Inside was a Nikon SLR camera, a recon journal, some rotting Army T-shirts, and other odds and ends. The Nikon and the journal were packed in a waterproof rubber sack. They were the only things marginally serviceable.”
“What makes you think they were your father’s?”
“They were able to make out his name written in one of the T-shirts.”
The president nodded. “Okay. Sounds like it might be real. What do you need Pike’s team for?”
“Sir, I’d like to send him to the embassy to get the stuff. I know it’s breaking the rules, getting his team involved with a defense attaché who has nothing to do with his cover, but he’s headed there tomorrow, and JPAC is going to take forever. The equipment won’t help them find my father. Whoever turned it in will do that. I really want that camera and journal before it ends up lost in bureaucratic limbo.”
Kurt knew that the Joint POW-MIA Accounting Command would do everything they could to recover his father, as they did for all investigations into MIAs from America’s wars overseas. He also knew that they were understaffed, and that for every person’s remains recovered by the command, there were probably three hundred bogus stories to investigate. Chris Hale was now at the bottom of that heap, with the camera and journal—the only thing left of Kurt’s father—tied up waiting its turn.
President Warren said, “That’s it? You just want Pike to swing by the embassy while he’s in-country?”
“Uhh. Well, no. My buddy can’t release the gear to Pike. There’s a huge trail of custody that has to be followed. Eventually, it ends at me, but I was hoping you could make some calls and cut through the red tape.”
The president smiled. “That’s easy. I’d be glad to do it, but I think you’re a little paranoid. Nobody’s going to give a shit about a camera from 1970.”
8
T
he man testifying before the House Foreign Affairs Subcommittee on Terrorism, Nonproliferation, and Trade droned on and on about some obscure prohibition against a technology transfer that was destroying the GDP of some obscure country, of which, apparently, the United States had some obscure but important reason to remain engaged. It was all Congressman Richard Ellis could do to even pretend to care. He had much more important things on his mind. At least important to him. He was thankful that this hearing was taking place in the Rayburn House Office Building, where his workplace was located, instead of the secure compartmented information facility buried underneath the Capitol Visitor Center, where the House Intelligence Committee met, his other committee obligation. It meant he could steal away to his office on the breaks.
A large, jovial man, he had a classic patrician’s face. He looked like a politician should, at least from the left. The profile on the right was marred by a three-inch birthmark that rose from his right eye and ran up into his hairline, like he’d smeared lipstick on his brow. He did his best to cover it with hair, and was always particular about camera angles.
Ellis was well liked on both sides of the aisle, but this conference was testing even his patience.
He must be breathing from his ears
. Finally, the man shut up, allowing Ellis time to whisper some nothings into the chairman’s ear and bolt.
As he arrived at his office, his secretary handed him a list of calls he’d missed. He thumbed through them until he found one that simply said
Oakpark Industries
with a number. The number was new, as expected.Every time he called Oakpark, he would dial a new number. Those were his rules, not theirs. Rules learned from a lifetime of practice. It was why he was still around.
He told his secretary to hold all calls and closed the door. Pulling open a drawer, he withdrew a brand-new pay-as-you-go cell phone. His number would be new as well. After this call, the phone would go in the trash. Ellis knew that the only way anyone was listening to phone calls
“What makes you think they were your father’s?”
“They were able to make out his name written in one of the T-shirts.”
The president nodded. “Okay. Sounds like it might be real. What do you need Pike’s team for?”
“Sir, I’d like to send him to the embassy to get the stuff. I know it’s breaking the rules, getting his team involved with a defense attaché who has nothing to do with his cover, but he’s headed there tomorrow, and JPAC is going to take forever. The equipment won’t help them find my father. Whoever turned it in will do that. I really want that camera and journal before it ends up lost in bureaucratic limbo.”
Kurt knew that the Joint POW-MIA Accounting Command would do everything they could to recover his father, as they did for all investigations into MIAs from America’s wars overseas. He also knew that they were understaffed, and that for every person’s remains recovered by the command, there were probably three hundred bogus stories to investigate. Chris Hale was now at the bottom of that heap, with the camera and journal—the only thing left of Kurt’s father—tied up waiting its turn.
President Warren said, “That’s it? You just want Pike to swing by the embassy while he’s in-country?”
“Uhh. Well, no. My buddy can’t release the gear to Pike. There’s a huge trail of custody that has to be followed. Eventually, it ends at me, but I was hoping you could make some calls and cut through the red tape.”
The president smiled. “That’s easy. I’d be glad to do it, but I think you’re a little paranoid. Nobody’s going to give a shit about a camera from 1970.”
8
T
he man testifying before the House Foreign Affairs Subcommittee on Terrorism, Nonproliferation, and Trade droned on and on about some obscure prohibition against a technology transfer that was destroying the GDP of some obscure country, of which, apparently, the United States had some obscure but important reason to remain engaged. It was all Congressman Richard Ellis could do to even pretend to care. He had much more important things on his mind. At least important to him. He was thankful that this hearing was taking place in the Rayburn House Office Building, where his workplace was located, instead of the secure compartmented information facility buried underneath the Capitol Visitor Center, where the House Intelligence Committee met, his other committee obligation. It meant he could steal away to his office on the breaks.
A large, jovial man, he had a classic patrician’s face. He looked like a politician should, at least from the left. The profile on the right was marred by a three-inch birthmark that rose from his right eye and ran up into his hairline, like he’d smeared lipstick on his brow. He did his best to cover it with hair, and was always particular about camera angles.
Ellis was well liked on both sides of the aisle, but this conference was testing even his patience.
He must be breathing from his ears
. Finally, the man shut up, allowing Ellis time to whisper some nothings into the chairman’s ear and bolt.
As he arrived at his office, his secretary handed him a list of calls he’d missed. He thumbed through them until he found one that simply said
Oakpark Industries
with a number. The number was new, as expected.Every time he called Oakpark, he would dial a new number. Those were his rules, not theirs. Rules learned from a lifetime of practice. It was why he was still around.
He told his secretary to hold all calls and closed the door. Pulling open a drawer, he withdrew a brand-new pay-as-you-go cell phone. His number would be new as well. After this call, the phone would go in the trash. Ellis knew that the only way anyone was listening to phone calls
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