As in the United States, three identical White Tops flew in shuffling formation. Two greenside V-22 Ospreys loaned to HMX-1 from VMM-262 out of Okinawa flew overwatch. At the insistence of President Gumelar, three heavily armed Embraer Super Tucano turboprop fighters accompanied the lift on behalf of the Indonesian Air Force.
Only Marine One would land at the prison.
With his phone calls complete, Gumelar’s hands fell into his lap. “Very well,” he said. “There are seven prison sites on the island. Father West is being held at the one called Batu. Your pilot will land at a small soccer field behind the compound itself. I will exit the helicopter first to let the guards know I am acting of my own volition, after which point you and I will enter the facility together. I will sign the requisite clemency papers, a few—”
Special Agent Gary Montgomery leaned forward against his harness, very nearly bursting out of his seat. “Mr. President, I cannot let you go inside the prison.”
Gumelar ignored the agent and spoke directly to Ryan. “You must go inside, Jack,” he said. “We will do this together.”
“Mr. President,” Montgomery said. “This is completely unacceptable. You—”
“I hear you, Gary,” Ryan said. “But sometimes I have to—”
Ryan had never seen Montgomery angry. The agent was a bear of a man anyway, but the space he took up in the aircraft seemed to instantly double in size. His face flushed red, the tendons on the side of his neck tensed as if he were lifting a heavy weight. “When was the last time you were inside a lockup, sir?”
Ryan sighed. “Fifteen, twenty years. Maybe more.”
“Everything we train for, prepare for, will be rendered useless inside those walls. We will not be in control. And I like being in control.”
“Gary—”
“The choice is yours, of course, Mr. President,” Montgomery continued. “But if anything goes wrong in there, I will be unable to protect you without killing a lot of people.”
Ryan gazed out the window as Marine One began to descend in the field beside a run-down compound of concrete and corrugated metal. He didn’t give a damn about President Gumelar’s hurt feelings as long as Pat West was released.
“Gary,” Ryan said. “If you’ll bear with me, I think we might reach a compromise on what to do here…”
Father West heard the squeak of shoes on the chipped tile floor long before he saw anyone. His cell was much larger now, fresh water, plenty of light. Even so, the odor of human desperation lingered in the air — and something West recognized immediately as the pall of impending death.
At first, when his conditions improved, he’d thought that his text had gotten through. But he gradually came to realize that these people were going to kill him because of a lie. They just wanted to clean him up beforehand, so they’d feel more civilized while doing it. He’d given up hope of ever being rescued.
There had been no trial. But what would be the point of one, anyway? It was as easy to whip up the records of a trial and conviction as it was to make up evidence of drug trafficking. He’d read about the Bali Nine. He knew that he was just a few kilometers from where two of them had been marched onto a field in front of twelve soldiers and shot.
It was not in West’s nature to hurry the moment of his death, and yet there was absolutely nothing he could do but pray.
The footfalls grew louder and a mountain of a man with dark hair and a tailored suit strode up to the iron bars of his cell. There was an Indonesian man with him who West knew he should have recognized but did not. The big man stepped to the side as two guards unlocked the door and pulled it open.
West backpedaled until he bumped the far wall, nervous to be around so many people. “Are…” he stammered. “A… are you from the embassy?”
The big man smiled serenely and shook his head. “No, Father West. I work for the President of the United States, and I’m here to take you home.”
Ryan gave the priest his seat, sitting across from him, facing aft. Dr. Bailey started a glucose IV immediately and went to work checking vitals, looking at West’s eyes and teeth. After a few moments, he gave Ryan a slight nod. He’d conduct a more thorough exam when they returned to Air Force One — Ryan didn’t intend to make West remain in Indonesia one second longer than he had to. The President held a cold can of Coca-Cola at Bailey, raising his brow. “How about it, Doc?”
“None for me, thanks,” Bailey joked. “But Father West might like it.”
Ryan chuckled and passed the can to his friend.
“Oh, my.” West held the sweating can to his forehead. “Merciful heaven, Jack. You have no idea…”
It killed Ryan to see his friend so drawn and hollow. He opened a packet of cashews and held them out to West. “You look like you could use something salty.”
Gumelar had been on the phone again with his press secretary since before Marine One even left the ground.
Father West drained the Coke at once and sheepishly asked for another, which the crew chief brought him immediately.
