Certain Jeopardy (17 page)

STACY PUSHED THE COVE
RS
back on the bed and sat up. There were still three hours before daylight, but sleep had quit and gone home early. At the hospital she had lost count of the number of cups of coffee she’d consumed to keep her sharp while she sat with Lucy. Watching a woman weep proved to be hard work, especially when you’re trying not to mingle in your own tears. At eleven, Lucy ordered Stacy to go home.

The house was quiet when she arrived. An empty pizza box sat on the kitchen counter, as did several empty soda cans. Stacy checked in on Gina, who slept soundly in her bed. A light from Rob’s room slipped beneath the door. She knocked. “I’m home.”

“Okay.” Rob offered nothing more.

“Anything I need to know?”

“We’re almost out of milk.”

“Ah. Well, it’s been good talking to you. Maybe next time we can do it without a door between us.”

“Don’t start, Mom. I’m getting ready for bed.”

“Okay. Sorry. I’m a little tired. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Whatever.”

Stacy shook her head and crossed the house to her bedroom. Sleep had come quickly and left just as fast. She first awoke at one when she thought she heard something, then again at two then three. The last time she awoke she knew sleep had fled for the night and gave up the fight. Perhaps a magazine, a soft throw blanket, and a comfy chair might lure slumber back.

She crossed the threshold of her bedroom door and moved slowly through the dark living room and pulled the chain on a small reading light next to the sofa. Rifling through the magazines she found the latest
Entertainment Weekly
. As she was about to settle down on the sofa, something caught her attention. Rob’s room was at the end of the hall. Despite the dim light she could tell the door stood open. A few moments later her fears were confirmed.

Rob was gone.

* * *

LUCY GAZED AT TH
E
muted television in her room. Hospitals, she decided, are the worst places to sleep. When she did doze, she was awakened by a nurse taking her temperature or blood pressure or changing her IV bag. A small red light on the IV monitor flashed with each drop of medical elixir that dripped through the plastic tube. She had no idea what the clear substance was, and while it did ease her pain, it did nothing to quiet her mind.

She worried about her children. Were they afraid because Mommy didn’t come home? How long could her sister care for them? That alone was enough to set ablaze the acid in her stomach, but other thoughts added explosive fuel to the fire. Would she lose the baby? Would she have to sacrifice her life for her unborn? If so, how would Jose Jr., Matteo, and Maria get along without her?

Tears flowed once more from her eyes. She had cried so much since this morning—no, it was yesterday morning—she had doubted any more tears were in her. Apparently the well of sorrow never ran dry.

Lucy wondered one more thing: How long before Jose came home?

* * *

“NO WAY, MAN. YOU’R
E
going to the airport and getting on that plane.” Moyer sat in the passenger seat, Ricardo’s comic book on his lap. Jose drove along the thoroughfare, keeping pace with the early morning traffic.

“Listen, Boss. In almost any other situation I’d agree. I’d swim home if I had too, but this is too important. You read the words.”

“We don’t know what they mean.”

“We’ve got a good idea, Boss. You know that. ‘Hector Cenobio—nuclear—fast capture—airport—nuclear—Iran.’ Any sentence with
nuclear
in it makes me nervous. Add the word
Iran
and I get the shakes.”

Moyer looked at the man next to him. Could he really be saying what Moyer was hearing? “It’s just a bunch of words scratched down by a teenager.”

“Boss, you know I got nothing but the greatest respect for you, but that is more baloney than a man can eat. I was there when you read the words for the first time, and unless things have changed, that’s not the kind of language you use around civilized people.”

“It caught me off guard.”

“Yeah, I could see that. Didn’t do much for me either.”

Moyer took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look, there is no way I’m going to let you stay here while your wife is in the hospital. Your replacement will be here soon enough.”

“You hope. You know that it might be several days, and I’m thinking we don’t have that long.” Jose steered off the highway to downtown streets. “Look at what we have: foreign nationals, most likely from an al-Qaeda country, setting up shop in Caracas; a kidnapped woman and two children; the involvement of the foreign minister of Venezuela; a cryptic note that indicates another kidnapping of someone named Hector Cenobio; mention of something nuclear; and the word
Iran
. I’m not much for making up stories, but the way I see it, there’s a plan to kidnap and export a nuclear expert to Iran.”

“We don’t know that Hector Cenobio is a scientist or engineer.”

“Come on, Boss, you wouldn’t put money on that and you know it. I bet a call to Ops Command will start a little research that will tell us that Cenobio is some big shot in the world of nuclear weapons or some other discipline.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll take care of it. You’re going home.”

“Let me stay until my replacement arrives. You need a Spanish speaker.”

Moyer would not be moved. “Forget it, Doc. If something happens to your wife or unborn child while you’re here when I could have sent you home … well, I’d never forgive myself. I could never look you in the eye again.”

“Boss.” He stopped. “Eric … don’t get me wrong. It isn’t that I don’t want to be by my wife’s side. I’d cut out my own heart and give it to her. I’d dig my own grave and crawl in it if I could give her and the baby the rest of the years I have left, but I can’t do that. I didn’t choose the Army for the money. I didn’t choose it for the excitement. I enlisted because I’m an idealist. I believe I can make a difference in the world. I hate to see the little guy get kicked around, especially when I can do something about it. I can’t change the world, and I can’t save everyone; but I can save a few along the way. It’s why I wear a uniform. It’s why I’m here.”

“I can’t let you do this.”

“I’m not asking you to say yes, Boss.” Jose pulled into the parking lot of Rich and Pete’s hotel. “I’m just asking that you don’t say no. Especially considering what you’re considering.”

“You a mind reader now? What am I thinking?”

“Certain jeopardy.”

Moyer looked at Jose. Maybe he
was
a mind reader.

THE SOFT BED, THE
well-appointed bedroom, the quality food prepared by a chef, the offer of wine or beer—all were nothing more than attempts to curry Hector Cenobio’s favor, and he recognized them as such. He didn’t need to be a professional spy to know this. Since his arrival at the airport, Hector had been treated like a foreign dignitary. A limo met him and the passenger who had shown him photos of his abducted family and ferried them to a distant part of the airport where a business helicopter waited, its engine already warming.

The limo stopped a short distance away from the aircraft and a powerfully built Venezuelan opened the door. He motioned for Hector to exit. Hector hesitated. “Please, Dr. Cenobio.”

The man who had flown with Hector gave him a shove. “Out. Now.”

Hector climbed from the vehicle and faced the stranger. “Who are you?”

“You may call me Miguel Costa. I am a …” He stopped to smile. “An acquaintance of your wife’s.”

“If you have hurt them—”

“They are fine for the moment and will remain so as long as you cooperate. You understand this, no?”

“I understand.”

Costa nodded at his cohort, took Hector by the arm, and walked him to the helicopter. The craft lifted off the moment the last safety belt had been snapped in place. Hector turned in time to see his unwanted flight companion drive off in the limo.

Even in the dark Hector could see the sprawling mansion in the jungles just outside of Caracas. A butler greeted them, bowing as he opened the door. A meal had been set at a massive table. He and Costa were the only two in the expansive room. Foods far too elaborate and expensive for Hector’s tastes were served. Duck, wine imported from France, and more. Hector touched none of it.

“You must be hungry, Dr. Cenobio,” Costa has said. “It does no good to go without. It changes nothing.”

“I will eat when I know my family is safe.”

Costa nodded. “That is too bad.”

“I will not eat my captor’s food.” Hector crossed his arms.

“The choice is yours, Doctor, but I think you are being foolish. When was the last time you had such fine cuisine spread before you. Maybe your stomach cannot tolerate such quality.”

“It isn’t the food that my stomach can’t tolerate; it’s the company.”

Costa’s face hardened then relaxed into a smile. “Very good, Dr. Cenobio. You talk a brave game. Unfortunately talk will not change matters for you. At least drink the wine. I can call for beer if you prefer.”

“I prefer to be taken to my family.”

“Soon, but not tonight.”

Hector took in his surroundings. Whoever owned the mansion must be wealthy beyond what Hector could imagine. He guessed the furniture and art were imported from Europe, but the furnishings did not interest him as much as the shadowy figures that moved past the windows every few moments. The place was heavily guarded. Usually guards were hired to keep people out; he had no doubt these had been hired to keep him in.

After Costa finished his meal, he led Hector to an upstairs bedroom. The room was better appointed than hotel suites he had seen. He noticed one exception: This room had wrought-iron bars on the window and a dead-bolt lock that locked from the outside. Hector had been treated as a guest but knew he was prisoner.

The night passed slowly and the sun rose lazily in the east. Hector had not slept, had not touched the bed. He passed the hours in prayer or staring out the window at the black jungle. He would not sleep in luxury when his family was who-knows-where.

The butler retrieved Hector for breakfast at 7:00 a.m. The elderly man led him down the wide stairway to the dining room where he had sat the night before. This time another man joined Costa—a thin, stately man with dark eyes as hard as marble despite the gracious smile he wore. He rose when Hector entered. A moment later Costa stood, although he seemed puzzled by the need to do so.

The stately man spoke first. “Dr. Cenobio, I’ve been looking forward to this moment for many months. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“Please, Doctor. Come sit to my left. The chef is putting the finishing touches on a marvelous breakfast—”

“I won’t eat it.” He walked to the chair his host indicated.

“Are you certain, Doctor? I am told that you refused to eat last night.”

“I did, and I refuse to eat now or at any time in the future until my family is free.”

The man nodded. “Does your bravery keep you from sitting?”

Hector sat, as did the others. A second later a server dressed in white appeared with a tray of three plates. The aroma made Hector’s stomach come to life. Poached eggs over a white meat covered in a thick hollandaise, small cranberry muffins, and thick, rich coffee. Hector folded his hands on the table.

“Please try the food. The eggs rest on a bed of lobster meat. The hollandaise is the best in the country. My cook makes it fresh, of course.”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, Dr. Cenobio, this saddens me. I wish only to show you the best of my hospitality.”

“A good host never kidnaps members of the guest’s family.”

The man chuckled. “No, I suppose not.” He took a bite of egg and lobster, then closed his eyes and chewed slowly. After he swallowed, he wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Do you know who I am, Dr. Cenobio?”

“A criminal is all I know.”

“Perhaps. My perspective is different, of course. I am Andriano Santi, foreign minister for Venezuela.”

“I knew things had deteriorated since Chavez came to power. I just didn’t realize he’d hired thugs to run the government.”

“Please don’t antagonize me, Doctor. I’m trying to be a gracious host, but there is a limit to my patience.”

“You don’t frighten me.”

“I frighten your wife and children.”

The words hit him like bullets. “I understand.”

“Good. After breakfast, you will be taken to your family. I must insist that you behave yourself, Doctor. The people in my employ are far less patient than I, and the other people—well, patience is not a virtue to them.”

“What other people?”

“All in good time, Doctor. I trust you didn’t unpack.”

“My suitcase was left in the helicopter.”

For the first time that morning, Costa spoke. “It’s in one of the storage closets.”

“Good, that means we do not need to waste time. I know you have spent a great deal of time in airplanes lately, but I’m afraid you must take another long trip.”

“Where?”

“I suppose it doesn’t hurt for you to know. You and your family are relocating to Iran.”

“And if I refuse to go?”

Santi laughed. “You speak as if you have a choice.”

“I’m not afraid to die.”

Santi set down his fork and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “You’re testing me, Dr. Cenobio, and that is not a wise thing to do. Why do you suppose we’ve enlisted the help of your wife and children?” He leaned back in the chair. “A man will die for his principles, but very few men will sacrifice their children. You will go and you will cooperate every step of the way. I have no doubt of that.”

“You didn’t enlist my family; you abducted them.” Hector’s courage eroded with each comment Santi made. “People will look for me.”

“As if that matters. Once you are in Iran, no one will find you unless our friends wish it to be so.”

“They’re your friends, not mine.”

Santi returned to his meal. “That distinction doesn’t matter, now does it?”

“It matters to me.”

“If you say so. Now I suggest you eat. It might be sometime before you sit again before a meal of such quality.”

“I prefer to be hungry.”

“As you wish.”

Wishing wouldn’t help. Hector preferred prayer, but at the moment not even that seemed to help.

* * *

MOYER’S MIND MOVED LIKE
a brakeless freight train on a steep downhill grade. Ops Command had taken several hours to reply to his report about what was written on the comic book in Estevez’s restaurant.

Command’s research brought some answers. Hector Cenobio was an expert in the recycling of spent nuclear fuel, a noble goal at its heart but one with serious consequences in the wrong hands.

Rich grimaced. “I didn’t get very high marks in science. What makes Cenobio such hot stuff.”

They sat in the outdoor area of a nearby coffee shop, sipping thick espresso and lattes. Pete and Caraway were missing, as they manned the surveillance truck. The whole team needed rest, but circumstances kept getting in the way. Only Pete, whom Moyer had ordered to spend the day resting from his injuries, had more than a couple hours of sleep. This morning he had convinced Moyer he was fit for duty, at least for sitting and watching computer monitors.

“As I understand it,” Moyer said. “Spent nuclear fuel from power plants can be reprocessed and used again in a different kind of power plant. The problem is the recycled fuel is rich in plutonium, which can be used to make bombs.”

“And Cenobio has created a new way of doing this,” Jose added.

“So the woman and kids are Cenobio’s family?” J.J. asked.

“That’s our best guess. Command thinks—and I agree with them—that we’re not looking at an al-Qaeda training facility; we’re seeing the abduction of someone who can help … others … obtain high-grade plutonium.” Moyer didn’t want to use the word
Iran
in public.

“Man,” Rich said, “I didn’t see that coming.”

Moyer sipped his espresso. “I’ve told Command that I’m moving us to Certain-Jeopardy status.” He gave his men time to process this. They all knew too well that the Certain-Jeopardy designation was used only in the case of a serious threat to national security. And it changed the formal rules of engagement. They were now on more than a covert intelligence-gathering mission; they were cleared to take direct and forceful action to minimize—or eliminate—the threat to the U.S.

Moyer continued. “Command is sending a shooter team, but I don’t think they’ll arrive in time. From the look of things, the bad guys will move Cenobio as soon as possible. From what you tell me, J.J., it doesn’t look like they plan to stay in the building very long.”

“We didn’t see much in the way of supplies. They don’t even have cots to sleep on. If they were in for the long haul, I’d expect to see more evidence of it.”

Moyer noticed J.J.’s speech came unevenly. He and everyone on the team knew why Command would send a shooter team: Their job would be to make sure Cenobio never made it to Iran. By lethal force, if necessary. “Okay. We need to be ready to go on a moment’s notice. This changes our exit strategy. I need everyone at his best. I don’t need to tell you this can go bad in a heartbeat. Got it?”

The team members nodded.

“Okay, let’s get to work. Jose, you sit for a minute. I want to talk to you.” After J.J. and Rich left, Moyer leaned over the table and stared hard into Jose’s eyes. “Your flight leaves in two hours.

Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Are you going to make me order you to get on that plane?”

Jose nodded. “I’m afraid so, but I’m hoping you won’t.”

“Your wife needs you.”

“Don’t you think I know that, Boss? Every second that passes makes my insides melt some more. I want to be there for her, but I need to be here. Now that we know what’s at stake, it’s even more important that you have a full team.”

“Jose—”

“I know I may lose my wife or the baby or both, and if that happens, I’ll never forgive myself. But if something goes south on this mission, if that woman and two children are killed because I’m not here to do my job, that will be something else I can’t forgive myself for. Let me stay until my replacement arrives. Not that it matters. I don’t think we have that much time.”

Moyer agreed, but he wouldn’t give Jose the satisfaction of saying so. The problem was this: Jose was right. Moyer did need every man, especially now that the mission objective had been changed to a kill-or-capture effort.

Jose took another stab at convincing Moyer. “I know it’s your call, but let me ask this: Haven’t you ever bent the rules to work a mission? I don’t mean you’ve defied orders or anything, just that you would go as far as you can to make the mission a success no matter what it cost?”

Moyer didn’t want to answer this. Knowing that he might have a serious medical condition should have prompted him to step down as team leader until a full diagnosis could be made. He didn’t. He had gone on this mission as if nothing were wrong. “This goes against my better judgment, but I’ll allow it.”

“Great.”

“No, it’s not great. It’s wrong on so many levels, but you’re right about us not having much time. So here’s the deal: If your wife blames me for your not being there, I will hit you in the throat. If my wife divorces me over this, I will find you and hit you in the throat. If I get in trouble with the brass, then—”

“Let me guess. You’ll hit me in the throat?”

“Twice.” Moyer lowered his eyes. “It’s your call, Doc.”