In the last days of the South African debacle, Paul Garret had a meltdown on national television and had resigned as White House press secretary. According to Gina, a few months later he took a job as an executive at US Steel.

Lacy said, “He must still have a bunch of contacts in the government. I’m sure he could help.”

Contacting Gina’s—and I quote—“first great love” sounded about as much fun as playing in the sewers of Derry, Maine, but Lacy was right: he probably could help.

“Okay,” I said. “How do we find him?”

My millennial sister rolled her eyes at me, then quickly tracked him down on Twitter, started following him, and sent him a direct message. When she was finished, she turned her phone around and showed me what she’d written. It was clear and concise: Gina is in trouble. Then she listed my phone number.

Nice was six hours ahead of US Eastern Standard, which would make it 12:30 p.m. in DC. As he was a busy dad of two young boys, I didn’t expect a call from Garret anytime soon.

I did, however, place a call to the most powerful person I knew personally. Charles Mangrove had been the deputy director of the FBI when I first crossed paths with him, but about the time I started playing farmer, he had taken over the top spot.

He didn’t answer, so I called again.

And again.

I called thirty-seven times.

“This can’t be good,” he finally answered on my thirty-eighth attempt.

It wasn’t that Charles Mangrove didn’t like me; it’s that in his estimation I was responsible for two of his agents being murdered a few years back.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Prescott?” he said dryly.

“A friend of mine was abducted in Bolivia, and I need help getting down there.”

He paused for a second, then said, “Bolivia, huh?”

“She was working with the World Health Organization down there, living in a village. The WHO pulled out last year, but she stayed. Six days ago, some men came to her village and abducted her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Who was she?”

I noticed he said was and not is.

Not a good sign.

“An old girlfriend,” I said, though it didn’t seem to do Gina justice. But I didn’t feel like saying “the one who got away.”

“I wish I could help,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure that you can.”

Sure, the FBI was a domestic agency, but he would still have plenty of contacts who could help secure me a visa to Bolivia. He could make it happen in a manner of hours. He might have to call in a few favors, but there wasn’t a shred of doubt in my mind he could do it. Would he, was a completely different matter.