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I say, “We get to the States, we’re going to need something actionable.”
“You’re smoked, I’ve been Faroe’d,” he says, pulling his Lexus into a well-lit parking spot just outside a squat concrete building that looks like it was part of a buy-one-get-one-free deal. “You have an idea?”
“Yes,” I say, opening up the door. “A domestic source in the States I can trust.”
“You sure?” he asks as we walk up a small pathway leading to the glass doors.
“Absolutely,” I say. “He’s even seen me naked a few times.”
Inside the reception area are two young RAF officers in dark-blue slacks and light-blue shirts, no neckties. Jeremy takes them into a corner by two desks and talks with them in low tones. One leaves through another door, and Jeremy comes back to me and says, “This will be tricky. So please, don’t disturb me, no matter what.”
I say, “Fair enough. But I need your phone, as insecure as it might be. I want to call my husband.”
“Tom? That’s…oh, I get it. You want to see what he can find out about Rashad.”
He pulls out his iPhone, works the screen, and says, “Here. This Word document lists every company and corporation that Rashad is involved with. Hopefully your Tom can find something out.”
I take the iPhone. “If Rashad’s off to New York, there’s got to be some sort of place he can use as a staging area, a meeting place, even an apartment to get a good night’s sleep. If it’s in New York and Rashad owns it, Tom will find it.”
A door on the other side of the small office flies open with a bang, and a very angry and stout RAF officer stands in the doorway. Near the open door, hanging from the ceiling, is a thin TV showing BBC World News.
“Windsor,” he says.
“Captain Bloom,” Jeremy says. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”
The officer frowns. “That’s all I’ve agreed to do. Come in.”
Jeremy walks in, the door slams shut, and the young RAF officer remaining says, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
I hate tea, but he’s so damn polite and eager. “I’d love one,” I say, plopping my tired butt onto a nearby sofa. My feet are still sore, so I prop them up on a coffee table that holds a couple of copies ofSoldiermagazine,Northolt Approachmagazine, and that day’s edition of theTimes.I start dialing.
It rings.
Rings.
Oh, please…
Click.
“Cornwall.”
I sag against the couch in relief, look down at the screen and at the displayed Word document. “Tom, it’s Amy.”
“Amy!” he cries out. The love and concern—and, yes, even a bit of anger—in his voice reach right into me and squeeze my heart. “How are you?Whereare you? What’s going on?”
I find my voice, “Oh, Tom…I’m okay. Really, I’m okay. And…I’m in an undisclosed location. You know how it is. And what’s going on is…Tom, I need your help.”
He says, “You got it.”
The sweet young RAF officer sets a teacup and saucer down on the coffee table. “First things first,” I say. “Ticonderoga. Have you packed? Have you left Manhattan?”
My love says, “Of course. I got the message.”
“Where’s Denise? Can I talk to her?”
“She’s safe,” Tom says. “She’s out fishing with my Uncle John.”
My overworked mind gives up for a moment, and I say, “Who?”
