“MRS. COYLE, I’M so sorry about every thing that’s happened,” I said. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
She gestured me inside while the others quietly left the way I’d just come. A few seconds later, the First Lady and I were as alone as we were going to get in that building, even upstairs in the private quarters.
She sat on a long couch with a view of the Treasury Department building behind her. I took one of the yellow upholstered chairs, the same color as the walls and curtains, while she poured coffee from a service of White House china.
“You have some relevant experience with kidnap investigations, isn’t that right?” she started in. “The Gary Soneji case and others?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Three major cases since Soneji. It’s not my primary expertise —”
“But you’re good at it,” she said. It wasn’t a question, but she waited for an answer anyway.
“Experience is probably the best teacher,” I said. “So yes, I’m pretty good.”
Mrs. Coyle nodded, then looked down. She seemed to be building up to something.
She was a quiet First Lady, as they went. More Laura Bush than Hillary Clinton. Both she and her husband were originally from Minnesota farm stock, and I don’t think she ever relished the high-profile aspects of this job.
When she looked up again, her gaze was steady. More focused than before. I realized she was as strong as her husband.
“I know that most of the people looking for Ethan and Zoe right now probably don’t expect to find them alive,” she said all at once. There was no outward emotion to it. Just a fact. “I’m not blind to the statistics on this kind of thing.”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “But I hope you also know that you’ve got some of the best people in the world on this. You have since day one.”
“Of course,” she said, and fell back into another silence. There was obviously something else. I did what comes naturally to me and waited quietly for her to go on.
Then she said, “Your son was held hostage for several months, wasn’t he? Around the time he was born?”
That one, I didn’t see coming at all. Mrs. Coyle had done her homework and then some. It was true. Ali’s mother, Christine, had been kidnapped while she was still pregnant with him. The memory of it cut right through me. Christine and I had never recovered from the incident and its trauma.
I nodded. “It was the worst year of my life,” I said. “Ali’s mother’s as well.”
“And how is your son today?” she asked.
“He’s great, actually,” I said. “A little bigger every day. I’m very proud of him.”
“So you understand,” she said. The look on her face was as close to a smile as anything I’d seen. Just a softening around her eyes, really.
And of course, I did understand now. If it was possible for me to get my beautiful son back, then it was possible for her, too. For Ethan and Zoe to be returned to her somehow.
As Mrs. Coyle went on, she seemed to choose her words very carefully. “Detective Cross, I would never presume to tell you how to do your job,” she said. “But if you were to call your supervisor after this meeting and express an interest in getting more involved with Ethan and Zoe’s case, I can guarantee you that the answer would be yes. Whatever assignment you wanted, however you wanted to do your work. With a pretty free rein.”
This was the Regina Coyle I didn’t know — the politician’s wife. I don’t mean that in a bad way. What I really saw was a mother living through her own worst nightmare and doing whatever she could to save her children.
I set down my cup and took out a pen and a small pad from my jacket pocket.
“May I?” I asked.
“Of course,” she told me.
It was time to start from square one with the president’s wife.
“Tell me about Ethan and Zoe. What are your children like?”
Hala sat cross-legged with the laptop on the bed. She dragged several of the files she’d been compiling to an encrypted disk image on her desktop and reviewed its contents one more time.
Once the disk was finished, only the intended recipient would be able to open it. Every Family member assigned to Washington had his or her own unique sixteen-digit alpha-numeric string. Hala’s code had been what allowed her to access the disks she and Tariq had received up to this point.
While she worked, she kept the local news playing on the television. There was a constant stream these days: frightened faces, traffic warnings, and of course endless speculation about what might be coming next.
It was electrifying, for Hala, to be the one with the answer to that question. Uncle had entrusted her and Tariq with several key targets. Now it was up to them to decide where to strike first; pair the operatives with their assignments; and send out the orders.
Any single one of those targets could change history — much less a fast, violent run through them all. That was exactly what Hala hoped to pull off. Every American life they could take was one more step in the proper direction.
