Patton?”
“Sí.”
“I’m Juan Perez. Welcome to Paraiso. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“No problem.”
“Let’s go into my office where we can talk.”
Tory followed him down the marble hallway into an office that overlooked the ocean. The office was sparsely furnished with a battered-looking desk. Perez gestured to one of the guest chairs. Tory sat down on the edge and had her pen poised ready to start asking questions.
The phone rang before she could.
“Perez,” the minister said into the phone.
He listened for a few minutes, glanced at Tory and then hung up the phone.
“I’m sorry, Miss Patton. But something has come up and I won’t be able to speak to you today.”
“We’ll set up another time, then. Tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid this business will keep me tied up for…some time.”
“Okay. Then tell me where King is being held so that I can set up a time to interview him.”
“I’m sorry, but that will no longer be possible.”
“What are you talking about? You called my network.”
“I’m afraid that was a mistake.”
Perez quickly showed her the door. No matter what questions she asked, he remained stubbornly reticent. A few minutes later she was standing alone under the hot late-afternoon sun of Puerto Isla, wondering what the hell was going on and why the invitation to an exclusive interview had suddenly been revoked.
Chapter 3
T he next morning Tory woke up ready to work. After her disastrous meeting with Perez, she and Jay had gone to the prison to see where King had been held. The guard at the prison hadn’t been any more cooperative than Perez had been. Jay had gotten a few long shots that they’d use when they edited the piece. Tory was beginning to feel that her exclusive interview with King wasn’t going to come through.
Shannon had been in the lobby when Tory and Jay had returned, but Tory had ignored her and returned to her room to contact Cathy Jackson in UBC’s research department. She’d spent thirty minutes on the phone describing the man she’d seen in the palace hallway and asking Cathy to pull information on Perez, Del Torro and Puerto Isla.
Tory had finally realized that the man she’d seen in the presidential palace was Chris Pearson. Pearson was a good friend of James Whitlow, the president of the United States. And many observers of the White House had noted Pearson’s influence on the U.S. president. Tory tucked that away for later.
This morning the sun shone brightly through the gap in the room’s blackout drapes. Tory stretched her arms over her head, remembering the story she’d read in the newspaper about the hostage incident earlier that year. It had been a small article in the world-news section saying only that four hostages had been killed on Puerto Isla by a group of local guerrillas.
According to the information she’d retrieved from her e-mail last night, Thomas King’s SEAL team had been dispatched to rescue those hostages. What had gone wrong?
She knew they’d been based out of Little Creek, Virginia. During her three-hour layover in Miami she’d placed a call to the base there and spoken to Lieutenant Joe Peterson in the public-affairs office. He’d given her strictly the facts, which she’d passed on to Cathy in research for follow-up. All he’d really said was that the navy was very happy to find King alive. But she hadn’t been satisfied with the answers she’d received.
They were, of course, thrilled that Thomas King was alive and recovering in a hospital in Paraiso. The extent of his injuries had been unknown to Peterson, but he did indicate that King had been starved and beaten.
She had a profile of the team that had been sent in. As she looked at the military ID photos that accompanied each name and short bio, her heart ached that only one of them had survived.
She’d pressed Peterson, trying to find out why King hadn’t been moved to a U.S. airbase, and had been very politely told that King was a guest of the Puerto Isla government.
Someone didn’t want him to leave, but who and why? Perez had definitely been in favor of her interview when she’d called him from Miami. What had changed when she arrived on the island?
She wondered if it was injury-related starvation, which could take a terrible toll on the body. The man had been in prison for six months. The only other reason Tory could think of was that he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to. But what?
When she’d spoken to him on the phone, Juan Perez had alluded to the fact that King wasn’t well enough to move.
She felt a sense of urgency to get to Thomas King. She didn’t question it. Trust your gut. It was something Rainy had said to her many times when she’d been trying to figure out a puzzle. And her gut was usually right.
Three policemen stood in the entrance to the coffee shop just off the lobby talking to Jay. He caught her eye and tilted his head back sharply. Tory ducked behind a large potted plant and edged closer to Jay.
“…Señorita Patton,” said the tallest of the guards. He was dirty and unshaved and a long, wicked-looking scar curved across his cheekbone, disappearing into his oily whiskers.
“¿Cuáles el problema?” Jay asked the guards.
“What’s the problem?” he’d asked. And Tory leaned a little closer, trying to make out the guard’s response.
“…para el comportamiento sospechoso,” the guard said.
Suspicious behavior? Great. She wondered if one of the people she’d spoken to yesterday in the market had called the cops on her. She hadn’t even gotten started yet. Sinking back against the potted plant, she waited until she heard the guards leave. They’d probably stake out her room and wait for her to return.
Well, she’d known that her exclusive story had some risks. She thought briefly about packing up her stuff and heading back home. Tyson would understand. But Tory wondered if she’d ever be able to look herself in the eye again.
She wanted to visit—as a journalist, not as a guest—the prison where King had been held. The story was flowing through her veins. And though it might be dangerous to stay on Puerto Isla, she knew that nothing would satisfy her until she figured out the puzzle that was this exclusive interview with a SEAL.
She peered around the plant and saw that the lobby was clear. She hurried out the front door of the hotel, her pulse pounding and her hands shaking. She wasn’t used to evading the local cops. A hand snaked out and grabbed her arm as she exited the hotel.
She jerked her arm free and spun around, hitting her assailant with a jab. She tried to lessen the pressure when she realized it was Jay.
He grunted and rubbed his jaw. His breath smelled like coffee and mints.
“You’re
