18
As if I were slow, the airman manning the gate handed me my pass and repeated, “You can go in, but the lady and the taxi cab must remain out here.”
I said, “What sense does that make? If I’m cleared, then I’ll vouch for them.”
He said, “I can give you a pass based on your ID, but you can’t sponsor her since you don’t work here and you’re not active duty. And his cab company isn’t on an approved list to enter.”
“So what am I supposed to do? I need to get to the NATO Fusion Centre.”
“Sergeant Major, you’ll have to walk.”
“Walk from here? Seriously?”
I knew fighting the idiotic rules of the US Department of Defense would get me nowhere. Actually, I was surprised to see the front gate of Molesworth being manned by US Air Force in the first place. I figured it would be manned by British soldiers. They’d let me in because of my retired military ID card but wouldn’t let in anyone else, which, once again, aggravated the hell out of me for not getting a rental car.
According to the dumbass rules of DoD, if I had a rental, I could drive it in—albeit leaving Jennifer at the gate—but since we’d taken a cab, I was out of luck.
Jennifer and I had argued the point, and I’d eventually backed down when I couldn’t find the air base on Google Maps. She’d said a British cabdriver from Cambridge had a hell of a lot better chance of locating the base than we did driving around the English countryside and asking questions at every intersection. I’d relented, then we’d paid the damn cabbie to drive around and ask questions. I guess we paid for the accent. Eventually, we’d passed through the old, World War II outer barbwire gates and driven up to the security checkpoint, only to find that they wouldn’t let us in. Which was becoming par for the course on this little adventure. We were getting nowhere.
After finishing in Kylie’s dorm room, Blair had taken us to the Eagle, which had turned out to be one of the coolest places I’d ever seen—a pure English pub with a history that made it hallowed ground in my mind. According to the sign outside, over a pint two scientists had solved the riddle of DNA, but what meant much more to me were the names on the ceiling put there by the smoke of a cigarette lighter. All were from American or British bomber crews from World War II, left in between missions over the Continent. I couldn’t help but wonder how many had drunk a pint, left their name, then never returned.
One day, I’d be back under better circumstances.
We’d talked to a manager, but as could be expected, he had no idea about Kylie or anyone else on the night in question. To make matters worse, when I asked about waiters or waitresses to interview, I’d been told that all orders were placed at the bar, and the food was sent out by table number. They had no system where a waiter or waitress would remember anyone for any length of time.
I’d walked about the interior, seeing the various little pillbox rooms and the outdoor patio, and knew I was out of luck. Without knowing exactly where she’d had dinner, there was no way I could find someone who would remember Kylie. The place was just too big and chopped up, with nooks and crannies all over. But she’d been here, of that I was sure.
Standing on the patio, staring at the gate to the Corpus Christi campus and trying to find a thread, I was about to throw my hands up when Jennifer had said, “Pike, look above the gate.”
I did, and saw a CCTV camera. I then went through the area again, looking for surveillance. They had a camera in almost every room. The entire place was wired. I went back to the manager, pointing at the camera over the bar.
“How long do you keep a recording of this place?”
He said, “I have no idea, but it’s irrelevant. I can’t show them to you.”
“Why not? I’m not looking to get you in trouble for anything. I’m just trying to find a girl.”
He held his hands up. “I know. It’s a privacy thing. The owner won’t show them without a court order. I’ve seen it in the past. I don’t even know how to if I wanted. We don’t keep tapes here. It’s all contracted out.”
“You mean like it’s downloaded somewhere else?”
“Well, yeah. Like the cloud. The surveillance company maintains the cameras and keeps the footage. It’s all done over the Internet. We don’t have it here. It gives the owner a firewall when folks like you come asking.”
Which was very good news. It was a firewall, all right, but one I could penetrate with the Taskforce, saving me from cracking this guy in the head and stealing old-school VHS tapes.
“What’s the name of the company?”
“Sentinel Security. Out of London.”
We left at that point, knowing we wouldn’t get anything else, and drove to Molesworth to explore the mysterious visitor’s pass, only now I was going to have to hoof it to figure that out. Proving yet again how little sway a retired commando had.
The gate guard saw my expression and repeated, “Sergeant Major, if you want to go inside the post, you’ll need to park the taxi in the visitor area and walk.”
I shook my head in frustration and said, “Okay, damn it. Where is the Fusion Cell?”
“You see that golden dragon? Just walk around to the right . . .”
He continued blathering on and I continued to get aggravated. Eventually, I just waved the cab forward, told Jennifer I’d be right back, and started walking at a pace that I hoped would let off the anger.
The post ended up being very, very small. Originally full of ICBM silos, it had been dedicated entirely to nuclear counterforce strikes during the Cold War, but now it was a collection of intelligence fusion cells for NATO and the newly minted Africa Command, or AFRICOM. There were no barracks or commissaries. Just a select few buildings that did top secret intelligence activities. It didn’t take long to find the NATO cell. All I had to look for were the flags of all the member countries flying in the breeze.
A squat, four-story building with few windows, painted a dull yellow—or maybe white that had faded—it had a fence surrounding its compound with a turnstile not unlike ones you see at amusement parks or New York City subways. A seven-foot thing with multiple rotating bars to prevent entry. Next to it was a phone. Being unannounced, and knowing I was on camera, I picked it up.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m looking for Tech Sergeant Nicholas Seacrest.”
“And you are?”
“Nephilim Logan. Retired sergeant major, US Army.”
“Purpose of your visit?”
“I have some questions for him regarding a missing female.”
With the enormous scandals going on with sexual assaults in the Department of Defense, I hoped mentioning the word female would cause the gates to open. Everyone was so afraid of being accused of not cracking down on anything smacking of sexual harassment, I figured I’d get in just so they could see my face. Instead, I heard, “Do you know the office?”
“No. He’s a weatherman in the US Air Force. I need to talk to him.”
“Stand by.”
I waited for a good ten minutes, then saw an entourage headed my way, which made me wonder if they’d had a few sexual assault problems with this Nicholas Seacrest in the past. There were four people, two Air Force and two Army. As they got closer, I saw the lowest rank was a major.
What the hell?
They reached the gate and a bird colonel named Fairchild did the talking.
“Who are you?”
“I told the desk, I’m Sergeant Major Nephilim Logan. I’m here to see a Nicholas Seacrest.”
“Why do you want to see him?”
“He was the last known person with a female who’s come up missing. I’m trying to locate her.”
“Well, he can’t talk. Sorry. He had nothing to do with any female.”
“How would you know? You haven’t even asked her name. Do you know all of the comings and goings of the men here?”
“Sergeant Major, he had nothing to do with any female. Period. He’s on a classified assignment.”
“Come on, sir. I’m not a New York Times reporter. I’ve got top secret clearance. Stop the bullshit. I just want to talk to him. I’ll find him here or at his barracks.”
“You won’t find him at all. He’s on leave. He went back to the United States for thirty days.”
“I thought he was on a classified assignment?”
I got a blank stare.
I asked, “When did he fly?”
“That’s classified.”
The answer tripped a trigger he didn’t want to see. I slapped the bars, causing them to jump back. I shouted, “Are you shitting me? Open this fucking gate. Right now.”
Colonel Fairchild’s face went from amazement to anger at the outburst. He said, “Sergeant Major, I don’t know where you’ve worked in the past, but I will not tolerate such behavior. You will leave here right now, or I will call base security. Tech Sergeant Seacrest is on leave. Period.”
I stared at him for a moment, wanting to rip his throat out. I looked at the men to his left and right, then turned away without another word.
By the time I reached the cab I was in a fine mood. I told the driver to hang on a minute, then pulled out my phone, moving out of earshot of the cabbie. Jennifer exited the car and asked what had happened. I said, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
She said, “What’s that mean?”
I dialed and said, “It means we need some help.”
I waited for the connection, fuming, and Jennifer said nothing more, knowing she’d get the answer from my call. After a few seconds, I got Kurt on the phone, his voice sounding tinny from the encryption.
“Tell me you found her.”
“No, sir, I haven’t. But I will with a couple of requests.”
“What? What do you have?”
“First, I need all surveillance video from a place called the Eagle here in Cambridge. It’s held on a server for a company called Sentinel in London.”
I heard nothing, then, “You want me to hack it?”
I knew what was going through his head. I was telling him to use US assets to penetrate a foreign company for personal business. He wasn’t asking because he was unsure of my request. He was running the ramifications through his head. Deciding how far he would go to save his niece. Deciding where his boundaries lay. As the commander of the Taskforce, he had the capability. Now it was only a question of whether he would use it.
I said, “Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I’m asking. The Eagle is her last known location. I need the footage to see who she was with.”
He said, “You mean she was on a date with someone? That’s why you want it?”
“Yeah. And that brings up the second thing. I think I know who she was with, but I’m getting the runaround by the military here.”
“Military? What do you mean?”
“I think she went on a date to the Eagle with a Tech Sergeant Seacrest from Molesworth, but they’re telling me he’s on leave. And they’re doing it in a weird way. I got a full-court press from a bunch of Chairborne Rangers when I asked about him. All top brass.”
I heard nothing but breathing. I said, “Sir? You there?”
“What was the name?”
“Technical Sergeant Nicholas Seacrest. He’s apparently a weatherman here. I need to talk to him. I need you to put some pressure on the NIFC.”
I heard an explosion of air, then, “Jesus Christ. Kylie’s been taken by terrorists.”
I said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Nick Seacrest is the vice president’s son.”