Monday morning arrived with a vengeance. Brock and Sam awoke to a ringing telephone. The clock read 4:30 a.m. This time, it wasn’t Sam’s telephone disturbing the peace. Brock groaned when he saw the caller ID: Major General Charles W. Landers. His asshole of a boss.
“Morning, sir. What’s the good news?” Brock sounded far more charitable than he felt, an art military men mastered over years of dealing with inconveniences and annoying superiors.
Brock listened for a while, then sat upright in bed. “Yes, sir,” Brock finally said through clenched teeth. “I’m on my way.”
“What was that about?” Sam asked.
“You,” Brock said, climbing out of bed. “Landers wants to talk about a moral problem I seem to have.”
Sam was instantly livid. “That little fucker. I’m going to murder Jarvis.”
“I understand that our living arrangement came up in casual conversation with your superiors yesterday,” Brock said with forced civility. “Were you going to tell me about that?”
“Shit, baby, I forgot all about it,” Sam said. “And it never occurred to me that those two ball-lickers would dime you out to your boss over something like this.”
Brock disappeared into the small bathroom in the panic room, and Sam heard the shower. Several minutes later, Brock reappeared in his uniform, and leaned in to kiss her goodbye.
“It’s four-thirty. What does Landers want at this hour?”
“To fuck with me. And, apparently, he feels he has plenty of ammunition.”
“I can’t believe this,” Sam said.
“We’re held to a ‘higher standard,’ and all that,” Brock said. “To the bureaucrats, ‘almost divorced’ is another way of saying ‘married.’ It’s complete chickenshit, and only a chickenshit boss would think about it for a second. But that’s Landers for you.”
“Landers and Jarvis. I’m going to choke the life out of both of them,” Sam said.
“Don’t forget Ekman,” Brock said. “Anyway, I’m sure it’ll fade away soon enough. Don’t sweat it.”
“I forgot to tell you, that’s the whole reason they started digging into our lives. It was over your pending divorce, and you and I living together before it’s finalized. That’s why they started all of this, and the pretext for finding this supposed connection with Arturo Dibiaso.”
“I’m sure you’ll crack the appropriate skulls. I’m due in Landers’ office by five-thirty.”
He kissed her and started to leave, but she stopped him, thinking of something from the prior day’s events. “Baby, when did you first meet Fatso?”
“Germany,” he said. “Why?”
“I know it was Germany, but what year? They seemed really hung up on the exact timing of when you met Fatso.”
“Late 1997, early 1998 maybe. I don’t know for sure. Anyway, why do they care about Fatso? I haven’t seen him for years. And I get kind of sick of those jokes he always sends.”
“Maybe you should leave me his number and address. I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“Okay. Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
She smiled at him and pulled him in for a kiss. When he pulled away, he said, “I don’t care what the bureaucrats say. Having you in my life is worth any price.”
“I love you too,” Sam said. “Come home for lunch. Let’s roll around naked.” Brock smiled, kissed her again, and left.
“And slap Landers in the forehead for me,” she yelled as he disappeared up the stairs.
**********
Sam had just started to doze off again when her phone rang.
“Jesus, Dan. It’s five a.m. No wonder Sara wants a divorce.”
“Did she say that to you?” Dan Gable asked.
“No, but I can tell. You’d better get your act together. What are you doing in the office at this hour?”
“The bomb guys called. Definitely an American-made guidance kit, and it’s definitely the American version.”
“You mean it’s not an export version?”
“Nope. One of our own. And Ekman asked about you already. Wants you to stop by his office when you get in, which he hopes is sooner rather than later.”
Sam groaned. “Great.” So much for catching up on a little more sleep.
**********
“Hi Francis,” Sam chirped with manufactured cheer as she walked into his office. She took pleasure in the look of annoyance that crossed Ekman’s face. She didn’t know why she pushed his buttons. Maybe it was because at times, he struck her as a bona fide douchebag. She hated douchebags.
Without a word, he handed her two pieces of paper. Each page had two columns. The left column contained what looked like times, arranged vertically in chronological order, and the right-hand column was full of what looked like map coordinates. “What am I looking at?” Sam asked.
“One page is Arturo Dibiaso’s cell phone position data. The other page is from Brock James’ phone. Look closely, and you’ll see why Mr. Jarvis and I are concerned.”
Sam looked closely at the numbers, and her heart sank. The position coordinates overlapped at multiple points, down to the second decimal place, for up to thirty minutes at a time.
It was clear that Brock and Dibiaso had spent some quality time in close proximity to each other.
She felt a lump form in her throat, and tears welled. She turned on her heel and walked out of Ekman’s office, determined not to let him see her cry.