stop there for a week or so to do some interviews. But then he was coming home to us.”
The older man paused for a moment before continuing. “He called when he landed in Jordan. He knew his mother was worried about him. We missed the call, but he left a message.”
Matt looked around the table. From the looks on their faces earlier, he had assumed the worst. Dread was giving way to shock and confusion.
“What happened?”
“We never heard from him again.” Mr. Al-Ahmed responded as he used one of the table napkins to pat his eyes.
“Where is he? Is he still in Jordan? Did he go back to the Middle East?
“We don’t know,” Mrs. Al-Ahmed replied.
“We hired a private investigator,” Mr. Al-Ahmed explained. “He went to Jordan and talked to everyone that came into contact with my son over the last few weeks. He was able to confirm that Mohammed was booked on a flight leaving Jordan, stopping in Frankfurt and then arriving in Miami. He went to the airport in Amman but the officials there would not tell him anything. They wouldn’t even confirm whether he got on the flight. But this investigator was able to confirm through the Frankfurt officials that he did not arrive there. Finally, someone working at the airport told the investigator that when Mohammed was trying to board the plane in Jordan, he was approached by three men.” He hesitated. “There was … an argument. A heated discussion. We don’t know exactly. But Mohammed left with these men. He didn’t get on the flight. This man, the man who saw Mohammed, said that itdidn’t look like my son left willingly and that the men he went with were dressed in uniforms like Jordanian military.”
Mo’s mother and sister were crying softly. Mr. Al-Ahmed leaned over and murmured something in his wife’s ear.
“So was he arrested?” Matt finally asked.
Mr. Al-Ahmed turned back to Matt and shrugged his shoulders. “The private investigator was never able to find any records indicating that Mohammed had been arrested -- by the Jordanian police or the military. Both deny they have him or even detained him.”
“What about the U.S. government?” Matt asked. “Did you try to contact the U.S. Embassy in Jordan?”
“Of course. They said they would make some inquiries, but they haven’t gotten back to us. We keep calling but they say they don’t know anything.”
“What more can we do, Matt?” Mr. Al-Ahmed said urgently.
Mrs. Al-Ahmed reached past her husband and grabbed Matt’s hand tightly. “You must help us, Matt.” She looked at him with eyes filled with tears. “Please. We don’t know what else to do.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING Matt called Bob Sandberg, a war correspondent for the
Washington Post
whom he had met through Stephen. Bob was the veteran of the group, having spent time in Bosnia, Haiti and Iraq and having covered more wars than most career military officers. He was also the most cynical, no doubt after years of witnessing American soldiers at their best and the government agencies for which they served at their very worst. With his rapier wit, Bob was known for delivering narrative as deadly as rifle shots.
Bob arrived in Iraq before the war started and then traveled back and forth between Iraq and the United States for several years. Three years after President Bush declared the end of military operations, when it was clear that military operations were not at all over and wouldn’t be any time soon, Bob found out that his bride, the fellow journalist he had married after many years as an avowed bachelor, was pregnant with twin boys. Almost overnight, his priorities had changed, and he returned to the States permanently.
Matt knew that since returning, Bob had been covering national politics for the
Post.
He still had to deal with warring factions and covert operations and the bad guy was harder to identify, but at least he didn’t have to travel with armed guards and he wasn’t ducking live bullets on a daily
The older man paused for a moment before continuing. “He called when he landed in Jordan. He knew his mother was worried about him. We missed the call, but he left a message.”
Matt looked around the table. From the looks on their faces earlier, he had assumed the worst. Dread was giving way to shock and confusion.
“What happened?”
“We never heard from him again.” Mr. Al-Ahmed responded as he used one of the table napkins to pat his eyes.
“Where is he? Is he still in Jordan? Did he go back to the Middle East?
“We don’t know,” Mrs. Al-Ahmed replied.
“We hired a private investigator,” Mr. Al-Ahmed explained. “He went to Jordan and talked to everyone that came into contact with my son over the last few weeks. He was able to confirm that Mohammed was booked on a flight leaving Jordan, stopping in Frankfurt and then arriving in Miami. He went to the airport in Amman but the officials there would not tell him anything. They wouldn’t even confirm whether he got on the flight. But this investigator was able to confirm through the Frankfurt officials that he did not arrive there. Finally, someone working at the airport told the investigator that when Mohammed was trying to board the plane in Jordan, he was approached by three men.” He hesitated. “There was … an argument. A heated discussion. We don’t know exactly. But Mohammed left with these men. He didn’t get on the flight. This man, the man who saw Mohammed, said that itdidn’t look like my son left willingly and that the men he went with were dressed in uniforms like Jordanian military.”
Mo’s mother and sister were crying softly. Mr. Al-Ahmed leaned over and murmured something in his wife’s ear.
“So was he arrested?” Matt finally asked.
Mr. Al-Ahmed turned back to Matt and shrugged his shoulders. “The private investigator was never able to find any records indicating that Mohammed had been arrested -- by the Jordanian police or the military. Both deny they have him or even detained him.”
“What about the U.S. government?” Matt asked. “Did you try to contact the U.S. Embassy in Jordan?”
“Of course. They said they would make some inquiries, but they haven’t gotten back to us. We keep calling but they say they don’t know anything.”
“What more can we do, Matt?” Mr. Al-Ahmed said urgently.
Mrs. Al-Ahmed reached past her husband and grabbed Matt’s hand tightly. “You must help us, Matt.” She looked at him with eyes filled with tears. “Please. We don’t know what else to do.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING Matt called Bob Sandberg, a war correspondent for the
Washington Post
whom he had met through Stephen. Bob was the veteran of the group, having spent time in Bosnia, Haiti and Iraq and having covered more wars than most career military officers. He was also the most cynical, no doubt after years of witnessing American soldiers at their best and the government agencies for which they served at their very worst. With his rapier wit, Bob was known for delivering narrative as deadly as rifle shots.
Bob arrived in Iraq before the war started and then traveled back and forth between Iraq and the United States for several years. Three years after President Bush declared the end of military operations, when it was clear that military operations were not at all over and wouldn’t be any time soon, Bob found out that his bride, the fellow journalist he had married after many years as an avowed bachelor, was pregnant with twin boys. Almost overnight, his priorities had changed, and he returned to the States permanently.
Matt knew that since returning, Bob had been covering national politics for the
Post.
He still had to deal with warring factions and covert operations and the bad guy was harder to identify, but at least he didn’t have to travel with armed guards and he wasn’t ducking live bullets on a daily
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