Do-Gooder Read online

  I grabbed the remote for the television in the room. Everything on it might be in Flemish or French, but I could muddle through enough to ignore my father.

  “Henry needs your help.”

  I powered off the TV. “I’m listening.”

  “There are some people who have been tracking the movement of weapons and mercenaries in the region. They’ve been trying to locate Averyanov’s base of operators for almost two years.”

  “Avery-who?”

  “Vadim Averyanov leads a band of mercenaries who have been working for one of the nastier rebel groups in the CAR, one with a lot of power and very deep pockets.”

  “Oh, you mean Shorty.”

  “Shorty? Averyanov is actually quite tall.”

  “About six-two, built like a tank with dark, nearly black eyes? Shaved head. Russian accent. He traded me for nasty chemicals?”

  At Chuck’s nod I continued, “Shorty. Compared to the goons he’s surrounded by, he’s short.”

  “Can you describe the others?”

  “They were creepy clones of each other. All built and bald. The only one who didn’t look like Mr. Clean was the scientist guy.”

  “Scientist?”

  “Yeah, the guy who is going to take whatever was in those damned canisters and turn it into weapons of mass destruction.”

  Chuck leaned forward, his face suddenly intent. “What did he look like?”

  I pushed the wheeled table back so it covered my feet instead of my lap. Now I could cross my arms over my chest. “What’s this got to do with Henry?”

  A knock sounded at the door and two men in black suits walked in without waiting for permission to enter. Unless they were filming another Men in Black in Brussels, I thought I was about to meet Dad’s mysterious “Agency.”

  Chuck jumped to his feet. “You said twenty minutes.” He stood toe-to-toe with one of the black suits.

  “We changed our minds.” Suit #1 stepped over to one side of my bed so Suit #2 could move to the other side. I really wanted to stand up, or at least not be lying in a bed. Real clothes would have been nice too. The cops who interrogated me after the gun thing didn’t know squat about intimidation. These guys only had to stand there with their official-looking suits and serious expressions and I wanted to confess. I also had a slight urge to check under my bed for an alien.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  They didn’t answer. I looked at Chuck. His neutral expression didn’t give anything away.

  “We have some questions for you, about what happened while you were being held hostage.” Suit #2 stood with his feet shoulder width apart, military straight. He pulled a small notebook with a leather cover out of an inside pocket of his suit jacket. A glittering silver pen followed. In this world of impressive technological advances, he was using a pen and notebook?

  “I bet we can find a phone or something with a digital recorder on it so you don’t have to take notes,” I offered.

  He didn’t even blink. “Where did you pick up the chemical compounds?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “We didn’t. We picked up bandages.”

  “In which the chemicals were hidden.”

  “Do I need a lawyer or something here? A parent or guardian, at least?” Again I tried not to notice Chuck flinch.

  Suit #2 made a note in his little notebook. “This is not a legal proceeding.”

  Which was so not an answer.

  “Your father is here,” said Suit #1.

  I snorted. “Right.”

  “Why are you being uncooperative?”

  “Seriously? You guys haven’t told me your names or flashed a badge of any kind. I don’t know who you are or what you want. Why should I cooperate?”

  Suit #1 glanced from me to Chuck.

  “Isaiah,” Chuck said, “they are our best chance of getting Henry back. Let’s table our personal problems and focus on the matter at hand. When we’re no longer neck-deep in civil war and weapons trafficking we can deal with the rest of it.”

  “It’s not all about you.” I drew my knees up to my chest and tried to wrap my arms around them. The hose from the IV pulled.

  Dad adjusted the IV stand, freeing up the tubing so I didn’t pull on the IV port.

  “Look,” I said to the suits, “it’s not like I can help you. I never saw the canisters or whatever was supposedly in the boxes of medical supplies. I couldn’t tell you if they were there or not. I only know they weren’t there when Shorty and his goons picked us up.”

  “Shorty?” Suit #2 asked.

  “Averyanov,” Chuck said.

  “I don’t know who they were. In my head I called them things like Shorty and The Slav. Snake Eyes and Mike.”

  “Mike?” Suit #1 asked.

  “Yeah, he looked kind of like Mike Tyson.”

  “Did you get any real names?”

  I scoffed. “Like they’d introduce themselves to me.”

  “Where did they pick you up?”

  I’d bet they knew exactly where Henry and I’d been grabbed. Boxes of medical supplies strewn across a middle-of-nowhere highway was a pretty good X to mark the spot. “Ah….” I thought back. “We’d just turned off the road we’d been on, heading south. There was a big crossing of refugees out of the CAR.”

  “P4?” Chuck asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah, that sounds right.”

  “That stretch of road runs parallel to the border with the CAR. So close you can actually see the demarcations if you know where to look,” Chuck said while Suit #2 took notes.

  “Which way did they take you? Did they bring you into the CAR? Are they based somewhere in Cameroon?”

  “I don’t know. I was unconscious.”

  Suit #2 made another note in his little book.

  “What about the trip for the exchange? Which direction did you come from?”

  “I don’t know. First, I was blindfolded. Second, even if I hadn’t been blindfolded, I was caught up in DKA, so any details would have probably gone right over my head.”

  “DKA?”

  “Diabetic ketoacidosis,” my dad told them. “He’d have experienced delirium, weakness, dizziness.”

  “It’s a lot like being superdrunk,” I said.

  Chuck’s eyebrows lifted.

  Seriously? Was this really the time to worry about my underage drinking?

  “What can you tell us about your location?” Chuck asked.

  Sighing, I shook my head. “Look, I really don’t know anything.” In my head I went through every moment of the kidnapping and the events before that. Breakfast with Mrs. Okono, the slow traffic, the logs. The snake. I shuddered and looked at the back of my hand, now decorated with an IV. The refugees. It had been midafternoon when the mercenaries showed up.

  Midafternoon.

  “What?” Chuck leaned closer, and while they didn’t move, The Suits came to attention.

  “I don’t know where they took us,” I said slowly.

  “But…,” he prompted.

  “But I don’t think it could have been more than two or three hours’ drive from where they picked us up.”

  “I thought you were knocked out.”

  I ignored Suit #1’s commentary. “It was midafternoon—maybe threeish?—when they grabbed us. We arrived at the camp just before sunset. What time is sunset there?”

  “This time of year it’s about six, six thirty.”

  “So wherever we were kept was three, three and a half hours from where we were picked up.”

  “That doesn’t narrow it down much.”

  My IV-less hand gripped the sheets next to my hip. “Next time I’m kidnapped, I’ll be sure to ask for GPS coordinates.”

  “You’re doing fine.” Chuck rested his hand on my shoulder. I tried not to be comforted by the gesture. I did, however, take a little pleasure in the icy green glare Chuck sent The Suits.

  “We’ve been tracking these guys for years. Millions of dollars and thousands of man hours have been invested. This is the f
irst time we’ve had a confirmed look inside their camp. I would appreciate it if you could take this seriously.”

  Maybe if Suit #2’s voice hadn’t been so demanding—or maybe belittling?—I might have let it go. Maybe. “Honestly, I don’t give a fuck about your millions of dollars or the thousands of man hours. I was held for more than a week and I almost died. Henry, someone I do give a fuck about, is still being held in a run-down excuse of a lumberyard. Now, I’ll tell you what I can, but until Henry is out of danger, you’ll have to deal with my piss-poor attitude.”

  Chuck’s grip on my shoulder tightened. At first I assumed he was warning me, but the intent look on his face said something else.

  “What?” I looked from my dad to The Suits. Chuck leaned forward, and The Suits had actually taken a couple of steps closer. “What is it?”

  “Did you say it was an abandoned lumberyard?”

  “Yeah….”

  “An abandoned lumber facility within three, or four to be safe, hours of the border. We should be able to find that.” Suit #1 took out a phone and began tapping at the screen.

  “What else can you tell us? How big was it? How many buildings? What was the surrounding terrain?”

  “One big building, a warehouse-like place with a small office. A line of smaller buildings, huts or cabins along the side. Maybe twelve of them?”

  “How many people were there? How many vehicles? What kind?” Suit #2 shot out questions even as Suit #1 entered information onto his phone.

  “This will help you rescue Henry?”

  “Unfortunately, any attempt to rescue Mr. Jackson would jeopardize the bigger mission.” Suit #1 answered, his focus still on his phone.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Sometimes the good of many must take precedence over the good of an individual.”

  “But… you traded chemicals for me. Chemicals that are going to be used to kill innocent people in the Central African Republic. For me.”

  “We didn’t trade the real components.” Suit #1 ran a finger across the screen of his phone, then looked up at me. “Making the exchange was our best chance of garnering the information we needed.”

  I swore all my blood rushed out of my body, leaving me cold and empty. My breathing picked up speed, and it was all I could do to keep from hyperventilating. “You traded fake chemicals to mercenaries who still had a hostage? They’ll kill him when they find out. They’ll kill him.”

  Suit #2 didn’t even pause before he said, “Sometimes sacrifices—”

  “You’re going to sacrifice Henry? You’re going to leave him there? But… but… you can’t.” I took a deep breath. Not to steady my nerves, but because lack of oxygen made me light-headed. The steady beep of the heart monitor next to my bed started to come quicker and less regularly than it had.

  The Suits didn’t react to my words. Suit #2 had pulled out his own phone and started muttering at it while he stabbed at the screen. Chuck closed his eyes. Suddenly he looked a lot older. Sorrow traced deep furrows into his forehead, and the creases at the corner of his eyes couldn’t be called laugh lines. There was no laughter there. Only regret.

  “No. No.” I shook my head. In denial. In fear. In outrage.

  The Suits continued to babble between themselves and into their phones, but their words were gibberish.

  “Stop it. Stop it!”

  Three sets of eyes—two emotionless, one sad—focused on me.

  “I want you out of here.” Considering I wanted to yell, I was proud of the even volume I kept. My voice was a little rough, a little intense, but at least I hadn’t resorted to screaming.

  “We have questions—”

  “Out!” Chuck surged out of his chair and whirled on The Suits. “Get out. You’ve got what you came for.”

  “Your son—”

  “Is in the hospital. He nearly died because of stupid politics and international intrigue. He’s seventeen!”

  “Your cooperation—”

  “If you don’t get out now, I will call hospital security. Your invisible badges and top-secret clearance will eventually free you from Belgian custody, but can you afford the delay?”

  Nothing was said out loud, but a battle of some kind waged between Chuck and The Suits. The Suits weighed Chuck’s threat. Chuck strengthened his will. After minutes of silent push and retreat, The Suits nodded and left.

  Chapter 23

  I LAY back after the door closed behind them. The thin pillow the hospital provided wasn’t very comfortable, but compared to the dirt floor of the hut, it was the height of luxury. Of course, it wasn’t the same as Henry’s shoulder. That was the best pillow of all.

  Chuck rubbed his face and settled back into the visitor’s chair.

  I had a million questions for him, starting with why he’d ignored me for so long and ending with how he knew international spook politics. The latter was by far easier to ask than the first.

  “Why did Shorty—Averya-what’s-his-face—know who you are? Why did he assume you had the canisters?” Even now, saying the word canisters made me think of old black-and-white spy movies. Knowing that some kind of secret government agency was involved made it worse. Next thing you know, James Bond was going to join the fun.

  He opened his mouth, then shut it.

  The door to my room clicked shut, and Mom came forward. She’d taken the time to shower when she’d checked into her hotel. She hadn’t taken the time to do her hair or put on makeup. I scooted over on the narrow hospital bed and beckoned her over to sit in the space I’d cleared. I grabbed her hand.

  Mom looked at Chuck. “I think he deserves the whole story.”

  Another silent conversation took place over my head. Was it an adult thing? Something learned in college? Whatever. It was getting annoying. “What story?”

  Neither answered. At least not out loud.

  “Damn it, somebody tell me something!”

  Finally Chuck nodded and raked his fingers through his reddish-brown hair. “You asked how Averyanov knew my name. Well, it goes back almost twenty-five years. After med school I came to Africa with a special medical missionary program. It was a good opportunity to put my skills to use and do something worthwhile at the same time. I’d started at a camp in Chad for Sudanese refugees.”

  So his story was going back into ancient history. I settled back to be updated on the last quarter century.

  “I’d been there almost three years when an old college buddy approached me. He was working for a governmental agency—”

  “Like the CIA?” Somehow I didn’t think he would say, but I couldn’t stop myself from asking the question.

  “—for an agency that will remain nameless.” Chuck’s lips pursed. “It was his job to collect and analyze data from the field. The camp in Chad was ideally situated to transport information. Information from Libya, from Sudan. It was an international informational crossroads. He asked me to… keep an ear to the ground for any interesting information. I’d pass on whatever I learned.”

  Holy shit. My father had worked for the CIA (or some other Nameless Agency).

  “At first it was exciting. My work was satisfying and worthwhile, but then I got to do more, something that could have more far-reaching consequences. It’s easy to get caught up in that kind of excitement and patriotism. I began to take a more active role in the information exchange. I had contacts over half a continent and connections to several powerful government personnel. Eventually some people became suspicious of my role—not that I was deeply involved. The information that came through me was pretty small-time. But when the chance came to move to a camp in the Central African Republic, I jumped at it.

  “Best decision I ever made,” he said, smiling at Mom. “I met your mom there, and then she was pregnant with you.”

  Seeing that silly, infatuated look on Chuck’s face was a little surreal. At least they were good memories.

  “I decided to quit my role as informant. There wasn’t much risk, but I wasn’t wil
ling to put you or your mom at risk at all.”

  Somehow I didn’t think it was that easy to quit the Nameless Agency. Chuck must have noticed something in my expression. “For the most part I was left alone. Every so often, though, something would come to me that had to be passed on. Somehow word got out. Some of the people who were compromised by the information that came my way learned about me. Threats were made. Threats against you and your mother.”

  Mom’s hand tightened around mine, and she rested her head against mine.

  “I had to get you out of the CAR. To do that I had to make a deal. You and your mom would be sent back to the States and protected until the threat was neutralized. In exchange, I’d stay and follow the daily routine until everyone believed that the rumors about me were just that: rumors. They also had to believe that you and your mom were sent away because things weren’t working out between us. It was another layer of protection.”

  Chuck stood up and began to pace the small room. “I had to cut off all ties. There was too great a chance that any telephone or Internet activity was being monitored. It wasn’t supposed to last as long as it did. When things were deemed safe enough, so many years had gone by that I didn’t know how to approach you again.”

  “How long?” I asked. That he stayed away to protect me and Mom, I’d think about later. But now I needed to know how long he’d been able to contact me and chose not to.

  He slumped back into the chair. He knew what I was asking. “Two years.” “So at any point in the last two years you could have called and didn’t?”

  “Would you have welcomed me?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, and he cut me off. “Honestly. Would you have welcomed contact from me?”

  “If you’d explained….”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t explain. Not then. I shouldn’t even be telling you any of this now.”

  If he’d approached me two years ago, with no explanations, how would I have reacted?

  I’d probably have told him to take a leap. In language that would have gotten me grounded.

  “Isaiah,” Mom said, brushing a lock of hair off my forehead.

  I jerked my head away. “You knew.” She flinched, but I ignored it. “I thought I could trust you, and all this time, you’ve been lying to me.”