“That’s what he meant,” Michelle said suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“Eb Scott said, ‘follow the money,’” she recalled.
“Eb’s sharp. Yes, that’s apparently what’s behind all this. The terrorist leader wanted millions in bribes to protect oil company executives in his country. The brother-in-law of the leader was selling him out to our State Department. A lot of local men work for the oil companies and don’t want any part of the terrorist’s plans. It’s a poor country, and the oil companies provide a secure living for the village. But nobody makes waves and gets away with it. The terrorist leader retaliated, in the worst possible way, and blamed it on Angel and his men—a way of protecting his own men, whom he ordered to kill his brother-in-law to keep him from talking. It was also a way of notifying foreigners that this is how any future attempts to bypass his authority would be handled.”
“I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know,” she said suddenly.
“I knew it. I couldn’t prove it,” he added. “But you’ve given me contacts who can back up the protester’s story. I’ll have my investigators check them out and our attorneys will take depositions that will hold up in court. It will give the State Department’s representatives the leverage they need to deal with the terrorists. And it will provide our news media with a week of guaranteed stories,” he added coldly.
She sighed. “I think I’m in the wrong business.”
“Good reporters can do a lot of good in the world,” Tess interrupted. “It’s just that there’s more profit in digging up dirt on people.”
“Amen,” Dane said.
“Well, if I can help dig Gabriel out of the hole I put him into, I’ll be happy,” Michelle told him. “It’s little enough in the way of apology.”
“If you hear anything else, through your sources, you can call me anytime,” he told her.
“I’ll remember.”
* * *
Dane went to pay the check, against Michelle’s protests.
Tess smiled at her. “You really care about the mercenary, don’t you?” she asked.
“More than you know,” Michelle replied. “He and his sister sacrificed a lot for me. I’ll never be able to pay them back. And now, this has happened....”
“At least you’re trying to make up for it,” she replied. “That’s worth something.”
“I hope it’s worth enough. I’m grateful to you and your husband for meeting with me.”
“It was a nice interlude between the rehashing of horrible cases.” Tess laughed. “I work as a skip tracer, something Dane would never let me do before. My father planned to marry his mother, but they were killed in a wreck, so Dane became sort of responsible for me,” she added surprisingly. “He wasn’t very happy about it. We had a rocky road to the altar.” She smiled. “But a son and a daughter later, we’re very content.”
“You don’t look old enough to have two children.” Michelle laughed. “Either of you.”
“Thanks. But believe me, we are.”
Dane was back, putting away his wallet. He handed Michelle a business card. “My cell’s on there, as well as the office number.”
“I’ll cross my fingers, that our contacts can help you get Gabriel and his men off the hook,” Michelle said.
His eyes narrowed. “I’m surprised that the national news media hasn’t been camped on your doorstep,” he remarked.
“Gabriel didn’t advertise his involvement with me,” she replied. “And nobody in Jacobsville, Texas, will tell them a thing, believe me.”
He smiled. “I noticed the way the locals shut them out when they waltzed into town with their satellite trucks. Amazing, that the restaurants all ran out of food and the motels were all full and nobody had a single room to rent out at any price.”
She smiled angelically. “I’m sure that was mostly true.”
“They did try Comanche Wells, I hear,” Dane added.
“Well, see, Comanche Wells doesn’t have a restaurant or a motel at all.”
“That explains it.”
* * *
She went back to work, only to find her desk piled high with notes.
“Hey, Godfrey, can’t you get your answering machine to work?” Murphy, one of the older reporters whose desk was beside hers, asked. “My old hands are too gnarled to take notes from all your darned callers.”
“Sorry, Murph,” she said. She was frowning when she noticed who the notes were from. “They want to send a limo for me and have me stay at the Plaza?” she exclaimed.
“What it is to be a celebrity,” Murph shook his head. “Hey, there was this cool video that Brad Paisley did, about being a celebrity...!”
“I saw it. Thanks,” she said, waving the notes at him. She picked up her purse and left the building, just avoiding her editor on the way out the door.
Apparently the news media had found somebody in Jacobsville who was willing to talk to them. She wondered with droll cynicism what the informant had been paid.
* * *
She discovered that if she agreed to do an exclusive interview with just one station, the others would have to leave her alone. Before she signed any papers, she spoke with an attorney and had him check out the agreement.
“It says that I agree to tell them my story,” she said.
“Exactly,” he replied.
She pursed her lips. “It doesn’t specify which story.”
“I think they’ll assume it means the story they want to hear,” he replied. “Although that’s implied rather than stated.”
“Ah.”
“And I would advise caution when they ask you to name the person overseas whom your newspaper provided as a reference regarding the informer,” he added. “That may be a protected source.”
“I was hoping you’d notice that. It is a protected source.”
He only smiled.
* * *
She sat down in front of the television cameras with a well-known, folksy interviewer who was calm, gentle and very intelligent. He didn’t press her for details she couldn’t give, and he understood that some sources of information that she had access to were protected.
“I understand from what you told our correspondent that you don’t believe the men in question actually perpetrated the attack, which resulted in the deaths of several women and small children,” he began.
“That’s correct.”
“Would you tell me why?”
“When I first broke the story, I went on the assumption that because the majority of the interviewees placed the blame on the American mercenaries, they must be guilty. There was, however, one conflicting opinion. A villager, whom I cannot name, said that extortion was involved and that money was demanded for the protection of foreign workers. When a relative of the extortionist threatened to go to the authorities and reveal the financial aspect, he and his family were brutally murdered as a warning. These murders were blamed on the Americans who had, in fact, been working for the government trying to uncover a nest of terrorists threatening American oil company employees there.”
The interviewer was frowning. “Then the massacre was, in fact, retaliation for the villager’s threat to expose the extortionist.”
“That is my information, yes.”
He studied a sheet of paper. “I see here that the newspaper which employs you used its own foreign sources to do interviews about this story.”
“Those sources are also protected,” Michelle replied. “I can’t name them.”
He pursed his lips and, behind his lenses, his blue eyes twinkled. “I understand. But I believe the same sources have been named, in the press, by attorneys for the men allegedly implicated by the international press for the atrocities.”
She smiled. “I believe so.”
“In which case,” he added, “we have elicited permission to quote one of the sources. He has signed an affidavit, which is in the hands of our State Department. Please welcome Mr. David Arbuckle, who is liaison for the U.S. Department of State in Anasrah, which is at the center of this matter. Mr. Arbuckle, welcome.”
“Thank you, Mr. Price,” a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man replied. He was in a studio in Washington, D.C., his image provided via satellite.
“Now, from what Ms. Godfrey has told us—and we have validated her story—a terrorist cell had infiltrated the village in question and made threats against foreign nationals including ours. Is this true?”
“It is,” Mr. Arbuckle said solemnly. “We’re very grateful to Ms. Godfrey for bringing this matter to our attention. We were told that a group of mercenaries muscled their way into the village, demanding tribute and killed people when their demands were not met. This is a very different story than we were able to verify by speaking, under offer of protection, to other men in the same village.”
He coughed, then continued, “We were able to ascertain that a terrorist cell with links to another notorious international organization was going to fund itself by extorting money from oil corporations doing business near the village. They were using the village itself for cover, posing as innocent tribesmen.”
“Abominable,” the host replied.
“Yes, killing innocents to prove a point is a particularly bloodthirsty manner in which to operate. The local people were terrified to say anything, after the massacre, although they felt very sad that innocent men were blamed for it. In fact, the so-called mercenaries had provided medical supplies and treatment for many children and elderly people and even helped buy food for them.”
“A laudable outreach effort.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Arbuckle replied grimly. “Suffice it to say that we have used our influence to make sure that the terrorists no longer have a foothold in the village, and the international community has moved people in to assure the safety of the tribesmen who provided us with this information.”
“Then the American mercenaries are being cleared of any involvement with the massacre?”
“I can assure you that they have been,” Mr. Arbuckle replied. “We were provided with affidavits and other documents concerning the massacre by an American private detective working in concert with the mercenaries’ attorneys. They were allowed to leave the country last night and are en route to a secure location while we deal with the terrorists in question. The terrorists responsible for the massacre will be brought to trial for the murders and held accountable. And the mercenaries will return to testify against them.”
“I’m sure our viewers will be happy to hear that.”
“We protect our people overseas,” Mr. Arbuckle replied. “All of them. And in fact, the mercenaries in question were private contractors working for the United States government, not the sort of soldiers for hire that often involve themselves in foreign conflicts.”
“Another surprise,” Mr. Price said with a smile.
“In this day and time, we all have to be alert about our surroundings abroad,” Mr. Arbuckle said. “We take care of our own,” he added with a smile.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Arbuckle.”
“Thank you for yours, Mr. Price.”
Mr. Price turned back to Michelle. “It was a very brave thing you did, Ms. Godfrey, going up against the weight of the international press to defend these men. I understand that you know some of them.”
“I know Eb Scott, who runs an international school of counterterrorism,” Michelle corrected, unwilling to say more. “He has great integrity. I can’t imagine that any agents he trained would ever go against basic humanitarianism.”
“He has a good advocate here.” He chuckled.
“I learned a lesson from this, as well,” she replied quietly. “That you don’t discount the single small voice in the wilderness when you write a story that can cost lives and reputations. It is one I hope I never have to repeat.” She paused. “I’d like to thank my editor for standing by me,” she added, lying because he hadn’t, “and for teaching me the worth of integrity in reporting.”
Mr. Price named the newspaper in San Antonio and thanked her for appearing on his program.
* * *
Back in the office, her editor, Len Worthington, was ecstatic. “That was the nicest plug we ever got from anybody! Thanks, kid!” he told her, shaking her hand.
“You’re welcome. Thanks for not firing me for messing up so badly.”
“Hey, what are friends for?”
He’d never know, she thought, but she only smiled. She’d seen a side of journalism that left her feeling sick. It wasn’t pretty.
* * *
She didn’t try to call Sara again. The poor woman probably hadn’t seen the program Michelle was on. It was likely that she was avoiding any sort of press coverage of what had happened. That wasn’t hard anymore, because there was a new scandal topping the news now, and all the satellite trucks had gone in search of other prey. Michelle’s phone had stopped ringing. There were no more notes on her desk, no more offers of limos and five-star hotels. She didn’t mind at all.
She only hoped that one day Sara and Gabriel would forgive her. She went back to work on other stories, mostly political ones, and hoped that she’d never be in a position again where she’d have to sell out her nearest and dearest for a job. Not that she ever would. Nor would she have done it, if she’d had any idea who Gabriel really was.
* * *
Michelle had thought about asking Minette for a job again. She wasn’t really happy living in the city and she cringed every time someone mentioned her name in connection with the past big news story.
She still hadn’t heard from Gabriel or Sara. She didn’t expect to. She’d hoped that they might contact her. But that was wishful thinking.
She now owned the home where her father and, before him, her grandparents had lived in Comanche Wells. She couldn’t bear to drive the Jaguar that Gabriel and Sara had given her...driving it made her too sad. So she parked it at Gabriel’s house and put the key in the mail slot. One day, she assumed, he’d return and see it. She bought a cute little VW bug, with which she could commute from Jacobsville to work in San Antonio. She moved back home.
At first, people were understandably a little stand-offish. She was an outsider, even though she was born in Jacobs County. Perhaps they thought she was going to go all big-city on them and start poking her nose into local politics.
When she didn’t do that, the tension began to ease a little. When she went into Barbara’s Café to have lunch on Saturdays, people began to nod and smile at her. When she went grocery shopping in the local supermarket, the cashier actually talked to her. When she got gas at the local station, the attendant finally stopped asking for identification when she presented her credit card. Little by little, she was becoming part of Jacobs County again.