The Cornwalls Are Gone Page 7

  CHAPTER 23

  THE VOICE of my friend jolts me back to my grim reality.

  “Amy?”

  “Still here,” I say.

  “First things first,” she says. “If there’s a black site in Three Rivers, Texas, it doesn’t belong to Uncle Sam or anyone connected to Uncle Sam, including any third-party contractors doing dirty work.”

  I’m about to ask if she’s sure, and bite my lip. I don’t want to insult Freddy. She’s with the Second Battalion, 75th Rangers, some of the best Special Forces soldiers in the world, and highly connected to the intelligence community.

  “That’s interesting,” I say.

  “You want to tell me why you want to know this?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Okay. Now. The second request you gave me is where it goes a bit off the rails.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Freddy says, “The airplane registration number you sent me. Any chance it’s wrong?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You sure?”

  “Freddy…”

  “All right,” she says briskly. “I needed to check. Amy, on the surface, the aircraft is leased to a condominium developer in the Cayman Islands. Bright Sun Lives Limited. But that’s just the surface.”

  “What’s in the mud and muck, then?”

  “Your Learjet belongs to First Republic Global Bank, N.A., based in Guadalajara, and with branches and sub-branches all over the world.”

  Tom likes to tease me that my memory is like a computer chip, but it’s really like an old-fashioned card catalog dumped on the floor, with lots of bits and pieces of information lying around.

  “I know that name.”

  “You should,” Freddy says. “Back in the eighties, there was a bank called BCCI, up to its neck in laundering money for terrorists and narco-terrorist gangs. This First Republic Global is its bastard offspring.”

  “Shit,” I say.

  There’s a pause in the conversation, and Freddy says, “You’re not doing anything with money launderers, are you?”

  I look at the frozen picture on my iPhone of my Denise and my Tom. My husband, my man. My girl, my princess.

  “No, I’m not,” I say.

  “Amy…”

  I keep quiet.

  “You okay?”

  “Not really,” I say.

  “You need anything else?” she asks.

  “You told me this was going to be the last favor you’ll ever do me.”

  “When are you going to stop believing me?” Freddy says. “And…well, I’ve always wanted to tell you this. What happened at Fort Campbell wasn’t your fault.”

  “It didn’t happen at Fort Campbell,” I say. “It happened a half a world away.”

  “And the other things,” Freddy goes on. “I know what horrible shit you have to see, day after day. Even most in the military don’t know that—they think all you do is file paper. But I know better, know how it haunts you. You should talk to someone, Amy.”

  I sit up straighter in my Jeep Wrangler, get ready to return to my quest.

  “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” I ask.

  Freddy sighs. “This information…I hope it turns out to be useful.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “You’ll let me know?”

  “Sure,” I say. “At our mutual retirement ceremonies, if we live that long.”

  She laughs. “Okay…you know what you’re fighting for, right?”

  I look at the freeze-frame of my Tom and my Denise, on Virginia Beach.

  “I sure as hell do,” I say.

  She hangs up and so do I, and I’m about to return to traffic when I look in the rearview mirror and see the flashing blue lights of a Tennessee Highway Patrol cruiser pulling up behind me.

  CHAPTER 24

  LESS THAN a year ago an orphaned Hamid Aziz left his nearly destroyed village in Afghanistan to fight for his tribe, for his leader, for his God, and to send money home to his remaining family, and he left with dreams of being a powerful lion, a man who would be feared in the West, and what is he now?

  A waiter for a soft American and his little brat.

  Hamid is at the door leading into the cell that holds the two Americans, carrying a metal food tray, with two dishes that are covered by round white plastic tops. Another man is with him, named Tonton, and Tonton is the muscle, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and tight blue jeans, with a pistol hanging off a shoulder holster about his wide arms. He wears sunglasses all the time, and has a thin strip of a beard that crosses his bulky chin.

  From his pants pocket Tonton pulls out a simple key, and inserts it into the lock—Hamid senses something is off. There are muffled, loud voices coming from inside the room, but if Tonton is nervous, he doesn’t show it. He unlocks the door, keeps a good hold on the handle. As he opens the door, the yelling gets louder.

  The father is yelling at his daughter, and the daughter’s stamping her feet, screaming at the father, and Hamid thinks nothing like this would be allowed in his village, and Tonton yells, “Hey! Shut up!”

  The girl is still screaming and turns and says, “I want my mommy!” and she starts running to the door.

  Hamid juggles the tray—the chef, a bulky Mexican man with a thick scar on his face and one eye missing, always says, If you drop it, I’ll cut you—and tries to block the little girl from running, and Tonton moves by, bumping Hamid so he’s practically dancing in place, trying not to drop the two meals.

  The girl manages to push by, and Tonton grabs her hair, twists it, and she screams louder and higher. The father finally does what a father should do—protect his daughter—and he comes at them both. Tonton’s pistol is in his hand, and he shouts at the father to step back, and the father yells and holds up his hands, and the little girl is grabbing onto the open door frame with both hands.

  Hamid gets into the room, puts the tray down, and he and Tonton give the girl’s legs a good pull, and she lets go of the door frame. Hamid drops her on the other bed, crying now, no longer screaming.

  Tonton still has his pistol out. Hamid backs away, wishes he had a weapon as well, and is glad that no one from his village is here to see this humiliation.

  Tonton says, “Stay still until I close the door. No more moves. Or I will tell Mister Pelayo.”

  Hamid steps out first and Tonton follows, slamming the door shut. Tonton replaces the pistol in his holster and says something in his poor English to Hamid, and then laughs.

  He has no idea what the other man is laughing about, but Hamid decides to play it safe and laughs as well.

  CHAPTER 25

  TOM CORNWALL waits a few minutes, standing still, just in case the two men come back in.

  They don’t.

  The older one, who had the gun and spoke to them, seems Hispanic. The other one, younger, thinner, and with a thick, long beard, isn’t Hispanic. Middle Eastern, Asian, Tom’s not sure.

  But they both worked fast to prevent Denise from escaping, and Tom begins to calm down some when it appears that his girl isn’t hurt.

  He sits down and she rolls over, eyes still moist from the screaming and crying, but with a sly smile on her face.

  “I did good, Dad, didn’t I?”

  “The very best.”

  “Do you think they noticed?”

  “No,” Tom says. “The bigger guy was too busy keeping you from running out, and that other guy, he was too busy trying not to drop the tray.”

  She sits up and wipes her eyes with the hem of her T-shirt, and says, “Dad…I really, really hate chewing gum.”

  “I know. But you did good.”

  Tom gets up and says, “Stay on the bed, all right?” and Denise being Denise, she ignores him and follows him over to the door.

  He presses his ear against the metal.

  Nothing.

  Just the slow hum of machinery being used somewhere, deep in this building.

  And where is this building? he thinks, as he draws his hea
d back and goes to the other side of the door, repeats the process.

  Someplace tropical, he thinks. Maybe an island in the Caribbean, or off the coast of Mexico. The weather seems warm enough, and he’s noted fine beach sand has trickled into their little cell.

  More humming of machinery.

  He’s certain they’re in this building’s basement, based on what he’s seen those few times when the door has been open. There are pallets of plastic-wrapped boxes and piles of lumber and pipes, and wires and conduits up above in the open ceiling.

  Denise is next to him. “Daddy…did it work? Did I do good?”

  “Hold on.”

  Tom leans against the door one more time, not listening this time, but thinking.

  Was this the time? Should he wait?

  Waiting awhile longer had its advantages, as the day went on, but still…

  Pelayo could come by at any time.

  Whatever negotiations were happening out there could have gone wrong.

  That armed guy with the thin strip of beard could come back in, and with two quick shots, end it all, and his and Denise’s bodies could be rolled up in the blankets and sheets and taken away.

  No.

  This was the time.

  “Stand back,” he says, and this time, Denise pays attention. She steps back and Tom utters a quick and silent prayer, and pushes on the door.

  Nothing moves.

  He digs in with his bare feet and pushes again, and maybe it’s his imagination, but he feels something deep in the door vibrate, or shake, or move, and then the door pops open.

  Tom curses and grabs the door edge, so it doesn’t fly all the way open. Denise squeals in excitement, and he turns and whispers, “Shhh,” but her eyes are wide with joy.

  “I did it, didn’t I, Daddy?” she whispers. “I did a good job.”

  Tom glances down at the lock recess, which a few minutes ago Denise had plugged with a wad of chewing gum. In the excitement and in their eagerness to leave them alone, the two men had shoved the door closed.

  But the door didn’t lock.

  Tom hugs his smart and tough little girl.

  “You did a very good job,” he says.

  He opens the door and peers out.

  Nobody.

  Just a wide basement and piles of boxes and construction equipment.

  He reaches down and takes her soft hand.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Tom says.

  CHAPTER 26

  FORT CAMPBELL is one of the largest Army bases in CONUS and Rosaria Vasquez feels like her section at Quantico could be dropped into the surrounding woods and not be missed at all. Here at Fort Campbell are the many elite spears in America’s arsenal, including the 101st Airborne, 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, 5th Special Forces Group, and 52nd Ordnance Group.

  She’s with Captain Aaron Mitchum, and she hasn’t seen him—either clothed or unclothed—in more than two years. He looks pretty much the same. Light-blond hair, cut high and tight, some freckles on his cheeks and pug nose, and very dark-blue eyes. He’s been smiling at her ever since she was ushered into his office, and the smile stays there as he sits down. His desk is cluttered high on both sides with envelopes, forms, and file folders, and the office is cluttered as well, with two sets of filing cabinets, one designed to hold classified information, the bright-red cardboard sign saying OPEN attached to its drawers. Unlike Rosaria, he’s wearing ACUs, the camouflage uniform of the day at Fort Campbell.

  “Rosaria…boy, you look great,” he says. “How long has it been?”

  “Two years,” she says, smiling as well at the fond memories of sneaking out after school for little get-togethers or trysts at motels in the area.

  “You doing well?”

  “Good,” Rosaria says, “and you and Molly?”

  He gestures to a framed photo teetering on the edge of his desk, showing a plump redhead holding an infant in her arms. “She’s doing fine, as well as our boy, Paul.”

  Aaron pulls the framed photo two inches toward him and says quietly, “This isn’t a social visit, is it.”

  “Nope.”

  “What do you need?”

  She goes to the personnel file. “I’m investigating a Captain Amy Cornwall, assigned to the 297th Military Intelligence Battalion. The captain spent four months here at Fort Campbell last summer.”

  Aaron says, “Lots of folks come through here.”

  As if it were a sign from above, there’s a roaring sound as a number of Black Hawk helicopters fly overhead. The framed photo of Aaron’s wife and son vibrates back to the edge of his desk.

  Rosaria says, “She was assigned here for six months.” She makes a point of looking down at the open file folder. “Something called JOINT CLAW. I can’t find anything else about JOINT CLAW, but there’s a memo here about her going back to her original duty station two months ahead of schedule. Fort Belvoir. And your name was cc’ed on the memo, in your position here. In the 502nd Military Police Battalion.”

  Rosaria closes the folder. Aaron sighs, rubs at the top of his head.

  “This off-the-record?”

  “I’m looking into her,” Rosaria says. “I don’t care what black stuff she might have been involved in, or what it entails. I want to know why she left two months early. There’s no explanation in her personnel file.”

  “Because she was involved in a foul-up.”

  “What kind of foul-up? And why was she connected with an Air National Guard unit from Nellis?”

  “You know a lot.”

  “Not enough.”

  He gets up and says, “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “Sure,” she says.

  CHAPTER 27

  FIFTEEN MINUTES later they approach an isolated cement cube of a building, festooned with satellite dishes and antennas. Rosaria tries not to show it, but she feels overwhelmed at the soldiers and vehicles, armored and flying, that she sees during the brief walk. It’s times like these when the tiny discouraging voice inside of her says, Babe, this is the real Army. You’re nothing but a cop in a pretty uniform.

  Aaron says, “Last month I finally got Molly to meet my foster parents, at a family reunion in South Dakota. It went better than I thought.”

  “Good for you,” she says.

  “You ever meet up with any of yours?”

  “I had six sets of foster parents,” she says.

  “Is that a no, then?”

  “You’re pretty smart today, Aaron.”

  At a plain gray metal door there’s a key-card lock. Aaron slides an identification card through the side, and the door clicks open. Inside is a glass-enclosed booth, and both have to show their identification to a female military police staff sergeant dressed in ACUs and wearing a holstered sidearm. There’s another loud buzz, and a door to the right is unlocked.

  Aaron hesitates. “Remember four years back, that senator from Nevada was complaining about all the drones being controlled in her home state? How the state of Nevada and its citizens were complicit in extrajudicial killings overseas?”

  Rosaria says, “Was it in the news?”

  “All over the news.”

  “I try to avoid the news,” she says.

  Aaron just shakes his head. “Some days, Rosie, you need to look around and not just at your feet.”

  “Aaron?”

  “Yes?” he replies, hand still on the door.

  “You called me Rosie two years ago. Don’t do it again.”

  He pauses, and says, “The senator put pressure on the secretary of defense, the DoD put pressure on the Army, and as you know, crap rolls downhill. We couldn’t expand our drone ops at Nellis. The honorable senator was making too much fuss. And like the Marines, the Army overcame and adapted. Come on in.”

  He opens the door and she follows him in, and they’re both standing on a narrow but wide terrace with handrailings, looking down at what seems to be a curved auditorium. There are rows of comfortable-looking chairs and overhead video screens, an
d Rosaria breathes in deeply as she takes it all in.

  This is a control center for drone attacks, and in the video feeds coming in, Rosaria knows that she’s gaining overhead views of Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, and so many other troubled places.

  Aaron whispers, “So here we are.”

  The rows of chairs are all filled with men and women, wearing headsets, holding joysticks. Some have bottled water at their elbows. A number of signs hang from the padded, dark ceiling. The near one says, YOU CAN RUN, BUT YOU’LL ONLY DIE TIRED.

  Rosaria whispers back, “What was Captain Cornwall doing here?”

  “One of those touchy-feely programs that some idiot at the Pentagon comes up with when he or she is bored,” Aaron quietly explains. “Bringing in intelligence officers in an exchange program so they can see what their work can lead to in the field.”

  “And Captain Cornwall was here?”

  “She was.”

  “What happened, then? What was the foul-up?”

  Aaron seems to grip the railing tighter. “We still off-the-record, Rosaria?”

  “At the moment.”

  He shuffles over like he doesn’t want to be overheard by anyone in the pit below. “I didn’t see it, but I heard about it later…When the intelligence officers came in, they were paired with an experienced drone driver. Eventually, they would take over the flying if they had the feel for it, which Captain Cornwall did. Then, one day, she and her partner, they were tracking a target in southern Afghanistan.”

  “What kind of target?”

  Aaron lowers his voice even more, so Rosaria has to lean in to make out the words. “A white SUV, on some desert road north of Khost, with six Taliban soldiers inside, supposedly on their way to attack a camp operated by Doctors Without Borders. So it was a high-value, very significant target. Captain Cornwall and her Air National Guard partner were tracking it with a Predator drone. The word came down from above. Smoke it.”

  Then it came to Rosaria, looking down into this cool, comfortable building, with malls and Burger Kings and Walmarts nearby, that the men and women in here were killing targets thousands of miles away, all the while sitting in a comfortable chair with a cold drink at their side.