Recall (6 page)

He started toward the other cruiser. Carter and Sulley were huddled next to it. Halfway, he stopped. Turned toward the police barricade, then squinted into a flashlight shining on his face. A dark figure stepped out of the background of the night, silhouetted by police car headlights. How long had he been standing there?

The visitor took another step forward. He heard Jim's familiar voice. “Red. We need to talk.”

R
ed squinted. What the hell? Why was Jim here? The Air Force officer stepped into their company, frozen breath streaming from his nostrils. The trouser seams of his blue service dress uniform broke perfectly above his ankles. He eyeballed Red. “You look like hell.” Stuck a hand out in greeting.

Red lifted an arm, but Carter stepped between and grabbed Jim's hand instead. “What you doing here, sir?”

Jim's eyes stayed fixed on Red. “I need a word with my friend. In private.”

“Not now. Something's happened. I need to—”

“This crime is beyond the capabilities of your office. It's in Red's best interests to come with me.”

“You've got no jurisdiction here,” Carter said. “I appreciate your concern, but—”

Jim's eyes narrowed. “Detective, it's for his own good.”

Sulley stepped forward, looking like a mall cop in pajamas. Carter squared up. “I'm in charge of the scene. You've got no authority.”

Red forced himself between the two and shoved each in the chest. “Stop the pissing contest and act like you give a damn!” He leaned into Jim, jabbing a finger at his nose. “Don't try to pass off this visit like the last one. Why're you here? Lori's gone. Come clean or I'll beat it out of you!”

Carter leaned against a cruiser, arms crossed. Sulley put a hand on his Taser. Jim said nothing.

Red took a step closer. Jim glanced at the reporters behind the yellow tape. “Can't talk here. Not in front of the detective, either.”

“Why not?”

A snowflake landed on Jim's shoulder, then melted. The tiny bead of water ran off.

Red grabbed the collar of Jim's blue coat. “Well?”

Still nothing.

“It's classified,” Carter muttered, staring at Jim.

“What is?” Red sneered.

Carter aimed a crossed elbow at his friend in blue. “Ask him. You were doing fine.”

Red frowned. “How you figure?”

“Easy. These kidnappers were professionals. As in well-funded, ex-military types. A wet team. Your buddy here can't say what's going on because it's restricted.”

Jim's gray eyes were in shadows. Red couldn't make out his expression. Jim could never lie well. “That true?”

He turned and started away, slipping to a knee on a patch of ice, but straightened up. “I'll fill you in at my office. Let's go.”

“What the hell? Just like that?”

Jim looked back over his shoulder. “Not here, Red. Come on. We're wasting time.”

Red stepped back. “Not without Carter.”

Jim frowned. “Why?”

“Because I don't know who to trust. You want me? Then Carter's coming, too. You've got info on Lori? He needs to know.”

Jim clenched his fists. “You don't want the detective in on this. Trust me.”

“Trust you like what? Like I don't see you for five years and you show up when the video goes viral? Like you show up again this morning when Lori's been taken? Maybe you're behind this crap. Carter's coming.”

Jim mumbled.

“What?”

“Whatever! The detective can come. Now let's go.” He turned and started again.

Carter pushed off the cruiser, stance wide on a patch of slick ice. “I'm not going. I've got charge of the scene. Can't let you go, either.”

Red turned back. “You're in charge of investigating Lori's kidnapping. Jim says he's got answers. You got no choice. Delegate.”

“Red, I should stay here. Same goes for you.”

Red's head throbbed. “Get in the damn car, Carter!”

Carter grabbed Sulley's arm and turned away.

Ice crackled under Red's feet as he followed Jim in the shallow snow. A cold dampness numbed his toes. He pushed it to the same part of his mind where he crammed other distractions to be ignored. He stood, knees close to the headlights, welcoming their heat on his skin. His friend's presence was warm, though his manner was cold as always. A figure of strength. Genuine. But now . . . How the hell had Jim known to show up this morning? Red shook damp snow from his slippers and leaned in to his old friend. “I'm gonna kill the guys who did it. Even if Lori's alive, they're dead.”

Jim slapped Red's shoulder so hard his feet slid on the ice. “Only if you beat me to it.”

* * *

Lori searched for a bridle from the tack room. Where was it? The new one with blue padding across the nose. No, she hadn't bought that one, or had she? Tony wandered down the center of the barn between stalls.

Why is he wearing those awful work boots?

Dark, hand-hewn timbers, well over a hundred years old, stood on either side of the aisle like sentinels, supporting a massive hay loft. Dizzy, she leaned on one, fingers running the gouge made by an adze near the time her great-grandfather was born. A century of horses scratching their necks made the heavy post smooth with a dark, shiny finish. The stall was neat and mucked out, as always. She inhaled air heavy with moist hay and sweaty saddle blankets.

Which horses to tack up? Tony shook his head as he leaned into every stall. Each seemed skittish, spooked at something. “Maybe bad weather's coming,” he said.

When they reached the end of the aisle, he grasped the thick, black handle of the heavy wooden door. He set his feet, and metal wheels squeaked from the rail above as it slid open. A pale green light flooded the barn.

Lori gasped, awake, eyes opening to the same light. So heavy with sleep, she couldn't fight the sedation. They closed again. When she awoke once more, the same pale light washed back in.

Why did Tony leave the lights on? He never does that.

She tried to wake herself, to get some water for her dry mouth, but she could barely move.

So tired.

She lifted her head but hit something soft, a few inches up. Leaning into one shoulder to see if Tony had come back to bed, she realized something was in her mouth. It was . . . what was it? Terry cloth?

Where was Tony?

She tried to shout his name, but nothing came through the gag. She looked down her cheeks and puckered. Her lips were covered with silver-gray tape. She tried to sit again but hit the same invisible softness. Tried to move her arms but they were tied to her sides—legs bound as well. Turned her head and looked down past her shoulder. Shackles clamped her wrists with a chain running under her back. Frilly lace hovered a few inches above her face. She squinted in the pale green glow.

Shit. It was the inside of a coffin.

“Tony! Tony!” she screamed, trying to push her muted voice through the gag. Straining, she twisted her arms, but the shackles only slipped down her wrists. They stopped at the base of her thumbs and dug in. The hardest kicks produced little noise. She tore at padding beneath her, then scratched at the metal skin under it, abrading her fingers on welded seams. She tried to sit, beating her forehead against the lid of the coffin until blackness descended.

Some creature snorted and kicked in its stall. Devil's Delight, her Appaloosa mare. Why was she so spooked? Lori pulled a green apple, the favorite treat, from a warm, black wool waistcoat. Devil refused. Lori walked to the metal trash can they used as a feed bin and lifted the lid. Pale green light spilled out. She blinked hard and saw white lace.

Still in this wretched coffin
. Stabs of fear churned in her stomach, overshadowed only by her throbbing head.

She turned her head side to side, up and down. This prison smelled of a dirty fabric shop: new polyester and stale body odor. She saw now the light came from a glow stick hung next to her shoulder, like the ones she gave the kids when they went trick-or-treating.

Where were they? Safe? Was Tony okay? Were they all in coffins, too, buried alive, with a rag choking them? She wept.

What's going on? Who the hell is doing this?
She tried to sit again, slamming the thinly padded lid so hard she saw bursts of light before her eyes. Was she buried alive? If so, why the handcuffs?

Think.
She remembered tucking in Jackson under his blue Batman blanket. His eyes had already closed, his breathing deep—like the purring of a tomcat. He could fall asleep faster than anyone. Some nights he'd crawl in and be snoring before she even made it upstairs.

She'd gone to bed. Tony followed sometime after that. Had woken her with those ice-cold feet. That's the last thing she remembered.

A horse snorted outside the coffin. A short, sharp sound.

Thank God I'm not buried! Dreaming again? No—it snorted a second time. A sign of anxiety. Hooves clattered on metal.

Must be on a steel floor. Maybe she wasn't underground, but in a horse trailer?

A dog barked, then a different one, higher pitched. The coffin bobbed up and down slightly, with the vibrating hum of tires on a road. She listened. No seams in this pavement, no jolting potholes. The ride was smooth, the hum steady, shrill, like moving at high speed. On an interstate, but which one? Couldn't be I-64, which was bad enough to put you in a coffin all by itself. Which interstate would be this smooth?

Her ears popped, but she hadn't felt the coffin tilt up or down as if going over hills. Then she understood.

I'm in an airplane!
She lay back on the thin pillow.

Where was she? The kids? Would she ever see any of them again? How had she let this happen?

Hold it together, for the kids, for Tony.

The padding on the underside of the lid was smudged red. Like . . . blood? She strained her farsighted eyes. Yes, blood. But . . . on a piece of paper. A dark scrawl indicated writing. She lowered her head to one shoulder like she was holding a phone, giving herself a few extra inches of distance. Typed, in sans serif font were the words, “
Relax. It will be a long ride.
”

Maybe Tony or the kids are close.

She kicked again, rhythmically, then waited for a reply. Nothing. She bent her knees so they smacked the lid, louder. Beat them steadily, trying to make the noise obvious over any others. Footsteps approached.

They stopped over in the direction of the horse. Hooves clattered as it apparently tried to rear once . . . twice . . . then nothing. She held her breath, straining to hear. Only the faintest sound came, as a whisper, and a couple muffled slaps.

“Help! Help!” she screamed, banging her knees against the lid. The steps drew near. She held her breath again. Now someone would help. Would open the—

The visitor rapped the lid, a deafening tone inside the coffin. “Shut up! No one will hear you! You're scaring my horse. I'll put a bullet through your skull and dump you in the ocean if you frighten him again!” The voice was male, middle-aged, with maybe a hint of a German accent. The visitor's steps moved away, toward the horse again. A few more whispers, then the footsteps faded into the distance.

Lori dropped her head back, feeling the cold metal skin of the coffin through the thin pillow. He'd said they were over an ocean. Couldn't have been drugged that long. Probably the Atlantic. Wouldn't have made such a scene if they weren't alone. He'd want her to at least think she was by herself. So, if Tony wasn't close, where was he? Dead?

How wonderful their last six years had been. She'd actually had time with him, enough to conceive Nick and Jackson. Their life had been perfect, the way it was.

She pressed back sobs. Choking on mucus, she turned her head and blew yellow snot onto white lace.

All good things come to an end. Tony may be dead, but what about the kids?
If he's still alive, maybe he'll self-recall. He'll know who to contact. If not, my office will get him. Won't be long. Either way, I have to stay alive to see it happen.

R
ed leaned against the vinyl headrest in Jim's car, tensing his shoulders. The engine whined a high note near his feet. They were well over the speed limit, headed east on I-64 toward Hampton Roads. The interior smelled of cigar smoke and pine air freshener. A wheel bottomed out on a pothole, as if it wanted to break loose.

“So, why am I here?” Carter asked from the backseat. His olive complexion and jet-black hair seemed to push his figure even farther away, blending with shadow, beyond Red's reach. Only his silhouette kept him from slipping away.

Red turned in his seat. Trees flashed by the side window in a blur of brown and white. “Because I insisted.”

“That's not what I meant. I was asking him.”

Jim looked into the rearview mirror.

“If the military's somehow wrapped up in this,” Carter continued, “I've got no need-to-know. The colonel can't tell me anything.”

“Maybe,” Jim said. “Or maybe
I've
got the need.”

Red scowled. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means never underestimate the locals. We may need intel from his office for the op.”

Red's mouth curled. “What the hell are you talking about? You're base supply. You sound like a spook. Where's Lori?”

“You honestly don't remember? The team? The Det?”

Red massaged a knuckle, bewildered. “What team?”

Jim grabbed his phone and pressed a key. “Grace? Jim.” He paused. “Redeye. Remember Detective Carter? Matt Carter. Put him on the roster.”

Red pointed to the side of the road. “Pull over and let me drive. Then you can talk to your girlfriend. You're too damn slow.”

Jim waved him off and the engine spun higher. “We're inbound. Be there in eight. Call the good doctor and have him meet us.” He hit end.

Jim glanced at Red. “You're bizarre, know that?”

“Yeah. And you're still slower than my mother. Let me drive.”

Jim smiled and gunned a finger at Carter. “If you call Carter and me friends, you need help picking 'em. The kind detective told you who he is, right? You know he's spent time at the Bureau? Not long ago, either.”

“We've all got secrets, Jim. Apparently, you've got 'em, too. Where's Lori?”

Jim straightened himself and eyed the rearview again. “I've agreed to temporarily sponsor your clearance, Detective Carter. However, all information about my organization—everything from now on—is classified top secret. I don't waste time with leaks. They get plugged. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” came from the backseat.

Jim settled back down, glanced sideways at Red, then back to the road. “Lori's been taken by the Iranians.”

“By the who?” What the hell was Jim saying?

“They didn't want Lori, they wanted
you
,” Jim said.

“You're nuts. Why would Iranians give a damn about me?”

“Even so, she's the daughter of a senator. A bargaining chip. Your father-in-law swings some weight. I got orders twenty minutes after she was taken.”

“Jim, how do you know? And why would the Iranians want to kidnap either of us?”

“Damn it, Red! Try to keep up.”

Red gripped the seat. “Fine. What orders?”

“Get her back, and the guys holding her. Assuming we don't kill 'em in the process.”

“You're doing a military strike against Iran?”

“
We're
doing an op. Yes, the military is involved—maybe several branches. The op's not planned yet. Against Iran? We don't know where Lori is, but that won't take long. Once we have her pinned, we'll have wheels up in twenty-four hours. I've called the rest of the team.”

“Wheels up? She's only been gone a couple hours. Can't be outside the U.S.” Red pushed at a split cuticle on his thumb. They were in the left lane, flashing cars a quarter mile ahead to move over. Their speed still seemed too slow. “How does Base Supply fit in? You're helping get a team ready?”

“No. I'm executing the op.”

“I'm not in a mood to joke, Jim.”

Nothing.

Red leaned closer. “You're serious?”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Yeah.”

Red aimed his thumb at Carter. “I'd rather have the sheriff's office on this than you guys. What, op's tempo so high they got fat-ass supply sergeants doing HALOs?”

Jim's lips creased, like when Red had used to strip the basketball from him time and again. “It'll clear up once we're at my office.”

They passed Langley's main gates and drove to the far side of the airfield, stopping in Base Supply's parking lot. The drab concrete building abutted Langley's security fence. Functional, no flair. Low in the front, rising four windowless stories in back. Several semis were parked with trailers sealed tightly to loading ramps. The gum tree on the edge of the lot seemed twice as big as he remembered. A dirty gray heap of snow stood beneath it, stubbornly refusing to melt.

They pulled into a spot with a blue sign that read
SQUADRON COMMANDER.
Red slapped the door handle and stood. His head throbbed.

Carter took his time, as if he were being escorted to a prison cell. “Where are we?”

Red pushed his palm to his forehead, then pointed at a faded brown sign near the roof. “Base Supply.”

“Bullshit,” Carter said.

Red winced, head down. “What?”

Carter took a half step backwards. “Supply wouldn't be all the way out here.”

“I didn't design the place, just worked here. It's got some hazardous materials. That's why it's separate.”

Carter crammed his hands in pockets. “We'll see.”

Jim stopped at a gray metal door with a card reader. “Smile for the camera.” He waved and drew an ID through. The door buzzed and Red yanked. It was slow to open, heavy. From the front it looked like a standard metal door, like so many at work. But the edge showed quarter-inch steel plate welded front and back. Security locks fastened all four corners. Inside lay a tight square room with an identical door opposite. A single round light on the ceiling, turned off or burned out.

Jim followed them in. “Face left.”

That wall was smooth, almost shiny. The room had a new car scent so strong it stung Red's eyes. Jim shut the door and all went dark. Red twisted his neck, but saw no light, not even a leak around the seams. The air was stifling, choking, a companion to the darkness in his mind. Like when the family had toured a gold mine in Colorado and the guide had turned out the lights to show how dark it was that far below the surface. An electric servo buzzed somewhere near the door and locks clicked at the corners.

“This'll just be a minute,” Jim mumbled.

The light came on and Red barged through the opposite door. He stopped, squinting in bright light. Through slit eyes he could make out a spacious foyer, polished Carrara marble crisscrossed with stainless-steel expansion joints. Dark wood paneled the walls. “You guys remodeled.”

An office space lay beyond, full of green-gray cubicles. It was only six a.m., but at least twenty staff were in view, a dozen around a maple conference table. Ahead stood a single marine, in Kevlar jacket and helmet, thumb on the safety of an M4, one ear missing a lobe.
Déjà vu.

A woman at a mahogany reception desk spun in her chair and stood, tall, nodding to Jim. Salt-and-pepper hair, physically fit, pinstriped skirt-suit.

Jim took her hand and escorted her into their company. “Red, my assistant Grace. Known around here as Moneypenny, in honor of my favorite franchise.”

She extended her hand to Red. “A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Harmon.”

Red shook. Firm grip for a prim lady. Her smile was pleasant, but guarded.

Jim continued. “Grace, Detective Carter. Thanks for getting him on the roster. Don't turn your back on him.”

“Yes, I know,” Grace purred. She proffered her hand to Carter. “Nice to meet you,
Detective
.”

Jim laughed. “He's a married man. I'll bring you a single one next time.” He eyed the guard. “Are we clear?”

“The detective has a Glock 9mm, left arm, extra clip. Also got a 32 auto in a wallet holster, and a five-inch boot knife on the right calf. Major Harmon is clean, just the collateral inside, like you said.”

Red tilted his head. What did that mean? Why'd the guard call him by his old rank? Nothing inside was the same, yet somehow it was as it should be. “So we need to check weapons or what? Let's get going.”

Jim started toward double doors. “Everybody in my office. Moneypenny, where's the good doctor?”

“Inside.” Her tight smile revealed deep satisfaction. “He was on his way for an appointment across base. I cancelled it.”

“You're a bitch, gal. Get the other one here, too—Dr. Ali. Red's scalp needs stitches.”

As in the car, aftershave and cigar smoke seemed to bleed from the air inside Jim's office. Dual widescreens were pushed to one end of a deep mahogany desk.

A gaunt man with hollow cheeks and white goatee stood, holding a cane, though he didn't lean upon it. Dark complexion, he looked Indian. He gave an unenthusiastic smile to Jim, then took a hard look at Red. His voice held power, though his frame lacked it. “Mr. Harmon? You're the reason my appointment was cancelled?”

“He is,” Jim said, walking away from the man, around the opposite side of his desk. He sat in a retro wooden swivel chair, its reclining spring
urrrrrching
a protest, listing under the strain of its cargo. Jim massaged his temples and forehead with fingertips. He punched a button on the phone. “Grace, be a doll and get me a cup of Mr. Frank's brew. Two more for our guests. Thanks, love.”

He released the intercom and pressed fingertips together. “Mr. Frank's been in clandestine circles since diapers. His coffee makes espresso taste like apple juice—only reason I keep his worthless ass around. You're gonna need some for what I'm about to unload.” He pointed to a brown leather armchair. “Sit.”

Grace strode in without knocking, taking long steps, carrying a tray with three cups. “Already on it.” She gave Carter's to him with a wink, then left silently, as if without touching the floor.

Red winced. “This guy gonna fix my head? It's starting to throb.”

“In a way. Another doctor's going to stitch it up. Genova here's a head doctor. A psychiatrist.”

“Why's a shrink here?”

Jim smiled and swallowed hard. He leaned forward, breath like the burnt bottom of a coffeepot. “Red, you're my friend. But today, a fellow soldier. Here's the truth. You were never in Base Supply. You're sitting in Detachment Three of Special Operations Command. We call ourselves the Det for short. Six years ago you were an operator, assigned here. A damn good one.”

Red lifted a finger and made a swirling motion. “You can call this place the Bat Cave for all I care. When I was here, it was Base Supply.”

Jim slapped the desk, then stared at Genova. “Get his ass through recall.”

Genova leaned forward, eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question, but remained silent.

“What's that mean?” Red asked. “You can do whatever you want. All I care about is getting Lori back. You said you knew something. Come clean.”

Jim yanked one of the flat screens to face Red. “At oh-four hundred we received this video from intel.”

Jim punched a key. The screen lit up, then faded to reveal a blurred face.

“We can't undo the censorship. No matter what movies say, can't be done.”

The blur revealed only an olive complexion and black hair. A female voice came from the speaker. She was the censored image and wore green fatigues with no rank, no insignia. Behind her stood a blank concrete wall, orange rust stain running down. The room was dim and echoed. A single overhead bulb hung by a pair of wires. No clues as to the time of day or location. She spoke a foreign language with no emotion. After a minute. she raised two fists toward the camera and shouted a word Red recognized:
Moses
. The video faded and cut off.

“It was e-mailed to your father-in-law, Senator Moses, an hour
before
Lori's kidnapping. We got our CIA liaison to get his best hackers on it, but so far nothing. Whoever sent it knew how to cover their tracks.”

Carter was leaning over Red's shoulder. “Was it sent anywhere else?”

“Don't know. You're the detective. I wanna kill the bitch. Waiting for intel to tell me how. I didn't even know Senator Moses knew the Det existed. He still may not. My guess is that whoever sent the e-mail doesn't know who owns us, who's a player. But they knew if they sent it to the senator, we'd get it somehow.”

“What'd she say about Lori?” Red asked.

“My interpreters said the lady in the video was speaking Farsi. She claimed to have ‘The Red One and the daughter of Senator Moses.' Her demands were that the U.S. disclose all member countries of the Det. If not, they'd kill the prisoners. Gave seven days. Must've anticipated having Red and Lori in their hands when they made the video. Accused the U.S. of undermining Iran's nuclear program.”

“What's that about?”

Jim laughed. “We've been in Iran, but not only us. Israel has a good system, especially adept at setting up and managing networks of human intelligence. Humint. The U.S. doesn't do that very well anymore. We rely on technology, satellites, communications monitoring. But those can't see into a person's head, what he's thinking, what he's planning. With our tech and Israeli humint, we've kept Iran below the red line. But depending on Israel is like sleeping with a rattlesnake.