“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“If the State Department hadn’t insisted on strict compliance with an outdated policy, the FBI would have accepted your invitation to work on the case.”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 something, even if it was as simple as keeping our cupboard stocked. For Mom and me, cooking was something to do besides worry, a way to pretend that we could weather the crisis together and maintain a semblance of normalcy.
Dinner was a delicious shrimp creole made with-you guessed it-shrimp from Rey’s Seafood Company. They weren’t the gigantic ones from deep, cold waters off Venezuela that made such beautiful shrimp cocktails, but they were of good size for the Mosquito Coast. They tasted so fresh, and as the son of a fisherman I knew why. They were fresh-frozen, which sounds like an oxymoron, but Americans eat far more fresh-frozen seafood than they realize. Restaurant patrons in New York, Chicago, or Boston would never guess that when their snooty waiter assures them that today’s snapper is “fresh,” he really means “fresh-frozen”-as in fresh when it was caught, frozen in the boat on its way to the dock, thawed for processing at the plant, refrozen for shipment, thawed again when it was sold, and therefore “fresh” when it finally lands on a dinner plate. Unappetizing as all that sounds, if it weren’t frozen at various stages of the long journey from Nicaragua to your plate, that delicious grilled whitefish drizzled with mango butter would taste like whale dung and smell even worse.
Of course, Mom just picked at her dinner, wondering if Dad had anything to eat. Honestly, I hadn’t seen her sit down and eat a real meal in almost a day and a half.
“Any leads on Lindsey?” she asked.
My sister was still missing, which by itself wasn’t alarming. She traveled with no itinerary in pursuit of her journalistic pipe dream. With one member of the family kidnapped, however, it would have been nice to be able to account for her.
“This afternoon I spent an hour calling people I thought she might stay in touch with. Some of them seemed to think she was in Costa Rica, a couple others said in Guatemala. It’s all hearsay. I just can’t find anyone who’s talked to her recently.”
Mom was about to say something, then slipped back into her thoughts, pushing her food around. The plate was still full. Mine was empty.
“You should eat something,” I said.
“I can’t.”
“It won’t do any good to starve yourself.”
“This tomato sauce is kind of nauseating.”
“As co-chef, I take serious exception.”
“Sorry. I’m just not hungry. I’ve been nibbling since five o’clock this morning.”
I did seem to recall predawn noises in the kitchen. It was all part of the screwed-up pattern. A little reading at midnight. Letter writing till 2:00 A.M. Housecleaning at three, and organizing the closets at four. Neither of us was sleeping well, but Mom was especially affected. She was accustomed to nights alone while Dad traveled for work. This time was different, however, her lying awake in the lonely king-size bed wondering if that empty space beside her might be permanent.
“Have you talked to Jenna?” she asked.
That seemed out of the blue. Mom and I hadn’t talked about her since I’d gotten back my engagement ring and washed a dollop of seagull droppings out of my hair. “No, I haven’t.”
“I noticed her name wasn’t on your list of people to call.”
“That’s because she’s my ex-fiancee.”
“Don’t be like that. She and your father were very fond of one another.”
“I know. But I’d rather just not deal with her right now.”