Certain Jeopardy (18 page)

MOYER FELT LIKE
A
man juggling chain saws—one mistake and you were toast. He and Rich sat on a patio on the south side of the hotel. The sun continued its climb up the sky as if it couldn’t be bothered with the little things of human beings including abductions, nuclear terrorism, colon cancer, and the dying wife of one of his team members. The fact that he sat in comfort while two children and a woman were locked in the bathroom of an industrial building added several tons of guilt to his shoulders.

The hours between breakfast and lunch had left the patio empty, granting them freedom of speech. Nonetheless they kept their voices low. Moyer took a sip of coffee. He had had more coffee since sunrise than ever before and was sick of it. Rich glanced at a newspaper, although he couldn’t understand most of the words. The paper was for affect. To an outsider they looked like two travelers enjoying a morning of leisure.

“How do you see it?” Moyer asked.

Rich didn’t look up from the paper. “The situation is fragmented. We have players in different locations without a clear idea of their next move. We could rescue the woman without much trouble, but doing so could jeopardize the new mission. We take the bad guys out, which keeps them from reporting in, and we never see Cenobio.”

“And if we wait, the hostages could die. I assume they’re being kept alive for a reason. Maybe Cenobio refuses to cooperate without first seeing his family.”

Rich nodded. “We’re also split up. We’ve got Pete and Caraway in the van and due to be relieved soon. J.J. and Doc are resting because you ordered them to hit the rack and, truth be told, Boss, you should be sacked out too. When did you sleep last?”

Moyer shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s been a while.” He thought for a moment. “We don’t have a handle on this. Not by a long shot. We have to get more proactive. If they made their move right now, all we’d have is Pete and Caraway trying to keep track of things.”

“Agreed.”

“You know the hardest mission in the world, Rich?”

“Knowing you have to do something and having to wait to do it?”

“Bingo,” Moyer said. His intestines hurt. He was experiencing more discomfort every day. He had no idea what was going on inside him, but he could tell it wasn’t good.

“We know who the family is. Ops Command got back to us pretty quick on that.”

“I imagine they’ve been reading everything they can find on Cenobio. No doubt one of the spook agencies came up with a family photo.” Moyer pushed the coffee cup aside.

“So what are the possibilities?” Rich asked. “They bring Cenobio to the building, then move the family to some other location where they hook up with Cenobio and his captors. Or they—”

“Kill the family. I’m not sure I can live with that.”

“Not much you can do, Boss. Ops Command said to sit tight and wait for the shooter team.”

“Doc doesn’t think we have that kind of time, and I agree.”

“No disrespect, Boss, but you should have forced him to leave. He needs to be with his wife. If it were me, I’d be gone.”

Moyer studied his friend and assistant team leader. “Is that right, Rich?”

“Absolutely. If my Robyn were in Lucy’s situation, I’d leave a vacuum in my wake. Wouldn’t you do the same if it were Stacy or one of the kids?”

Moyer didn’t answer at first. Finally, he said, “I don’t know. I don’t think a man knows what he’ll do until he has to do it. Let’s face it, we injure our families every time we make a phone call and say, ‘Sorry, Hon, I won’t be home for dinner tonight, or any night for the next few weeks.’”

“Can’t argue with that. So what’s our next step?”

“Like I said earlier, it’s time we got proactive.”

* * *

SANTI STOOD ON TH
E
second-floor balcony of his home and watched the small black dot in the distant sky grow larger as it approached. A sound below him drew his attention away from the approaching helicopter. Hector Cenobio, wearing handcuffs, walked from the door and onto the large carpet of grass that covered the front acre and half of the property. Next to him walked Miguel Costa, his hand clamped on Cenobio’s right elbow. So far, his captive had been physically cooperative although stubborn. He didn’t expect a struggle. The man had probably never been in a fight, not even as a child. Not that it mattered. Costa was a killer, a man who enjoyed taking the life of another. Fortunately for Santi and his Iranian friends, Cenobio loved his family too much to risk their lives even to save his own. That was the problem with relationships—they punched holes in a man’s armor, leaving him weak. Santi had no need for love or family.

The cell phone on his belt chimed. He checked the caller ID: Teodoro Grijalva. The call puzzled him. The Secretary of the Interior and he didn’t often talk, and when they did it was at the office. He answered.

“To what do I owe this honor?” Santi said.

“El Presidente asked me to call you. I have information he said you’d find important.”

“I’m listening.” He heard the man take a deep breath.

“This news has come about in an odd fashion, but I will give you the gist of it. Two days ago an American businessman was hit by a car and taken to Clinica Caracas. Doctors treated him. I am told his injuries were minor.”

Teodoro’s Department of Interior oversaw the four intelligence agencies that replaced the DISIP secret police and the DIM military intelligence agency in 2008. “And how does this concern me? If an American businessman is stupid enough to step in front of a car, he deserves a trip to the hospital.”

“There’s more. The attending physician noticed a tattoo on the man’s upper arm. It was a picture of military tags.”

“Tell me more about these tags.”

“The physician remembered enough to draw them for police. The man left the hospital without checking out, and I don’t need an intelligence agency to tell me that is suspicious. I have a photocopy of the doctor’s drawing. There are two tags—one bears the name ‘Mark Rasor’ and has the dates ‘1972–1974’; the other reads, ‘Pete Rasor’ and the date ‘2006’ but no second date.”

“This happened two days ago? Why have you taken so long to speak to me?”

“Layers of incompetence. The doctor didn’t realize the patient was gone until the police came to fill out a report. The police launched a search, which came up empty. Since the tattoo was military in nature, they reported it to our military. From there it worked its way up to me. I mentioned it to our president during this morning’s briefing. He seemed concerned and insisted that I call you.” He paused. “Is there something going on I should know about?”

“No. What is being done now?”

“The search continues. We have some photos taken from security cameras. There are three people: a large black man, a Hispanic, and the injured American. They don’t look military, but we both know what that means.”

“You still have eyes on the embassy?”

“Always.”

“Hotels.”

“The police are searching the hotels.”

Santi thought for a moment. “They won’t stay in the same hotel. Too obvious. Send me everything you have so far. I want these men found.” He hung up and called out from the balcony rail, “Miguel! Take him back to the house. We’re not leaving just yet.”

STACY HUNG UP TH
E
phone and sighed with relief. The school attendance administrator confirmed that Rob’s homeroom instructor had checked his name off the attendance list. At least she knew Rob was safe. When he got home that might change. A fury grew in her like a funnel cloud itching to touch Earth. The relief she felt a moment before melted like wax. Stacy didn’t need this right now. It was bad enough that her husband was off doing something that could get him killed, but he was doing it with what may be a deadly illness—an illness she was not supposed to know about.

She toyed with the idea of going to the school and pulling Rob from class by his constantly mussed hair. It would embarrass him in front of his friends and that made the thought all the sweeter. The thought faded. She would never do that. What would it achieve? Most likely it would make things worse and that was the last thing she needed now.

The more she thought about the situation, the more confused she became. One thing she did know: for the first time in her life, she was glad Eric wasn’t around. Eric and Rob’s relationship was strained on the best days. This little fiasco would set Eric off, and Rob, ever his father’s son, would react in kind.

But something had to be done. Stacy picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Chaplain Bartley, please.”

* * *

THE DOOR TO THE
bathroom opened and the tall, dark-skinned man stepped to the threshold. He held several plastic-wrapped items in his hand. He eyed her for long moments, and Julia didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. She remained seated on the floor, partly to deny him any measure of respect, but mostly to keep hidden the sharpened metal lever she had taken from the toilet tank last night.

The man tossed the objects to the floor. She eyed them. Frozen breakfast burritos. She didn’t speak, didn’t move. The man frowned and stepped from the room, closing and locking the door again.

“Can we, Mamá?” Lina asked. “I’m hungry.”

Julia picked up the food items. They were warm. Apparently there was a microwave nearby. She examined the wrappers, scrutinizing every inch. They didn’t appear to have been tampered with. She opened one and sniffed. It smelled exactly as she thought it should. Breaking the burrito in half, she stuck a finger in the scrambled eggs, cheese, and salsa then licked it. Nothing offensive.

“I think it’s safe.” She gave the burrito to Lina.

“I don’t want one,” Nestor said. “I don’t want their food.”

Julia opened another burrito and offered it to him anyway. “It is important that we keep up our strength. We don’t know what lies ahead.”

“They want to kill us, Mamá. That’s what lies ahead.”

“There will be no more talk like that, Nestor.” There was no anger in Julia’s words.

“Papa says a man always faces the truth. I’m facing the truth like he would want me to do.”

“I am proud of you, son. You have shown great courage. You too, Lina. But facing the truth doesn’t mean giving up. We must be prepared. Eat something, son.”

Nestor took the burrito and ate, but he made a point of scowling with every bite.

Julia stared at the door. She had a feeling the next time it opened bad things would happen. She reached behind her and felt the metal rod she had fashioned into a knife and wondered if she would have the courage to use it when the time came.

* * *

THERE WERE TWO OTHER
people in the hospital room with Lucy—her mother and her sister—yet still she was alone. The words of the doctor played on her mind in an endless loop. “I’m afraid the tests have confirmed our earlier suspicion … baby is a danger to your life … must act quickly … I know this is difficult to hear …”

She couldn’t remember much of what he’d said. She did, however, remember her part of the conversation.

“No.”

“You understand that your life is in danger. The odds are slim that you can successfully carry the baby to viability.” His words were firm but had no edge to them. His face revealed the difficulty he had in delivering the news.

“No.”

“Ms. Medina, taking the baby now is the only way I can save your life.”

She shook her head. “I will not kill my baby, not even to save my life.”

“Ms. Medina, the uterus has already partially detached from the abdominal wall and is causing internal bleeding. If the condition worsens, it will die anyway—”

“My baby is not an ‘it’—he is my boy. His name is Tito, named after my grandfather.”

“I apologize. It’s just that it sometimes makes it easier if we don’t think of the fetus as—”

“As what, Doctor? A human? I’m his mother. I feel him moving within me. I feel his soul touching mine.”

“Have you spoken to your husband?”

“No. He’s in the military. The chaplain is trying to reach him.”

The doctor pursed his lips. “Do you have other family to help you make a decision?”

“Doctor, listen to me. I’ve made my decision. Talking to family won’t change that.”

The conversation ended there but not before the physician took Lucy’s hand and squeezed it gently. “I’ll check with you later. We’ll continue to monitor your blood volume and other indicators. Rest as much as you can.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“I hope you understand that my only motivation is to save a life.”

“I have the same motivation.”

When Lucy’s mother and sister arrived, she relayed the whole of the conversation. Lucy’s mother almost collapsed. Once she regained the composure to speak, the argument began. Lucy could see the devastation on her mother’s face; she no more wanted to lose her “baby” than Lucy wanted to lose hers.

When the hot words were replaced by loving words, when the flow of tears had mingled all they could, when conversation gave way to hand-holding and caresses, Lucy let her mind hold a thought she never thought it could: She thanked God that Jose was gone. She knew what he’d say. He’d do anything to save her life, and if he could convince her to follow the doctor’s recommendations, then he would slowly poison himself year after year with guilt and regret. In a way, she was trying to save his life as well.

* * *

HECTOR CONTINUED TO GAZE
out his window and wonder what had happened to alter Santi’s plans so abruptly. He tried to comfort himself with the idea that someone—someone on the side of justice—had learned of Santi’s plans and interrupted them, maybe even rescued his family. He was content to remain a prisoner for now, as long as his wife and children were safe.

From his window he watched the helicopter land and Miguel Costa board. Although some distance separated Hector from Miguel, he was close enough to see the expression on the man’s face—an amalgam of anger and concern.

Hector could do nothing but wait and pray and remind himself that as long as there was life, there was hope.