Certain Jeopardy (13 page)

HEATHROW AIRPORT IN
LONDON
bustled with activity. After the flight from Rome, Hector had a two-hour layover before boarding the plane to Caracas. He used the time to walk the stiffness out of his legs, to drink coffee in one of the sports bars, and watch the last fifteen minutes of a soccer game. Shortly before boarding the aircraft, he tried to call Julia. It was still midday there and a ten-minute chat would make the next long leg of the journey more tolerable. Julia never answered. He tried again once seated in first class. Still no answer. Perhaps her cell phone battery had died. He looked up the number of the hotel in Caracas that he stored in his phone and dialed. The front desk rang the room, but again no answer. He shook his head. He would have to talk to her about keeping her cell phone charged and in working order.

He leaned back in the seat and toyed with the idea of taking a pill in hopes that he could sleep more than ten minutes at a time. He hated taking medication, but there were times when it made sense to use pharmaceutical magic. He reached for the pill he kept in a plastic baggie in his front pocket then stopped. The man who had traveled in first class with him from Rome to London stepped through the doorway. They looked at each other for a moment, exchanging glances. He didn’t seem as surprised as Hector to be sharing yet another flight. What were the odds that the same man would fly from Rome to London to Caracas? Not impossible, certainly, but it struck him as odd, and for some reason made him uncomfortable. To make matters worse, the man sat down next to him. This time he spoke.

“We travel together again, I see.” The man’s accent sounded odd, as if it were an affectation—like a Brit trying to sound American, or a Frenchman trying to speak like an Irishman.

“So it seems. I was just wondering about the odds.”

“A little odd but not out of the bounds of possibility. At least as far as I can tell. Math is not my strength.”

“It’s one of mine.”

The man slipped a computer bag beneath the seat in front of him and fastened his safety belt. “Really? What do you do?”

Hector chose to be cautious. “I’m a teacher.”

“You teach math?”

“Science.” He wanted to end this conversation, so he opened his cell phone again and dialed Julia. It had only been a few minutes since his last try, but he hoped the act would erect a barrier between them. Something about the passenger made Hector uneasy. He let the phone ring. No answer. Nothing to worry about, he told himself. He worried anyway.

“I was in Rome on business. I import Italian furniture. How about you?”

Hector said, “Never owned Italian furniture.”

The man laughed. “You are a clever man. I meant to ask, ‘What brought you to Rome from Venezuela?’”

“I live in Canada. I’m just visiting Venezuela.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t have assumed … Forgive me, but you don’t sound Canadian.”

“I grew up in Venezuela but moved away to study in the United States then Canada. This is my first trip back.”

“I see. A homecoming.”

“Of sorts.”

“Were you in Rome to teach?”

Hector stifled a sigh. “No. A conference.”

The man nodded. “Oh, I see. Were you at the symposium on nuclear power?”

The question chilled Hector. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t mean to pry. I’ve been traveling alone for weeks now and have grown hungry for conversation. I read about the symposium in the papers and saw a news report on the television. You said you teach science, so naturally I thought there might be a connection.”

“Naturally.” If the man had followed the news about the gathering then he might already know that Hector was there. “I attended.”

“May I ask your name?”

“I’m a little tired. I don’t travel well. I’m not much in the mood for conversation now.”

“I understand,” the man said. “Flying makes me weary, too. I will let you rest.”

A tall, thin steward closed the door. Fifteen minutes later they were in the air and flying over the Atlantic.

* * *

THE BATHROOM FAN IN
the ceiling rattled as it spun on aged and over
worked bearings. The rattle concealed the sounds of activity outside the door. It also masked her conversation with the children from anyone standing by the door. And someone
did
stand at the door— she could see the shadow of his feet at the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor.

“Why are they doing this, Mamá?” Lina was shaking.

Julia put an arm around her. “I don’t know.” She wanted to tell her that everything would be all right, but she had never lied to the children.

“It’s Papa. They want Papa.” Nestor sounded angry, but Julia could hear the fear in his voice. He was doing his best to be brave.

“I think you’re right, Nestor. I don’t know what they want him for or want him to do.”

“It’s because he’s smart about nuclear stuff,” Nestor said.

The thought had occurred to her as well.

“What are we going to do?” Lina asked.

“I don’t know. Let Mamá think.”

Julia took stock of the situation. She first looked for a surveillance camera and couldn’t detect one. She wondered about a listening device, but if their captors wanted to listen in on the conversation between a frightened mother and two terrified children, they would have fixed the noisy exhaust fan.

Next she looked for something that could be used as a weapon. She wasn’t a fighter and had never been in a physical altercation, not even in grade school. But this involved her children and her maternal instincts prepared her to fight anyone who would harm her own.

“What are you looking for, Mamá?” Nestor stood by her side.

“Something we can use for a weapon.”

“Like what?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Something. Anything.” Her eyes took stock of everything. Could the chipped plate be broken to make sharp shards that she could use? The bottles of water could be wielded like a truncheon. She remembered enough of her basic science classes in college to know that water could not be compressed, meaning a plastic bottle could be made to strike as hard as a rock. The problem was striking the person correctly. Hitting one of her captors with the side of the bottle would probably split the bottle, thereby releasing the water and diminishing the effect. She would have to strike with the butt end of the bottle. But how many times could she do that? If she were lucky, she’d get in one blow before one or more of her abductors were upon her.

She studied the sink. Plastic pipes ran below it. The connection was made with hand-tightened rings, but hollow plastic pipes would be useless. Even if she could weight them with water or something else, she wouldn’t be able to wield it effectively enough to down one man, let alone three.

The toilet was all that remained. Julia lifted the tank lid and looked in: stopper, overflow tube, a small chain that linked the stopper to a metal arm connected to handle. The metal arm was a rod about three millimeters thick, with a flat end with holes to which the stopper chain was attached.

An idea formed.

* * *

ANDRIANO SANTI WALKED THROUGH
the hallway of the capitol buildingwhen his cell phone rang.

“Yes.”

“Package one has arrived. Package two is airborne.”

“Thank you.”

Santi hung up.

* * *

ONE HOUR AND TE
N
minutes into the flight, after the passengers had settled into their seats, reading newspapers and paperback books or watching the in-flight movie, the stranger next to Hector removed the computer bag from beneath the seat, turned in on, then nudged Hector.

“Dr. Cenobio, I have something to show you.” He whispered the words.

Hector turned his head slowly and looked the man in the eyes. “You know my name.”

“Yes. I’m afraid I was playing a little game with you.”

“Why—”

“Please keep your voice down. The others do not need to hear our conversation.”

“Your accent has changed.”

“I have never been a good actor. I have something to show you. Please keep control of yourself.”

The man clicked on an icon and the computer displayed a photo—a photo of people whom Hector recognized before the man had finished turning the screen toward him. There were his wife and children standing against a wall and wearing expressions of terror.

Hector tried to speak but only managed a croak.

The man turned off the computer and closed it. He leaned toward Hector and whispered, “They are fine. No harm has come to them, and none will if you cooperate. Do you understand?”

Hector nodded.

“I received that photo shortly before we left London. It is my job to show it to you and to insist that you follow my directions without question. If you try to be a hero, if you alert anyone, then I will not be able to make my scheduled reports. And if that happens—well, I will no longer be able to vouch for the safety of your family. Is that clear?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“For the moment, just your cooperation. The rest you will learn in time.”

STACY MOYER MOVED T
HROUGH
her day in a daze. She had spent part of yesterday searching the Internet for information on colon cancer. The doctor’s words had been calm and reassuring. He had told her not to worry, that cancer was only one possibility, that a number of other conditions could explain her husband’s passing of blood. She knew that to be true, but knowing something with the mind was not the same as knowing it in the heart.

So far she had said nothing to the kids. Eric would be upset if she spoke to them without first consulting him. After all, he had gone to great lengths to keep the news from the Army and from her. At least last night had been uneventful as far as Rob had been concerned. He came home after school and even went so far as to tell her when he was leaving to go practice with his new rock band. As he started for the door, she stopped him to say thanks. Anything more and he would have considered it an overreaction—too much of a “mom thing.”

Last night she had caught Gina staring at her. A girl insightful beyond her years, she often sensed the emotions of others. She said nothing, asked nothing, perhaps intuiting that her mother wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about the new burden.

Alone again, Stacy fought off the inclination to sink into fear and despair. The nightmares continued, though none were as frightening as the first. Those she kept secret too.

Special Forces soldiers, her husband had told her, know when it’s time to step back. Sometimes the body just couldn’t keep up anymore. Sometimes the nature of the work became so burdensome that they couldn’t take on any new assignments. Sometimes they would say, “I’m getting too old for this.” It was different with every man. She doubted Eric would ever step away. He’d give up his position when they dragged him from the base and changed the locks.

What Stacy wondered was what happened when the wife “got too old to do this.” She felt she had aged over the last forty-eight hours.

The phone rang.

“Stacy? This is Lucy Medina.”

Odd. Lucy had never called the house before. “Hello, Lucy. How are you?”

“Not good. I think there’s something wrong.”

“Wrong?” The word made Stacy’s heart beat faster.

“With me. With the baby. I can’t reach my sister. I don’t know who else to call. I think I’m going to lose my baby.”

* * *

A WET SENSATION BENEAT
H
her had awakened Lucy Medina. Her afternoon nap had become a ritual with her. Each school day she would lay five-year-old Maria down for her nap then take one herself. Matteo and Jose Jr. were still at school. It was one of the few times the house was quiet enough to hear the birds outside in the oak tree sing.

She pushed herself up and looked down at the sheets and her legs. Water and blood. Her uterus contracted sharply, and Lucy released a squeal of pain. Something was very wrong. She reached for the phone by her bed and called her sister. No answer. She tried her sister’s cell phone. Nothing. Another contraction. The baby wasn’t due for two months.

Panic set in. She moved to the bathroom and wiped her legs with a towel. She wanted to change clothes but feared she wouldn’t be able to. She needed help. It took more effort than she thought it should, but she walked into the living room, one hand holding her stomach. She and Jose kept a personal phone directory on the coffee table. She retrieved it. The first listing she saw was that of Eric and Stacy Moyer. She had met Stacy at a barbecue held at the Moyers’ house. She seemed smart and caring.

Lucy made the call.

* * *

STACY PUNCHED LUCY’S ADDRES
S
into the GPS unit in her Chevy Trailblazer and rolled out of the driveway. She didn’t know why Lucy had chosen to call her, but it didn’t matter. The woman needed help, and Stacy wasn’t going to turn her down.

Her stomach churned at each stoplight. She did her best not to speed, but she did press the word
limit
in “speed limit.” Before leaving she had taken just enough time to text-message the children that she would be gone when they got home. She’d call them later.

It took fifteen interminable minutes to cross town on the surface streets. She parked in the driveway and raced to the front door and knocked. A little girl answered. “Hi,” Stacy said. “I’m here to see your mommy.”

“My mommy is sick. She’s lying down.”

“Your mommy asked me to come over. Will you tell her I’m here?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not.”

“She’s sleeping.”

“I’m sure she wants to see … me …” Through the open door Stacy saw Lucy lying on the floor. She pushed past the child.

Lucy was unresponsive. Stacy tried to rouse her but failed. “Where is your phone, sweetheart?”

The little girl started to speak when the phone rang as if on cue.

“I got it!”

Stacy watched her retrieve a handheld phone from its cradle on the kitchen counter.

“Hi, Aunt Charlene. Mommy’s sick.”

“Let me speak to your aunt.” Stacy took the phone. “My name is Stacy Moyer. Who is this, please?”

“Charlene Pena. I got a message from Lucy saying she was in trouble.”

“She is. She called me too. I just found her on the floor. She’s hemorrhaging. I was just getting ready to call the ambulance. Where are you?”

“I’m in my car, five minutes away. I was in a meeting and turned my phone off.”

“Get here as soon as you can. I’m calling the ambulance.”

Stacy didn’t wait for a good-bye. She hung up and dialed 911.

* * *

MOYER WATCHED THE VIDE
O
several times before speaking. “And there’sbeen no further action since they closed the door?”

“Nothing,” Caraway said.

“Their expressions and body language say they were brought here against their will,” J.J. said. He stood out of the way, giving Moyer and Caraway all the space they needed—at least as much as the back of the panel truck would allow.

“I’ve downloaded the video to the laptop, converted some of it to stills, and tried to get the best face shots I can.” He worked the keyboard. “First, the woman.” A headshot of a woman filled the screen. Her face was turned in profile. “It’s not much, but it’s the best I can do here.”

“Doesn’t look familiar,” Moyer said.

“Now the bad guys.” Another profile shot filled the screen. “I make him out to be in his mid-thirties, Hispanic. The others stood to the side when he exited, probably to cut off any attempt by the woman and children to run, but it also looks like they’re showing deference to him. They allow him to follow the woman in.”

Another keystroke and the image of another man appeared. His head was turned more to the camera, revealing more of his face. Moyer leaned a couple inches closer. “I have serious doubts about this guy being Hispanic.”

“That’s my take, Boss. It’s just a guess, but he strikes me as Middle Eastern. So does his buddy.” A new picture flashed on the screen.

“I agree with Caraway,” J.J. said. “I know we’re making a judgment at a distance, but it fits with previous intel about the building.”

Moyer nodded. “The question is, Who is the woman and what do they want with her?” He straightened. They had come to recon a possible al-Qaeda training site and had stumbled upon a kidnapping. Possibilities chugged in his mind. Drug-related kidnapping? Then why the Middle Easterners? Why intel about an al-Qaeda presence? If it was an AQ operation, then why abduct a family? Business execs and journalists had been abducted for terrorist purposes, but Venezuela was a long way from Iraq, Afghanistan, or other AQ playgrounds. To abduct and hold someone in another country was risky. It would be easier to have killed the woman and kids and achieved a greater shock value. No, something else was afoot.

“Let’s assume this is an abduction. Kidnappers do what they do because they want something. The question is, What do they want?”

“Don’t have a clue, Boss, but I’m worried about those kids.” J.J. ran a hand through his hair.

Moyer was worried two. Of the three men present, he was the only one with children. The look on the little girl’s face broke his heart. His first impulse was to assign weapons to J.J. and Caraway, sneak onto the site, make entry, and put a bullet or two in the brains of each man in that building. But such an impetuous act would not only destroy the mission but could lead to the deaths of the very people he wanted to save.

“What now, Boss?” Caraway asked.

“Send what you have to Ops Command. Maybe they can identify the players.”

“And after that?”

“We wait for now.”

“But, Boss—”

“I said, we wait for now. If they wanted them dead, they’d be dead by now.”

J.J. wasn’t satisfied. “There are other bad things besides death.”

“I know that, but we have our orders for now.” He turned to

Caraway. “Get that info to Ops.”

“Will do.”