“Okay. Say it.”
“Greg was abducted Sunday after arriving at Lagos International Airport. We have reason to believe he . . .”
Spenser continued speaking, but I did not continue listening. I was stuck on the first sentence and wasn’t ready to move to the second, or a third.
My first thought was to check the calendar. We were perilously close to April Fool’s Day, maybe it had snuck up on me.
. . . but no. It was still the middle of March.
And Spenser Banks was still talking.
“Wait!” I held my hand up even though he couldn’t see me. “Stop. Stop talking.”
Peripherally, I became aware that the knitting group girls had stopped talking when I gave this order, and they were looking at me.
I turned my back to them and tried to rearrange my thoughts. “Spenser, is this an April Fool’s Day joke? Did Greg put you up to this?”
“Fiona, when have you ever known me to joke or voluntarily interact with Greg Archer?” he responded grimly.
I nodded and tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. Greg and Spenser never got along. My hand started to shake and my knees were weak. I sank to the floor, pressing my side against the wall under the window, and closed my eyes. I needed to focus. I needed to think.
It took a full minute to quiet my mind, to bottle up the chaotic tangle of panic and anxiety and fear. A long dormant facet of my personality came out of nowhere, forced me to focus, to breathe, to calm the fuck down. And I did.
“Okay, start from the beginning. What’s going on?”
“Greg was abducted after leaving Lagos International airport. We believe he was taken off the coast of Bayelsa.”
Bayelsa . . .
Bayelsa was in Nigeria. Not in South Africa. My heart constricted with hope.
“No. No wait, he’s not in Nigeria.” My eyes flew open. “He wouldn’t have left the airport in Lagos. His assignment is in South Africa.”
“Fiona, he’s been in Nigeria for the last two months. We suspect he and six others were tracked from the airport at Lagos to the crew boat. They were swarmed on their way to the rig in the Gulf of Guinea.”
Focus. Breathe. And calm the fuck down.
“No, Spenser. He told me—”
“Then he lied, Fiona.”
The room was rocking, and then it was spinning. I closed my eyes again and braced myself against the wall at my side.
Lied? To me? Every molecule of my being rejected this claim as impossible. Greg would never lie to me, not about something this important. Nope.
Spenser cleared his throat and continued, “He lied to you. Greg has been in Nigeria since January.”
Since January?
“He was just home. He was home for twenty-four hours. I just saw him.”
The room was spinning faster. I forced it to stop.
“This isn’t a phone call I wanted to make, but when it came across my desk I thought you should know.”
“What are you doing . . . I mean, what is the CIA doing to get them back?”
Spenser cleared his throat a second time, and I knew at once what his answer was going to be.
Nothing.
They were doing nothing.
I gripped my stomach because it lurched. I forced it to stop.
Focus. Breathe. And calm the fuck down.
“Greg is a private contractor for Nautical Oil, Fiona. As you know, Nautical Oil is a British company. He’s not there in any capacity for the US government. Greg is part of a special task force to clean up the ecological damage created by Big Oil over the last twenty years. Buhari, the Nigerian president, is demanding action, cutting off access to supply lines until Big Oil cleans up their mess.”
“Greg is part of a task force in Nigeria,” I repeated, trying the words on for size.
I felt a hand close over my shoulder and a presence at my side. I opened my eyes briefly to determine who was standing so close to me. It was Quinn. But he wasn’t standing. He was crouching next to me, his glacial gaze piercing into mine, silently asking me if he could help.
I nodded yes, answering the question in Quinn’s eyes, as Spenser continued. “For the last few months, the local police have been successful negotiating the release of foreign nationals—specifically oil workers—for ransom.”
“Negotiating? The US doesn’t negotiate.”
“You know there’s been a relaxing of US policy on negotiating ransom. We’re not authorized to negotiate or intervene, that’s true. But family members won’t be penalized, not anymore.”
“Just a moment, Spenser. Let me make sure I’ve got this straight.” I caught Quinn’s eye again, making sure he was listening. “You believe Greg was abducted Sunday after leaving the Lagos airport in Nigeria. He and six others were followed and their boat was overpowered on the way to a rig in the Gulf of Guinea. The US government is doing nothing to recover the hostages. Instead, it’s been suggested that we rely on the local police to negotiate a ransom for his release. Do I have that right?”
“You have it right,” Spenser confirmed.