15
Mitchell strolled into Mike Donaldson’s office in the basement of the complex, grinning from ear to ear. He was wearing a comfortable pair of blue jeans along with a long-sleeved, red-and-white rugby shirt. In his hands, he carried a carafe of homemade coffee, a delectable mix of Hawaiian and Latin American beans, and a box of freshly made muffins from the bakery near his apartment.
Donaldson looked up from his laptop with a foul look in his tired eyes and launched in on Ryan. “You told me that Fahimah was going to be safe, that nothing would happen to her, and now she’s lying in the hospital suffering from internal bleeding. Jesus, Ryan, you don’t know how pissed I am with you right now.”
Mitchell placed the coffee and muffins down on the table and then held up his hands in surrender. “Mike, I’m truly sorry for what happened last night. That’s why I called you right after I called the boss.” He knew that Donaldson was a lifelong bachelor and had never once even come close to being married. Age and religious differences aside, Mitchell could see in Donaldson’s body language that he was more than just a little concerned for Fahimah’s well-being.
Mitchell said, “Mike, I feel as bad as you do, but we were set up. Miss Satomi’s kidnapping was akin to a well-executed military ambush. They thought of everything. From the women dressed like her all the way down to the unmarked helicopter. It was damned near perfect.”
Donaldson ran a hand through his unkempt white hair, took a deep breath to calm himself. “Sorry, Ryan, I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I haven’t slept much, and I’m really worried about Fahimah, that’s all.”
“Mike, you can’t fool me. You’re more than a little concerned, and I get it. She’s one special young lady, and trust me on this one, I intend to find out who was behind all of this and make them pay for what happened last night.”
“Am I that obvious?” said Donaldson as he closed his laptop and stood up.
“Mike, in our line of business, you should care about the people you work with. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”
Donaldson reached over, grabbed the carafe of coffee, and poured out two mugs of piping hot coffee. Looking over at the clock on the wall, he turned to look at Mitchell. “Do you realize that you’re two hours late?”
“Yeah, traffic was a bitch this morning,” said Mitchell, avoiding eye contact.
“Now who’s hiding from the truth?” said Donaldson, shaking his head as he rummaged in the muffin box until he found a blueberry one, his favorite.
Mitchell took a sip of coffee. It was delicious. “Mike, I’ve been surfing the Web and watching the news, and so far they’ve reported nothing I didn’t already know. Have you been able to find anything about last night’s kidnapping that isn’t tabloid conjecture?”
The media had been having a heyday with the story. Murder, mayhem, and a kidnapping in the heart of Washington D.C. — it all made for great front-page news. Some tabloids were going so far as to call the dead Asian women female ninja assassins, none of which sat well with Mitchell.
“No, not yet,” replied Donaldson. “I have been going through the police reports since I arrived here this morning and was on the phone with a friend of mine from Interpol just before you walked in. However, so far, nothing has surfaced. If her kidnappers have ransom demands, they have yet to release them.”
Mitchell sat back in his chair and let out a deep sigh. He knew it was far too early in the investigation for anything worth pursuing to have come up. These things always took time, a lot of time, and a fair bit of luck.
Donaldson said, “Ryan, have you spoken with Sam or Cardinal recently?”
Mitchell shook his head. After last night’s events, he still had not found the time to check in with them. For the next couple of minutes, Donaldson told Mitchell what was happening in Mongolia, and that he had sent them chemical agent detectors, just in case they needed them.
Mitchell thanked Donaldson and made a mental note to call Sam before it got too late in the day. He was about to grab another cup of coffee when the phone rang. It was O’Reilly. He sounded exhausted. “Ryan, please come to my office, right away.” Mitchell waved at Donaldson, and then headed upstairs.
At General O’Reilly’s office, Mitchell was not surprised to see Nate Jackson standing there, waiting for him. It seemed that one could not be spoken to without the other being present. Jackson was wearing a pair of tan slacks and an open-necked, navy blue shirt. Tammy Spencer didn’t bother with the usual banter; instead, she simply pointed firmly with her pen down the hallway. Giving Mitchell a look that said that she didn’t want to play any games today, Spencer watched as Mitchell and Jackson walked to the general’s office and then knocked on the door.
“Come in, gents,” said O’Reilly gruffly, without looking up from his laptop.
Mitchell and Jackson stepped inside and then politely waited for O’Reilly to tell them to take a seat, which he did, his eyes still fixed on his computer screen.
Mitchell looked over at his boss; he could see that he probably hadn’t had a single minute’s rest since the shooting in the gallery the night before. O’Reilly’s eyes were bloodshot. Mitchell began to wonder if he had even gone home yet.
O’Reilly closed his laptop and then looked over at the men sitting in front of him. “We seem to be having a run of awfully bad luck. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to read this morning’s situation report, but Lancaster’s team in Oman has had a bad vehicle accident. One of his men is in the hospital, with life-threatening injuries. Thankfully, he isn’t married. I spoke with his parents early this morning and let them know what had happened and to call me at any time if they had any questions. Also, last night on the range, one of the Kosovar police trainees managed to shoot himself in the foot. Not to mention, a person under our care was kidnapped in Washington D.C., and one of our own was shot,” said O’Reilly, his voice heavy and tired.
Mitchell could see that O’Reilly was taking all of the news hard. “Sir, with all due respect, none of this is your fault. Sometimes you just have a run of bad luck.”
Jackson looked over at O’Reilly and nodded in agreement.
Mitchell continued. “Sir, last night we were set up. There was no way you could have predicted what happened. This wasn’t the work of any amateur tree-hugging group. These people had resources, well-trained people, and access to a ton of money.”
O’Reilly raised his hand slightly, stopping Mitchell from saying another word. “Ryan, I believe the name on the door still reads General Jack O’Reilly. Therefore, anything that happens is on me and me alone. You and your people performed well and you should be proud of them. I am, however, going to have Luis examine our operating procedures to see if there is anything we can tighten up to avoid any further training mishaps.”
Mitchell nodded and sat back. O’Reilly could teach business execs and almost every politician in the country about leadership and accountability. His boss lived by the mantra of leadership by example.
Jackson said, “Any word on Fahimah, sir?”
“Yes, I was speaking with her parents just before you two came in. She is resting and should be able to see visitors later today.”
“That’s great news,” said Mitchell.
“Her family has asked us to give them some privacy for a day or two, so we will all respect their wishes and keep away until I say it’s okay to visit.”