Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (15 page)

“If your staff will be working with the media, perhaps we should station them at the small building near the gate?” I saw Terrell push a wheeled cart into office central space. He looked my way, and I realized my guests had not closed the door as they entered. “I don’t think that’s what you want me here to discuss. Let’s start with Paraguay.” Terrell’s movements slowed, and I suspected his timing had been prompted by monitoring of the conversation.

Milan reached from his chair to close the door. “Let’s remember we’re all on the same side as employees or contractors of the DOE.” I heard a reprimand in his voice, a reminder that the DOE provided Ashwood with very generous financial support. “I understand your discomfort right now. I’d feel the same if my spouse was missing.”

“Why haven’t we located David?” I directed the question to Peterson, disappointed in Milan. “He has the latest tracking chip embedded. You must know where he is.” I looked into his face. “You’re hiding something.”

Peterson stood. “We need assurance of your complete confidentiality.” He held out a hand. “I need any listening devices you might be wearing.”

I stood as well, took a chance that Lao had out-technologized the DOE’s snooping ability. I removed my earpiece and held it out. “This is a business and family home, Director Peterson. We have little need for spyware although our staff sweeps plenty of bits and pieces of the stuff that get planted by government agencies on Ashwood and Giant Pines.”

“Turn that off.” Peterson pointed at my communication piece. “Nothing else?”

“You can wand me, if you wish.” I answered his request and came out from behind my desk. “I assume your folks already cleaned my office before your arrival?”

Milan raised a hand. “I think we’re ready to start.” He lowered his hand, reached into a pocket, and withdrew a small electronic pad. “We do need you to sign this confidentiality agreement.” I sat down as he extended the pad across my desk.

I read through the loosely constructed statement that read like the contract new estate professionals might be required to sign. The possibility of treason or perjury or deep legal liability faded on my second reading of the document which made no mention of the federal government or any of its agencies or bureaus. I read through it a third time, looking for the catch.

“Do you have a concern, Anne?” Milan’s voice sounded like that of my confidant, the man who moved red tape or questioned my personal motives in many difficult points through the years. I looked up and saw kindness in his eyes.

“I don’t really know what I’m signing. I’d like this to be reviewed by legal counsel.”

“You have that right,” Milan replied. “But I suggest we dispense with the document.” He withdrew the pad. “I have no doubt you are a loyal citizen.”

A small cheek motion showed Peterson’s disapproval as he spoke. “We were not entirely forthcoming earlier. You, of course, would know that we are able to track the DOE chips in David’s team and had an exact location when we spoke with you this morning.”

“So, go and get them. That is the sole purpose of your tracking chips. What’s the problem?” My response sounded unsophisticated, emotional. I gathered my thoughts. “There must be a reason you haven’t taken action. Why don’t you tell me more?”

Peterson tried to establish eye contact, but I wasn’t ready to trust him. He gave up, settled in his chair, and started to speak in a low voice that demanded attention.

“The United States has had a military presence in Paraguay for decades to monitor terrorism activities. Not a lot of people think of the Middle East terror groups settling on this side of the world, but Paraguay has been their favorite stew pot for decades.” He stopped. “Did David ever talk about this? Maybe he talked about the gas reserves project the Bolivian government stopped about five years ago? You must remember the time he and a team were airlifted back to a safe base?”

“Wasn’t that a project with military security?” Intuition told me Peterson assumed a lot of pillow talk about our jobs. Stronger intuition suggested I couldn’t begin to guess where this conversation was taking us. “There are many factors about work that David doesn’t tell me.”

The DOE man wanted to continue his exposition. “It is still critical to the future security of this nation that Paraguay be cleared of our enemies and that free access to the natural resources of Paraguay and its neighbors be maintained.” I couldn’t remember any Paraguay natural resources although I’d read about significant irrigation projects supporting development of agriculture in its dry, landlocked lands. Penfeller’s threatened requisition of our harvesting equipment as a national security action began to make sense.

“The advisors put up no fight at the airport because they knew the ‘ambush’ was a U.S. military exercise.” Milan jumped to what I wanted to know. “Not that the ambush squad wore U.S. military garb or identified themselves as such. Certain members of the advisory team were told about the ground action while they were in flight. David would have been one of those individuals.”

“So he is safe with U.S. Army troops pretending to be terrorists?”

“Not exactly.” Peterson stepped back into control. “The group consists of contracted operatives. It is critical that the Paraguay government appears to be connected to this action and these individuals.”

“Let me understand.” Words flowed through my brain, contradictory feelings of relief that David was safe then alarm that the allegiance of hired guns could be swayed by more of whatever they valued—money, influence, free rein. “The U.S. staged this ambush using merchant troops to embarrass the Paraguayan government about the true state of lawlessness in their country. And that will keep access to Bolivia’s resources open?”

Peterson shook his head. “It isn’t really important that you understand the nuances, General Manager Hartford. This is part of a significant military and diplomatic initiative. Your husband and his crew will be recognized as civilian heroes when they return home.”

“But David holds an officer commission as well. Won’t the media find that a contradiction?” I sat forward and leaned on my desk. This time I used the quiet, slow tones of a teacher demanding meticulous attention. “You can play whatever PR games you want, Director Peterson, as long as you do not compromise my husband’s reputation or endanger our family.” I paused. “Now, please give me a simple answer—is my husband safe?”

One, two, three seconds passed. I looked at my data pad and noticed it was six o’clock. Players would be warming up for Ashwood’s Wednesday night softball game. Phoebe and Sarah would be sitting at the dining room table for another language proficiency review. And I waited another second for what appeared to be a difficult answer. I looked to Milan, ignoring Terrell’s caution. “Is this a difficult question?”

Milan stayed quiet in his chair, hands resting on his legs. Peterson shifted position in the next chair, his arms folded across his chest.

“We’d like to believe that David and the team are safe,” Milan said. “There have been a few communication glitches.” He looked at Peterson who nodded, then continued. “Tracking chips indicate the DOE crew has been split up and taken deeper into the countryside than planned. There could be a good reason. But it is a deviation from plan.”

“Someone has been in communication with this contractor’s leaders to ask what’s happening?” I guessed the answer but wanted to hear how Peterson might phrase it.

Milan continued to act as the spokesperson. “Nothing is as simple as we’d like it to be, Anne.” He smiled, a small upward movement of his mouth accompanied by softness in his eyes. “We’ll say there’s nothing we know that would indicate David isn’t safe, but neither Peterson nor I can give you an absolute answer.”

I sat back, watched the two of them, not sure what to say. “Why are you here with a DOE crew?”

Milan sat back, looked in Peterson’s direction. I did the same.

Peterson began speaking as if addressing a recalcitrant audience. “The buildup of American troops in Paraguay is raising questions domestically. The DOE is giving the army guys a chance to stay in the background by assuming responsibility for media management.” He finally blinked, took a breath. “Which is why we are here. We need to put a face on the ambush. The Regan family—you, your children, and David’s parents—provide the kind of story people can understand. Americans are in danger in Paraguay. Americans with kids and family right here in the Midwest. We’ll issue news updates from Ashwood.”

“Not my children.” Looking to Milan, I jabbed my forefinger in the air. “You’re their legal guardian. Tell this man that the Regan children will be left alone. My kids are scared their father will be hurt, confused about a news story about having more siblings, and will be absorbing a new brother in days.” I paused. “You will leave them alone.”

“I forgot you were a patriot surrogate, General Manager Hartford.” Peterson’s voice told me he had already thought of ways to connect that phrase with David’s elite intellectual status. “Did I also hear you are expecting a second child of David’s?”

Milan and I looked at each other, mirroring surprise.

“You have that wrong,” I said. “Real wrong. You must have snooped in the wrong person’s medical record.”

“In eight months no one will care that it was a false alarm. The story will play well when added to Ashwood’s family drama. Demonstrate the love of children you share with David. You will be a role model of the new private businesswoman balancing many demands.”

“I want nothing to do with any of this deception.” I controlled my voice. “None of it.”

“General Manager Hartford, unless you want the estate’s valuable combine collected by a national security requisition team tomorrow morning, you will cooperate.”

“We did seek legal counsel on that matter,” I answered, matching his icy tone. “That equipment is privately owned. We have been advised that Ashwood’s equipment can be requisitioned only if there is still a clearly defined need after all machinery has been withdrawn from government-owned estates. I will fight you on this issue.”

“But you don’t have time to stage a fight,” he responded. “You can file court papers today, but not before I have a flatbed here to load whatever Mr. Penfeller might like from your inventory. By the time the courts review your request tomorrow, your equipment will be at the Twin Cities air force base loaded on a cargo jet.” His voice dropped. “The air force can be terribly efficient in times of a national emergency. Like this one.” He paused. “Private legal counsel privilege is trumped by national security needs. Check your Homeland Security provisions.”

I worked in the DOE office building at David’s request and hadn’t seen the possibility of this day—when the DOE would call in payback for its largesse. They planned to control our family to protect David without really assuring me they had the power even to locate him.

Outside the window our lands quieted for the night. Through the small window column next to my office door I could see the dinner trays assembled by Terrell. I tried to find my way out of this situation, to find ways to negotiate a resolution, to accept what had to be done to keep David safe and Ashwood intact. Anger fueled circular thoughts. So deeply enmeshed in the United States government on a daily basis, I understood I was had even as I rebelled at the blatant manipulation of my civil rights and my fellow citizens’ integrity.

“Milan, what can you tell me?” From him I hoped for empathy. “At the least, we need to spare the children.” My hands wanted to extend across the table, but I remained still in this high-stake negotiations. “Think of how Phoebe, Noah, John,” I hesitated briefly, “and Andrew could suffer.”

Bureau protocol demanded absolute shielding of the children of intellectual elites. These vulnerable government investments had attracted kidnappers demanding king-size ransoms. “Surely, you don’t intend to expose David and Tia’s children and risk their safety?”

Peterson shifted in his chair. “Why don’t we fill our dinner plates and sit at your table to work out the details?” He rose.

“I’d prefer to eat after we’ve come to an agreement about the children.” I indicated he should sit. “Milan, you’re the legal guardian of three of them. I assume you would be the person who would bear the legal ramifications of abusing their rights.”

We locked eyes across the desk, the man who reported to two bosses and the woman who mothered two families. Milan trusted my instincts and motivation every time his guardian approval was required. I trusted him to make decisions with both heart and mind engaged.

Milan blinked first, rolled his eyes down as if contemplating the age spots on his hands. He turned his body in the chair, faced Peterson. “According to the intellectual elite surrogacy laws, I cannot approve any activity that might place the three children under my guardianship in the public media. Phoebe, Noah, and Andrew are protected under law.”

“Change it, Milan.” Peterson spoke as if the discussion had been finished. “Your authority might trump mine in the DOE, but the U.S. military is not going to accept that some soft-heart HCM Bureau legality is valid in a situation threatening national security.”

Standing, Milan walked to a wall and leaned against it. I understood that he disliked Peterson from this gesture by a man known for his courtesy toward everyone. “Peterson, you are forgetting that you are the only one who is declaring that this a national security situation. If that were the case, the U.S. military would not be turning over media relations to a crew of young people from the DOE.” He rolled his shoulders, turned his head to one side, and then straightened. “You get me directives from Commander Broadline through my supervisor, then we’ll talk. Until I have that directive, stay away from the kids.”