Hoda and Jake Read online

  Not if she could help it. Hoda backed slowly into him again, pressing his hand still on the part of her body already grown more generous by her condition. Tony actually closed his eyes for a moment. “Mama,” he murmured.

  And he let her go. Just let her go, and hung his head.

  Instantly, Hoda’s hands were silently up, her eyes blazing defiance at the roomful of men: stop! Every single one of them stayed in place. Hoda took Tony by the hand and turned to him. They embraced.

  “Let’s put the table and chairs back where they were,” said Jake quietly. “Clear the room. Let’s go! Quickly.”

  “Are you sure?” whispered the senior FBI agent.

  “I’m not,” Jake hissed back. “But she is. We’re back in business.”

  In thirty seconds Tony and Hoda faced each other at the table again. Only this time it was a different Anthony Campagnano. This was Tony, his mother’s son. Anthony, the wrathful sociopath, used his alter ego’s name as a means of derision: that’s what made it so confusing.

  “Tony?” Hoda’s voice was motherly. Jake hoped, whenever he heard that voice with his children, he wouldn’t think of the times she’d used it in action, as she had more than once.

  “Yes, mama?”

  “Tony, how did the cuffs get open?”

  “The bad man had a piece from a pen. He’d been saving it for a long time.”

  “Does he still have it?”

  “No.”

  “I know you’re telling the truth.” Hoda knew nothing of the sort, but was willing to take the risk. She didn’t want anyone else to enter the room. Jake knew this, and told the FBI men in the observation room.

  Hoda said, “I’m going to put the cuffs back on. Okay?”

  Tony nodded, and—while everyone held their collective breath in the next room—did so. The loud clicks, one after another, let them exhale.

  Hoda slowly, carefully took her place at the table.

  “Tony?”

  “Yes.” He said it calmly. As to a friend.

  “Do you and Anthony fight a lot?”

  “Not often. But whenever we see each other. He hates me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I used to be nice to Mama. Anthony hated her, but I understood.”

  “Tony, did you and your mother sleep together?” It was as far as she was prepared to go, but she needed to know in order to form an opinion on the two personalities. Tony just nodded. So, he had been sexually assaulted, probably while still quite young.

  That last question could have snapped Tony back into Anthony, Hoda knew. Time to make hay, as Hoosiers say: “Tony, do you know where Anthony buried those girls?”

  He nodded. “Most of them.”

  Hoda looked up at the mirror. “If I get some maps, will you show me?”

  “He’ll kill me! He hates me!

  “No, he won’t. We’ll protect you.

  “I’ll try.”

  The FBI team had assembled maps of the area where each murder took place and an agent brought them in to Hoda. He didn’t stay. They caught a break here: Hoda was one of the very few women who had actually completed US Army Ranger School; and one of the biggest tickets on that tour was land navigation. The lady knew maps, no question. Jake—whose Reserve uniform, when he wore it, had also sported Ranger tabs—quickly spread out duplicate maps in the observation room.

  Hoda worked fast and carefully, avoiding the victim names so as not to trigger the flip they dreaded, back to Anthony Campagnano. The county maps came and went: Suffolk in Mass; Miami-Dade and Broward in Florida; Wayne in Michigan; Harris, Fort Bend and Dallas-Denton in Texas; Alameda in California; Johnson in Iowa. One after another, Tony Campagnano meekly stood and pored over the coordinates, meticulously recalling landmarks and calculating grave sites. His memory was remarkable.

  As Hoda marked the maps in the interview room, Jake duplicated in observation. Agents input the data with map software on a laptop, and soon the team had a complete geographical picture of everything “Good Tony” said.

  With remarkable swiftness it was over, after more than two hours’ frenetic activity. The agents were busy refining their digital report when Hoda carelessly said to Tony softly, “That’s a good boy. Your mother would be proud of you.”

  “Puta!” Campagnano spit the word. In the following second, several things happened at once.

  Hoda adroitly leaped backward, her martial arts training making her seem part ballerina; the interview door burst open and five Terre Haute corrections men burst through, passing Hoda and confronting Campagnano; and the now-returned Anthony Capagnaro left his steel chair and rose on his still-tethered chain, lifting the table and trying to reach the beautiful target who had eluded him before. He was shouting in Italian and while she did not speak it Hoda recognized many of the words as choices from a vocabulary steeped in filth. Leaving the paper maps behind, she was out of the room to join Jake, leaving the animal with his keepers.

  ***

  Though Hoda was the primary on the operation, Jake was senior CIA agent, and wrote the report to Robinson. It reached Robinson’s secure e-mail in-box about two hours later, and little more than a half hour after that Robinson’s personal business jet left Andrews Air Force Base for Hulman Field. Jake hadn’t asked; Robinson offered it, tribute to a job well done. He wanted his agents home, but more to the point he wanted to give them some privacy from the dreaded FBI, and aviation fuel prices be damned.

  The FBI and local police and corrections had been effusive in their praise of Hoda. “Great Job!” and “never seen such courage” and “never seen anything like it.” Now they cruised at tens of thousands of feet in the Midwestern sky, racing home.

  Uncharacteristically, Jake wasn’t happy for her. Or, didn’t seem so. It dragged Hoda’s soaring spirit down. As always happened when a thorny issue came between them, one or the other addressed it directly, treading with love. This time it was Hoda.

  “Jake, what’s wrong?”

  They didn’t lie to each other, and they didn’t evade. “He touched you, Hoda. He touched you. No man touches you.”

  “Honey,”—she seldom called him that, it somehow turned him into a pet—“Forget it. He’s a psychopath. He’s not human.”

  “If you thought psychos weren’t human, you wouldn’t be a psychiatrist.”

  Touché. She’d have to be more careful. “I didn’t mind, Jake. Honestly. It was a job. Just part of the job.” Still, it had left a bruises, and Jake had seen them. Would see them for the few days, until they healed.

  “Once was alright,” Jake said with some bitterness and regret. “But the second time you asked for it. You asked for it. That’s what I don’t understand.”

  “You’d have killed him.”

  “You bet your life. You were betting your life. I’d have killed him with my hands.”

  “But then we wouldn’t know where the girls are buried. Wouldn’t have accomplished the mission. And how many times have you said it? The mission always comes first, Jake, it’s more than you, me or us. It’s the mission.” She put a soothing hand on his arm, in the next plush seat, and lay her head on his shoulder. As she knew it would, his protective arm came ’round her shoulder.

  “I just love you,” he whispered. And Hoda closed her eyes.

  About three hours later, at their condo, Hoda heard water running, and running, in the bathroom.

  “Hoda?”

  “Yes?”

  “Come up here, would you?”

  When she reached the bathroom, she found the tub filled with steaming water, and some of her favorite bath beads. Jake was in his robe. “Get undressed,” he said. “We’re taking a bath.”

  “Together?”

  “Together.”

  “Jake, we’ve never done that.”

  “First time for everything. Get undressed.”

  Hoda giggled, tripping lightly to the bedroom, where she complied with her husband’s wishes. He was the husband, after all.

  “I’ll t
ake the tap end,” Jake said when she rejoined him.

  “You could have gotten in,” Hoda said, taking off her robe. She saw the cloud pass over his face when the bruise on her chest re-emerged.

  “Jake, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Think about it. About him. He’s not here, and we are. This was a lovely idea. Jake Holman, you are a lovely man.” She tested the water with her hand, then a toe. It was hot, but standable. Gently, gently she lowered herself in, letting the moist heat purge her body and soul.

  She giggled. Jake loved that sound. “Come on in,” she fairly sang. “The water’s fine.”

  And Jake did. As he came around into her view, she noticed he was carrying two candles, which he placed on the tub edge and lit.

  “Mmmmmmmm,” she said, laying back and closing her eyes.

  “Ahhhhh,” he said, wincing slightly at the heat.

  “You big baby.”

  “Maybe so. But I’m your big baby.”

  “And I’m so glad.”

  Gently, Hoda reached out with her toes.

  Bachelor in Paradise

  The tropical bungalow looked like a bachelor party had taken place that weekend, except that bachelor parties don’t have thousands of dollars’ worth of electronic equipment in their midst. Conspicuous by their pristine cleanliness, the four operating positions each sported a big, black box with dials and switches, together with a bright digital readout on the front; and supporting boxes, cables and dials. Each rat’s nest of coaxial cables and power strips was attached to an antenna on towers high above the bungalow, itself perched on a promontory on the Caribbean island of Grenada.

  Apart from the radios, the quarters were covered in snack containers, dirty dishes and silverware, blankets and towels, and the general look of a teenage boy’s room.

  This was J37TT, a contest station created by five American and one Mexican ham radio operators for the annual long-range radio contest of the American Radio Relay League, or ARRL. For one weekend, amateur radio operators, like the six in this Grenada bungalow, worked madly to contact as many other participating hams as possible. They arrived, set up their radios, and after the frantic 24 hours of on-air activity, would take their stations down. It was madness, Jake Holman had to admit.

  But he loved it, always had. And this was probably his last time for several years, if then; he’d ever get a chance to play. His wife would give birth to their first child in less than a month, and this holiday—intended to remove him from her proximity while the women in her life did the things women did for prospective mothers—was a last hurrah. After this, he thought ruefully, it was Diaper Daddy.

  Enough time for that then. This was still contest weekend, and as the contest period had just expired, there was the duty to clean the bungalow. The owner, a ham himself who rented it to madmen, and the occasional mad woman, who did radio sport contesting, would be back tomorrow from his own vacation in the States. And the place had better look pristine. He had their damage deposit, and it was a big one.

  Typically, Leslie led the cleanup way. Leslie was the joker in this year’s deck, at least to Jake. Like the others, he thought “Leslie” was a male name, like the actor Leslie Nielsen. But it was the more common Leslie, a female—and quite the female at that. AJ1G was about 30, with a white blonde pageboy bob. Slim, while not generously endowed (the men agreed behind her back), her lines were breathtaking from the waist downward. And her face launched a thousand ships, like Homer’s Helen of Troy.

  “Let’s go, guys” she goaded. “If you’re not breaking down the stations, you’re helping with the trash.” She had a trash bag in one hand, was picking and throwing items into it with the other.

  “Here, let me,” Jake said gallantly—and instantly regretted it.

  “Thanks, KM1G!” That was Jake’s radio call, and there was no other KM1G in the world, just as there was no other AJ1G except Leslie Guttormsen. Jake’s dismay was due to her having her eye obviously on him the whole weekend: when she wasn’t operating, or cooking for the troops, she was flitting about Jake, infatuated. She had monkey business on her mind, though Jake had made it plain he was Muslim, married, and pregnant. As it were.

  As it turned out, they didn’t make small talk, but concentrated on the job of policing the bungalow. Both were exhausted—or Leslie was; Jake had to admit the weekend contest had left him tuckered, but his life as a CIA field operative had seen him far more tired, in far more dire circumstances. Still, they needed to make haste; the group had a flight to catch. Eventually, each had a lawn bag filled with detritus.

  “I’ll take these,” Jake offered.

  “Welcome to the 21st Century,” Leslie replied, and hefted hers over her shoulder.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Jake easily, and they headed for the door.

  Outside, they placed the bags by the trash barrels, when they heard the distinctive sound of an island jitney jeep. Jake turned, and almost did a double take: this one carried four men, in various stages of make-do camouflage uniform, and carrying Kalashnikov AK-47 rifles. Not your typical island paradise sight.

  Seeing Jake and Les, the jitney screeched to a halt and the four men exited, two with AK’s leveled on Jake, who was unarmed, being on holiday. The soldiers, or whoever they were, quizzed them about who they were and why they were handling so much trash. Jake’s answer seemed to satisfy them; they seemed to know the bungalow owner, knew about his ham hobby.

  Before long, one of them told Leslie, “Get in.” She looked at Jake helplessly, and Jake did feel helpless as she complied, and the jitney banged off down the narrow road.

  In seconds, Jake was back inside the house, summoning the others. His attitude left no doubt as to who was in charge, and the others listened intently.

  “Turn on the BC radio,” Jake ordered. To hams, “BC” meant broadcast, AM or FM. “I think something’s going on. Four gunmen just kidnaped Leslie.” Jake held up a hand to still a question. “I don’t know why. They looked like soldiers. Grenada’s prone to political unrest. Remember the intervention by Ronald Reagan? It might be happening again.”

  “Why would they want Leslie?”

  “Why do you think?” said another of the group. None of them wanted to contemplate that.

  There was a knock at the door. Jake answered it, wishing he had a gun with him. He didn’t. Fortunately, it was the landlord, home early.

  “Quick!” the man said. “Rebels have taken over the island. They’re letting one more flight leave, but they’re only letting tourists on it, And there are only four or five seats left, from what I hear. You’d better take your rental car and go. I’ll be safe, and I can get the car later. Leave the radios behind. I’ll ship them.”

  Everyone wanted to talk at once, and none, it seemed, wanted to leave the radios behind. Jake barked like thunder, stilling the four.

  “There isn’t time to talk this over. You all know what I do. I’m staying, and that’s final. Paul, you know where the airport is?”

  Paul had made several trips, bringing the radios in. He nodded. “Fine,” Jake ordered. “It’s settled. You four take the clothes on your back and get out. Now!”

  “What about Leslie?” Paul asked.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Jake said. “But there isn’t time to do more than that. Go!”

  In seconds, the three Americans and the Mexican were in the rental, and Paul started it. He rolled down the window. “Good luck, Jake.”

  “Get going.”

  Paul put the car in gear, and it was out of sight in less than a minute. Holman didn’t hesitate. He was back in the bungalow, searching through Leslie Guttormsen’s things for her passport, which he found. Using a special document camera on his keychain, he took pictures of each leaf.

  Holman transferred the images to his laptop, then included them in an e’mail report he wrote to his boss at CIA headquarters in Langley, VA, John Robinson. Incidents like the Guttormsen kidnapping were just the kind of tiles that fit in t
he mosaics the CIA liked to build.

  Robinson’s reply came less than an hour, as Jake knew it would. The agency had activated several layers of communication for him, and wanted him to activate a GPS signal in return: he’d be getting help, and soon. Don’t do anything, wait for help. And atypically, Robinson added a personal note: “Your psychiatrist has been informed.”

  So Robinson had called Hoda, telling her Jake wouldn’t be home, and why. Jake could only wonder at her reaction. She’d be worried at first, but grateful Robinson had thought to keep her in the loop. She might even be useful, as an analyst. Jake couldn’t think about her in any case, but set to work.

  First he got a nine-volt battery from the radio stations’ supplies, and attached it to the fittings on the side of what looked like a plastic sardine can. It was actually a three-watt high-frequency radio transceiver. Stepping to one of the radio stations, he unscrewed an antenna lead from the big radio, and screwed the PL-259 male into the SO-239 female on the tiny radio. He plugged in ear buds, put one to his ear, and plugged a tiny keyer-and-paddle into the “can.” Built just for the tiny radio, the whole ensemble looked Rube Goldberg-esque, but when Jake sent morse code of the Fifth Symphony’s opening “di-di-di-dah,” back instantly came the same thing. The CIA was listening on that frequency.

  Jake disassembled the rig and put the pieces together in their pouch, and onto his belt. Hide in plain sight. He had a cover story ready for it, and doubted the local militia would see through it.

  The GPS transponder took only seconds. Unseen by Jake, a US Air Force AWACS jet was already lifting into the sky from Eglin Air Force Base in Florida, and would soon intercept the almost imperceptible signal, vectoring in other units. Had Jake to guess, he’d say this was a job for the Navy Special Warfare Operators, known to the world as SEALs.

  Jake went to the property owner, asking if he owned any firearms. He did, several, and Jake asked to borrow a venerable Colt Detective Special, and some ammunition. Next, he asked if he could do some work on the room, and specifically if the landlord had any wall patch. Not every guest group was as considerate as the ham operators, so like any well-prepared tourist landlord, the man did. Jake took them, asked the man to pose no questions, and left.