The Tears of Dark Water (10 page)

Curtis hesitated. “It was an automatic message. Daniel installed a warning system before he left. All he had to do was press a button.”

Vanessa’s bewilderment transmuted into betrayal. “He never told me that.”

“He thought it would only worry you,” Curtis said, his tone defensive. “The risk was purely theoretical. Neither of us expected it to materialize.”

In an instant, Vanessa felt all the old resentments again.
Of course he kept it from me. He always treated me like a child, making decisions for me, trying to preempt my anxiety.
She felt a pain in her chest. It began at the center and radiated outward to her limbs. She took a seat on the couch and forced herself to breathe. The pain was an alarm bell, an indication she was about to slip into panic. Skipper padded over and put his nose on her hand. She scratched his head and waited for her heartbeat to stabilize.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Tell me what to do.”

Curtis sighed with relief. “Everything I’m about to say is confidential. I got it from Frank on the condition that we would tell no one. That means Aster, too.”

She felt the world shrinking around her. “All right.”

“This is what I know. The Navy had a cruiser making a port call in the Seychelles. It’s already been dispatched. It should arrive at their position in a few hours. There’s a group at the White House called MOTR—the Maritime Operational Threat Response Center. They’ve had two meetings already. This is a top priority. They’re going to do everything they can to get them back.”

Vanessa was overwhelmed. “What does that mean exactly?”

“There’s a limit to what they can tell us. A lot of this is classified. But Frank mentioned the SEALs and the FBI.”

The SEALs
, Vanessa thought.
The FBI
. She could just see it—men in black swarming the sailboat, guns blazing, and Daniel and Quentin in the center of it all. She felt sick.

“What about a ransom?” she asked. “Don’t they just want money?”

“I asked Frank the same thing. He said a ransom is not the government’s objective.”

Vanessa felt a spurt of anger. “What the hell is
that
supposed to mean? The only thing I care about is getting my son back.” Tears sprung to her eyes. “Tell me what
we’re
supposed to be doing right now, what
I’m
supposed to do.”

Curtis exhaled. “As soon as I hang up, I’m going to make a few calls. There are people in private security who have experience with these matters. They can offer us independent advice.” He paused. “Also, I think it would be best if you had some company.”

Aster would know how to support me
, Vanessa thought. “What do you have in mind?”

Curtis’s voice softened. “Yvonne already packed a bag. I don’t know how long this is going to last, but we’re going to need each other.”

It was the most vulnerable thing he had ever said, and Vanessa saw the wisdom in it. As much as she hated Curtis’s paternalism, he was a man of exceptional skill and experience who knew everyone in the D.C. power machine. He was exactly the kind of advocate Daniel and Quentin needed. And Vanessa adored her mother-in-law. Yvonne was a strong woman who had made the best of fifty years of marriage to an egotistical husband and forty-three years of motherhood to an egocentric son, both of whom gave her little in return. It would be good to have her around.

“I’ll get the guest wing ready,” she said, grateful she didn’t have to bear the burden alone.

Paul

Cape Town, South Africa

November 9, 2011

“Cheers,” Paul Derrick said, taking the cappuccino from his sister’s outstretched hand. It was half past six in the morning, and he was sitting on the terrace watching the seaside hamlet of Clifton come alive in the spotless dawn. He had no plans for the day, but that was the point, or so Megan kept insisting. As it happened, he felt indolent, but he knew it was an illusion—a byproduct of adrenaline withdrawal.
Humans were meant to relax
, he repeated to himself.
You’re a human. Ergo . . .

“Every time I come here, I wonder why I go back,” Megan said, sitting across from him at a café table and taking a sip of her frothy mocha. They had always been early risers. Her husband, Simon, on the other hand, loved to sleep in.

He looked at her closely and grinned. “No, you don’t.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Talking to you is like talking to my conscience. It’s much easier to get things past Simon.”

He shrugged. “You’re the one who invited me.”

“And I’m so glad you came.” She spoke the words with feeling. “You’re right, I don’t know what I’d do with myself on a permanent holiday.”

“A purgatory in paradise,” Derrick teased. “But the coffee would be good.”

It was one of the many ways he and Megan were facsimiles of one another. They were John Derrick’s children: passionate, driven, and restless—some, like Simon, would say pathologically so. Their father had been as compulsive as he was brilliant, a homicide detective whose deductive powers had been legendary in the Washington Metropolitan Police Department. He had also been a human steamroller, running over his emotionally sensitive wife and oldest son with devil-may-care cruelty and provoking a tragedy that had shocked their community. Their genetic inheritance was a ghost in their psyche. They hadn’t spoken of their father in many years. They had buried their memories along with him.

“Are you happy, Paul?” Megan asked, turning the tables on him.

“Sure. It’s hard to beat the view.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “If I’m honest, I’m not sure what happy is. Satisfied, yes. I do something that matters. So do you. Isn’t that enough?”

She nodded. “It’s what gets me up in the morning.”

“Speaking of morning, what are we going to do today?”

Her brown eyes sparkled. “You’re already tired of sitting still?”

Just then, he heard the ringtone on his FBI-issued BlackBerry. He glanced at Megan and saw the dejection in her eyes.
Don’t answer it
, he could hear her saying.
They can wait
. But he had to answer it. It was who he was. He picked up the phone and saw that the Caller ID had been blocked. There was only one person at the Bureau who had the audacity to interrupt his vacation.

“Hey, Boss,” he said, connecting the line, “you’re up late.”

“Damn it, Paul,” replied Brent Frazier, the director of the Crisis Negotiation Unit and Derrick’s closest friend. “How do you always know it’s me?”

“I think it’s the smell,” Derrick joked, putting his hand over the phone and whispering, “I’m sorry,” to his sister. She accepted the apology with a resigned smile and went inside.

“I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to bother you over there,” Frazier began.

“That’s little consolation when you’re doing it,” Derrick said, enjoying the chance to rib his friend. In truth, he felt relieved. That Frazier had called meant something bad had happened, which, in Derrick’s world of crisis management, meant something good.

“We have a situation in the Indian Ocean. Two sailors from Annapolis—father and son—were hijacked by Somali pirates. They’re VIPs. Have you heard of Parker and Jones?”

“The law firm,” Derrick replied. “They’re heavyweights.”

“Exactly. Curtis Parker is the quintessential Washington insider. He was first in his class at the Naval Academy and served as a flag aide on the Joint Staff before going to Columbia Law School and joining the firm his father founded. He took it over a decade ago and built it into the premier regulatory compliance firm in D.C. His son, Daniel, and his grandson, Quentin, are on the boat.”

Derrick took this in. “When did it happen?”

“A few hours ago. Apparently, they sent an SOS to the right people. MOTR has the ball. The President has been briefed. DOD is in charge. The Navy has ships en route. There’s a cruiser—the
Gettysburg
—nearby that’s going to take the lead. They have an aircraft carrier and another cruiser coming from the Gulf of Aden. They want a negotiator on the
Gettysburg
to assist.”

“A negotiator,” Derrick said. “As in one.”

Frazier grunted. “That was DOD’s idea. They’re sending a SEAL team from Virginia. A couple of the SEALs have negotiation training. They want FBI support.”

DEVGRU
, Derrick thought. It was an acronym for the Naval Special Warfare Development Group, or SEAL Team Six. “I’m surprised they’re asking for us.”

“They’re not asking for us. They’re asking for you.”

Derrick pursed his lips. “And you said?”

“I told them you don’t work alone and you don’t play second fiddle. The minimum team we send into the field is a primary and a coach.”

“And the guys from DOD bought that?”

“No,” Frazier admitted. “The State Department pushed them on it and the White House agreed. Everybody knows you’re the best we’ve got. If you’re not there and this thing goes south, the President will be left with questions he can’t answer.”

Derrick was intrigued. “Who recommended me at State?”

“Amanda Wolff in the Bureau of Political-Military Affairs. She knows this issue better than anyone else in the government.”

Derrick filed the name away in his brain, thinking,
I’ll have to send her a thank you note
. “So here’s the team,” he said. “Rodriguez comes with me, along with the best Somali linguist we have. I assume New York Field will send somebody from ERT.”

ERT was short for “Evidence Response Team,” a collection of agents specially trained to manage crime scenes. The agent would come from New York because that was the field division that handled crimes against Americans in Africa and the Indian Ocean.

“Yeah,” Frazier confirmed. “They’re also sending a couple of guys with interrogation experience and an SSA to coordinate the investigation.” An SSA was a supervisory special agent. “But you don’t have to worry about them. You answer to me.”

“Tell me more about the Parker family. I want assets on all the key players.”

“By my count there are three: Vanessa Parker, the wife and mother of the hostages, and Curtis and Yvonne Parker. They all live in Annapolis. Vanessa’s stepfather is in New York. Her mother died a few years ago. We don’t know who her father is.”

“Send Mary to Annapolis,” Derrick said. “Vanessa will trust her. Let’s leave her stepfather alone unless she brings him into the loop.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Frazier affirmed.

Derrick walked into the villa and set his coffee cup in the sink. Megan was reading on the couch. He met her gaze, and she shook her head, laughter in her eyes.

“How quickly can you get me out there?” he asked Frazier, heading for the stairs.

“We booked you a commercial ticket to the Seychelles via Johannesburg. Your flight leaves in two hours. A Navy helicopter will shuttle you to the
Gettysburg
. You should arrive by 21:00. We’ll send your team by military transport. They should be on the ship by mid-morning tomorrow.”

In his guest room, Derrick went to the closet and took out his duffel bag, which he had never unpacked. At home he kept a jump bag in the trunk of his car, ready to go at a moment’s notice. On vacation, he simulated the jump bag by living out of his duffel.
I really need to learn how to take a vacation
, he thought, changing out of his polo and shorts and putting on his field attire—5.11 Royal Robbins tactical pants, a loose-fitting white shirt, and Merrell trail shoes.

“I need detailed profiles on all the people in the command structure,” he said to Frazier. “The captain of the
Gettysburg
; the commander of the SEAL team; and anybody who’ll be calling the shots back home. I also need dossiers on Daniel and Quentin Parker and a memo about Somali piracy.”

“We’re already working on the memo,” Frazier replied. “The ship’s captain and the hostages will be easy. The spec ops guys will be harder.”

“Talk to the White House. If they want me there, they’ll get me the information.”

Frazier took a breath. “I’ll see what I can do. As it happens, I’m heading down to Dam Neck in the morning. I’ll be in the command center for the duration.”

Derrick whistled. “DEVGRU’s crib. Have fun babysitting.”

Frazier laughed. “I’d rather be on the ship with you.”

Derrick felt the familiar rush of action. “When this is over, I’m taking a month off, and I’m going to leave my BlackBerry in your office.”

“Roger that,” Frazier replied and hung up.

Derrick stuffed the dress clothes Megan had brought him in the duffel and zipped it closed. Then he collected his backpack from beside the bed and carried everything downstairs. He found Megan waiting for him in the foyer, keys in hand.

“How long do you have?” she asked, leading him down the walk to her black Porsche Boxster S convertible—her rental of choice in Cape Town. Like her brother, she had always had a fascination with speed. Unlike Derrick, she could afford it.