sun warm my face. The breeze, carrying cool air from the Potomac, was starting to win its battle against the heat of the day and was sending little puffs of natural air-condition across my bare legs—warm then cool, warm then cool. I must have drifted off for a few moments because a chirp from my phone woke me out of doze. It was a text from Barb.

  It read: “Taking off in a few minutes. Have to turn off phone. Your timing sucks. ;) We’ll talk when I return.”

  I smiled as I tucked my phone into my pocket and hefted my pack to my shoulder. That’s a start, I thought. That’s a good start.

  five

  Six Days Until Event

  Monday, May 10th, 2010—Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam, Netherlands

  BARB WHITNEY wasn’t happy when she arrived in Amsterdam.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Barb said to her father as they made their way through customs in Amsterdam. “I just want to go to bed!”

  “You’d be doing me a huge favor,” her father, Robert, said. “The ambassador’s daughter is only a couple of years younger than you, and she is the only person close to your age in the group from The Hague. The charge d’affairs made a special request for you to go with us. He’s giving up his own ticket so you can join the group.”

  “Okay,” she said with resignation. “But you have to promise that as soon as we’re done, you’ll take me back to our hotel. I didn’t sleep more than two hours on the flight.”

  “Deal,” Robert said. “Thank you, sweetheart. I will make it up to you, I promise.”

  As they emerged from customs into the reception area, there was a man in a black suit holding a sign for “Whitney.” He loaded their luggage on a cart and led them to the car waiting for them. Once in the car, Barb leaned over and put her head on her dad’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry for being such a princess back there,” she said softly.

  “I know, sweetheart. It was a long flight, and you have other things on your mind besides protecting the ambassador’s daughter from a bunch of old people,” he replied, referring to their earlier discussion about her “boyfriend” dilemma, which had been brief and lacking in detail.

  “So what is this thing that we’re doing with the embassy staff and their families?” she asked.

  “It’s a canal lunch tour on a restored, Victorian-era boat, more of a floating restaurant, named La Belle Époque,” he replied.

  “Hmmm. Could be fun,” she said as their car merged onto the highway to take them to the NH Hotel in the center of Amsterdam.

  Upon arriving at the hotel, they immediately checked in. It was all Barb could do to keep from falling asleep at the counter. When they were done, they climbed into the elevator and rode to their floor, where they separated and went into their rooms.

  Once in her room, Barb dropped her bags on the floor and without pausing headed directly for the shower.

  “Heaven!” she exclaimed as the powerful jets blasted away at the exhaustion in her body. She spent nearly twenty minutes under the torrential flow of water. Each moment seemed to improve her sleep-deprived mood. By the time she got out, she was excited about the canal lunch tour.

  She pulled out her laptop and started it up before getting dressed. In the mirror, she stared at her naked body. There was a bruise on her bicep where she had bumped into the rock wall when climbing with Scott the weekend before. It had nearly faded, but the yellow and a trace of purple were still visible. She poked at it with her finger. It was still a little tender.

  That line of thought led back to Scott. She wished she had more control of her emotions regarding him. Something about him made her feel safe and in danger at the same time. It was exhilarating in a way she had never experienced before.

  What does Scott see when he looks at me? Does he think I’m smart? Devious? Does he think I’m pretty?... Does he think I’m hot? She realized she had been standing still in front of the mirror for several minutes.

  “Damn you, Scott Wolfe!” she exclaimed aloud as her agitation bubbled back to the surface. Smart, handsome, motivated, generous. Scott seemed to have it all, just like her father. But underneath there seemed to be...something else.

  Could it be violence? “No,” she said aloud. He’s too kind, she reassured herself.

  Whatever it is, I can help him fix it, she decided as she pulled fresh clothes on.

  After dressing, she quickly sent an email out, letting everyone know that she had arrived safely, that the showers at the NH were magical, and that the coffee was even better.

  She debated on whether or not to copy Scott. Finally, deciding she would, she clicked his address and hit send before she could change her mind.

  After sending the message, she regretted not sending a private update to him. She decided she would send him a brief note to let him know he was special...but not too special—after all, she was still quite upset with him.

  She sent the message off and finished getting ready for her boat ride. She would be having lunch with the people who she might be working for eventually...or who might be working for her.

  “We must present our best face,” she mumbled as she reapplied her makeup.

  **

  ROBERT WHITNEY was in the lobby and becoming impatien
t. He was about to call up to Barb’s room when the elevator opened and she strode into the lobby. So like her mother, he thought. An international flight and two hours of sleep, and yet she is able to look like she spent the day at a spa and the hairdresser.

  Robert missed his wife. It had been hard to lose her. The cancer had progressed so quickly that there had been little time to emotionally prepare for her absence. Barb had become the woman of the house, too early and far too efficiently. He was saddened by her lack of a complete childhood but was so very proud of what she had become.

  He hoped she would choose to follow his footsteps into the diplomatic corps. Unlike her mother, she had a diplomat’s wits. She could be just as charming and elegant as her mother had been, but beneath that charm was a mind that could apply enough subtle pressure to bring nearly anyone around to her line of thought. She would be a keen negotiator.

  “I’m ready, Daddy,” she chirped as if she’d had a full eight hours of sleep behind her. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  He was not unconscious of the immediate shift in his attitude. A moment before, he had been frustrated because she was late. After she arrived, she’d not only made him forget he was agitated, but she had shifted the burden of their lateness to him. She will be a brilliant diplomat, he mused silently.

  **

  6:01 a.m. — Fairfax, Virginia

  The trill of the text tone on my phone woke me around 6:00 a.m. It took a few moments to clear the cobwebs and roll to the other side of the bed to reach it.

  It was from Barb. I smiled as I opened it. “Tajen ogg boT,” it read.

  “What?” I said aloud and then typed the same question into my phone in reply.

  I sat on the edge of the bed rubbing my face and eyes with my hands, and then I scrubbed my scalp and hair with my fingers in an attempt to bring soberness to my sleep-addled brain.

  I picked up my iPad, disconnecting it from its charger before leaning back. Relaxing into the stretch, I let the ache in my back sink and dissolve into the cushion of my bed.

  There were two emails from Barb. I clicked the first one open and saw it was an update on her trip. She had addressed it to Bonbon and carbon copied all of her friends—that made me feel less than special. It read:

  I was SO tired when we landed. Had nearly ZERO sleep on the plane. And now I have to go on a canal boat tour with people from Daddy’s work. Ugh. Diplomats on no sleep—this should be an experience.

  BUT—on a positive note: eight shower heads with killer pressure, and Amsterdam coffee is like rocket fuel. I think I should be able to power through okay. I’ll catch everyone up with pictures and stories if anything interesting happens.

  Love,

  Barb

  The second email was addressed to me alone. My finger hovered over the message for a few seconds, hesitantly, and then finally, as if by its own will, clicked it open. It read:

  Thinking, thinking, thinking. You sure don’t make it easy on a girl, do you? I was happy to get your voicemail. It made me smile. Just when I think I have you figured out, you change my mind. You were nowhere to be seen when I left the country... Maybe you could make up for it by being there when I arrive back home. ;)

  I sat for a few moments staring at the phone after I had read her emails, expecting a text reply, but none came. My bladder had reached critical mass, so I got up and went into the bathroom to prepare for work.

  My morning checklist was progressing: empty bladder—check, shower—check, shave—check. As I wiped the residue of shaving cream from my face, I heard the trill of my phone again.

  “grn turk,” it said.

  I quickly did the math in my head for the difference in time and realized it was too early in the day for Barb to be drunk. Stoned maybe? She is in Amsterdam.

  I dismissed that thought immediately. Not Barb—and certainly not while she is with her father. I was confused.

  “I don’t understand.” I typed in my reply and then waited.

  No reply.

  I got dressed and headed out the door.

  Arriving at work, I bypassed the elevator, instead, running up the stairs and through the door of TravTech.

  TravTech occupied the top three floors of a building in Reston, Virginia. It was one of the many tech companies that had managed to pull the pieces together after the dot com crash. Like other survivors, it had built itself up using the remains of companies that hadn’t been so lucky.

  The foyer of TravTech was like many in the industry, with large glass doors and a reception desk just beyond. The waiting area was appointed in modern faux-leather and chrome furniture, with flashy and inspirational landscape photos, and large flat-screened TVs stretching across each wall.

  As usual, they were tuned to financial or news network channels so those forced to wait never felt like they were missing anything by being kept in queue. This morning, however, I was greeted by a large group of employees gathered around the TV screens. Bonbon saw me coming through the door and ran up to me. She had tears in her eyes.

  “Scott,” she sobbed. “It’s so horrible. I just know she’s okay...somehow.”

  Confused, I looked at the screen, tuned to CNN: Breaking News. Amsterdam Tour Boat Explodes with US Diplomats Aboard.

  My heart felt like it had stopped in my chest—the texts this morning. She was in trouble, trying to reach me. I could feel the blood draining from my face.

  The female anchor was giving the scant details of the crisis—repeating the same information over and over in different configurations trying to make it sound as if they had more information than they did.

  I gleaned that the explosion had occurred at 11:15 a.m. Amsterdam time in a canal next to Nieumarkt Square. The explosion knocked out windows on both sides of the canal and injured many dozens of people on the street and in the square. Though details were slow in coming, it appeared that no one onboard could have survived the blast, as there were pieces of the boat strewn across the canal and streets.

  I turned and ran to my cubicle, dropping my pack heavily on my desk as I flipped my computer on. Bonbon was close on my heels. While the computer was running through its startup routine, I pulled a pad of paper from a shelf and began to scribble down the two messages I had received from Barb.

  Bonbon slumped down with a thud, leaning against my cabinet drawers and sobbing. Storc walked over, stepped into the tight space, and sat next to her, putting his arm around her shoulder to console her.

  “What are you doing?” she cried out pitifully, wiping her nose and eyes on her sleeve.

  I ignored her for a moment as I scribbled out the words and tried to decipher their meaning. “Tajen ogg bot” meant “taken off boat,” I quickly realized. “grn turk,” though…hmmm, could she mean green truck?

  “She’s alive,” I stated calmly yet confidently, staring at the words. Bonbon and Storc both quickly rose from the floor to hang over my shoulder.

  “How do you know?” Storc asked.

  I held out my phone and showed them the two texts.

  “Texts from Barb this morning. One at 6:01 a.m., and more importantly, one at 6:33 a.m. That’s 11:01 and 11:33 a.m. Amsterdam time. The explosion happened at 11:15... Her last text was sent eighteen minutes after the explosion.”

  Bonbon let out a squeal.

  “Shhh,” I hissed sharply. “Listen. The news says the diplomats were on the boat. If Barb wasn’t on it and the networks don’t know it yet, let’s just keep it to ourselves for the moment.”

  “Right!” Bonbon and Storc said in unison.

  I looked at Storc. “The phone GPS hack you built. Bring it up—here on my system.”

  He sat down in front of my computer, and his fingers began to fly across the keyboard. “Phone number?” he asked mechanically after establishing a secure connection to his program.

  I reached over his shoulder and punched in Barb’s phone number then hit enter. The map of our area disappeared, and a new map popped up to replace it—Amsterdam. The location
icon was flashing, pausing, moving, and then it settled on the outskirts of the city at what appeared to be a residence on the Amstel River next to a small, manmade cove.

  We looked at each other for a moment.

  “Call her!” Bonbon exclaimed as she started to draw her phone from her pocket.

  “No!” I said, placing my hand over her hand and phone. “If she somehow managed to hold on to her phone, calling it could give her away.”

  Bonbon chewed on her lip.

  “What are we going to do?” Storc asked pleadingly. “Should we call the FBI or something?”

  I looked at the ceiling for a moment as my flow chart kicked into overdrive.

  Leaving out the complex weighted averages regarding human behavior, which could be a book by itself, the best way to explain is with simple process flow.

  Object = Barb

  Definition: very important to me. Not as important to everyone else as diplomats on a boat.

  Action = She was kidnapped.

  Supporting data:

  Tajen ogg bot and Grn Turk, texted to me because I was the last text on her list, putting me at the top of the list.

  If she kept her phone, she was probably hiding that fact, thus the rushed, misspelled texts.

  Phone is still active, thus not blown up. (Does she still have it? SHIT! Did I give her away when I replied?)

  Most likely a collateral hostage, not a primary one.

  Origin of action = Assumption: Serbs

  Supporting data:

  Her father was in Amsterdam as part of US team helping with the trial of Serbian War criminal/arms dealer. It was probably related. (There is no such thing as coincidence.)

  Historic precedence of US response = The US does not negotiate with terrorists. [Insert loud noises here]

  Flow: Barb is with her dad, who happens to be a diplomat. The “terrorists” aren’t actually terrorists; they are criminals who want their boss back. The US will not bend to that demand. They will send in a SEAL team or Delta. Massive amounts of explosives, automatic weapons fire, different languages, and two groups of men with a penchant for being very good at violence, surrounding a group of untrained, scared men and women in the presence of their families.