The officer nods solemnly throughout this explanation, letting him know he has her full attention. She speaks her next question slowly, as if she’s carefully choosing her words. “You understand that it is concerning to us that a ‘private military company’ should come into this country for the single purpose of consorting with a known radical element?”
Lincoln echoes the officer’s precise manner of speaking. “Ma’am, as I have explained, we are not here on company business. We’ve come to see a Filipino citizen by the name of Daniel Ocampo. Our purpose was to interview him about his time as a prisoner of the Saomong Cooperative Cybernetic Army—an experience that took place eight years ago, in a distant country.”
Later that night, True sits with her arms crossed, facing the same officer, presenting a confident, self-contained front. The simmering anger underneath well disguised.
She has already answered questions about Requisite Operations, and about her knowledge of Daniel Ocampo and Reynaldo Gabriel. The questions she dreaded, about the time spent at the printer’s, have not materialized. They may have gotten lucky. That operation was paid for with pre-purchased codes that are not immediately traceable, so it’s possible the police don’t know they were there.
True has finally gotten the senior officer to confirm why they were detained. She had already guessed the answer, but to hear it spoken…
Her voice remains soft but there is a fiery edge to her words. “Eight years ago, my son, a United States Army soldier, was captured and murdered by the terrorist organization known as the Saomong CCA. He died fighting terrorism, ma’am. And here, tonight, you tell me that I have been detained on suspicion of terrorism, simply for asking questions of Daniel Ocampo, another victim of the Saomong and a witness to my son’s execution.”
There is real sympathy in the officer’s eyes as she says, “I understand your passion, Ms. Brighton. My own son was killed in action in Mindanao.”
True inclines her head. “I’m sorry to hear it. You have my deepest sympathies.” She lets her shoulders relax; she rests her hands on the table. “I don’t mean to cause trouble for you, but you need to understand that the American media is going to have a field day with this story.”
“Yes,” Miles says in answer to a question from the slim, neatly uniformed young officer conducting his interview. “I am a freelance journalist. I discovered Daniel Ocampo’s existence while working on another story. Rey Gabriel arranged the interview. He’s acted as our guide.”
His voice is calm. He is calm. Silently he repeats True’s words, telling himself, This is not like before.
Miles has used those words over and over, a comforting mantra that allowed him to hide his panic when a cell door closed behind him. The national police have their own reputation, but they are not Al-Furat. He is not in the custody of Hussam El-Hashem. This is not like before.
The officer proves it by speaking in a polite, conversational tone. “Were you aware of Mr. Ocampo’s radical associations?”
“Yes, in a general way.”
“Are you aware that Mr. Ocampo is interested in hiring the services of Requisite Operations?”
Miles is stunned at the accusation—but he’s pleased too, because their innocence will be easy to prove. “No,” he says firmly. “That’s not true. It’s not remotely credible. What you need to do is contact the United States Department of State. I’m sure you’ll find officials eager to vouch for the integrity of both Lincoln Han and Requisite Operations.”
“Yes, Mr. Dushane,” the young officer agrees. “That will be part of our investigation. Can you tell me, is it your intention to write about this interview that took place with Mr. Ocampo?”
Miles hesitates, pondering the motive behind this question. Have the police realized they’ve got nothing? No evidence? Just a looming propaganda nightmare…
If what they need now is a graceful way out of this situation, he’ll do what he can to help. “No, I won’t be writing about the interview,” Miles says. “Mr. Ocampo stipulated that what he had to say was not for publication. He spoke to us only as a personal favor to True Brighton and Alex Delgado.” He gives the officer a knowing look. “So far, I don’t have a story to report on. Let’s not change that, okay?”
Into Thin Air
They are held overnight. No hotel. No shower. No sleep. But at 0400, word comes that they will be released. The senior officer who spoke yesterday with True comes to see her, and personally escorts her to a police van waiting in a garage behind the station. On the way she explains the confusion: “We received faulty intelligence, facts confused, dates wrong, names inconsistent, but it came from a credible source so we had to treat it seriously. I’m sure you understand.”
True plays the required role, speaking politely, communicating that they are both rational women who understand the complexities inherited from the War on Terror. “A perfect storm of inadvertent errors.”
“Yes. But we have been in discussions with your Department of State and have assurance that you and your companions are respectable and do not threaten our security here.”
True considers several responses but judges them all too acerbic, too sarcastic, too patronizing. In the end, she simply inclines her head as if in thanks. “May I get my things back?”
“All possessions are waiting for you in the van. Your friends too, your husband. We will drive you to the airport, where you will wait for your flight, and leave our country as you have already planned.”
“Yes ma’am.” Can’t fucking wait.
Shaw is out there somewhere in the wide world. True hopes that by the time they get home, Tamara will have a lead on where to look for him.
As soon as she steps into the garage, she sees the little van—white, with no police lights, no markings—Alex waiting outside. “Oh, thank God,” he says when he sees her. He meets her, they trade a quick hug, then he pulls back, studying her with an anxious gaze. “Are you okay?”
“Tired and dirty but otherwise fine. Let’s go.” Lincoln and Miles are already seated in the van. “Where’s my pack?” she asks them.
Miles hands it to her. She spot-checks the contents, confirming her combat lenses and tablet are still there. She switches the tablet on as Alex closes the van door.
A uniformed officer is behind the wheel, another rides shotgun. Both wear sidearms.
“Any word on Rey?” True asks as the van exits the garage.
“Yeah,” Miles says. “I got a message. They kicked him loose last night. He said it was a fun party. Call him anytime.”
The police officers stick with them until they’re through security. After that they’ve got a five-hour wait until their flight departs. True checks in with Ripley, reviews her messages and emails. Lincoln calls home, checks in with Chris. They clean up as well as they can in the bathrooms, have breakfast, and sit down to wait. It’s early enough that only a few people are waiting at the gate.
Alex and Miles nod off—soldier’s instinct: sleep while you can. Lincoln is engrossed in his tablet. Lack of sleep has left True brittle, coffee has got her wired, uncertainty has sharpened the edge. She paces, watching Lincoln out of the corner of her eye as his living fingers tap and slide on his tablet.
Nothing they learned from Daniel has changed his mind or softened his resolve. He’ll go after Shaw and bring him home—one way or another.
She recalls the accusation in his words when they stood together on the bridge: You’re feeling protective of him, True.