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I delay my answer by taking another sip of orange juice, then say, “What makes you think I have a choice?”
That seems to confuse him, so I take pity and say, “Ever hear of the expressiontiger mom?”
“Not that I can say.”
“It’s a term for a mother who will go the extra mile to make her child a success—and, above all, protect him or her,” I explain. “They can be ruthless and pushy, and they spend a lot of money and effort. For me, earlier, I was satisfied being in Army intelligence, thinking my work was protecting my country and my family. And I don’t just mean my husband and daughter.”
“I think I understand,” he says.
“I’m sure you do. Over the years you and I have served with some talented, skilled, and dedicated men and women. We share rations, clean socks, spare ammo, and sometimes…our fears, our hopes. Then they transfer out, or you transfer out. But they’re still your family, even if years go by without seeing them.”
Jeremy nods. At this moment, American and British, we are definitely speaking a common language. All this talking makes me thirsty, so I take one more sip of the cold juice. “About a year and a half ago…that’s when my husband and girl were kidnapped by drug-cartel members from Mexico. I got them free, but only after a lot of bullets and blood were expended.”
Jeremy just stares at me, and I stare right back. “That’s when I knew I had to be in the field to protect my family. I was no longer the type to sit behind a desk, writing reports that might be ignored or misfiled. If I’m in the field, going up against a bad guy, it’s pretty damn clear and simple. Me and him. Or them.”
“I see,” he says.
“Now that you’ve mentioned New York as a target…that’s where my family lives. And others. So when you told me Rashad Hussain might be aiming for the Big Apple, you put a big target on his back. I’m gunning for him, Jeremy.”
Now Jeremy nods, in what looks to be sympathetic understanding. “I see. A tiger mom, that’s what you are.”
I shrug. “More like a werewolf mom.”
A couple of minutes slide by and I ask, “Any chance there’s a telephone on this flying palace I can use? I need to check in and get my chubby ass chewed out before explaining what I’m up to.”
Jeremy rises from his chair. “Certainly. What do you plan to tell them?”
I get up as well. “I plan to plead for mercy—and tell them this op isn’t over.”
“That sounds like one challenging phone call.”
“Then don’t listen in.”
He moves forward and in a minute comes back with a bulky phone that looks like it could reach the international space station, if need be. I take it to the rear of the aircraft and duck into a small conference room that has another wet bar and a bowl full of sweets in the center of a polished wood table.
I take a seat in one of the four comfortable chairs and dial a memorized number, and it’s picked up on the first ring.
“Identification,” comes the recorded voice.
“Cornwall, Amy.” I rattle off my twelve-digit service number.
There’s a hiss of static, and the recorded voice says again:
“Identification.”
Damn it, I think.
I repeat the process, speaking louder and more slowly, and once again the automated electronic gatekeeper refuses me entry.
“Identification.”
One more time I go through the identification dance, and then the dance is over: the same mechanized voice says, “Identification process halted. Goodbye.”
Disconnected.
I dial the number again, and it goes dead.
Damn it for the third time.
