embarrassed, but even so, he never came clean.
“Taylor tipped the police to criminal activities and was evasive on how he came by his information. Didn’t that make you suspicious?” Daly shook his head, as though talking to an idiot.
Jessie leaned forward, no longer concerned with keeping her mouth shut. This guy just pissed her off. “Do you take me for some wet-behind-the-ears rookie?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Of course it made me suspicious and I questioned him and looked into his background. There was absolutely nothing that raised red flags. No known criminal contacts, no drugs, no arrests, no priors period, unless you count some parking tickets in college. He was a successful photographer with dozens of professional references.” Leaning back, she crossed her arms. “But you should know that already.”
Daly’s lips thinned and his face flushed as he narrowed his eyes. “You better believe we’ve checked his business contacts.” He moved to the edge of his seat and smirked. “Now we’re checking his personal contacts. Which led us to you, Ms. Bishop.”
She played it cool. “Really?” She arched an eyebrow at him.
He ignored her comment and flipped through some papers in the file. “Our investigation turned up that you and Taylor had a relationship. Is that correct?”
Jessie chuckled and stood. Crossing her arms, she moved to the window and sat against the ledge. “Wow, you guys certainly do your homework.”
“We’re very thorough.” He threw her a smug look and then fiddled with the tape recorder. Jessie knew moving around would make the recording come out less clear, but she didn’t care.
She countered his look with one of her own. “I would hardly count a few months as a relationship.” Jessie plucked a dead leaf off of a plant on the ledge beside her. No matter how hard she tried, the plant never thrived.
“You’ve only been seeing each other for a few months?” He sounded surprised and Jessie felt a measure of satisfaction. She knew the agent was only doing his job, but being the subject of an investigation was new to her, and she didn’t like the idea of someone going around questioning her friends behind her back. The irony that she did the same thing when she investigated a case didn’t make it any easier to accept.
“Yes. And I’m surprised we even made it that far because the first date was pretty much a disaster.” Except for the kiss. Jessie didn’t think Daly needed to know that detail. Before Mark had rushed off, he had dropped a kiss on her lips. It had been unexpected, but not unwelcome. “We saw each other several times afterwards, but it wasn’t serious.” Not yet anyway. There hadn’t been enough time. She cleared the lump in her throat.
“At any point when you were with him, did he mention going to Afghanistan in August of 1999?”
Jessie moved back to her chair and sat. “Yes.” She leaned to the side and tossed the dead leaf into the trash can beside her desk.
Daly didn’t even try to hide his irritation this time. He motioned with his hand, circling it in a keep going motion. “And…”
She shrugged. “He showed me some pictures he took. They were amazing.” Jessie recalled the poverty in the photographs and even more, the stark despair in the women’s eyes. That was all she could see of them, covered head to toe in their garments.
Daly leaned forward. “Did you see any pictures of what might have been training camps?”
Confused, she leaned back in her chair. “No. Just shacks with women and children. There were some landscapes too. Those were stunning also, but Mark won’t admit this, or maybe he doesn’t know, but what he does best is candid photos.” Jessie bit her lip. She didn’t have a creative bone in her body, but even she had realized how mesmerizing the photos were. It was as if the women were allowing a brief glimpse into their souls. They had trusted Mark enough to lower their defenses.
“Candid photos? Like snapshots?”
Jessie rolled her eyes. This guy knew even less about photography than she did. “Well, sure. I guess you could call them snapshots. Just like you could call the Mona Lisa ‘some painting’. What Mark did was art.”
“Oh, excuse me. I can see I hit a nerve with you.” Daly smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He stopped the recorder and flipped the tape over.
“Listen, Mark Taylor and I had only been seeing each for a short while, but I knew him for several years before. Yeah, he drove me nuts with his premonitions, but even so, I couldn’t help liking the man. He’s a good guy.” She raised her chin in defiance when he snorted. Jessie rolled her chair up tight against her desk. “And now, he’s just disappeared.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. And nobody has any clue where he is. Even his lawyer is in the dark.”
Daly’s face closed down and she got the impression he knew something and it didn’t bode well for Mark. “I’m not at liberty to tell you where he is, but I can tell you that he’s been transferred to a more secure location.”
“Secure?” Wasn’t a federal prison secure enough? “Why?” Jessie glared at the man until he began to squirm. As satisfying as that was, she knew it was pointless. This man was low-level CIA, he probably didn’t have a clue where Mark was being held. She sighed and dropped the tough act. Her voice softened, “He has family and friends that are worried about him. No matter what you think he might have done, his parents, at least, deserve to know where their son is.” The anguish in his mother’s voice the time she had called looking for information was something she never wanted to hear again.
Daly sighed. “I’m not sure about the location myself, and even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. You realize the President has declared him an enemy combatant?”
She’d been right. The guy had been bluffing before, but it didn’t matter. Since seeing Mark in custody, she had done some research on enemy combatant status. The designation was reserved for those deemed significant threats to the country. “I didn’t know it was official.” When she had mentioned it to Mark in the holding cell, she had been trying to scare him into talking. Never had it entered her mind it would actually happen.
Eggs. Again. At least they were better than the oatmeal. Mark poked the spork into the yellow, rubbery mass. He ate every morsel and used his finger to wipe up the tiny pieces left on the plate. As unappetizing as the meals were, they were the highlight of his day. The only problem was, he never knew when they would arrive. He had already been awake for hours.
Some mornings, breakfast would be waiting for him as soon as he opened his eyes, others, he would work out for almost two hours before a clink at the slot would announce its arrival. The length of time between the meals varied too. On occasion he had barely shoved out his lunch tray when dinner arrived, but often he became light- headed before the next meal slid through the flap. It was hard to stay calm when that happened. He couldn’t help wondering if he had been forgotten.
Once, in an effort to stem the panic, he’d tried to save some of the food by stashing a piece of bread under his blanket. They immediately demanded that he send the bread out. The loss of the food had bothered him almost as much as finding out they were constantly monitoring him. Sure, he knew the dark bubble on the ceiling concealed a camera, but knowing for certain that he never had a moment of privacy made it more intimidating. His next meal hadn’t come for a very long time. He never tried to hoard food again, and he ate every bite of whatever came in on the plate, even if it tasted terrible.
It didn’t take long for him to realize he would go mad confined to his cell with nothing to do but stare at the walls. He set himself a routine, a margin of control. When he awoke, he considered it ‘morning’ and did as much of a normal bathroom routine as he could manage under the circumstances. Then he began his exercise program. Despite the cell’s tiny dimensions, he was able to do crunches, push-ups, lunges and squats. He made sure every movement was precise, the intense focus kept his mind sharp. Counting out each exercise and holding the positions for a set amount of seconds, gave him a rough estimate of the passage of time.
He worked especially hard on his stretching. His sessions with Jim and his team had taken a nasty turn. Not satisfied with the endlessly same answers to the endlessly same questions they had decided he would think of more interesting things to say if they chained him to the floor or the walls of the interrogation room and made him bend his body into ‘positions’. Muscles stretched or cramped, joints twisted, bearing weight they were never designed for and if he broke the position they would make him ‘start over’, but he never knew what measure of time they were using. More than once he’d had to lean on a guard to steady himself for the walk back to his cell. The stretches helped. A little.
