Paternal Instinct

Chapter One Yamhill County, Oregon. Wednesday, September 20 Dying slowly in the west, the bright red ball of sun tinted the purple haze of dusk with a halo of vivid pink. Terraced hills rolled away in every direction, festooned by the dark green of verdant vineyards as far as the eye could see. A white tailed doe peeked shyly out from a gnarled filbert grove atop a low nearby hill. The faint mist of early evening crept up the graveled entry road that wound lazily between mottled gray stone walls flanked by stately aged cedars and alders. From the wraparound porch of the elegant, sprawling, European-styled lodge, furtive eyes swept out over the landscape, missing not a single detail of the stunning natural panorama afforded by the early evening. But these eyes were serious, intent, troubled. They were the eyes of Oregon vintner Curtis Wells. Sleek and wiry, Wells wore his fifty-four years with distinction. Only the ‘crows feet’ stamped in the tanned, leathery skin at the corners of his eyes by the passage of time and the rigors of hard, outdoor physical labor, along with a slight graying at the temples of his dark, close-cropped hair betrayed his advanced stage of life. A former Navy SEAL who had done a brief stint in black ops with the Central Intelligence Agency, he abandoned that life ten years earlier to assume the management of the vineyard. Whispering Ridge Cellars had been a struggling winery in fertile Yamhill County, a grape-growing haven just outside Newberg, Oregon. But Whispering Ridge flourished under Wells’ management, and its two hundred forty-four bountiful acres annually produced some of the finest pinot gris, pinot noir and Riesling grapes in the western United States. The Cellars employed twenty-seven locals full-time, a dozen more part-time and still others seasonally, producing and shipping fine wines both internationally and to every part of the United States. Curt Wells loved his business, and he loved the land. Sometimes in the early mornings he would stroll leisurely up into the terraced hills, into the vineyards, imbibe the rich smell of the ripening fruit and pick up fistfuls of the fecund, volcanic soil, allowing it to trickle through his fingers and back to the ground again. He relished the taste of good wine and the intricate and painstaking process of producing it. Although he had a full time enologist on his staff, no one knew the grapes better than Wells himself. He and his wife, Molly, inherited the winery from Molly’s father, who bought the business as one of his many investments and then, within months, suffered a massive stroke and died. It was at that juncture that Wells, with some gentle urging from Molly, forsook the perilous and capricious world of international intrigue for the life of a country gentleman in this natural paradise. It was a decision he had not, until this moment, regretted. But tonight was unlike any other. The Wells’ had two children, sons Scott and Tyler. Tyler, the youngest, was an executive at a promising software firm in Seattle, and made frequent pilgrimages southward to Whispering Ridge to see his parents. Scott, nicknamed “Sunny” because of his sparkling smile and cheerful disposition, worked as legal counsel for Halvarson-Brandt, a giant corporation based in Dallas, Texas, specializing in oilfield downhole drilling support. Scott was a seasoned world traveler, frequently globe trotting to negotiate contracts, finalize patents and mediate disputes for the company. A rising legal star in his industry, he was respected and genuinely liked by everyone who knew him, no mean accomplishment for an attorney. The troubling call had come in the late afternoon. Scott Wells and two other company lawyers had been dining at a fancy hotel restaurant in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, after lengthy and arduous negotiations with officials of the Saudi government, when five armed, masked men stormed the place, killing eleven Saudi nationals and taking the three Americans. At best, Scott “Sunny” Wells was a hostage. At worst, well, his frantic father could not even bear to think about that. Rounding the corner of the replica of an old Italian winery building, Carlos Gutierrez, Wells’ trusted vineyard manager, strode purposefully across the green expanse of neatly manicured lawn and up three broad stone steps to the porch where Wells sat in a weathered wooden rocker, deeply absorbed in thought, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. “You wanted to see me, jefe?” he said. “Yes, Carlos, I have to fly to D.C. in the morning, and you’ll be in charge while I’m gone, as usual,” Wells muttered offhandedly, his mind clearly elsewhere. “You going about Sunny?” Gutierrez asked rhetorically. “Yep,” Wells confirmed, “’cause I’m sure as hell not going to get any straight answers from those people while I’m sitting here.” “Damned politicians,” Gutierrez growled. “Yeah, damned politicians,” Wells echoed. “We’ll keep things buttoned down here,” Gutierrez promised. “The grapes are growing real well. It will be a good year. You just bring Sunny home.” As Carlos walked away, Wells’ troubled mind returned to his son’s tenuous situation. He would go to Washington tomorrow all right, and walk directly into that swirling sea of political turmoil, petty partisan maneuvering and peddled influence. And he would meet with representatives from the State Department, perhaps someone from the White House, and maybe even some old friends at Langley. But his time with the CIA and the SEALs had taught him well that situations such as this one were often politically charged, and that what was best for hostages taken abroad was not always the highest priority of the politicians at home. He would likely be more in need of a shovel in Washington than a briefcase. Of that he was sure. Stan Blanton, executive vice-president for Halvarson-Brandt, was the first to telephone the Wells family, offering assurances that the corporate giant would use every means at its disposal to free Scott Wells and the others. Shortly thereafter, a Marvin Forrester from the State Department had called to add that they were pursuing the matter at the highest levels and that the president himself would be speaking with the Saudi king shortly. Curt Wells was grateful, but not reassured. Molly Wells, for her part, was beside herself with anxiety and grief, her brow uncharacteristically furrowed and the tears ever present in the corners of her sparkling green eyes. It had never once occurred to her that her son, a civilian, would become a pawn to be haggled over by terrorists and politicians. She had read the graphic and gory media accounts of the brutality directed toward American hostages in Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan, and the thought of them made her shudder in the early evening breeze that had begun to sweep down gustily over Whispering Ridge. The possibility that her own precious son might now face some of the same barbarous and brutal treatment left her paralyzed, numb, heartbroken. Surely the most powerful country in the world could do something. But they were able to save only a few of the others. What would happen now was anyone’s guess. Curt would find out in Washington. He just had to. Somewhere West of Buraydah, Saudi Arabia Scott Wells and his colleagues were aroused rudely and early in the morning by their captors. Crammed together into a flat, narrow wooden cage, they had been forced to squeeze into a space so small that even turning to keep blood circulation moving was a collaborative three-man effort. Their heads were covered with dark hoods, and remained that way even when they were jerked roughly to their feet, led into a field and ordered to urinate. This they did gratefully, while watchful guards ridiculed them in Arabic. Next, they had been loaded roughly into the back of what felt to them like a big truck, and forced to lie flat, with feet shackled and arms bound tightly in front of them.