Stormy Weather
by matahari2
Summary / Disclaimers, etc.: See Chapter 1
Chapter Six – Turbulence
Amanda had nodded and whispered, "I know" to his attempt at reassurance, but it was clear to Lee that her fragile hold on hope was slipping. Her eyes held a far away look, tears threatening to fall as she bit her quivering lip. "Lee. . .why Jamie?" she demanded, "What's he ever done to deserve anything like this?"
"Nothing, Amanda," he whispered, enfolding her in his arms, "he hasn't done anything at all." He held her close, stroking her back gently as she took in ragged breaths and began to sob in earnest.
When her breathing had begun to settle down, Lee pulled back, lightly rubbing her arms and looking into her sorrowful eyes. "Look. . .why don't you and Jenny both stay home today?" he suggested, his voice full of tenderness, "I'm sure her teachers will understand, and I'll let the Agency people know."
She frowned and protested, "But Lee. . .how can I help if I stay home?"
"We can stay in touch by phone, okay?," he replied. He remembered a similar conversation years ago when he'd feared for her safety during the Serdeyich case and had insisted she go home. She'd fought him on that, too, but only for a moment. He echoed his own words, as he said, "Amanda, I don't want to argue with you about this. Now, you and Jenny had a really rough night. You need some rest, so just humor me, all right? Please?"
She hesitated, but his penetrating gaze and familiar words appeared to win the battle, and she gave in, saying with a weary shrug, "Oh. . .all right."
Lee pulled her closer and kissed her forehead once more, then, draping an arm around her shoulders, he guided her back toward the family room. "Okay, now, you just sit down here, and I'll make a few phone calls." After she was situated on the sofa, tissue box in hand, he went back to the kitchen and lifted the receiver.
**********
Paktia province, Afghanistan
Jamie had managed to tip forward onto his knees and plant his left foot on the floor to push himself up to a standing position when he heard Bob Seehra's voice. "Better be careful getting up, after that knock on the head," he cautioned.
"Too late," Jamie countered, with a slight shake of his head as he staggered, leaning his bound hands against the wall for support. "When will this blasted room stop spinning?" he wondered aloud.
"Dizzy?" Seehra started. "Why don't you come on over here and sit on the bench?" he suggested, indicating the rough-hewn wooden bench with a wave of his joined hands.
As Jamie slowly made his way across the room on stiffened, sore legs, he heard the jangle of keys outside their door. A young girl entered, bearing a tray covered with small, oval loaves of bread, sprinkled with what looked to Jamie like caraway seeds. As she laid the tray on the table, she spread her hands out before her, said only a word, "Naani," then turned and left them.
"Nonny?" Jamie asked in confusion.
"Naani, n-a-a-n-i. . .an Afghan bread," Bob explained. "Might as well dig in and have some. . .it should be safe—it's what they all seem to eat," he said, nodding his head toward the doorway.
"Well I am kinda hungry," Jamie said, reaching out to pick up one of the loaves. When the bread was halfway to his mouth, he stopped and asked, "Wait. . .how do you know what they eat? Have you seen them?"
"Yeah, just once or twice," Bob answered, chewing on his bread as he spoke. "Nobody's been in here with us yet, but I looked out through the cracks in the shutter there, and watched them for a while." At Jamie's wary look, he hesitated, then continued, "while you were still unconscious."
"Oh," Jamie said, swallowing a small piece of the bread. "Hey, Seehra, can I ask you somethin'?"
"Sure. And call me Bob, will ya?" he answered. "What d'you want to know?"
"How come you don't have much of an accent? And how'd you get a name like 'Bob'?" Jamie challenged. "And. . ."
Bob held up his hands and spread his fingers as best he could to stop Jamie's questions. "Okay, okay! One question at a time, all right?" As Jamie nodded, he went on with his answer. "Well, the short answer is that I was born in Pakistan to Indian parents, and we moved to the States when I was three years old."
"That covers the accent," Jamie said. "What about your name?"
"Easy answer--school," Bob replied. "Look, how many kindergarteners in Arlington, Virginia do you suppose could get their mouths around 'Balachandra'? 'Bob' was easier, plain and simple, and I've gotten used to it, all right?"
"Yeah. . .all right," Jamie conceded, with a small smile. "Did you say Arlington? My brother and I grew up in Arlington."
"No joke?" Bob asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "What's your brother's name?"
"Phillip," Jamie answered, while doing his best to brush a few bread crumbs off of his pants leg.
Bob stared into the distance for an instant, then nodded as if confirming a memory, and looked back at Jamie as he asked, "Phillip King. . .played basketball in high school, very popular with the all the girls?"
"Yeah, I guess you could say that," Jamie replied. "You mean to tell me you two knew each other?"
"Sure did. . .we had several classes together. So what's he up to these days?"
"Well, believe it or not," Jamie said, "he went to med school. . .he's a resident at a teaching hospital in Baltimore."
"Will wonders never. . ." was all Bob got out before the door burst open and two of their armed captors stormed in, each of them grasping one of his arms and pushing him roughly through the open door.
Jamie's jaw dropped open and his eyes widened in shock as his new-found friend was taken away. With sudden clarity, he realized the desperate nature of their situation. Pushing off from the table and kicking the bench aside, he began to pace the room, searching high and low for some means, any means of escape.
**********
A bluish glow lit the quiet room, as Lee focused his attention on the various video screens in front of him. The satellite monitoring technician, Jack Robertson, was speaking. "Sir, these are some of the sites we're tracking in eastern Afghanistan. Based on the intel we have so far, we're assuming that the perpetrators we're looking for represent a small, isolated cell. . .possibly no more than five or six individuals."
"Right," Lee responded. "And these infrared images," he began, waving his hands toward the screens, "what are they telling us?"
"Well, sir, they're detecting heat, and we're able to focus in on movements of human beings, animals, and so on," Robertson replied. He pointed toward one of the screens, saying, "See, sir, the image in the top left corner. . .it looks to be a very busy place, with a lot of movement and at least fifty heat-signatures, but on the third screen from the left, second row, we can only detect eight or so bodies in motion."
"Yes, I see," Lee said, opening his coat and stuffing a hand in his pants pocket. Moving forward to touch the bottom of one of the screens with his index finger, he asked, "And these numbers, here, are. . ."
"GPS coordinates, sir, " the younger man answered. "That's. . ."
"Global Positioning Satellite coordinates, yes," Lee finished for him. Turning around to face Robertson, he spread his hands in front of him, palms outward, saying, "All right then, let's concentrate on the images that show no more than ten individuals, especially where one or two of them appear to be isolated most of the time."
"Yes sir—no problem, sir," Jack Robertson answered, and started clicking the mouse to select different locations.
"Thanks, Robertson. I'll check back with you later," Lee said, walking out of the darkened room into the brightly-lit corridor.
He blinked his eyes a few times, adjusting to the light, and pressed his fingers across his forehead in a futile effort to dull the pain. This morning's headache wasn't getting any better. As he turned to walk toward his office, Francine caught up to him.
"More bad news?" she asked.
"No. . .actually, it could turn into very good news. . .potentially," he answered, as they entered the bullpen. "Why? Do I look that bad?"
"Oh no, Lee, of course not, you just looked. . ." she started, and stopped herself at his questioning look. "Never mind," she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand.
As Lee pushed open his office door and waved her to one of the chairs, she began her official report. "We picked up a transmission from Yusef Shaheen just a little while ago, so I thought you'd want to hear about it right away."
"Of course," he said, opening his drawer and pulling out a large white bottle. As he took out two red and white capsules and unscrewed the cap of his bottled water, he prompted, "So what did he have for us?"
"According to some of the vendors at the local marketplace near the site of the abduction, there appeared to be only about five or six young men involved, and they were carrying rifles, but they didn't appear to have any kind of radio equipment with them." She stopped to consult her notes for a second, then went on, "Oh. . .and they took off in a couple of early 1980's vintage jeeps."
"Anything else. . .about Jamie or Bob Seehra?" Lee asked, circling his finger in the air in a 'get on with it' gesture.
"Well. . .yes," Francine said, questioning with her eyes if he was sure he wanted to know. At his brief nod, she continued, "They saw the man dressed in Afghan clothing walk to the jeep. His hands were bound, and the assailants pushed him along, but he was walking under his own power."
"And Jamie?" he asked again, his frustration showing in his furrowed brow.
"Well according to the men Yusef talked to, he had to be carried," she answered reluctantly. With a sad face, she said, "I'm sorry, Lee, but Jamie must have been knocked unconscious."
Lee didn't utter a word, but leaned forward with his elbows on his desk, holding his head in his hands. His phone began to ring, an outside line. . .'probably Amanda,' he thought. He lifted his head and stared at the blinking light, but he didn't pick up the line. He wasn't sure what he would tell her, but in her present state, this last item was one piece of information he definitely did not want her to know.
TO BE CONTINUED
by matahari2
Summary / Disclaimers, etc.: See Chapter 1
Chapter Six – Turbulence
Amanda had nodded and whispered, "I know" to his attempt at reassurance, but it was clear to Lee that her fragile hold on hope was slipping. Her eyes held a far away look, tears threatening to fall as she bit her quivering lip. "Lee. . .why Jamie?" she demanded, "What's he ever done to deserve anything like this?"
"Nothing, Amanda," he whispered, enfolding her in his arms, "he hasn't done anything at all." He held her close, stroking her back gently as she took in ragged breaths and began to sob in earnest.
When her breathing had begun to settle down, Lee pulled back, lightly rubbing her arms and looking into her sorrowful eyes. "Look. . .why don't you and Jenny both stay home today?" he suggested, his voice full of tenderness, "I'm sure her teachers will understand, and I'll let the Agency people know."
She frowned and protested, "But Lee. . .how can I help if I stay home?"
"We can stay in touch by phone, okay?," he replied. He remembered a similar conversation years ago when he'd feared for her safety during the Serdeyich case and had insisted she go home. She'd fought him on that, too, but only for a moment. He echoed his own words, as he said, "Amanda, I don't want to argue with you about this. Now, you and Jenny had a really rough night. You need some rest, so just humor me, all right? Please?"
She hesitated, but his penetrating gaze and familiar words appeared to win the battle, and she gave in, saying with a weary shrug, "Oh. . .all right."
Lee pulled her closer and kissed her forehead once more, then, draping an arm around her shoulders, he guided her back toward the family room. "Okay, now, you just sit down here, and I'll make a few phone calls." After she was situated on the sofa, tissue box in hand, he went back to the kitchen and lifted the receiver.
**********
Paktia province, Afghanistan
Jamie had managed to tip forward onto his knees and plant his left foot on the floor to push himself up to a standing position when he heard Bob Seehra's voice. "Better be careful getting up, after that knock on the head," he cautioned.
"Too late," Jamie countered, with a slight shake of his head as he staggered, leaning his bound hands against the wall for support. "When will this blasted room stop spinning?" he wondered aloud.
"Dizzy?" Seehra started. "Why don't you come on over here and sit on the bench?" he suggested, indicating the rough-hewn wooden bench with a wave of his joined hands.
As Jamie slowly made his way across the room on stiffened, sore legs, he heard the jangle of keys outside their door. A young girl entered, bearing a tray covered with small, oval loaves of bread, sprinkled with what looked to Jamie like caraway seeds. As she laid the tray on the table, she spread her hands out before her, said only a word, "Naani," then turned and left them.
"Nonny?" Jamie asked in confusion.
"Naani, n-a-a-n-i. . .an Afghan bread," Bob explained. "Might as well dig in and have some. . .it should be safe—it's what they all seem to eat," he said, nodding his head toward the doorway.
"Well I am kinda hungry," Jamie said, reaching out to pick up one of the loaves. When the bread was halfway to his mouth, he stopped and asked, "Wait. . .how do you know what they eat? Have you seen them?"
"Yeah, just once or twice," Bob answered, chewing on his bread as he spoke. "Nobody's been in here with us yet, but I looked out through the cracks in the shutter there, and watched them for a while." At Jamie's wary look, he hesitated, then continued, "while you were still unconscious."
"Oh," Jamie said, swallowing a small piece of the bread. "Hey, Seehra, can I ask you somethin'?"
"Sure. And call me Bob, will ya?" he answered. "What d'you want to know?"
"How come you don't have much of an accent? And how'd you get a name like 'Bob'?" Jamie challenged. "And. . ."
Bob held up his hands and spread his fingers as best he could to stop Jamie's questions. "Okay, okay! One question at a time, all right?" As Jamie nodded, he went on with his answer. "Well, the short answer is that I was born in Pakistan to Indian parents, and we moved to the States when I was three years old."
"That covers the accent," Jamie said. "What about your name?"
"Easy answer--school," Bob replied. "Look, how many kindergarteners in Arlington, Virginia do you suppose could get their mouths around 'Balachandra'? 'Bob' was easier, plain and simple, and I've gotten used to it, all right?"
"Yeah. . .all right," Jamie conceded, with a small smile. "Did you say Arlington? My brother and I grew up in Arlington."
"No joke?" Bob asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "What's your brother's name?"
"Phillip," Jamie answered, while doing his best to brush a few bread crumbs off of his pants leg.
Bob stared into the distance for an instant, then nodded as if confirming a memory, and looked back at Jamie as he asked, "Phillip King. . .played basketball in high school, very popular with the all the girls?"
"Yeah, I guess you could say that," Jamie replied. "You mean to tell me you two knew each other?"
"Sure did. . .we had several classes together. So what's he up to these days?"
"Well, believe it or not," Jamie said, "he went to med school. . .he's a resident at a teaching hospital in Baltimore."
"Will wonders never. . ." was all Bob got out before the door burst open and two of their armed captors stormed in, each of them grasping one of his arms and pushing him roughly through the open door.
Jamie's jaw dropped open and his eyes widened in shock as his new-found friend was taken away. With sudden clarity, he realized the desperate nature of their situation. Pushing off from the table and kicking the bench aside, he began to pace the room, searching high and low for some means, any means of escape.
**********
A bluish glow lit the quiet room, as Lee focused his attention on the various video screens in front of him. The satellite monitoring technician, Jack Robertson, was speaking. "Sir, these are some of the sites we're tracking in eastern Afghanistan. Based on the intel we have so far, we're assuming that the perpetrators we're looking for represent a small, isolated cell. . .possibly no more than five or six individuals."
"Right," Lee responded. "And these infrared images," he began, waving his hands toward the screens, "what are they telling us?"
"Well, sir, they're detecting heat, and we're able to focus in on movements of human beings, animals, and so on," Robertson replied. He pointed toward one of the screens, saying, "See, sir, the image in the top left corner. . .it looks to be a very busy place, with a lot of movement and at least fifty heat-signatures, but on the third screen from the left, second row, we can only detect eight or so bodies in motion."
"Yes, I see," Lee said, opening his coat and stuffing a hand in his pants pocket. Moving forward to touch the bottom of one of the screens with his index finger, he asked, "And these numbers, here, are. . ."
"GPS coordinates, sir, " the younger man answered. "That's. . ."
"Global Positioning Satellite coordinates, yes," Lee finished for him. Turning around to face Robertson, he spread his hands in front of him, palms outward, saying, "All right then, let's concentrate on the images that show no more than ten individuals, especially where one or two of them appear to be isolated most of the time."
"Yes sir—no problem, sir," Jack Robertson answered, and started clicking the mouse to select different locations.
"Thanks, Robertson. I'll check back with you later," Lee said, walking out of the darkened room into the brightly-lit corridor.
He blinked his eyes a few times, adjusting to the light, and pressed his fingers across his forehead in a futile effort to dull the pain. This morning's headache wasn't getting any better. As he turned to walk toward his office, Francine caught up to him.
"More bad news?" she asked.
"No. . .actually, it could turn into very good news. . .potentially," he answered, as they entered the bullpen. "Why? Do I look that bad?"
"Oh no, Lee, of course not, you just looked. . ." she started, and stopped herself at his questioning look. "Never mind," she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand.
As Lee pushed open his office door and waved her to one of the chairs, she began her official report. "We picked up a transmission from Yusef Shaheen just a little while ago, so I thought you'd want to hear about it right away."
"Of course," he said, opening his drawer and pulling out a large white bottle. As he took out two red and white capsules and unscrewed the cap of his bottled water, he prompted, "So what did he have for us?"
"According to some of the vendors at the local marketplace near the site of the abduction, there appeared to be only about five or six young men involved, and they were carrying rifles, but they didn't appear to have any kind of radio equipment with them." She stopped to consult her notes for a second, then went on, "Oh. . .and they took off in a couple of early 1980's vintage jeeps."
"Anything else. . .about Jamie or Bob Seehra?" Lee asked, circling his finger in the air in a 'get on with it' gesture.
"Well. . .yes," Francine said, questioning with her eyes if he was sure he wanted to know. At his brief nod, she continued, "They saw the man dressed in Afghan clothing walk to the jeep. His hands were bound, and the assailants pushed him along, but he was walking under his own power."
"And Jamie?" he asked again, his frustration showing in his furrowed brow.
"Well according to the men Yusef talked to, he had to be carried," she answered reluctantly. With a sad face, she said, "I'm sorry, Lee, but Jamie must have been knocked unconscious."
Lee didn't utter a word, but leaned forward with his elbows on his desk, holding his head in his hands. His phone began to ring, an outside line. . .'probably Amanda,' he thought. He lifted his head and stared at the blinking light, but he didn't pick up the line. He wasn't sure what he would tell her, but in her present state, this last item was one piece of information he definitely did not want her to know.
TO BE CONTINUED