Certain Jeopardy (11 page)

HECTOR CENOBIO PREFERRED TO
travel light. If his wife were with him, he would be carting several large rolling bags. Traveling alone, while not his preference, was easier on his back. One green, mediumsized wheeled suitcase and his computer bag were all he needed. He checked the suitcase at the airport in Rome, leaving him only the computer bag to carry. The computer was loaded with everything he needed: work files, speeches, downloaded magazine and journal articles, and several audio books. The flight to Caracas was long. He hoped to sleep as much as possible, but snoozing in the air wasn’t something he did well. Most likely he would spend his time reading or daydreaming about how soon he would be holding his wife in his arms and teasing his children.

Traveling first class was a treat for him. His professor’s salary didn’t afford him such luxuries. Usually he had to wedge his generous frame into the narrow seats of economy class. This trip, however, was courtesy of the conference coordinators in Caracas. They had made all the arrangements, and he was happy to let them do so.

After clearing security, Hector strolled down the long corridor, avoiding the surging waves of people moving in different directions. Hundreds of people with scores of different gates and destinations in mind—a classic case study for chaos theorists.
If a passenger from
Rome bumps into a passenger from London outside the duty free shop,
will it set in motion a series of events that will ultimately cause a downpour in Toronto?
He had never accepted chaos theory, seeing instead more plan in the universe than randomness.

He had arrived at the airport early and found the first-class lounge nearly empty. A dark-skinned man sat in the far corner flipping through a magazine. Hector caught his eye and nodded. The man returned the gesture. Taking a seat in one of the padded leather chairs, Hector pulled his computer from the bag and turned it on. As the device booted, he glanced at the man with the magazine. Something about him seemed familiar. Another scientist? If so, he had not attended any of the colloquia or seminars. The press conference? He shifted his gaze to his computer screen then back to the man. He didn’t want to appear to be staring. There were close to a hundred and fifty reporters at the conference; the man certainly could have been among their number. Hector decided it didn’t matter. Clearly the stranger wasn’t interested in him, and truth be told, Hector wasn’t interested in the stranger either.

The computer finished its warm-up exercises, and Hector called up a downloaded article from
Physics and Power Engineering
, an obscure but respected journal. Hector had decided in graduate school that the hardest work of science was not experimentation or even scrambling for grants; it was keeping up with the literature. Reading journals was practically a part-time job.

An hour passed and more first-class passengers entered the exclusive lounge. A uniformed man in his twenties appeared and offered snacks and drinks to the waiting passengers. At the appropriate time the steward reminded the passengers it was time to board the plane. Hector shut down the computer and slipped it into the bag. He glanced at the dark-skinned man, who folded his magazine and replaced it on the coffee table, rose, and walked past Hector.

Passengers boarded the aircraft in a long, slow-moving line that started and stopped with each passenger who struggled to lift a bag into the overhead compartments. A stewardess who looked too young to hold the job brought Hector orange juice. Across the aisle sat Magazine Man, sipping a mixed drink.

Thirty minutes later, the stewardess closed the door and the Alitalia Boeing 757 pushed back from the gate.
On to London, then
to Caracas, then home.
He longed most for the final destination.

Just before the hatch had been closed and latched, Hector saw the familiar man place a short phone call. The moment he ended the call, he looked at Hector and smiled.

Hector found this unsettling.

* * *

PETE RASOR AND RI
CH
Harbison sat at a small table near the side wall of the restaurant. Pete set his chopsticks down and leaned back.

“That was the best lo mein I’ve ever had.”

“I assumed that, since you’ve done everything but lick the plate.”

“That may happen yet.”

Rich chortled. “Where did you learn to wield chopsticks like that? If I had to use those things, I’d starve.”

“I’ve seen you eat—you’d manage.”

“You sayin’ I’m fat?”

Pete wasted no time answering. “I’d never do that. You’re a perfect specimen of manhood. Every girl’s dream, every man’s idol, every—”

“You can stop right there. I’m not paying for your lunch.”

Pete shrugged. “Can’t blame a man for trying.” He decided to change subjects. “It seems odd to be an American in Venezuela eating Chinese food.”

“Not really. I was in a mall in Southern California and had lunch in the food court. I ordered Japanese food from a Chinese woman who gave the order to a Hispanic cook who passed my plate to an Anglo worker while an African-American girl poured my soda. Not all that weird.”

“It was weird enough for you to take notice.”

“Let’s get back to the hotel. I want to snag a few hours of shuteye before starting the swing shift.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Pete paid for the meal and followed Rich from the small restaurant. “We should come back here tomorrow. I want to try their kung pao shrimp.”

“Don’t hold your breath. I think we have a tour of the jungle coming up.”

Part of the mission was reconnoitering the Santi mansion. Moyer’s plan would split the team into two three-man teams. Now that remote surveillance was up and operating, the secondary recon could be done—assuming some handyman didn’t find one of the two LVRSs and take it home to show the kids.

They moved down the sidewalk and stopped at the corner. The hotel was only three blocks away, a pleasant walk on a lovely day. Still, they had driven in case Moyer needed them in a hurry. “Mind if I drive?”

“It’s only a couple of blocks,” Rich said. “Not enough to satisfy your wanderlust.”

“I can turn a three-block drive into a three-hour tour.”

“I believe that. You never were very good at navigation.”

Pete feigned shock. “You wound me. I was at the top of my class.”

“Was it a class of one?”

“C’mon, let’s take the long way back. We need to check other routes.” By “other routes” he meant paths of evasion should escape become necessary.

“All right.” Rich tossed him the keys.

They walked another half block to their car, which was parked next to the downtown curb. Pete pushed the unlock button on the key bob and stepped between their car and the one parked in front of it. Rich slipped into the passenger seat. Pete reached for the handle on the driver’s side door.

He heard it first. Then he saw it.

The roar of a car engine. The screech of tires on pavement. The flash of blue to his right. Reflex made him jump, but no ordinary man could have gained the height necessary to clear the sedan, which struck him mid-thigh. Pete landed on the metal surface, rolled over the windshield, and tumbled down the back of the vehicle. It took a full five seconds for him to realize that he was lying on asphalt. It took another five seconds for Rich’s voice to penetrate the shock and confusion.

“Pete! Don’t move, buddy. Just stay there.”

“What? Where …” He looked up to Shaq’s face. He had seen the big man angry, happy, drunk, even bewildered. This was the first time he had seen him afraid.

“Take it easy, buddy.”

Pete could hear the roar of a car racing away. He wondered who was in such a hurry. Something was wrong—he knew that much. His hearing was good, but off. A single sharp tone ran in one ear and out the other.

Then the pain arrived. Pete tried to rise.

“No you don’t, buddy. You’re staying down.”

“Okay. My leg hurts.” The dull ache soon became white-hot needles jabbing his legs, back, and neck. As the shock faded, the pain grew. “What happened?”

“A car hit you. Stay still.” Rich turned to the gathering crowd. “I need an ambulance.
Ambulancia
!” He returned his attention to Pete and whispered, “Tell me you’re not packin’.” He leaned over Pete and gently patted the area around his belt, looking for what wasn’t there—a 9mm handgun.

“Of course not. I wouldn’t …” The pain began to dim, as did the sun.

* * *

JULIA CENOBIO HEAR
D A
knock on the door of her hotel suite and was surprised to see Miguel Costa standing there with a small brown bag.

“Miguel. You’re not due to pick us up for another hour.” She and the kids had planned to visit the artificial lagoon and small zoo at Parque del Este.

“Yes, senora, I know. I had to pick up a few things from the store. I brought the children some treats.” He held up the bag but didn’t offer it to her.

“Treats?”

“Yes, but I do not wish to give them to the children without your first approving. I will take away what is not suitable. May I come in?”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

Miguel entered the room and locked the door behind him.

JOSE MEDINA STROLLED INTO
the Clinica Caracas as though he had done so countless times. He wore a loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt untucked, blue jeans, and sneakers. He looked like half the other men moving through the corridors of the five-story structure. The emergency room was at the back of the hospital, and Jose took his time making his way through the hallways. He could have parked in the back lot but chose the front entrance hoping that he would be able to blend in with the dozens of people who moved in and out of the building every minute.

A sign on the wall pointed the way to EMERGENCIA. It had taken him nearly thirty minutes to travel from the remote surveillance site to the hospital. It took all the willpower he had not to run red lights and scream past the ALTO signs.

A pair of double-hinged swinging doors with porthole-like windows separated the emergency room from the rest of the facility. Jose pushed through the doors.

Banks of fluorescent bulbs illuminated a highly polished vinyl floor and pale-green walls. The air was thick with odors of antiseptic cleaners and recycled air. Rows of standard hospital lobby chairs were filled with mothers holding crying children, a man with a bloody cloth wrapped around his left hand, a woman who stared at the floor and rocked back and forth in pain. Others looked drugged with discomfort. A tall, ebony-skinned man leaned against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

“We have to stop meeting like this.” Jose whispered the words.

“You got that right. I’m glad you’re here. You come by yourself?”

Jose nodded. “Moyer thought it best if I came alone. Too many of us hanging about in one place isn’t good. He sent me because he thought my Spanish might be better than yours.”

“Ya think? My ten words of Spanish don’t go very far.”

Jose looked around the room. To his relief, no one was staring at them. “How is he?”

Rich shrugged. “Can’t say for sure. He went out about a minute or two after he was hit. I did a quick field survey. Best I can tell, there were no broken bones.”

“That’s good. Do you know if he hit his head?”

“No. I was in the passenger seat. I heard the driver hit the brakes and snapped my head around in time to see Pete roll over the top of the car. I think he jumped at the last moment. If he hadn’t, he might have gone under the sedan.” Rich looked away. “The guy didn’t even stop.”

“Was fluid coming out of his ears or nose?”

“His nose was bleeding.”

“Anything else? Any clear fluid.”

Rich shook his head. “Not that I saw. Is that important?”

“Sometimes in head trauma cerebrospinal fluid can leak out. It doesn’t mean he’s in good shape if you don’t see it, but it sure means trouble if you do.”

“You’re the doc. I’ll take your word for it.”

“You okay?”

“A little shook. Who wouldn’t be?”

“Let me see what I can find out.” Jose moved to the triage nurse’s station, nodded, and said in Spanish, “My name is Jose Isea, and I understand that one of my foreign consultants has been hit by a car. Do you have any word on his condition?” Jose felt relief that he had remembered to use his in-country name.

“Name?”

It took a second for Jose to recall Pete’s pseudonym. “Pete Tanner.”

She studied her computer monitor for a moment then said, “One moment please.” She rose and entered the treatment area of the ER. Jose glanced back at Rich but made no comment. The nurse, a stout, dour woman, emerged from the bowels of the ER, her expression no different than when she went in.

“They’re bringing him up from X-ray now. It will be another thirty minutes before you can see him.”

“Thank you. My friend and I will wait.”

She said nothing, and Jose walked back to Rich. “It’ll be another half hour before we know anything. Let’s grab a cup.”

The cafeteria was a wide-open, well-lit expanse of tables and chairs. Jose bought two cups of coffee. As a Master Sergeant, Rich outranked Jose, but the nature of the team allowed a freedom of communication not often experienced in other units. Because of this, Jose had no problem pressing Rich for more information.

“I told you all I know. We had just finished lunch at a Chinese joint a few blocks from the hotel. You know how Pete likes his Chinese food. Our car was a block away. He wanted to drive around a little, so I gave him the keys to the rental. Traffic was light. He stepped into the street, rounded the car. By that time I had already plopped down on the passenger seat. I heard tires squeal and looked up in time to see Pete go flying over the vehicle. Next thing I know, I’m kneeling in the street next to him.”

“Was he conscious the whole time?”

“Just some of it. He was conscious but confused. He didn’t seem to know what happened.”

“So you don’t know if he hit his head?” Jose took a sip of the strong coffee.

“I can’t be sure one way or the other. I didn’t see anything that looked like a head wound.”

“What about his eyes?”

Rich cupped his hands around the cup as if warming them. “Pupils were equal and looked normal.”

“Speech?”

“Good, but as I said, he was confused about what happened.”

“Not unusual. I’ve heard of accident victims who were unable to recall anything about the event.”

“Sounds like a blessing to me.”

“I suppose so. Did the ambulance crew seem to know what they were doing?”

“They impressed me.” Rich looked up from his coffee. “You’re the medic—what happens next?”

“It all depends on how badly hurt he is. The first concern is his brain. The fact that his pupils were equal is good, but that could change. If he hit his head hard enough, he may have more than a concussion. There might be bleeding in the brain. Another concern is internal bleeding. How fast was the car going when it struck Pete?”

“Fast enough to make his tires squeal, but I can’t say how fast he was going when he hit Pete.”

Jose frowned. “This isn’t good. Not good at all. Even if he’s just a tad banged up, we got problems to deal with. The police will want some answers.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. The cops showed up about the same time as the ambulance. I told them what I knew. Of course, they checked my ID and stuff. They let me follow the ambulance to the hospital, but not before telling me they’re going to want to interview Pete.”

“We can do without that. I’m also concerned what he might say under anesthesia.”

Rich narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s say they have to operate. It’s possible that Pete could say something he shouldn’t while going under or coming out. Or depending on the kind of surgery and his condition, they may not even use a general anesthesia. I had a hernia surgery a few years back and all they used was a spinal block and a med to make me not care about what was going on.”

“We may have another problem.” Rich rubbed his eyes.

“I don’t want to hear this do I?”

“No, and I’m pretty sure Moyer won’t want to hear it either.” Rich straightened as if doing so would make the telling of it easier. “Pete came out of the shower this morning. I was still kicking it in bed. Maybe he thought I was asleep. He still has the tattoo.”

Jose closed his eyes and wished he could close his ears. Before joining Special Ops Pete had been regular Army. Proud of his service, he did what many soldiers had through the decades: got a tattoo. That was not unusual in of itself. It was Pete’s choice of tattoo that created the problem. On his upper shoulder the tattooist drew a pair of dog tags in indelible ink. One had the name of his father, a Vietnam vet; the other bore his own name. Moyer told Pete to get rid of it.

He didn’t.

“Moyer’s gonna choke him with his bare hands.”

Rich shook his head. “I’m assistant team leader; I should have followed up with Pete. It just never occurred to me.”

Jose stared at Rich for a moment.

“What?”

“I’m hoping you won’t order me to tell Moyer.”

“Nah, I’ll do it.” He rose. “If I’m not back in ten minutes then know that Moyer found a way to kill me over the phone.”

* * *

“NOT THROUGH THE LOBBY.
Take the hall to your right.”

Julia Cenobio didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Not with her two children by her side. Not with the gun Costa flashed. He walked behind her. She kept the children in front in a useless but brave effort to provide a shield between them and their abductor.

At the end of the hall stood a man with thin features and a beak-like nose. He wore casual dress. He stepped into the middle of the hall and removed a shiny rectangular object from his coat pocket and raised it to his face.

“Smile.” The small digital camera flashed.

“Through the doors and into the van.”

Julia placed a hand on each of the children’s shoulders and tried not to cry.