Certain Jeopardy (9 page)

THE PHONE RANG AT
9:12. Stacy dusted grainy laundry soap from her hands and picked up the handset. Already she had run and emptied the dishwasher, dusted the living room, and vacuumed the house. It was what she did when Eric went on mission.

“Hello.”

“Um … good morning. Is this the Moyer residence?” A male voice.

“It is. Who’s calling please?” Stacy leaned against the wall. She wasn’t in the mood for a telemarketer. “We’re on the ‘Do Not Call’ list, so if you’re a salesperson …” She heard the man chuckle.

“I’m not selling anything. Is this Mrs. Moyer?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Dr. Miles Lawton. I’m a physician. Is Mr. Moyer in?”

The voice sounded calm and pleasant, nonetheless the word
physician
made Stacy’s heart jitter. “Are you sure you have the right number? There are a lot of Moyers in the world.”

“I’m looking for Eric Moyer.”

“My husband is Eric Moyer, but he’s not in at the moment. May I ask what this is about?”

“Mr. Moyer came to my office yesterday for an examination and consultation. I stepped from the office for a few minutes, and he was gone when I returned. I thought I’d give him the day to call, but when he didn’t I decided to call.”

“He gave you this number?”

“Yes—well, sort of. The number he left is similar, but the last two numbers are transposed. It happens all the time.”

That sounded like something Eric would do if he were being secretive. “I’m sorry about all the questions, Doctor. I’m one of those privacy nuts. Sometimes my husband forgets to update my calendar as well as his, so I’m often a day or two behind.”

“I understand. I’ve done it too. Must be a guy thing. You say he’s out for a while?”

“Yes, he’s been called away on business. That happens sometimes. Everything is an emergency with his firm.”

Another forced chuckle. “Is there a way I can reach him? Phone? E-mail?”

Stacy’s mind began to spin. This could get complicated. “I’m afraid not. Why don’t you just give me the information and I’ll see what I can do to run him down.” Seeing a doctor without telling her gave “run him down” new meaning. What was Eric doing seeing a civilian doctor?

“Just a moment.”

Stacy heard paper shuffle.

“Yes, here it is. He gave your name as a contact and signed the release.”

“Release?”

“HIPAA Privacy Rule. Basically it means I can’t talk to anyone about a patient’s health without permission of the patient. But I see here that he signed the release.”

Of course he did. He also gave the wrong phone number. Why was
he being secretive about his health? And how to make the doctor think
she knew what was going on?
“I know he’s sensitive about the problem. He had a difficult time talking to me about it.”

The line was silent for a moment. “So he’s spoken to you? That’s good. Such matters should be discussed between spouses.”

“When he calls, what shall I tell him?”

“I’d like him to come back in for the blood test and to arrange for the colonoscopy. We don’t want too much time to pass before getting the tests done. As I told him, colon cancer is only one possibility. Most likely he has a far-easier-to-treat ailment, but we don’t want to take any chances. Sometimes it’s hard for men to follow through on these tests. I’m hoping that you can encourage him to do so. We men like to act brave, but we’re often more fearful than we let on.” He paused. “I’m not saying your husband lacks courage, you understand. I’m sure he’s very brave in other ways.”

“You have no idea, Doctor.”

Stacy set the phone back in the cradle after three tries. She staggered to the sofa on legs that felt made of overcooked noodles rather than bone and muscles.

“Colon cancer.” They were the only two words she could muster.

* * *

J.J. WA
S IN HIS
element. Standing in the back of the panel truck, he made a quick survey of the equipment and weaponry smuggled across the border from Colombia. Entering the country by commercial airliner made bringing weapons and recon gear impossible. J.J. didn’t know who brought the truckload of equipment, but it must have been a long drive across Venezuela. “Everything there?” Moyer directed the truck along one of thecity’s highways.

“They forgot the kitchen sink.”

“Figures. What about the incidentals?”

“Side arms, field knives, M4s, and enough surveillance equipment to make Caraway slobber all over himself. There’s even some stuff to make things go boom.”

“You know what they say: ‘There is no situation in the human condition that cannot be solved through a properly sized, shaped, packed, placed, timed, and detonated charge of high explosive.’ It’s a motto we can all live by. Electronics?”

“Yup. Digital Soldiers-R-Us. Looks like we’re set for anything. This truck is a rolling weapons locker.” Moyer nodded. “All we need is the small stuff. Can’t walk around with M4s slung over our shoulders.”

J.J. lifted a 9mm pistol. “I can see how that might get noticed.”

“Let the others know the rendezvous is on. Time to earn our pay.”

* * *

LUCY MEDINA SETTLED INTO
her husband’s easy chair. She did so for two reasons. First, the chair reminded her of him; it carried his smell, and sitting in it made him seem close even when he was far away— wherever far away might be. She wore one of his T-shirts that she slept in for the same reason. The second reason was physical. She had been busy getting three children ready for school and driving them to the campus. Fortunately all three went to the same school. Matteo and Jose Jr. would be in school until nearly three, but Maria would need to be picked up at noon when her half-day kindergarten class ended. Still, that left her a couple of hours to rest her body and mind. Taking care of three children under the age of nine was difficult with help; alone was an impossible task. She wondered how she would manage once the baby was born. She could handle days all right as long as Jose was there to help in the evening—which he wasn’t today and might not be for weeks.

She closed her eyes and tried to nap.

The baby moved, then kicked. Lucy rubbed her belly.

Another kick, then a sharp pain. She winced.

Lucy took a deep breath and released it slowly. The pain eased. “What are you doing in there, little Niña?” Again, Lucy tried to relax in the chair. Being pregnant was hard work. She could grow tired just sitting around. This was her time to rest. With the children at school these quiet hours were her sanctuary.

She moved her hands over her basketball-size belly. In another three months “baby within,” as Jose called his daughter, would become “baby out and about.” Lucy took rest when she could get it—there would be precious little of it soon.

Another kick, this one to Lucy’s bladder.

Another pain … and another. Something within her tightened. A small moan escaped her lips. Her skin oozed perspiration.

“Oh, God,” Lucy prayed.

THE U.S. EMBA
SSY IN
Venezuela would have been a perfect place to meet if it weren’t under constant surveillance. The 100,000-square-foot building sat on the side of one of the Andean foothills. The five-story brown building contained a room encased in steel walls that could be used for meeting and planning, but Moyer didn’t have that luxury. His mission was as covert as they come. If captured, the State Department would deny any connection with his team.

Instead, he and the others found a rundown bar near the center of the city. The place was large, dingy, and had colored film pasted to the windows like a poor man’s stained glass. The pub catered to unsuspecting foreigners. The price of beer was a third higher than what he and J.J. paid in the upscale hotel bar the previous night.

“Nice tourist trap.” Shaq took a seat at a long table near the back.

“More like a roach trap.” Caraway wrinkled his nose.

“I didn’t know you were such a sensitive spirit.” Moyer sat at the middle of his team, allowing him to keep his voice down and still be heard.

“Sensitive? Me?” Caraway laughed. “I just like my beer and food to be free of insects.”

“Protein is protein,” J.J. said.

“Put a sock in it, guys.” Moyer paused long enough to make eye contact with each man. “We’re here for a reason and we’re going to drink beer and eat chicken wings and act like we’re enjoying every moment of it. Clear?”

The others nodded.

“Good.” Moyer looked at Caraway. “You comfortable?”

Caraway pulled a small, black electronic device from his shirt pocket and gave it a glance. The small device looked very much like an MP3 player but could detect hidden microphones in the 1 MHz to 6.5 GHz range. “Can’t do a full sweep, of course. That’d be a tad obvious. But the mini-sweeper says we’re good.” He dropped the device back into his pocket.

Moyer gave an approving nod. The device wasn’t foolproof but provided enough reassurance for Moyer to continue. “We begin tonight. We stay low-vis on this, so we’ll be keeping hardware to a minimum.” His team nodded. The quickest way to attract attention was to shoulder an M4 automatic rifle. “Martin, bring what you need for the job. We’re going to need eyes and ears. I surveyed the equipment and it’s all nonmilitary issue.”

“Nothing to tie us to our origins,” Caraway said.

“Exactly.” Moyer stopped as a waitress cleared empty mugs of cerveza from the table and replaced them. J.J.’s mug was still full. When the waitress left, Moyer continued. “We go in full team tonight. Once we have the lay of the land, we’ll split into teams for round-the-clock recon. We stay in the same teams we arrived in country with. I know I don’t need to say this, but I will: This is an urban recon, so the odds of someone spotting us are much higher than parachuting into some desolate backwater and hiking in.”

“That’s been bugging me,” J.J. said. “These camps—places— are usually away from population centers unless they’re in a friendly country. There’s miles of jungle around here; why set up in the industrial area of a major city?”

Moyer pursed his lips. He didn’t have an answer for that one. “It doesn’t matter. Intel said that’s where they are and so that’s where we go. My best guess is they’re getting co-op from the government.”

“Still seems odd.”

Moyer ended the discussion by ignoring the comment. “Be ready at 2200. Mess up your beds before leaving. I don’t want the maids wondering why someone pays big bucks to stay in a hotel then sleeps elsewhere.”

They stayed another hour, drinking and eating like businessmen off the home leash. The group broke up over the next thirty minutes until only Moyer and J.J. were left. Moyer planned to finish his beer then make his way back to the panel truck. J.J. would drive the rental car back to the hotel.

“What’s the matter, J.J.? You look bothered.”

“Something doesn’t feel right, and I can’t put my finger on it.”

“We don’t operate on feelings, J.J. We operate on intel and gut instinct.”

“It’s my gut that’s bothering me. The M.O. just doesn’t seem right.” J.J. lowered his voice. “How can a terrorist group train in a downtown industrial park?”

“Not all training has to do with guns and explosives. Maybe they’re teaching them something else. Maybe they have other sites in the country. That’s what we’re here to find out.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t listen to my gut so much.”

“Well, my gut has plenty to say, and I prefer it says it back at the hotel. I’m less likely to catch a disease there.”

* * *

JULIA CENOBIO WA
S ON
her knees, her elbows resting on the edge of the bed, her head bowed and eyes closed. She held her hands out to each side. In each hand rested a smaller hand.

“Thank you, Jesus, for the fun day we had today.” Nestor had been praying for several minutes, and Julia wished he’d find his way to the end. He was this way every night. At bedtime Julia would kneel with the children, hold their hands, and lead them in prayer, allowing each child to pray as they saw fit. Nestor and Lina were competitive even for twins. At times one would try to eat faster than the other or read more books or do more cartwheels—they even tried to out-pray one another.

“And thank you for breakfast and lunch and dinner and the snakes. And thank you for the man who drove us around the city. And thank you for this room and this bed …”

If only Hector were with them. He had a way of controlling the children’s
enthusiasm
, or at least directing it. “Never squash a child’s enthusiasm,” he often said. “The word
enthusiasm
means ‘God within.’ It is a holy thing.”

She tried not to smile. Right now it was an endurance thing.

“And bless Mamá and Papa and the people we saw at the museum and the waiter who brought our food and—” Julia squeezed Nestor’s hand. He got the hint. “In Jesus’ name, amen.”

“Amen,” Julia and Lina said in unison.

Lina was first on her feet. “God won’t answer your prayers, Nestor.”

“Yes, he will. Why not?”

Lina’s grinned morphed into a smirk. “Because your prayers are so long they put him to sleep.”

“Do not. Shut up!”

“That’s enough, children. I’m sure God heard every word. He listens very closely to everyone who calls on him. Now it’s time for you to crawl into bed.”

* * *

IN THE ADJOINING ROO
M
the man who served as their chauffeur listened to every word carried through the headphones he wore. No one was more thankful to hear the children were going to bed than he. He had tolerated their unending chatter and bickering all day and then through the early evening. Now his ears would have a rest.

He made a note in a computer:
Children said their prayers then
started arguing
. It wasn’t much of a note, but at least his report would be accurate. Now all he had to do was wait for his replacement, who was due in two hours.

He knew what came next. The children would chatter in bed. The woman would tell them to be quiet at least four times before they surrendered to slumber. Julia Cenobio would watch television for two or three more hours then go to bed. This part of the job was tedious, not that he would ever complain.

To pass the time, the man removed a pistol and a handkerchief and began wiping down the weapon. He handled the gun tenderly as if it would respond better to a caress than rough handling.

The gun felt good in his hand. He pointed the barrel at the wall that separated his room from where the children slept and closed an eye, taking aim.

“Boom,” he whispered.