Page 21 of Wild Temple
She smiled and gave me a hug. More tears spilled from her lids and dampened my shirt.
We set out to find the US Embassy, but I wasn’t holding my breath that anything would come of it.
11
Jatala didn’t have a full-blown US Embassy. It was too small for that. Instead, there was a satellite US Consular Agency. The office was located a few blocks off Sunset Row in a nondescript office building that was home to a money exchange and a massage parlor. A small plaque outside the building was the only form of identification.
I held the door for Brooke, and we stepped into the main lobby, then took the stairs up to the third floor. The dingy old building looked barely maintained. At the end of the hallway, we found the consular agency, identified by another small plaque and a sign that read:Ring bell for service.
The CCTV camera above the door captured our likeness.
A moment after I rang the bell, the door buzzed open. Brooke and I pushed inside the small waiting room that was filled with a few plastic chairs and a table with a plethora ofbrochures—most of which described the process for dealing with a lost passport or known scams to watch out for.
The clerk sat behind a counter encased in bulletproof glass. There was a speaker and a metal tray on the counter for exchanging documents.
A flatscreen display on the wall looped generic travel information and listed contact numbers for the consular agency.
Brooke and I approached the glass, and I said, "We need to report a kidnapping.”
The woman behind the counter was an American in her mid-30s and looked bored to tears. The place wasn't busy, and people mostly dealt with passport issues.
"Is the missing person American?”
"Yes,” Brooke said. “Her name is Hannah Graham.”
"I'll need to see both of your passports.”
I fished mine out of my pocket, and so did Brooke. She kept her important items like passport, driver’s license, and cash in a zippered waist belt that she could tuck into her shorts. It was a smart travel move and kept the items safe from pickpockets.
We dumped the passports into the tray. The clerk took them and scanned the information. "Have you reported this to the local authorities?”
"Yes," Brooke said.
"Please have a seat, and someone will be with you shortly.”
The clerk kept the passports, climbed out of her chair, and walked deeper into the office.
Brooke and I took a seat and waited. I picked up one of the brochures and flipped through it to pass the time.
A few minutes later, the door opened, and a gentleman poked his head out. He wore a short-sleeve collared shirt, a striped tie, and slacks. He had thick black-framed glasses, and his brown hair was parted on the side and combed over. In his early 40s, he had a narrow face, a bulbous nose, and thin lips. He smiled and looked across the waiting room at us. "Brooke Dalton? Tyson Wild?"
We stood up.
"Right this way," he said, holding the door for us.
We stepped inside the secure area, and he led us down the short corridor to his office. It was a small room with a desk and two chairs across from it. Overhead fluorescents flickered, bathing the room in a sickly pallor. The view from his office was a grungy back alley.
"My name is Bill Winslow," he said, offering us a seat.
Brooke and I fell into the chairs, and he slipped behind his desk.
He put on a grim face, but that's all it was—an act. The faux,I'm sorry to hear about your troubleslook. “It seems you two are going through an unpleasant situation right now. I'm sorry."
"My friend has been kidnapped," Brooke snapped. It was slightly more thanunpleasant.
"Yes, I understand how traumatizing this must be.” He grabbed a clipboard and slid it across the desk. "I know it may seem futile, but we do have some paperwork for you tofill out. I'll need the full name of your companion that was abducted, the location, time, and the full description of the assailant or assailants, and the details of the incident.”
Brooke was about to come unglued.
