No Fortunate Son (9 page)

S
trolling across the courtyard, Blair said, “She was seeing someone, and I figured she’d gone dancing at Cindies, but when she texted to tell me where she’d left my bike, it wasn’t anywhere near there. That was the last thing I heard from her.”

I said, “Wait a minute. One step at a time. What makes you think she was seeing someone?”

“She just was. She was very secretive about it, but I could tell. She spent too much time getting ready. Too much time trying to look nice. It was for a man.”

“So she never told you who it was?”

“No. Like I said, she kept it a big secret. I mean, she wouldn’t even admit to going out with someone. I think she was afraid of being labeled a slut or something.”

Jennifer said, “What’s Cindies?”

“It’s a local dance club. It’s actually changed names from Cinderella to Ballare, but everyone still calls it Cindies. But she didn’t go there. Well, at least that wasn’t the last place she went.”

We turned the corner, walking through an arch in a building older than our entire nation. A wooden bridge spanned a canal, and Jennifer said, “Oh my God, is that the Mathematical Bridge?”

Blair nodded and started to say something about it when I interjected, “Can we stay on point here?”

Jennifer glared at me, and Blair went back and forth between us. I stepped onto the bridge and said, “How do you know where she stopped last?”

“I don’t know exactly where, but she sent me a text telling me where to get my bike—she’d broken the chain on hers and I’d loaned her mine. I needed it later in the night . . . I mean, I was going out as well . . . and she texted where she’d left it locked up. It was nowhere near Cindies, so that’s not where she went.”

We reached the dorm, which wasn’t nearly as old as the original school buildings. It was modern, maybe built in the eighteenth century as opposed to the fifteenth. She led the way up the stairs to the second floor, and I wondered how many people had trodden the same path. I found it a little creepy, with everything built in dark wood and shadowed in a gloomy light.

She unlocked the door to their small apartment and said, “Here’s home. Her stuff is through the kitchen on the left. All of it is still there; her computer is on the desk.”

I said, “Is there Internet in here, or are you guys supposed to learn like the forefathers?”

Blair laughed and said, “Yeah, there’s Wi-Fi. She should already be hooked up, but I can’t help you if she has any passwords on her stuff.”

I pulled a slip of paper out of my pocket and said, “I got that. Jennifer, see what else Blair knows. I’m going to hit the room.”

I left them in the kitchen, walking to the doorway of Kylie’s dorm. It was small, with a simple wood desk and a double-size bed, and had a faint musty smell, reminding me of old drapes left hanging way past their service life. It was clean and tidy, with only a single pair of socks on the floor. A MacBook Pro was on the desk, an open notebook next to it, as if Kylie were coming home any minute. For some reason the scene brought about a melancholy feeling, a sad reminder of how fragile life can be.

I shook those thoughts from my head. There was no indication that something bad had happened to Kylie. Not yet anyway.

I went through the desk first, hoping to find a journal or calendar. From the third drawer I pulled out another notebook. Inside was nothing more than a school assignments list, with most of the notebook pages blank. I pulled out a syllabus from a pocket and a small piece of folded paper fluttered to the ground. I opened it and found a visitor’s
pass made out to Kylie Hale for RAF Molesworth. The escort name was TSgt Nicholas Seacrest of the NATO Intelligence Fusion Centre, with the destination being some pizza joint on the post.

What on earth would she be doing at a British air base? How good could that pizza be?

I put the pass away and turned on the Mac, logging in and going straight to her social media. There were a ton of new posts to her Facebook page, but no comments or posts by her since she’d disappeared. I opened her private messages, feeling a little slimy. I went through them as fast as possible, not wanting to pry, scanning the initial sentences and moving on. I found nothing of interest. The same for her Twitter feed. Just innocuous posts about college life.

I moved on to Instagram and found nothing on her public profile. I went to direct messages and finally got a hit. A picture of a man’s hand pointing to a brochure for some place called the Eagle, with a time and date written in blue ink on the border. The date was the day she disappeared. The caption said,
Shhh . . . loose lips sink ships.
I clicked on the profile that had sent it, someone called StNick762, but it went to a dead link. I hollered out of the room, “Blair, could you come here?”

Jennifer entered first, saying, “What did you find?”

I showed her the visitor’s pass, then the Instagram picture, saying, “The profile is deleted.”

Blair came in and I showed her the pass, asking, “Is this close by?”

“Well, the town of Molesworth is about twenty minutes away. I don’t know anything about the military bases, though.”

“Why would Kylie go there?”

“I have no idea. She certainly couldn’t have ridden her bike there, and we don’t have a car.”

I looked at Jennifer, frustrated at the lack of answers.

She pointed at the screen and the Instagram picture, saying, “How about this? Do you know where it is?”

Blair took one look and smiled. “Oh yeah, it’s a historical landmark. And it’s right near where she left my bike.”

K
ylie felt a cold draft sink from the window, breaking through her small bit of warmth and causing her to glare at it in frustration. Their cellar prison was constantly frigid, with only sparse woolen blankets provided to keep them from going into hypothermia. When nighttime came, the cold of their subterranean cell increased, the dampness seeping into her bones and preventing sleep. Her only moment of warmth came when she was allowed out to use the bathroom. Just breaking the door at the top of the stairs provided a welcome blast of heat, and using the toilet allowed her to sit in relative luxury for a scant few minutes, but now the small window was robbing her of her only pleasure.

It was tiny, really a slat more than a viewing pane, maybe ten inches high and two feet wide, and looked as if it was shut tight, but the outside air was leaking through. She stood on the toilet, awkwardly pulling herself up with her tied hands until she was level with the bottom of the pane. She saw that it cranked outward, opened by a small lever—and it was cracked just a smidgen. She rotated the handle, cinching the wood tightly into the frame and sealing out the draft. She stood for a moment and looked through the pane at the freedom beyond. She saw a bed of gravel just below the sill and a concrete wall eight feet away. The window was only six inches above the ground.

Her guard threw a fist against the door, scaring the life out of her. She collapsed back into a sitting position on the toilet, her pants still fastened, saying, “I’m almost done. Please. Another few seconds.”

The man grunted something but didn’t open the door. She sat for a
moment longer, then flushed. The noise brought the guard in, the man clamping down on her flex-tied wrists and leading her back into the hallway. She glanced back at the window, an impossible, lunatic thought flitting through her head.

Back in the cellar darkness, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the small glow escaping from the door at the top of the stairs. They no longer had to wear the hoods at all times, but the basement was still as black as pitch, the edges of the door providing no more illumination than a slice of the moon in a forest.

She whispered, “Nick?”

“Yeah, I’m here. You okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine. I see it didn’t warm up while I was gone.”

Nick chuckled and said, “But you got the heat of the toilet, right?”

The comment brought a smidgen of shame, as she was the only one allowed the luxury of a toilet. The men were forced to use a bucket in the corner, which would have been bad enough, but she’d told Nick about the warmth. About the brief respite from the dungeon they were in.

He sensed the pause and said, “Kylie, I was kidding. Don’t feel bad about what you get in relation to us. Use it.”

She said, “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I think I can get out of the window in the bathroom. It’s so small they don’t bother locking it because no man could get through it, but I think I can fit.”

“You mean escape?”

“Yes. If you think it’s best for me to try.”

Lieutenant Colonel Travis Deleon cut in, his voice floating out of the darkness. “
No.
No way. You heard the instructions. Someone even
tries
to escape, and one of us will die. This is a typical hostage situation, and we treat it as such. Let negotiations take their time.”

Kylie said, “I don’t think they’ll harm us while we still have value. We can do whatever we want right now, but they
will
eventually kill us. It’s only a matter of time. They have no intention of letting us go.”

“Young lady, you don’t understand how this works. I cannot allow you to attempt that. You’ll put us all in jeopardy.”

Nick said, “Sir, what the hell are you talking about? How would you
know how this works? Trust me, I’ve seen what happens to people in this situation, and it isn’t pretty. Kylie’s right. Our one weapon is our value. There’s something these guys hope to get from it, and the minute they do, our value drops to nothing. Until then, they won’t hurt us no matter what we do.”

Kylie heard the words and thought,
Seen what happens to hostages? Where? In the Air Force? He told me he was a weatherman.
She wondered what else the vice president’s son had hidden from her.

LTC Deleon replied, his voice strained in a harsh half whisper, “Nobody is doing anything beyond what they tell us.
Nobody.
Do you two hear me? I’m not getting killed because of idiocy.”

Kylie said, “I’m telling you, we’re dead anyway. Have you not wondered why nobody bothers to cover their face? Why they don’t care how much information we can glean by simple contact? They’re even giving us their names. They have no intention of letting us go.”

Travis said, “You don’t know that. The names could be fake. One thing is for sure: You try to escape, and someone’s going to die. Probably me. I’ll take my chances on the negotiations. On the rescue.”

Nick said, “You fucking sicken me. Nobody is going to find us in time. These men know what they have and know how much pressure will be brought to bear. They’ve put a lot of thought into this, and they’re going to be a step ahead of our government. We need to plan for our own escape.”

“So you want to put your girlfriend in the line of fire? And you call
me
a coward.”

Nick said nothing for a moment, then, “No. That’s not what I want.”

She said, “Nobody’s putting me anywhere. It’s
my
choice. I think I could get out, and Nick’s right. These guys are smart. Anybody that’s looking for us is on the wrong trail, or they’d have been here already. If I can get out, I can fix that even if they move you guys later.”

Travis said, “Move us later? Seriously? Both of you are delusional. Even if you could escape, we’ll disappear. You’ll be no help. Nobody will find us.”

Kylie thought about her uncle, then about her uncle’s friend. About the stories she’d heard hovering among the groups of men during her
uncle’s unit parties. She’d been much younger then, and impressionable, but she was sure the stories were real.

Just above a whisper she said, “That’s not true. My uncle is looking, and he has some scary friends. If I could escape, I could get to them. They would rescue everyone.”

Travis snorted and said, “Your fantasy isn’t worth my life. I’m telling you both again, as the senior officer, nobody is to do anything against the orders of our captors. It’s too risky.”

The door slammed open and the bearded man came stomping down, shouting, “Shut the fuck up or the hoods go back on.”

Caught in the light, Travis tried to get out of the man’s path, wrapping his arms over his head. Nick rocked back but kept a defiant look on his face. The man slapped Travis in the head, then saw Nick staring at him. He slammed a boot into Nick’s stomach, causing him to grunt and roll onto the ground. The man said, “You want to be taken down a peg and I’m more than willing to do it. We only need you breathing.”

Nick squeezed his hands against his gut but maintained his insolent expression.

The man advanced on Kylie, pulling her head up by the hair. He said, “You still want a pissing contest?”

The terror flooded through her, her eyes rolling in a fear that was reflected on Nick’s face.

Nick said, “Okay, okay. Stop. I won’t talk. Please.”

The man stared at him in silence for a moment, then threw Kylie to the ground. He walked away to the stairs without looking back, slamming the door and plunging the room back into darkness. Kylie began to weep.

She lay in the cold, stricken by their utter helplessness, her earlier bravery vanishing as quickly as the light from the door.

Nick wormed over to her and whispered, “It’s okay. He’s gone. I won’t do that again. I promise.”

She thought about the window. She sniffled and said, “I don’t know if I can do what I said. I don’t have the courage.”

“I don’t want you to do it. I don’t think they’ll kill us if you get away, but I’m sure they’ll kill you if you don’t.”

She started sobbing again, a low, desperate sound. “We’re going to die.”

He awkwardly brushed her shoulder with his bound hands. “Shh. Don’t think about that. Focus on anything else. Something to draw strength.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her necklace. She pictured her uncle’s friend. An executioner who would eradicate every single one of their despicable, cowardly captors. A hunter she dared hope was searching for her right this minute.

A
s if I were slow, the airman manning the gate handed me my pass and repeated, “You can go in, but the lady and the taxi cab must remain out here.”

I said, “What sense does that make? If I’m cleared, then I’ll vouch for them.”

He said, “I can give you a pass based on your ID, but you can’t sponsor her since you don’t work here and you’re not active duty. And his cab company isn’t on an approved list to enter.”

“So what am I supposed to do? I need to get to the NATO Fusion Centre.”

“Sergeant Major, you’ll have to walk.”

“Walk from here? Seriously?”

I knew fighting the idiotic rules of the US Department of Defense would get me nowhere. Actually, I was surprised to see the front gate of Molesworth being manned by US Air Force in the first place. I figured it would be manned by British soldiers. They’d let me in because of my retired military ID card but wouldn’t let in anyone else, which, once again, aggravated the hell out of me for not getting a rental car.

According to the dumbass rules of DoD, if I had a rental, I could drive it in—albeit leaving Jennifer at the gate—but since we’d taken a cab, I was out of luck.

Jennifer and I had argued the point, and I’d eventually backed down when I couldn’t find the air base on Google Maps. She’d said a British cabdriver from Cambridge had a hell of a lot better chance of locating the base than we did driving around the English countryside and asking
questions at every intersection. I’d relented, then we’d paid the damn cabbie to drive around and ask questions. I guess we paid for the accent. Eventually, we’d passed through the old, World War II outer barbwire gates and driven up to the security checkpoint, only to find that they wouldn’t let us in. Which was becoming par for the course on this little adventure. We were getting nowhere.

After finishing in Kylie’s dorm room, Blair had taken us to the Eagle, which had turned out to be one of the coolest places I’d ever seen—a pure English pub with a history that made it hallowed ground in my mind. According to the sign outside, over a pint two scientists had solved the riddle of DNA, but what meant much more to me were the names on the ceiling put there by the smoke of a cigarette lighter. All were from American or British bomber crews from World War II, left in between missions over the Continent. I couldn’t help but wonder how many had drunk a pint, left their name, then never returned.

One day, I’d be back under better circumstances.

We’d talked to a manager, but as could be expected, he had no idea about Kylie or anyone else on the night in question. To make matters worse, when I asked about waiters or waitresses to interview, I’d been told that all orders were placed at the bar, and the food was sent out by table number. They had no system where a waiter or waitress would remember anyone for any length of time.

I’d walked about the interior, seeing the various little pillbox rooms and the outdoor patio, and knew I was out of luck. Without knowing exactly where she’d had dinner, there was no way I could find someone who would remember Kylie. The place was just too big and chopped up, with nooks and crannies all over. But she’d been here, of that I was sure.

Standing on the patio, staring at the gate to the Corpus Christi campus and trying to find a thread, I was about to throw my hands up when Jennifer had said, “Pike, look above the gate.”

I did, and saw a CCTV camera. I then went through the area again, looking for surveillance. They had a camera in almost every room. The entire place was wired. I went back to the manager, pointing at the camera over the bar.

“How long do you keep a recording of this place?”

He said, “I have no idea, but it’s irrelevant. I can’t show them to you.”

“Why not? I’m not looking to get you in trouble for anything. I’m just trying to find a girl.”

He held his hands up. “I know. It’s a privacy thing. The owner won’t show them without a court order. I’ve seen it in the past. I don’t even know how to if I wanted. We don’t keep tapes here. It’s all contracted out.”

“You mean like it’s downloaded somewhere else?”

“Well, yeah. Like the cloud. The surveillance company maintains the cameras and keeps the footage. It’s all done over the Internet. We don’t have it here. It gives the owner a firewall when folks like you come asking.”

Which was very good news. It was a firewall, all right, but one I could penetrate with the Taskforce, saving me from cracking this guy in the head and stealing old-school VHS tapes.

“What’s the name of the company?”

“Sentinel Security. Out of London.”

We left at that point, knowing we wouldn’t get anything else, and drove to Molesworth to explore the mysterious visitor’s pass, only now I was going to have to hoof it to figure
that
out. Proving yet again how little sway a retired commando had.

The gate guard saw my expression and repeated, “Sergeant Major, if you want to go inside the post, you’ll need to park the taxi in the visitor area and walk.”

I shook my head in frustration and said, “Okay, damn it. Where is the Fusion Cell?”

“You see that golden dragon? Just walk around to the right . . .”

He continued blathering on and I continued to get aggravated. Eventually, I just waved the cab forward, told Jennifer I’d be right back, and started walking at a pace that I hoped would let off the anger.

The post ended up being very, very small. Originally full of ICBM silos, it had been dedicated entirely to nuclear counterforce strikes during the Cold War, but now it was a collection of intelligence fusion cells for NATO and the newly minted Africa Command, or AFRICOM.
There were no barracks or commissaries. Just a select few buildings that did top secret intelligence activities. It didn’t take long to find the NATO cell. All I had to look for were the flags of all the member countries flying in the breeze.

A squat, four-story building with few windows, painted a dull yellow—or maybe white that had faded—it had a fence surrounding its compound with a turnstile not unlike ones you see at amusement parks or New York City subways. A seven-foot thing with multiple rotating bars to prevent entry. Next to it was a phone. Being unannounced, and knowing I was on camera, I picked it up.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m looking for Tech Sergeant Nicholas Seacrest.”

“And you are?”

“Nephilim Logan. Retired sergeant major, US Army.”

“Purpose of your visit?”

“I have some questions for him regarding a missing female.”

With the enormous scandals going on with sexual assaults in the Department of Defense, I hoped mentioning the word
female
would cause the gates to open. Everyone was so afraid of being accused of not cracking down on anything smacking of sexual harassment, I figured I’d get in just so they could see my face. Instead, I heard, “Do you know the office?”

“No. He’s a weatherman in the US Air Force. I need to talk to him.”

“Stand by.”

I waited for a good ten minutes, then saw an entourage headed my way, which made me wonder if they’d had a few sexual assault problems with this Nicholas Seacrest in the past. There were four people, two Air Force and two Army. As they got closer, I saw the lowest rank was a major.

What the hell?

They reached the gate and a bird colonel named Fairchild did the talking.

“Who are you?”

“I told the desk, I’m Sergeant Major Nephilim Logan. I’m here to see a Nicholas Seacrest.”

“Why do you want to see him?”

“He was the last known person with a female who’s come up missing. I’m trying to locate her.”

“Well, he can’t talk. Sorry. He had nothing to do with any female.”

“How would you know? You haven’t even asked her name. Do you know all of the comings and goings of the men here?”

“Sergeant Major, he had
nothing
to do with any female. Period. He’s on a classified assignment.”

“Come on, sir. I’m not a
New York Times
reporter. I’ve got top secret clearance. Stop the bullshit. I just want to talk to him. I’ll find him here or at his barracks.”

“You won’t find him at all. He’s on leave. He went back to the United States for thirty days.”

“I thought he was on a classified assignment?”

I got a blank stare.

I asked, “When did he fly?”

“That’s classified.”

The answer tripped a trigger he didn’t want to see. I slapped the bars, causing them to jump back. I shouted, “Are you shitting me? Open this fucking gate. Right now.”

Colonel Fairchild’s face went from amazement to anger at the outburst. He said, “Sergeant Major, I don’t know where you’ve worked in the past, but I will not tolerate such behavior. You will leave here right now, or I will call base security. Tech Sergeant Seacrest is on leave. Period.”

I stared at him for a moment, wanting to rip his throat out. I looked at the men to his left and right, then turned away without another word.

By the time I reached the cab I was in a fine mood. I told the driver to hang on a minute, then pulled out my phone, moving out of earshot of the cabbie. Jennifer exited the car and asked what had happened. I said, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

She said, “What’s that mean?”

I dialed and said, “It means we need some help.”

I waited for the connection, fuming, and Jennifer said nothing more, knowing she’d get the answer from my call. After a few seconds, I got Kurt on the phone, his voice sounding tinny from the encryption.

“Tell me you found her.”

“No, sir, I haven’t. But I will with a couple of requests.”

“What? What do you have?”

“First, I need all surveillance video from a place called the Eagle here in Cambridge. It’s held on a server for a company called Sentinel in London.”

I heard nothing, then, “You want me to hack it?”

I knew what was going through his head. I was telling him to use US assets to penetrate a foreign company for personal business. He wasn’t asking because he was unsure of my request. He was running the ramifications through his head. Deciding how far he would go to save his niece. Deciding where his boundaries lay. As the commander of the Taskforce, he had the capability. Now it was only a question of whether he would use it.

I said, “Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I’m asking. The Eagle is her last known location. I need the footage to see who she was with.”

He said, “You mean she was on a date with someone? That’s why you want it?”

“Yeah. And that brings up the second thing. I think I know who she was with, but I’m getting the runaround by the military here.”

“Military? What do you mean?”

“I think she went on a date to the Eagle with a Tech Sergeant Seacrest from Molesworth, but they’re telling me he’s on leave. And they’re doing it in a weird way. I got a full-court press from a bunch of Chairborne Rangers when I asked about him. All top brass.”

I heard nothing but breathing. I said, “Sir? You there?”

“What was the name?”

“Technical Sergeant Nicholas Seacrest. He’s apparently a weatherman here. I need to talk to him. I need you to put some pressure on the NIFC.”

I heard an explosion of air, then, “Jesus Christ. Kylie’s been taken by terrorists.”

I said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nick Seacrest is the vice president’s son.”