“Sorry.”
“Of course you are. Now, would you like this to stop? Would you like to sleep? I’ll bet that you would.”
More than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.
“Where—?” I began to say.
“Right—Where is your fucking family? You’re nothing if not consistent, or is it stubborn? Or stupid? Now, listen to me closely. I will let you sleep. I will give you closure about your family. . . . Are you with me so far? . . . Are you following what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what? Tell me what you are agreeing to.”
“You’ll tell me about my family. Let me sleep.”
“Provided that what?”
I don’t attack and kill you, you sonofabitch. Where there’s a will . . .
“Provided I answer your questions.”
“Very good. Would you like more water, hotshot?”
“Yes.”
The cloth hood was lifted halfway and the water bottle was returned to my lips. I drank as much as I wanted to, but then there was silence. It frightened the hell out of me. Had he gone away? The one who knew what had happened to my family? The one who had actually talked to me for a minute or so.
“I saw terrible things in Africa, especially in Sudan,” I said. “I don’t think any of that interests you. A family—the Tansis—were murdered. In Lagos. Maybe because they were talking to me. Or because of what Adanne wrote in the newspaper. . . . You can get her articles.
“Are you there? You wanted me to talk, right? Are you listening now?
“Anyway, Adanne Tansi and I were taken to a prison,” I continued. “She was murdered there. I saw it happen. The Tiger killed her. I don’t know who the other men holding us were. I don’t know who the hell you are!
“Before we got to the prison, Adanne told me about a long piece she was writing—it was to appear in the London Guardian . . . the Guardian. Maybe some other papers. I’m not sure.
“She had learned that the United States might be manipulating factions in the Delta . . . to ensure the oil fields would stay in the right hands. Adanne had tapes of interviews. They were taken from her.
“Whoever captured us . . . must have them now. You have the tapes, don’t you?”
I stopped talking and waited for an answer, any kind of response.
But no one said anything. That was the technique—and guess what? It worked. I kept talking.
“Adanne told me the man known as the Tiger was also being paid by our government. I don’t know if that’s true. You probably know, don’t you?”
I stopped again, then went on. “By the CIA, maybe. The oil companies? By someone from here. Adanne wrote that, and she told another writer, named Ellie Cox. She was killed because of what she knew.
“That’s what I know. That’s what Adanne found out. That’s all of it.”
I stopped again. There was still no response, not a word from the interrogator.
I waited.
I waited.
I waited.
Chapter 151
YOU THINK YOU know what’s going to happen in life. But you never do. And usually the surprises aren’t good ones either.
No one spoke to me for a long time, and I kept waiting for somebody to put a gun to my head, to finally pull the trigger.
Hours after I was interrogated, I heard footsteps in the room where I was being kept. More than one person. At least two.
I pulled myself away from the wall and moved forward. I stumbled and fell to my knees. I pushed myself back up and somebody grabbed my arm.
“Fucker can’t even walk by himself.”
I heard a door being slid open and then I felt cool air hit my face. I was pulled forward and then shoved inside some kind of van or truck.
“Let’s go!” said someone in the front. “We don’t have much time for this.”
For what?
What was happening now?
I had no idea where I was going now, but I knew the chances were good that I was going to die. At certain times in the past, I’d been pleasantly surprised that I’d lasted as long as I had. Still, it felt unreal that I would probably die in the next few minutes. I prayed for my family; and then I said a prayer for myself.
Good, moderately lapsed Christian that I am, I even said a prayer of contrition.
Then the van pulled to a stop. This was it. “End of the line!” I heard one of the bastards say.
I was pushed out and landed hard on the street, and then I heard the vehicle drive away, gravel crunching under spinning tires.
I crawled up and over a curb and then just lay there, partly on grass, partly on a sidewalk or walkway.
They hadn’t killed me.
I was still alive.
Finally—I slept.
Chapter 152
THEN I WAS awake; at least I thought I was.
“I’m Officer Maise, with the DC Metro police. Are you all right, sir?” The patrolman spoke to me even as he lifted the hood that covered my head.
“Why are your hands tied? What happened to you?” he asked next.
“I’m Alex Cross. I’m a detective with Major Crimes. . . . I was kidnapped.”
He had the hood all the way off now, but I couldn’t see much of anything yet, not even his face. My eyes were slow to adjust to the light—to the streetlights mostly. It was dark outside. Night.
“Yes, sir, Detective Cross. We’ve all been looking for you,” patrolman Maise said. “Let me call it in.”
“How long . . . you been looking?”
“Three days.”
Finally, I could see his face, which showed concern but also surprise. He had found me. I was alive. I’d been missing for three days.
“Can you get these binds off?” I asked.
“I’ll call it in first. Then I’ll get the ropes off you.”
“No press,” I told him.
“Of course not. Why would I call the press?” the patrolman asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m not thinking straight yet.”
Chapter 153
I WAS TAKEN home by Officer Maise. The house on Fifth Street was dark and obviously empty. Bree had been staying with us off and on, but she had kept her place, so I figured she was at her apartment tonight. Why would she stay here by herself?
I would call Bree soon, but I needed to go inside the house right now. I entered through the sunporch, passing the silent piano on my way, imagining playing it for the kids or, sometimes, just for myself.
No, I guess I was remembering.
The kitchen had been cleaned up since the last time I’d been there. Probably Bree had done it.
Now it was neat, as if nobody lived here.
I continued walking from room to room, everything quiet, and I felt unbearably sad. I turned on lights as I went, feeling like a visitor in my own house. Nothing about my life felt right, or even real. The world had become such a cruel, unsafe place. How had it happened?
How much blame should America take, and did accepting blame really help anybody? Wasn’t it time to stop offering criticism and start providing solutions? It was easy to be a critic; it took no imagination. Problem solving was the bitch.
I finally made it up to my office in the attic, and I sat at my desk, looking down on the street, wondering if there was anyone out there watching me.
Had the interrogators believed me? Did it matter? It struck me that I didn’t really know that much about the world, the larger picture, anyway. But who did these days?
None of us, maybe. That’s what made it so daunting and scary—and took away hope too. That’s what gave us a feeling that everything was out of our control. So who was in control? Somebody had to be—but who? Somebody had to have some answers. Somebody had just imprisoned and tortured me.
I continued to wander around the house. I needed to call people—Damon, who I hoped was still safely stashed away, and Bree and Sampson. But I couldn’t make the calls yet. I didn’t know what to t
ell any of them, or how to face them.
No, that wasn’t it exactly. The truth was, I didn’t want to put them in danger. Somebody out there might still think that I knew something, something dangerous and important, or maybe just embarrassing to them.
And the really scary part?
They were right.
Chapter 154
I HAD TOLD my interrogators about the possible CIA and Tiger connection, but that wasn’t important to them. They’d let me go, hadn’t they? They could deny all that—and besides, the Tiger was dead. I had cleaned up that particular mess for them.
But the thing I hadn’t told them was the real subject of Adanne’s story: The Americans, the French, the Dutch, the English, and several very important corporations were working with the Chinese in the Delta. China needed oil even more than we did. China was cutting corners. They were ready to pay top dollar for oil and willing to make deals, whatever it took. And because of these business ventures, thousands of Africans had died—men, women, and children. That was the one thing that I knew for certain. It was what Adanne had been researching and writing about.
It was what she had contacted Ellie Cox about; she had talked to Ellie about her research. That was what got her family murdered in Georgetown.
Adanne had told me horror stories during our time together, especially about life and death in Sudan. Rape was the weapon of war there, and girls of age five and up were abused, sometimes by “peacekeepers.” Hundreds and hundreds of mass graves had been discovered but were rarely reported on. Police corruption and brutality, some of which I’d witnessed myself, were rampant—an epidemic, really, and kidnappers were working in the Delta area, especially around Port Harcourt.
On the couch that had been in Nana’s living room since I was a boy, I slept, finally. But not like a baby. That kind of sleep would never come to me again. The truth was, I had accepted that my family was gone, just like so many other families that had been murdered before them. Nothing would ever be the same for me again.
Chapter 155
I WAS WOKEN up early in the morning. Somebody was coming into the house!
I could tell that it was more than one person.
I jumped up from the couch, trying to collect my thoughts in a hurry, to focus on how to get to my gun in the den, when two men burst into the living room!
I was surprised—no, I was shocked—to see Steven Millard and Merrill Snyder from the CIA. Millard spoke first. “Detective Cross, we didn’t know you were here. We—”
Someone else walked into the living room behind Millard and Snyder. My God, it was Ali.
And he looked all right to me—unharmed.
He looked just incredible—safe, alive, home.
“Ali!” I called and went forward to him. “Ali!”
“Daddy! Daddy!” he shrieked as he ran and threw himself into my outstretched arms. My little boy was crying and shaking uncontrollably.
No, no—I was the one crying and shaking. Ali was just holding on to me incredibly tightly. He kept repeating, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” I couldn’t hear the words enough times.
What was happening here? I wondered, looking to the CIA men for answers. Now I saw that Eric Dana and my friend Al Tunney had come to the house as well.
Then I heard, “Alex? Is that you in there? Alex, is that you?”
The voice was Nana’s, but the next person entering the living room was Jannie.
She had her arms stretched out, and she was sobbing as she ran and crashed into my chest. “Oh, my sweet girl, my darling girl,” I whispered as she pressed into me. “Oh, Jannie, sweetheart. Oh, my baby, my baby.”
“I’m okay, we’re okay,” Jannie said. “They kept us in a room. They asked us so many questions. We didn’t know why, Daddy, we didn’t know anything.”
“No, of course you didn’t.”
Then Nana slouched into the living room, and she looked terrible and wonderful all at the same time. She came to us, and then we were all group hugging. The CIA agents just looked on, warmly, it seemed to me, but they said nothing.
“They didn’t harm us,” said Nana. “Thank God, we’re all here together. We’re all safe.”
That was enough for this unbelievable moment, the most emotional one of my life—we were all together, and we were safe.
Chapter 156
THE GOOD MOOD was broken by Steven Millard from the CIA. “Detective Cross, can we have a moment? Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
I went out with Millard, who I took to be the highest-ranking of the CIA representatives at the house. He was the group chief, right? There were four of their vehicles parked outside. Three agents, two of them women, stood around on the sidewalk. I wondered if they had been picked to make it easier for my family when they were brought home.
“Where were they? Where did you find them?” I asked Millard. “Who took them?”
He walked ramrod straight and I decided he had probably been military before he came to the CIA. He seemed very sure of himself, confident about who he was and his role here. So what was it? Who the hell was Steven Millard? What was his role?
“I told you before, Detective, we’re the good guys—we’re still the good guys. Most of us are busting our asses to do a good job and help keep this country safe. . . . Ian Flaherty wasn’t. He sold us out, maybe a couple of times. The last time, it was to the Chinese. Maybe to a bad apple from their basket.”
“My family,” I said, reminding Millard of my question.
“We had Flaherty under surveillance from the moment he reached Washington. Trust me on that one. He led us to your family. I don’t know if they would’ve been released. A couple of mercenaries were with them—they were working with Flaherty. Flaherty was working for the Chinese. Your family was questioned, but mostly they were just insurance, in case it was needed. Flaherty was afraid you might have found out about him in Lagos.”
I shook my head. “Bribery has become a way of life there. Adanne Tansi knew the Chinese were involved with oil trading in the Delta. Thousands of Nigerians have been murdered down there, as you know.”
“Yes, we know,” said Millard.
“And you knew the civil war was coming, but you did nothing to stop it.”
“There was nothing we could do. We don’t need another Iraq, do we?”
I stared into his eyes. “Where’s Flaherty now?”
Millard didn’t flinch as he answered. “We have him. We’re talking to him now. Eventually he’ll talk to us. We know that Mr. Sowande, your Tiger, worked for him.”
“That’s all you can tell me?”
Millard shook his head. “No. I can tell you this. Go home to your family, Detective Cross. They’re special. You’ve been away from them too much.”
I nodded at Millard. He wasn’t going to level with me, so there was nothing else to say. I turned around and began to walk back to my house.
He was right about one thing: My family was special.
They were waiting for me on the porch, and as I got close, another dark sedan pulled up in front. Damon stepped out, and he looked my way. He half waved, half saluted.
But then Damon came running, and so did I.
The Cross family was back together again. Maybe that was all that mattered.
Epilogue
THE LAST OF THE GOOD GUYS
Chapter 157
I COULDN’T LET it end like that—it just wasn’t in me. One night a couple of weeks later, I arrived at the house in Great Falls, Virginia, at a little past three in the morning. Interesting to me, and more than a little creepy, I had received a call from the psychopath Kyle Craig earlier in the week. Cool as ever, Kyle said he was glad I had gotten my family back, and then he hung up before I could say a word to him.
I focused and walked to the front door of a redbrick colonial that was obsessively well kept. I rang the bell a couple of times and waited. I looked at my watch. 3:11. After a few minutes, the overhead porch light flicked on. Then the door slowly opened.
&nbs
p; The CIA’s Steven Millard stood there wearing a dark blue terrycloth robe, his legs and feet bare. He didn’t look so impressive without a suit and tie. I heard a woman’s voice call from upstairs, “Steve, is everything all right down there?”
“Go back to sleep, Emma. It’s just work,” he called back.
Then Millard’s eyes came back to mine. “What do you want at my house at three in the morning, Detective Cross? This better be worth it.”
“Why don’t you invite me in and I’ll tell you all about it. I could use some coffee. So could you.”
Chapter 158
WE WENT INSIDE and sat in the kitchen, which looked as though it had been refurbished recently. Millard didn’t offer coffee or anything else to drink, so I started to tell him why I’d come out to Virginia in the middle of the night.
“I spent some time at Ellie Cox’s before I went to Africa. Your people did a good job in there. I found her partial manuscript, of course. Even some notes she made while she was in Nigeria. Everything looked just fine, though. Nothing incriminating.”
Millard listened patiently, nodded, waiting for the punch line.
I stared at him for a while, and I was thinking about the idea of “good guys.” Were there any left? I thought so. I sure hoped so.
“So that’s why you’re here? To let me know that everything is fine?” Millard spoke again.
“Looked fine. Just like it was supposed to. But last week I went back to the Cox house. At that point I had enough time to be a real detective again. I talked to Ellie’s editor at Georgetown University Press. He hadn’t gotten the last section of Ellie’s manuscript, which surprised him. That was the part that detailed her trip to Nigeria.”
“Maybe she never got to write it,” Millard suggested. “That would make sense, wouldn’t it, Detective? It could be why she was targeted and murdered.”
“I guess so. But if that was true, why would I be here at three in the morning, when I could be home sleeping?”