The Candidate (21 page)

ERICA GETS UP EARLY THE next morning, picks up her iPad, and starts reading
The Call of Freedom
by then congressman Mike Ortiz. She skips to the section on his time as an Al-Qaeda prisoner and his escape from the primitive jail in which he was held.

It was June 2010 and he was on a congressional humanitarian mission in Baghdad. The focus of the trip was education, with the ultimate goal being to convince Congress to fund dozens of elementary schools in the city. Ortiz believed it was not only the right thing to do but that it would be a powerful antiterrorist tool. It was late afternoon, and he and the three other members of the mission were just leaving a school they had toured. They had ample security, but as they walked to their armored vehicles, a car screeched to a halt on the sidewalk. Five masked and heavily armed men leapt out. A gunfight broke out, a congresswoman from Nevada was shot in the leg, and two Iraqi soldiers and one of the gunmen were killed. Ortiz was picked up by two of the gunmen and shoved into the trunk of the car, which then sped away.

Ortiz sweltered in the dark cramped space for hours, in shock and afraid, with no idea where he was being taken or who his captors were. Finally the car stopped, the trunk was opened, he was lifted out,
roughly walked into a small, one-story adobe building, and shoved into a dark cell. This was where he stayed until his escape.

The conditions were horrific—food was erratic and basically inedible, his toilet was a bucket that was emptied once a week, and he had one thin blanket to get through the frigid desert nights. He lost forty pounds, suffered through extreme intestinal illness, insect bites that became infected, bleeding gums, fevers, and delirium. He was subjected to torture in an effort to get him to reveal military secrets and to renounce the United States, and was repeatedly threatened with beheading.

Back home in the States, his capture was front-page news. Al-Qaeda demanded that the US stop its bombing campaign in return for Ortiz's release. The president refused to negotiate with the jihadists. As the days turned into weeks, the story lost its urgency and the country's attention turned elsewhere.

Over the ensuing days, weeks, and months, Ortiz was able to make some sense of his surroundings. He was being held in a makeshift prison somewhere north of Baghdad. His fellow prisoners were a mix of thieves, adulterers, and other infidels. The prison held fewer than a dozen inmates and was guarded by three Al-Qaeda soldiers who spent a lot of time smoking, praying, and tormenting their captives.

During it all, Ortiz's love for his wife, family, and country sustained him. Sitting in his cell at night, he planned his escape. Al-Qaeda interrogators and officers would come every week, take him from his cell into a small room, and see if he had changed his mind about spilling secrets or denouncing the US. Ortiz saw these sessions as his best opportunity for escape. An armed soldier stood guard. If Ortiz could neutralize the guard, get his AK47, and shoot his interrogators and the prison guards, he could then flee, commandeer their vehicle, and drive south to Baghdad. It was a risky plan, brave and brazen. But Ortiz was determined.

Finally, after those fateful nine months and nine days, he put it into action. He was led from his cell into the interrogation room and,
as usual, sat across a table from his interrogators. No sooner had he sat down than he shoved the table over onto them, momentarily stunning them. He kicked the armed guard in the stomach, grabbed his AK47, and took out the guard and the two interrogators. The three regular guards rushed into the room, but he was ready. He killed two of them and wounded the third before fleeing to Baghdad in an Al-Qaeda truck.

Once again, Congressman Mike Ortiz was front-page news, a hero whose courage and bravery propelled him right to the Senate. And beyond?

Erica turns off her iPad. The story is well told and undeniably stirring. But she is struck by the fact that there were no witnesses to any of the events and no corroborating evidence. The prison was emptied and abandoned soon after Ortiz's escape.

Erica is going to have her work cut out for her in Iraq.

It's time to start packing for her return flight to New York, but first there's a call she has to make. She dials Meg Winston, the director of Woodlands Camp.

“I'd like to fly up and see Jenny on Tuesday, just for a couple of hours, maybe take her out to lunch.”

“I'm sorry, but that violates camp rules,” Winston answers firmly.

Erica loves the camp's discipline—the fact that all electronic devices are forbidden, that no candy-laden “care packages” are allowed. But this is a different matter entirely.

“Can you possibly stretch the rules a little, just this once?”

“We're a camp, not a piece of salt water taffy. If we stretched for one we'd have to stretch for all, and that would leave us very stringy.”

Erica has a feeling Winston has used that line before.

She wonders how deeply she should get into specifics. The fact is she
has
to see Jenny before she leaves for Iraq. “I'm going away on
assignment, and I can't make parents' weekend. This will be my only chance to see my daughter.”

“Ms. Sparks—”

“Please . . . Erica.”

“Erica, we have a lot of prominent parents with busy schedules. CEOs, movie stars, et cetera. The rules apply evenly and fairly to all.”

“Meg, I really can't get into the details, but it's important.”

“Erica, Jenny was traumatized by your last call. By the death of that young woman, Rebecca Sullivan. She's been moody and withdrawn. She has expressed her anger toward you to several of her counselors. This kind of attitude can infect other campers. And if we pulled her out of activities for lunch with you, it would only escalate the situation. I'm not sure a visit from you is in the camp's best interest right now.”

Erica wants to scream at this woman:
She's my daughter, for goodness' sake, and I'm going to come and see her!
Instead, she sits on the edge of the bed and takes a deep breath. “I completely understand your concerns. But I hope you can understand mine. Things are somewhat unsettled between us at the moment. Before I leave on assignment, I simply must talk to my daughter in person.”

What Erica doesn't say—and doesn't really want to admit to herself—is that she will be heading over to the most dangerous region of the world. And she may not come back.

Winston exhales with an exasperated sigh, and then her tone warms up. “I'm reading between the lines a little here, but I think I get it. Why don't you arrive at noon, and that way you can take Jenny out to lunch and have her back for her first afternoon activity. That seems the least disruptive plan.”

Erica hangs up and realizes that in some ways, visiting Jenny feels like as much of a minefield as visiting Iraq.

IT'S MONDAY MORNING AND ERICA is in her office organizing her trip. She's awaiting a call from a freelance producer, Bob Ruggio, who is based in Tel Aviv and whom Greg has worked with before. Greg has also gotten in touch with Anwar Hamade, the Iraqi journalist, and he's agreed to meet with Erica when she's in Baghdad. She flies out on Thursday.

As she goes over her checklist, she calls Nancy Huffman. Nancy was the head of wardrobe at GNN when Erica first arrived, and she became an immediate ally and then a friend. Nancy designed clothes in her off hours, and after Erica wore one of her dresses to the White House Correspondents Dinner, the designer was deluged with so many orders that she left GNN and now has a shop and atelier in the East Village. Erica often buys from her and consults with her, and the two friends meet for lunch or dinner every couple of months.

“Erica, how goes it?”

“Ah, mixed bag. Things are a little rough with Jenny.”

“When have they not been a little rough with Jenny? It's the nature of the beast. That kid adores you and don't you ever forget it.”

“Thanks. Listen, off the record I'm heading over to Iraq.”

“What for?”

“I'm researching an in-depth piece I'm doing on Mike Ortiz.”

“Okay. Can't say I feel warm and fuzzy about the guy. And please be careful over there. How can I help?”

“I'm not sure what to wear.”

“Are you going to be reporting from Iraq?”

“Not live. And not from a studio. It's a stealth trip.”

“Okay. Why don't I throw a few things together? I'll be up there in an hour or so.”

Erica hangs up and says a silent blessing for Nancy, and for all her friends. Including Greg. Who, no matter where their relationship stands, has proved himself again and again.

The call comes in from Bob Ruggio.

“What a pleasure to meet you, Erica.”

“Greg speaks very highly of you.”

“Every gig is a new challenge. But I've been busy. You'll be staying at the Al Rasheed Hotel. Which is in the Green Zone, which is heavily fortified, no doubt the safest part of town. I've lined up a cameraman who also does sound. It's going to be bare-bones, and the footage won't be pristine.”

“That might make it more compelling.”

“My feeling exactly. The prison where Mike Ortiz was held is near the city of Baiji, about 120 miles north of Baghdad, on the main route between the capital and ISIS-controlled Mosul. This is one of the most volatile and dangerous parts of Iraq, although it has a lot of competition. ISIS and the Iraqi government have been engaged in a fierce battle over Baiji for years, and control has seesawed back and forth at least a half dozen times. Right now the Iraqi government has the upper hand. The good news for us is that the prison—which is abandoned—is twenty miles south of the city, in an area that's definitely under government control. Still, ISIS has made forays that far south. Any way you look at it, Erica, this is a dangerous mission.”

“I need to find out what went on in that prison. Do you think we
could find any Iraqis who worked there? Or were prisoners there at the same time as Mike Ortiz?”

“Doubtful. It was just a makeshift prison, a former rope factory that Al-Qaeda commandeered. There were only a handful of prisoners. However, I've heard from a reliable source that there is one surviving guard. He lives in a tiny town north of the prison.”

“He's the person I want to talk to.”

“We'll do our best to make it happen. I've got your flight number, you're coming via Dubai. I'll meet you at Baghdad airport. I've hired a driver for the duration. You've got my phone number and my backup number?”

“Yes.”

“Let's check in on Wednesday. Call me anytime before then with any questions.”

“I will. And thank you.”

“Oh, and I've got a flak jacket for you.”

After the call, Erica sits quietly at her desk. This is the first time in her life that she's traveled to a war zone. Hardly a week goes by without a bomb killing civilians in Iraq. ISIS claims religious justification for the systematic rape of girls as young as twelve. Erica has seen more than one beheading video. Capturing her would be a propaganda coup for ISIS. How would they treat her if they did capture her? As a publicity bonanza to be paraded in front of the world? As a hostage used to make demands on the American government? Or would they simply behead her and post the footage on social media? Erica imagines that happening—she's kneeling on the ground, her masked assassin stands over her, holding his sword, and . . . she closes her eyes but sees it all.

Then, sitting at her desk with the sunlight pouring in the floor-to-ceiling windows, she feels a strange new emotion descend on her. The world around her looks both hyperreal and not quite real at all.
It's almost as if she's disassociating from her surroundings, her job, her trip to Iraq, herself. Watching herself from up above. Is it a defense? To protect herself from the tsunami of fear that's building inside her? Is she having a premonition of her own death? Whatever she's feeling, it's deeply unsettling. She stands up, fighting off the cosmic dread, the claustrophobic panic. Is she signing her own death warrant?

“Knock, knock.”

Erica whirls around. Nancy Huffman is standing in her office doorway.

“Are you all right, Erica? You look seriously spooked.”

Erica lets out a deep exhale. She's pulled back to earth, to the here and now, by Nancy's voice and presence. “I think I'm okay. A little rattled by this trip, but I'll be fine.” Erica realizes, with dark finality, that turning her back on this mission isn't an option. She'd never be able to look in the mirror again.

Nancy crosses the office and gives Erica a hug. “You're smart and tough, Erica, and you're going to find what you're looking for over there.”

Erica can feel her internal systems returning to something close to normal. “And how are you?”

“Too busy, but it beats the alternative.”

Nancy is without a doubt the chicest woman Erica knows. She's a little older, with a tight Afro and gorgeous black skin. Today she's wearing black leggings, black flats, and a simple white oxford shirt worn out with the sleeves and collar up. A parade of silver bracelets marches up her right forearm.

“Let's get down to work,” Erica says, thankful for the prosaic demands of the trip.

“So, here's what I'm thinking,” Nancy says, opening a garment bag. “Safety first for my friend. Women are much more vulnerable in that culture. Especially Western women. Especially blond Western women. So . . . I want you to look like a man from ten paces.” Nancy takes out two pairs of men's cargo pants, two oversize work shirts, two floppy men's sun hats, and a pair of work boots.

“My first foray into cross-dressing.”

“Hey, you're on trend. And whatever it takes.”

“I think this is a smart idea.”

“Every little bit helps. Listen, I have a long-scheduled fitting with one of my best customers.”

“Go, go. And thank you for this.”

Nancy looks at Erica, and her face fills with concern. She grasps Erica's hands in her own. “Hurry back.”

With Nancy gone, Erica takes another look at the clothes. They make perfect sense. She holds up her hair, puts on one of the hats, and checks herself in the full-length mirror on the inside of her closet door.

Are you really ready for this, Erica? No. But you're as ready as you'll ever be.

Erica walks to the window. She looks out at the city—the towers, the traffic, the surging sea of humanity—and with a jolt she realizes that she's never felt more alive.