The walk to the Provost Marshal's office took four minutes, and neither MP spoke.
The taller one kept his hand on my elbow like he expected me to bolt. The shorter one walked ahead, opening doors without looking back, his breathing quick and shallow.
"You can loosen your grip, Corporal," I said. "I am not going anywhere."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, and did not loosen it.
"Sorry," the shorter one muttered. "Sir's orders."
"I know whose orders," I said. "Walk slower. The whole base is watching through windows."
The Provost Marshal's office smelled of coffee, floor wax, and old paper. A fan turned overhead, pushing warm air around and accomplishing very little.
Behind the desk sat an older sergeant, gray at the temples, sleeves rolled evenly on both arms. His name tape read Rennick. He looked up from a logbook, looked at my cuffs, then looked at the two MPs like they had tracked mud across a clean floor.
"What is this?" Rennick asked.
"Prisoner transfer, Sergeant," the taller MP said. "Major Sterling's orders."
"Prisoner has a name?" Rennick asked.
"She does not have a name tape, Sergeant."
"That is not what I asked." Rennick set his pen down beside the logbook. "Corporal, what is her name?"
The corporal glanced at me. "We were not told, Sergeant."
"You arrested a woman without learning her name."
"Major Sterling ordered it, Sergeant."
"Major Sterling orders a lot of things before lunch." Rennick stood and came around the desk. He stopped in front of me and studied my face, my fatigues, the empty places where insignia and a name should have been. "Ma'am. Are you injured?"
"No, Sergeant," I said.
"Did these two read you your rights?"
"In the hall," I said. "Word perfect. The Major wanted an audience for that part."
"Of course he did." Rennick turned to the MPs. "Did either of you check her identification?"
Silence answered him.
"Did either of you ask why she is wearing cuffs tight enough to mark her wrists?" He raised his voice half a notch, no more. "Take them off. Now."
"Sergeant, the Major said..." the shorter one began.
"I heard what the Major said, secondhand, which is how all bad orders travel." Rennick held out his hand. "Key."
The taller MP fumbled the key out, and the cuffs came off. I rubbed circulation back into my wrists and said nothing about the marks. Rennick saw them anyway.
"Sit down, ma'am," he said, and pulled out the chair himself. "Not you two. You stand there until I decide what your reports say."
"Sergeant, with respect," the corporal said, "the Major will want a charge sheet."
"The Major will get accuracy, which may be new for him." Rennick looked at me. "Now. Who am I talking to?"
I took my credentials from my inside pocket and laid them on his desk, open, facing him.
He read them twice. Then he set them down with great care, came to attention so sharply the fan seemed to pause, and said, "Colonel Vance. Ma'am. I apologize for this office, and for those cuffs."
"At ease, Sergeant Rennick," I said. "You are the first person today who asked for identification. That counts for something."
"Stand at ease," he told the MPs, without looking at them. "And close your mouths."
"You verified it?" the shorter one whispered.
"I verified it, Specialist, and if you repeat one word before the Colonel authorizes it, you will be peeling potatoes until retirement." Rennick picked up his desk phone. "Ma'am, you will want a secure line. The one in the back office scrambles. Major Sterling has asked about that phone before, which is why I never discuss it."
"Thank you, Sergeant," I said. "Give me the room. And no charge sheet leaves this desk until I say so."
"Understood, ma'am."
He ushered the MPs out and shut the door himself.
I dialed the secure number from memory. Rebecca Hale answered on the second ring, like she had been sitting beside the phone.
"Elena," she said. "Tell me you are all right."
"I am uncuffed, if that is what you are asking," I said.
"Sterling is finished. A response team is ten minutes out. Sit tight and let them take him."
I looked at the wall clock. "Ten minutes, Rebecca?"
"Ten minutes."
"Washington is hundreds of miles from Camp Vora."
A pause, small and polished. "The team was pre-positioned for a training inspection nearby. Lucky timing."
"Lucky," I said.
"Elena. Listen to me carefully. Sterling assaulted you in front of a hundred witnesses. That is your case. Take it, close it, do not expand this beyond Sterling. No fishing. No side inquiries. Do you understand?"
"I understand the instruction," I said, and somewhere under my ribs, quiet as a hairline crack, the first doubt settled in.
Chapter 7: Twenty-One Minutes