“I didn’t mean to bring this on.”
“You didn’t. Just try again some other time.”
“Would it really make a difference?”
“You’d be amazed. The earlier in the day, the better. Before breakfast is best.”
“I can come back tomorrow.”
“I’ll call and let you know how she’s doing before you drive all the way down.”
I thanked her and started out the door.
“You bastard, Matthew! What kind of a son are you anyway?”
I looked at the nurse, almost speaking to myself. “She thinks I’m my father?”
“She’s terribly confused today. But truthfully, you two do look a lot alike. You even sound alike.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that, but usually it was intended as a compliment. I had my dad’s smile, my dad’s good heart, whatever. No one-least of all his own mother-had ever mistaken me for my father the bastard.
Again I thanked the home-care nurse, then closed the door on my way out. As I cut across the front lawn to the pebble driveway, I tried to dismiss the outburst as irrational, knowing that the anger expressed by Alzheimer’s patients toward loved ones was often baseless and imaginary. But it made me realize how windows to the past could close forever, whether by the slow onset of a disease or a sudden abduction. There were so many questions that I might never have the chance to ask my father now, not just about family matters but about the separate life he’d built for himself in another part of the world-all those trips to Central and South America that had finally gotten him abducted. Or worse.
I got in my Jeep and drove away, fearful that I’d forever feel the weight of conversations we’d never had.
The drive up to Miami ended the same way the drive down had started, with a phone call to Duncan. His secretary said he was meeting with a new client and couldn’t be interrupted.
“Do you know if he spoke to anyone at the FBI or State Department this morning?”
“I’m sure he hasn’t,” she said. “This meeting has been going nonstop since you called.”
A more encouraging end to the conversation would have been nice, but at Cool Cash, paying clients always came first. I was sure that Duncan would eventually make a few phone calls to try to break the deadlock that was keeping the FBI out of my father’s case, but time was slipping away. I decided to call the embassy myself, my contact person at American citizen services in the consular section, William Ebersoll.
“Anything new?” I asked.
“Nothing I’m aware of.”
“I got an interesting call from the FBI last night. They tell me that the State Department invited them to work the case but they declined.”
“I’m not in a position to confirm or deny that.”
“I was told that the reason they declined was that the State Department had placed unreasonable conditions on their involvement.”
I sensed he was fuming. Nettles had evidently related more details to me than the State Department had expected. “Whoever told you that is mistaken,” said Ebersoll.
“Are you saying that there were no conditions?”
“No. The conditions were not unreasonable.”
“What were they?”
“Very simple. The State Department welcomes the involvement of the FBI, so long as the FBI agrees to refrain from taking any actions that are inconsistent with the U.S. government’s long-standing policy on terrorism.”
“What policy do you mean?”
“The same policy we have espoused for many years. In cases of international terrorism, American law enforcement personnel cannot play any role in negotiations with kidnappers that lead to the payment of ransom or other concessions in exchange for the release of hostages.”
“Are you saying that if the kidnappers promise to kill my father unless we pay them a nickel, the official position of the U.S. government is to tell my family to start making the funeral arrangements?”
“That’s not a very realistic example. Nor is it productive for me to debate our policy with you. I can certainly understand how harsh this might seem to you or any other private citizen caught in this terrible situation. But the U.S. government does not give in to terrorists. That would only promote more terrorism.”
“The FBI advised my mother and me that if we wanted to pay a ransom, the government would not stand in our way.”
“That’s true. We won’t withhold basic administrative services, such as putting you in contact with local law enforcement agencies. But you will not have the support and approval of the U.S. government. More to the point, the State Department will not invite the bureau to assist in any case abroad if the FBI negotiators intend to actively develop strategies that will facilitate the payment of a ransom.”
“I can’t believe that the State Department is keeping the FBI out.”
“I assure you, we’re not.”
“If the State Department hadn’t insisted on strict compliance with an outdated policy, the FBI would have accepted your invitation to work on the case.”
“That may well be the explanation given to you by a particular FBI agent, but the bureau is fully aware of the U.S. policy against concessions to terrorists. If they’re declining to get involved in the case, it’s for their own reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Reasons other than a disagreement over policy.”
“What possible justification could the FBI have for ducking a case involving a kidnapped American citizen?”
“We can’t force the FBI to get involved. We can only invite them. Theoretically, any number of things could lessen the bureau’s interest in a case abroad. Conflicts with local law enforcement. Special dangers to FBI personnel. The identity of the victim.”
It was subtle, but he seemed to place emphasis on the last point.
“Are you suggesting that the FBI’s declination has something to do with my father?”
He hesitated, as if he’d said too much. “I was simply talking in hypotheticals.”
“Is there something I should know?”
“Perhaps you should ask the FBI.”
“Perhaps. But why do I have the sense that you know something you’re not telling me?”
Again he paused. “Like I said, ask the FBI.”
Pressing for more would only have antagonized him. “Thank you,” I said. “I definitely will ask them.”
As we hung up, I finally noticed the streams of cars speeding past me on the interstate. I’d been driving like my grandmother, not sure what to make of things. Mom and I had taken a liking to Agent Nettles at our initial meeting, but it seemed impossible to reconcile the excuse he’d given me last night with the explanation offered by the consular agent this morning. The FBI was not taking the case, but why?
One way or the other, my own government was lying to me. It was only a matter of which agency.
My head was pounding as I cut across the expressway and took the fast lane back to Miami.
6
Mom and I cooked dinner ourselves, even though her friends had brought over enough casseroles and covered dishes for her to kiss the Cuisinart good-bye forever. Those closest to our family felt as compelled as we did to do s
Dinner was a delicious shrimp creole made with-you guessed it-shrimp from Rey’s Seafood Company. They
