Hunt the Dragon (4 page)

Why he was doing this, and why he had left Cyndi waiting in the pool, hadn't crossed his mind. He had reacted instinctively. Now he pushed hard the 150 feet to catch up. A uniformed guard saw Crocker running toward him and raised his arms to block Crocker's access to the elevators.

“Sir, easy. Slow down! What seems to be the problem?”

Crocker stopped, chest heaving. Fellow hotel guests of various nationalities stared at the scars covering his torso and arms.

He blurted out, “Those two men who just passed…they assaulted one of your security guards and a guest. They need to be stopped!”

“Oh…Okay, sir,” the guard said. “Yes, I saw them just now. I'll notify security.”

“No, I'm sorry. That's not good enough…I need you to let me pass.”

Just then he heard his name being called behind him and turned to see Mancini catching up, the veins standing out on his tattooed neck. He was holding a cell phone, which he pushed toward Crocker. “Boss, it's Jeri! She wants to speak to you!”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now.”

“You tell her about the incident at the pool?”

“I did, yeah.”

Ten minutes later, amid a cacophony of bells and jingling, the two SEALs negotiated banks of pinball machines and gaming tables, and arrived at Jeri's office. She stood at a desk with a wall of video monitors behind her, talking on the phone. Jim Walker, the assistant director of hotel security, wearing a maroon blazer and sporting a Burt Reynolds mustache, stood beside her.

“Yes, Mr. Leong. That's right, Mr. Leong. Carl Wong and Jon Petroc. I know. They claim to be part of a Chinese diplomatic delegation from your Ministry of Industry. Thanks for checking. Yes, please, as soon as you can. Thanks for your time.”

She hung up, muttered “Douchebag,” sipped from a cardboard cup of coffee on her desk, and sighed. “Hi, Crocker. That was the Chinese consul. I asked him to check the validity of their passports, and he asks me to comp him and his family for dinner for six at your most expensive restaurant. Can you believe that BS?”

“Hi, Jeri.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“We just saw two guys wrestle with your security guards and run off.”

“Yeah, I know. Carl Wong and John Petroc. Those are the guys I'm talking about.”

She turned to Walker, who had the glazed look of someone who'd seen it all.

Walker asked, “Which restaurant does the Chinese consul want to go to?”

“The Guy Savoy.”

“Of course. Call François. You got his number?”

Crocker stood in his black jeans and T-shirt that he had changed into, looking confused. “You talking about the guys we saw by the pool?”

“Yeah,” Jeri nodded. “Wong and Petroc. They're holed up in their room and refuse to come out and talk. Claim to be holding diplomatic passports and working for the Chinese government.”

“They didn't look like diplomats,” Crocker said.

“Didn't act like them, either,” added Mancini.

She held up her hand to Crocker and Mancini, and picked up the phone again. “Just a sec…François, it's Jeri. Yeah, Jeri Blackwell from the Secret Service.
Comment tallez vouz,
honey? I need a table for six, eight o'clock. Cram 'em in the toilet if you have to, but make it happen. Thanks.”

She hung up and pointed to the monitors on the far right behind her. “They're in there. The Titus Suite in the Augustus Tower. That's where they ran to when you were chasing them just now. See? Completely dark. What kind of diplomats know how to find and disable the monitors in their hotel suite?”

“Shady ones,” Crocker answered, trying to grasp what was going on.

“They've got something that's interfering with our electronics, too.”

“You really believe they're working for the Chinese?” Crocker asked. “Why are they here in the first place?”

“Trouble. What else? I want to show you something.” Jeri picked up the phone again and said, “Lester, come into my office for a minute and bring the strongbox.”

Two minutes later a man in a blue-and-black teller's uniform entered—gray hair, gray mustache, late fifties. He carried a metal box, which he set on the desk.

“Lester, these two studs are friends of mine. Show 'em what you found.”

Lester turned to Walker, who nodded. Then he used one of the keys on a chain attached to his belt to open the metal case. Inside were stacks of new hundred-dollar bills. He pulled one out and handed it to Crocker.

“Thanks,” Crocker asked.

“It's counterfeit,” Lester said. “So are all the others. We've taken in almost a hundred thousand dollars' worth in the past two days.”

“Who's we?”

“Caesars Palace.”

Turning to Jeri, Crocker said, “These match the ones we grabbed in the Ukraine?”

“You're smart, honey,” she replied, nodding toward the teller. “Check 'em out.”

Lester removed a jeweler's loupe from his pocket and held it to his right eye. “If you look closely, they all have the same anomaly along the lapel of Franklin's jacket.”

He handed the loupe to Crocker and used a pencil to point to the fine lines in question. “Missing is the microprinting near the collar. It's a small detail, but significant. All the new Treasury bills have it. These don't. Here's a genuine Franklin for comparison.”

Crocker checked the real one and barely made out the words “United States of America” along the collar.

“Same as the ones we seized in Ukraine.”

“Yup,” said Jeri.

He passed the bills and loupe to Mancini. “What do you want us to do?”

Jeri said, “Nothing yet.” Flipping through the papers on her desk, she found a report and passed it to Crocker.

“We did a high-resolution scan of one of the bills and sent a report to headquarters. They told us it was part of set of counterfeits, known as 2HK1, that have started to find their way into circulation in Hong Kong, Thailand, Hawaii, and Russia over the past month and half.”

“How much?”

“Millions of dollars' worth. This is the first time they've appeared in the U.S. And here are the guys we think have been passing them.”

She handed him a set of stills taken by surveillance cameras. They showed individuals of different nationalities standing at casino cashier windows and blackjack tables, handing cashiers and dealers hundred-dollar bills. The time signatures in the right-hand corners indicated the pictures had been taken over the past thirty-six hours. None of the faces in the pictures matched those of Wong or Petroc.

Crocker shrugged. “I don't get it.”

“We call the guys in the photos storks. If Wong and Petroc are doing what I think they are, they're the suppliers,” explained Jeri. “They're selling the fake stuff at fifty to sixty percent face value to storks, who quickly cash it in and split town. We haven't caught a one of them, but we're looking.”

“When did Wong and Petroc arrive?” Crocker asked.

“Two days ago, shortly before this bullshit started. These counterfeits have been showing up at casinos all over town. I figure they've spread about two mil worth already.”

“Why don't you just arrest them?” Crocker asked.

Jeri thanked Lester, who left with the locked box and counterfeit hundreds, then continued. “The fact that they're carrying diplomatic passports poses a major obstacle. I figure we need two things to happen before we can grab them. One, the Chinese consul general establishes that the passports are fakes. And two, we get clearance from the State Department.”

Mancini said, “By the time that happens those two characters will be long gone.”

“I like this guy, Crocker.”

Crocker asked, “How can we help?”

Jeri rubbed her hands together. “We've got ourselves a cat-and-mouse-type situation. I've got guys all over town chasing down the fakes, and I know Treasury's not going to commit more officers until clearances have been given to make arrests.”

“Bureaucratic nonsense.”

“No, it's China. They're big crybabies. Unfortunately, our economy depends on the cheap shit they sell us. So our government is afraid of even watching them carefully. Nobody wants to upset the Chinese.”

“How do you know it's the Chinese?”

“Don't know for sure, honey. Maybe they ain't really Chinese. It's Nevada. They could be from anywhere. All I can do in my position is station my guys outside their suite. But if Wong and Petroc pay their bill and leave, which I expect they will, I can't detain 'em.”

“Even after the incident at the pool?”

“Caesars' management will let that go.”

Walker, who was sitting behind the desk quietly going through paperwork, nodded. “We're cooperating with Treasury, but management strongly discourages any kind of commotion at the hotel. It's bad for business. Any kind of violence keeps people away.”

“Got it.”

“That's where I'm thinking you come in,” Jeri said. “One of those assholes slammed into your eighty-year-old aunt and didn't apologize. As far as you know, you don't know anything about them holding diplomatic passports. So you confront 'em outside the public areas, like, say, the parking lot. A fight breaks out. You get some shots in, then I call Las Vegas PD and have them arrested. LVPD cops don't know shit about diplomatic immunity. They end up holding those guys for a couple hours at least, while we go through their suitcases and see if we can find more counterfeit bills. Not exactly legal, but it's the best we can do.”

“Sounds sweet to me,” said Crocker.

“You think you can extend your stay past the weekend if we need to?”

“That's up to Captain Sutter.”

“I'll call him. My money says Wong and Petroc will be moving soon. I'll have my guys keep an eye on them and let you know. Just don't kick their asses in a public place, like the hotel or casino. Okay?”

“Ten-four.”

“Yeah, guys,” Walker added. “Please be discreet. No blood on the carpets or YouTube moments. Management will lose their shit.”

I
t was
8 p.m. EST, or 2 a.m. the next morning in Geneva, and Nan Dawkins was starting to worry. It wasn't like her husband to not call. She had phoned his room three times, left messages twice, and spoken to a clerk at the front desk at the Swissotel Metropole, who established that James wasn't in his room. Now, after putting their adopted Chinese daughter, Karen, to bed, she called the room again. Still no answer.

So she contacted the concierge, who told her that the ISEE conference had broken up at 8 p.m. local time. Since it was past 2, all hotel restaurants were closed for the night. Armed with James's description, the concierge searched the lobby, the Mirror Bar, and the rooftop bar. James wasn't there, nor had either bartender seen anyone matching his description. After some prodding Nan was given the name and room number of the ISEE representative. She promised not to call her before 9 a.m. Geneva time.

At 3 a.m. EST sharp she called Joanna Siegel, the event organizer. Ms. Siegel said that she had last seen Mrs. Dawkins's husband yesterday evening, shortly after he delivered his speech and she went up to thank him. She had no idea where he had gone after that but suggested that many of the conventioneers went to dinner in groups, and maybe her husband had joined one of them. Nan didn't quite understand how that explained his disappearance, but she thanked her and hung up. The ominous feeling that had started at dinner deepened and grew stronger.

She wasn't one to put much stock in feelings, but she couldn't come up with a logical explanation for her husband's silence. After fifteen years of marriage, she knew he wasn't the kind of man to act irresponsibly or make a rash decision. Sometimes he could be absentminded, but he usually wanted her to know where he was and what he was doing. James wasn't a gambler or a drinker, but modest, careful, and dependable. The kind of man who enjoyed puttering in his home office after dinner. He fussed sometimes about how Nan spent money but otherwise never complained. Their sex life was infrequent but healthy. He doted over their daughter and loved his work. The prospect of him suddenly running off with another woman didn't seem likely, nor could she imagine him going off to party at a strip club with a group of men without calling her with some excuse.

So where had he gone? Nan racked her brain for an answer. The only ones it came up with involved some kind accident, sudden illness, or violence.

Six thirty a.m. After waking Karen to get ready for school, she called James at the Metropole again. Still no answer. So she contacted the front desk and asked them to send someone up to the room to check it.

A half hour later, the clerk called back. “Mrs. Dawkins, your husband isn't in his room. The bed doesn't appear as though it was slept in last night. But his suitcase and clothes are still there. Does he have a cell phone with him?”

“Yes, but since he's only staying a few days he didn't purchase the international plan. It won't work until he returns to the U.S.”

“I understand that he's scheduled to check out this morning,” the clerk pointed out.

“Yes, that's correct. He's leaving on an 11 a.m. flight.”

“I'll tell him to call you when we see him. Hopefully that will happen soon.”

“Thank you.”

She dropped off Karen at Hunters Woods Elementary School and arranged with her neighbor Leslie to pick her up and drive her home.

Unsettled and not knowing what to do with herself, she drove to Dulles airport and waited. From the International Arrivals terminal she called the Metropole again, only to learn that James hadn't checked out. Nor did he arrive four hours later on his scheduled flight.

So she called James's best friend and colleague, Kevin Willis. When she told him James was missing, Kevin became as alarmed as she was and suggested she contact the State Department and file a missing-person report.

She spent the rest of the evening calling hospitals in Geneva. None reported admitting her husband or anyone matching his description. Next she tried the U.S. consulate. A junior officer there checked with Metropole security and local police stations. No one had seen her husband. Nan, who prided herself in being a strong-minded woman, was starting to grow desperate. As her anxiety grew, she got angry, very angry, and poured herself a glass of wine. Then another. Then another.

She was slightly inebriated by the time two officers from Homeland Security—one male, one female—rang the front doorbell.
The Late Show with
Stephen Colbert
was ending. She turned off the TV, let them in, offered them coffee (which they declined), and proceeded to answer their questions.

“When is the last time you heard from your husband?” the female officer asked.

“It was a little after 4 p.m. in Geneva. He was on his way to the conference to give his speech.”

“Did you argue?”

“No. We talked about plans for our daughter's birthday.”

“How old is your daughter?”

“Eight. Turns nine on Tuesday.”

“Your husband and she are close?”

“He adores her; she adores him.”

“Has he recently learned about any problems involving his health?”

“No.”

“Have you been experiencing financial problems?”

“No.”

“Do you suspect that he has any investments or bank accounts you might not know about?”

“I doubt it.”

“Relationship issues?”

“None.”

“Does he gamble, drink, take drugs?”

“None of the above.”

“Has he recently made any new friends?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

“Has any new name or person come up in conversation?”

“No. Why?”

“No particular reason. These are the questions we ask in cases like this.”

As Nan watched the male officer record her answers on a yellow form, she started to weep. She couldn't control herself. The female officer sat beside her on the couch and took her hand. In a sympathetic tone of voice, she said, “The only reason we're here is that your husband has a top-secret Department of Defense clearance, but you shouldn't read too much into that. In ninety percent of these cases, the spouse shows up a day or so later with a reasonable explanation.”

“And in the other ten percent?”

“Try not to think about that. We'll continue to monitor all local Geneva police and immigration reports and call you in the morning.”

“Thank you,” she muttered with her face in her hands.

“Is there someone in the area, a close friend or relative, who you can call and ask to stay with you until this is over?” the officer asked.

“No. My daughter's here. I'll be fine.”

At 1136 hours PST Friday night, Crocker sat across from Cyndi watching her devour a grilled sirloin at Todd English's Olives restaurant overlooking the Bellagio fountains.

Before he had met her at the
O
stage door, he'd received a call from Ukrainian Special Forces commander Colonel Marko Hubenko asking him for additional help. The Donetsk airport was under attack by Russian proxies and in danger of being overrun. Hubenko's troops lacked operational expertise and leadership.

Crocker told Hubenko he would be happy to help but could only do so under orders from his CO, who he promised to call. This he did ASAP, relaying Hubenko's request to Captain Sutter back at ST-6 HQ in Virginia Beach.

Sutter said in his western Kentucky accent, “More damn crises in the world than we have spec ops to handle 'em. Frankly I don't know if Ukraine is a priority.”

He told Crocker he would pass Colonel Hubenko's request up the chain of command, and that Crocker and Mancini should assist Ms. Blackwell over the weekend and report back to Nellis AFB at 0630 Monday morning.

“Yes, sir.”

Why training recruits how to survive in the desert was more important than defending Ukraine from Putin's insurgents was something Crocker didn't ask. DC politics and military policy and order of priorities weren't in his purview or part of his skill set. Right now he was on his first date with a woman (besides his soon-to-be ex-wife) in over eight years, and he was enjoying it.

He and Cyndi had watched the fountain water dance and soar to Sinatra's “Good Life” and shared a bottle of her favorite Chardonnay—Beckett's Flat Five Stones. Now they were both feeling warm and mellow, aided by the romantic setting—subtle overhead lighting, the warm tones of the furniture, Mendelssohn's sublime Violin Concerto in E minor, Opus 64, playing over the stereo.

The pretty woman across from him with the sparkling blue eyes started to tell him about her life. Her mother had become pregnant with her in high school. She barely knew her father, and had been raised primarily by her grandparents on her mother's side. No bitterness, no blame, which he admired.

She had her first serious boyfriend at fifteen, and was following her mother's trajectory when she was arrested at a party for selling ecstasy. She did community service and tried to turn her life around.

Sex and boys had always been an issue. She loved it and them, and they loved her back. After graduating from college she drifted from one relationship to another, then discovered ballet, modern dance, and gymnastics. They became her passion. For years she made a good living dancing in gentlemen's clubs. After the birth of her daughter she took a hard look at herself in the mirror, asked herself what she really wanted to do with her life, and decided she wanted to be a legitimate dancer.

She worked hard, auditioned, and got parts dancing in the touring shows of several Broadway musicals, including revivals of
Oklahoma!
and
Pippin
. When she wasn't touring, she performed with a local circus. During a Christmas Eve performance she was discovered by a scout from Cirque du Soleil and was invited to Montreal.

Crocker was fascinated, but as she talked about herself, he started to think about his own history and all the details he'd have to fill in and things she'd have to accept about him before they could really be comfortable with each other. It seemed like a lot.

If he thought his life was complicated, hers was a snarl of difficulties and attachments that included her ex-husband, who had been a drummer in a rock band before a serious accident destroyed his hand. Cyndi was now helping pay for his physical therapy. The daughter they had together had a rare blood disease called Diamond-Blackfan anemia that had to be treated with steroids and bimonthly blood transfusions. She had recently put her mother—who was still struggling with alcohol and drug abuse—back into rehab.

The fact that she remained so upbeat and energetic through all this difficulty inspired him. He told her that.

She responded by saying, “I'm boring you. I'm sorry. When I get excited, I can't stop talking.”

“No, it's interesting. Go ahead.”

He was already thinking about how their lives could fit together. It would be extremely challenging. She had her career; he had his. She lived in Las Vegas; his home was in Virginia. The only times they could meet were when he was on leave. He'd get to know her daughter. He'd done the same with Holly's son.

Cyndi reached across the table and again placed her hand on his. “Tom?”

Warmth spread up his arm. “Yeah?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No. No, not at all.”

“Tell me about yourself.”

“I think you know the basics already. I'm a Navy SEAL. Have been for the last seventeen years.”

“I want to know about your life.”

He gave her a quick summary. His wild, gang-member teenage years; how he had been drifting into a life of crime before becoming interested in long-distance running and endurance racing. After dropping out of college, he joined the navy and passed BUD/S (Basic Underwater Demolition School). One of the proudest moments in his life was receiving the gold trident that made him a Navy SEAL. He talked about some of his deployments, injuries, the times he was captured by the enemy and escaped, his daughter and marriages.

He stopped there. Cyndi looked deep into his eyes asked, “Have you had to kill people?”

It was something he didn't like to think about. “Yes, I have.”

“Was that hard?”

“Yes and no. You do it because you have to, but those things…linger.”

“I would think so. I'm sorry. You do what have to in defense of our country. You see and do things that most people can't face.”

“Yeah, that's right. Some of it leaves scars…on your soul.”

It was a big admission to someone he'd just met. He looked away, embarrassed, wondering where she was going with this.

Cyndi sighed. “I admire you, Tom. I do. And I want to get to know you better, even though I'm kind of scared.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she asked back. “Because you're a serious dude. That's both frightening and exciting.”

He reached across the table, took both of her hands, and looked into her eyes—warm and bright. They started to open something inside him. He wanted to go further, but he wasn't sure he was ready.

He said, “I want to get to know you better, too. But let's keep it simple…for now.”

She smiled and nodded. “Sure, Tom. I agree. Simple and straightforward is better.”

When he excused himself to go to the men's room, he stopped to pull her close and kiss her on the lips. She felt delicate in his arms.

He was feeling light-headed from the sudden intimacy and was two-thirds of the way to the men's room when the lights in the restaurant went out. A current of panic passed through the room. A waiter dropped a glass that shattered. The maître d' hurried to the middle of the dining room and announced, “Sorry for the temporary inconvenience. Our waitstaff will provide candles. Until power is restored there will be a delay in the kitchen, but we have an unlimited supply of wine and dessert.”