Certain Jeopardy (15 page)

ANTONIO SANTI HAD HEADED
home for the day. Although the day’s activities would have tired most men, Santi felt energized. Juggling his duties as foreign minister with business dealings even President Chavez didn’t know about provided him the intellectual thrill he longed for. Younger men might bungee jump, ride a kayak over churning rapids, hunt big game in the jungle, or cheat with other men’s wives. Santi got his adrenaline rush from working behind the scenes. The danger he faced was discovery, pure and simple. Chavez was not a man of scrupulous honesty, but he was a priest compared to his own foreign minister.

The plans had been in place for five years. Santi had operatives working in various parts of the world, as well as in country, carrying out the details of an often complicated scheme. Unlikely alliances had been formed. Money from drugs as well as legitimate business interests lubricated his way through many tight passages. Twenty-first-century men were still driven by greed. Greed led to money and money to power. Santi had plenty of each but craved more.

He slipped into his study. A servant brought a small cup of strong coffee. Santi activated his computer and entered a fifteen-digit alphanumeric password to retrieve his e-mail, several of which had to be run through encryption software.

One particular message—or more accurately, the sender’s address—caught his attention. The suffix of the digital address was
.ir
. The message was from someone in Iran.

* * *

“NEXT FLIGHT OU
T IS
in the morning, Boss.” Jose hung up the hotel room phone. “It’s the earliest I can get away. It leaves shortly before lunch.”

It didn’t seem right to Moyer that Jose had to wait overnight to catch a five-hour flight, but nothing could be done about it. “I had Caraway ask Ops Command for updates. I don’t think there will be any, but if … I mean …”

“Thanks. Any info will be helpful.”

Moyer pursed his lips then looked Jose in the eyes. The man remained calm, professional, feigning detachment, but he couldn’t hide the weight on his shoulders. The hours between now and when he arrived home would be the longest of his life. Moyer couldn’t imagine it being any other way.

“If it’s okay with you, Boss, I’d like to take my shift on the surveillance. It’ll help pass the time.”

Moyer shook his head and saw Jose’s head dip in disappointment.

“I have another job for you.”

* * *

J.J. TRIED THE BE
D
again but couldn’t rest. He had been up most of the night and needed sleep, but it evaded him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the frightened faces of the two children and their mother. It ate at him that he sat in a nice hotel room while they were held in the bowels of that industrial building.

He reminded himself that they didn’t know for sure that the three were abductees. For all he knew, the woman was the wife of one of the men in the van. Yet he did know. He knew in his heart they were in trouble. He also knew Moyer was right to hold back. They could rush in and snatch the family; such rescues were part of their training. It would be a small matter to make a forced entry, pop the bad guys, and lead the family to safety. Most likely none of the hostages would be killed. Most likely.

But then what? Their mission would be blown and leaving the country would become difficult if not impossible.

J.J. rose from the bed and began to pace the room. That’s the way the world was—full of evil. Bad people harmed good people for impossible-to-understand reasons. Life was tough all over the globe. In church one Sunday the pastor had preached a mind-melting sermon on global responsibility. J.J. learned that thirty thousand people, mostly children, died of starvation every day. Every day! Five thousand peopled perished daily for lack of water or from consuming contaminated water. Thousands of others died from diseases that could be treated by what most Americans kept in their medicine cabinets. The sermon stuck with him.

A strong sense of justice was one of the reasons J.J. had joined the military, why he had chosen the most grueling, demanding work. Someone had to do something, and this was his way of doing his part. He recited that truth daily, and he believed it. At themoment, however, it failed to satisfy his impatience.

His cell phone rang. Caraway was on the other end.

“Sorry to mess up your beauty sleep, but Shaq wants us on premises ASAP.”

“On my way.”

Sleep would have to wait.

* * *

“IT’S TIME TO GE
T
up close and personal,” Rich said. “Boss wants a closer look. The sun will be down in thirty minutes. You go at 0300 hours.”

J.J. started to say, “Finally,” but caught himself. Instead, he just nodded.

“Ops Command gave us the go-ahead. You and Billy—”

Caraway groaned at the nickname.

“You and Caraway will make entrance at the northwest corner of the perimeter fence. It’s the darkest corner on the lot. There are no video surveillance cameras that we can detect on that side of the building. There are two just above the front door and the roll-up. You are to gain access to the roof, where Caraway will set up additional surveillance.”

Caraway called up a still image of the north side of the building. “There is a roof-access ladder centered on the back wall. As you can see, it has a safety rig on it.”

J.J. knew of the ladder. During his hours of surveillance he had studied every inch of the building the video system allowed. The safety rig Caraway mentioned was little more than a panel of plywood attached to the rungs of the metal ladder. He had seen them on many commercial buildings. The plywood made it difficult for kids to climb, thereby removing the “attractive nuisance” element.

Caraway zoomed in on the wood panel. It was painted dark green, as was the ladder. Caraway pointed at a round, shiny disk to one side. “The panel is hinged on one side and held in place on the other by a three-dollar cabinet lock.”

“Gather your gear, gentleman. I want this done fast, I want it done right, and I want it done without incident. Clear?”

“Clear.” J.J. and Caraway answered in unison.

HECTOR CENOBIO’S PLANE T
OUCHED
down in Caracas and began to taxi to the terminal. The man next to Hector, the man with the pictures of his family, continued to read his magazine. Hector ran through the possible actions he could take to free himself of the situation. He contrived several that might get the man arrested or at least detained for questioning. Hector could scream, “Bomb! This man has a bomb!” Or he could run the moment he entered the terminal until he found a policeman to help him. But that did nothing for his family. Any such action might get them killed—if they hadn’t been killed already.

He refused to believe they had. He had to have faith that God protected them. A part of his mind, the part that harbored doubts and fears, reminded him that horrible things happened to people of faith every day. Faith was not an exception card that spared the holder of life’s difficulty; it was the glue that held the believer together in difficult times.

“I don’t have to explain the price of foolish behavior, do I?” The mystery man set down his magazine.

“No. I understand.”

“Just stay by my side. We’ll pick up our luggage together. A car is waiting for us. Do you understand?”

“I already said I understand.”

“No need to get testy, Dr. Cenobio. I’m just trying to save you from making any costly mistakes.”

“Let’s be clear.” Hector turned to the man. “Despite your tone and words, I know you are not here to do favors for me.”

“Please do not test my patience, Dr. Cenobio. You would not like to see me angry.”

Hector started to tell the man that his threats meant nothing to him but thought better of it. All that mattered was the safety of his family. He would endure the threats. He would jump through hoops if it meant the safety of his wife and children.

The aircraft came to a stop, and the passengers readied themselves to disembark. Hector gathered his things and his wits. He had no idea what lay ahead, but he determined to meet it head-on.

* * *

“THE VAN IS LEAVING,
”
Rich said. Caraway and J.J. had been going through their personal rituals before the mission.

For some reason known only to him, Caraway carried a small package of trail mix. He never explained why and when questioned about it always gave a different answer.

J.J. sat in a quiet corner with his eyes closed. The moment Rich spoke, he opened his eyes. “Leaving? How many people in it?”

“I saw only one person. Judging by the way he tore out of the lot, he must be late. I’ll bet his superiors don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“That means there are only two black hats in the building.” J.J. moved to the monitors.

“Only two we know about. Remember, we don’t know who or what is inside the building.”

“I know how to find out,” J.J. said.

“We follow the plan, Colt. You two do your job right and we might have a better idea of what we’re facing.”

Rich fired up the truck, drove to an area a half mile from the target site, and parked in an alley that ran between the industrial buildings.

“Do it quick, gentlemen. For all we know the van went to pick up a pizza. He could be back any minute. I don’t want him to see you guys shinnying up the ladder.” He turned to the two soldiers. “Do me proud.”

J.J. and Caraway slipped from the truck.

* * *

MOYER FOLLOWED THE DIRECTI
ONS
on the dashboard GPS navigator.

“You okay?”

Jose glanced at Moyer. “Yeah, I’m fine. Glad to be out of the hotel room.”

“Why is it that every time I ask one of my team members if they’re fine they say, ‘Yeah, sure, you bet, good to go!’ even when I know they’re not?”

Jose kept his eyes straight ahead. “Before you had your own team, and your commanding officer asked you that question, what did you say?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Moyer made a wide left turn on a commercial street. “Okay, it’s not different.”

“We’re not paid to be depressed; we’re paid to do our jobs.”

Moyer grinned. “Yeah, I know. Maybe I’m just getting old.”

Jose didn’t say anything.

“This is where you jump in and tell me I’m still a young man.”

“Oh.” It was all Jose offered.

“Everyone’s a comedian.” Moyer let a few moments pass. “We need to take it easy with this guy. He doesn’t know us from Adam, and while he might take you for a local, he’s going to spot me as a foreigner the moment I open my mouth. We can’t be sure he’ll tell us anything. He may not have connected Santi to his son’s death.”

“Have we made the connection?”

“Intel tells us Santi was at the restaurant with some Middle Eastern men. That night, the kid is shot and killed. The pattern of shots indicates a hit. It’s worth a try. Maybe the kid heard something he shouldn’t.”

“A lousy way to lose a loved one. Not that there is a good way.”

Moyer found the restaurant with no trouble, and soon they sat at one of the tables. A man bustled between the kitchen and the dining room. He was older than the other waiters and his eyes seemed empty. Moyer guessed this was their man.

A busboy brought tortilla chips, a bowl of deep-red salsa, and two menus to the table. Ten minutes later one of the waiters approached. Moyer’s first impulse was to ask for the owner—get right to work—but he and Jose had discussed it on the drive in. First they would eat and study their surroundings, search for any indication that they were being watched. They wanted to know how the restaurant “felt” and who sat at the tables. Moyer felt whiter than normal. Many Caucasians visited and lived in Venezuela. Like Los Angeles, New York, Dallas, Atlanta, and other major American cities, Caracas had its share of immigrants. He had seen scores of non-Hispanics at the hotels and on the streets. Here, however, he felt like the lone oak tree in a wide, green pasture. Clearly the eatery was a favorite spot for locals rather than tourists.

“
Petróleo
?”

“Excuse me?” Moyer said in English and immediately wondered if he had just blown it.

The waiter, who was all of eighteen, pointed at Moyer’s shirt and the emblem, OKLACO.

“Oil company?”

Moyer studied the kid. “You speak English.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s good. I’m afraid my Spanish is not very good. Yes, I work for Oklaco.”

“American company. My uncle works the oil fields. A different company.”

Jose smiled. “Yes, my friend is a consultant. I’m his translator. We heard this is the best food in Caracas.”

The waiter smiled. “No one complains. What can I get for you?”

Moyer glanced at the menu then decided on something safe. “Enchiladas,
por favor
.”

Jose ordered something Moyer didn’t recognize.

As they gave their order, Moyer noticed the man he assumed to be the owner staring at them. Moyer gave a slight nod. The man frowned and disappeared into the kitchen.

For appearance Moyer and Jose made small talk while studying the dining room. Neither found anything to cause them concern. The food arrived fifteen minutes after they placed their order. Moyer had to admit the food was good. No wonder the place was packed.

The older man worked the tables, stopping by each one and chatting with customers as if they were family. Many of the customers wore expressions of sadness, patted his hand, and spoke softly.

Moyer and Jose drank beer with the meal and ordered another bottle each as the waiter cleared the table. “So how do we chat with the owner?” Jose asked. “I suppose we could just ask to see him.”

“Direct but maybe a tad bold. Unfortunately I don’t have a better—”

Jose turned to follow Moyer’s gaze. “What?”

“Looks like our problem just solved itself.”

The owner moved from the bar to their table. He carried two bottles of beer.

“
Gracias
,” Jose smiled at the man as he set the bottles on the table.
“Está usted el dueño?”

The man answered in English. “I am the owner, yes. I have not seen you here before.” He clipped his words as if biting off the last syllable.

“We’re in Caracas on business,” Jose said. “The front desk at our hotel recommended your restaurant. The food was wonderful. I especially liked—”

“You are here to see me?” Jose glanced at Moyer, who took a moment before answering. “Why would you say that?” The man closed his eyes then slowly opened them as if his eyelids held back a fury ready to erupt. “You are here to see me?” “Yes.” This time Moyer didn’t hesitate. “We would like to talk to you.”

“We close at ten. The employees leave at eleven. Be here at eleven thirty. Come to the back door off the alley.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Turning, he marched to the kitchen.

“That was weird,” Jose said.
“Yeah. Why is my gut uneasy?”
“Maybe it’s the salsa.”
“I hope that’s all it is.”