A Deadly Lesson (novella). Paul Gitsham

at each other and then at her. Abruptly the warm rapport she’d developed with them disappeared. “No.”

      “How about off camera?” she asked. But the women only shook their heads and walked away. It was the same with everyone she spoke to. They were living in a military state, and though Del Torro was better than Santiago had been, no one was willing to take a chance of speaking out against him.

      When she got back to the fountain, she found Jay lounging in the sun. “No luck?”

      “They all had plenty to say, but off camera. Can you just film the market and the people coming and going? I’ll summarize what I learned and do a voice-over.”

      Jay nodded and then went to get his shots. Tory thought she saw Shannon in the crowd of shoppers, but when she moved closer to look, she couldn’t find her rival. When Jay returned they headed over to the presidential palace for Tory’s meeting with Perez.

      The palace was a large stone structure that overlooked the port. It was a fortress that had been built to withstand attacks from the sea by pirates. There were cannons on the walls, and Tory felt for a minute that she was back at St. Augustine on her fourth-grade Florida-history field trip.

      Jay parked the Jeep on the street and got out when she did.

      “What are you doing?”

      “Coming with you.”

      “Stay here.”

      He shrugged his shoulders and returned to the Jeep. Perez had been friendly to a certain point, but he’d been very clear that he didn’t want to speak to anyone but Tory. And she needed him. Needed to find out exactly what was going on with King.

      “I shouldn’t be long.”

      She entered the building and gave her name to the receptionist, who invited her to sit down. Tory took a seat on one of the hardwood chairs and went over her questions for Perez.

      The most important one being why had it taken the government so long to locate King? She also wanted Perez to arrange a visit for her and Jay to the prison, and perhaps an interview with the warden.

      A door opened down the hall and Tory glanced up. A man was walking toward her. He looked familiar, and she ran through faces in her head, trying to place him. He was tall, probably about six feet and had blond hair with a bit of silver at his temples. He looked like Robert Redford. The distance was too far for her to see his eye color, but he carried himself with confidence and an easy style that spoke of success.

      He glanced up at her, smiling at first. Tory smiled back and stood up. He froze when he noticed the notepad in her hands and then turned to the left out of her view.

      Tory sat back down, jotted the physical description of the man on her notepad and put a question mark next to his name.

      “Who was that?” she asked the receptionist.

      Before the woman could answer, Juan Perez arrived. He was a few inches taller than her. He had dark hair and olive-toned skin. He wore battle fatigues and combat boots.

      “Señorita 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