A heavy breath. “I did.”
“I also told you that having you here is a…guarantee of this transaction successfully taking place. I also told you that if my cousin Miguel were here…the situation wouldn’t be so civilized. Even though he pretends to be a religious man.”
“Look, I did what any dad would do, I was scared—”
Pelayo opens the top of the paper bag. “I also offered you some additional refreshments. One of the items you requested was chewing gum. It was a moistened piece of chewing gum, placed in that door behind me, that allowed you and your lovely little girl to escape. Correct?”
Tom just nods.
“So my gracious response to your request was a betrayal, then, wasn’t it? A piece of gum that I thought would go to you and your daughter, to perhaps provide a means of relaxation and calm, was used to help your escape.”
Tom’s voice is quiet and dull. “I understand what you say, but what kind of father would just sit here without trying to escape?”
Pelayo reaches into the paper bag, takes something out. “The kind of father who would be smart would sit tight, wouldn’t do anything to put himself or his daughter into jeopardy. That kind of father…and, Mister Cornwall, in the meanwhile, you’ve also embarrassed me in front of my staff. I can’t let that stand, now, can I?”
Tom stares hard at the small metal object in Pelayo’s right hand. He whispers, “No.”
Pelayo says, “Oh, I’m so sorry. ‘No’ is not an option today.”
CHAPTER 38
AT THE Nashville Airport, Special Agent Rosaria Vasquez says, “Boss, what do you mean, I’m not going back to Fort Belvoir?”
“I need a fire to be put out,” Senior Warrant Officer Fred McCarthy says. “A fire that you caused earlier today. Did you tell me you were going to Fort Campbell?”
“No, I didn’t,” she says.
“Why?”
“I was conducting my investigation, sir—you know how it is. You’ve never asked me before to be briefed on what I do, hour by hour, even day by day.”
“Well, now I’ve changed my mind.”
“Sir?”
Before her the two happy soldiers are being escorted out of the terminal by members of their family, their real family, not a fake one.
He says, “Did you check in with anyone at the 502nd MP Battalion?”
“I did not,” she says.
“Even though they’re the CID group responsible for Fort Campbell and its personnel?”
She says, “I wasn’t investigating their personnel. I was investigating Captain Cornwall and her temporary assignment there.”
“Well, that’s still a problem,” he says. “Lieutenant Colonel Macrae, he runs the 502nd and he’s one pissed-off CO. Military courtesy and all that. He’s raising a fuss and he’s getting some attention, attention we don’t need, and I don’t need. So you need to get back to Fort Campbell and make nice with him. Apologize. Now.”
Rosaria says, “But that’s more than an hour’s drive away. I’ll miss my flight.”
“Then you should get started, and get that job done.”
“But…don’t you want to know what I’ve found out so far?”
“Special Agent, is your investigation complete? Do you know where Captain Amy Cornwall is at this moment?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then I don’t have to know a thing.”
“Boss…” That old feeling of being kept in the dark, of being helpless and confused. Rosaria, pack your bags, you’re going back to Child Services. Rosaria, stay home tonight, we’re taking our children out for our wedding anniversary. Rosaria, sorry, that’s the way it is, you’re going to another family, and we’re sorry you’ll miss your friends at school.
“Yes? Make it snappy.”
“What’s going on? Who’s gotten to you?”
“Special Agent, get ahold of Colonel Macrae and make nice.”
He disconnects the call.
Rosaria sits there, feeling light-headed, wondering what is going on with this Cornwall investigation.
There’s a bing coming from her phone, telling her she’s just received an email.
It’s from Major Wenner, at Fort Belvoir, giving her the contact information for Lieutenant Preston Baker, the officer who was with Captain Amy Cornwall during her last tour of Afghanistan.
She saves the information, toggles through her phone, fingers angrily sweeping across the screen and typing in names, until she finds what she’s looking for.
The phone number for Lieutenant Colonel Angus Macrae, commanding officer for the 502nd MP Battalion at Fort Campbell.
She waits.
Hesitates.
Then punches in the numbers.
Gets the secretary for Lieutenant Colonel Macrae, and then gets Macrae’s executive officer, Major Brian Coyne.
“Major Coyne? This is Special Agent Rosaria Vasquez, of the 701st Military Group at Marine Corps Base, Quantico.”
“Yes?”
“Is Lieutenant Colonel Macrae available?”
“For what reason?”
She thinks, To have me bow and scrape before him, and make him feel all right.
“I believe the colonel knows why,” Rosaria says.
“Well, he’s in a conference right now. And I can’t see him being available at all today. Tomorrow at eleven a.m. would be the soonest I could squeeze you in…if you could tell me what this is all about.”
“At the moment, I’m afraid I can’t,” Rosaria says. “But may I leave a message with you, sir?”
A slight grunt. “All right. Go ahead.”
“Tell him I’m sorry.”
“What?”
Rosaria says, “Tell him I’m sorry. No, tell him this: I’m really, really sorry.”
“Vasquez, is this some sort of joke?”
“No, sir, it isn’t. Will you deliver the message?”
“I will, but I don’t—”
“Thank you, Major, you have a good day now.”
Rosaria disconnects the call, checks the time.
If she hustles, she can make her flight back to Reagan International, and within a few hours, find out what Lieutenant Preston Baker knows about the missing Captain Amy Cornwall.
Rosaria gets up, starts briskly walking to the TSA checkpoint, glances over at the other side of the terminal, sees that the two soldiers and their happy families are gone.
CHAPTER 39
THE LITTLE metal object in his right hand is light but so devilishly simple and effective. Pelayo says, “Before, you thought you had a choice. Staying here or trying to leave. You chose wrong. Now you have a second choice before you.”
Tom says, “Please…”
Pelayo gestures to Hamid. “This young man is from a battered and poor province in Afghanistan. I know you’re aware of Afghanistan and its history of clans, tribes, and warfare. Hamid is orphaned. His family and village have been nearly destroyed. He’s here, working for me, and barely speaks English. Correct, Hamid?”
The young Pashto male—hearing his voice—smiles nervously and nods his head. Pelayo says, “Now. What would you think would happen if I were to leave him alone in this room with your daughter, and before I closed the door, I told him your family had his family incinerated last year?”