Hunt the Falcon (13 page)

Two armed guards ran toward them, pointing their AK-47s at Akil, who emerged from the cab with his hands held over his head. One of them ordered him to lie prone on the ground. Akil shouted back at him in Farsi. He didn't want to lie down, and when Crocker saw the pistol stuck in the back waistband of his pants, he understood why.

One of the guards aimed his AK at Akil's head, while the second guard stepped forward and used the butt of his gun to pound Akil in the chest. Crocker aimed the Glock at the first guard and pumped four rounds into his torso. The man spun and fell, surprising his companion, who was standing over Akil, now lying on his back.

The second guard turned for a split second to look back at his colleague, and as he did, Akil cocked his leg back and kicked him in the groin. The guard doubled over. Crocker leaned over the edge of the tank to get a clear shot, but as he aimed the Glock, a third guard fired from somewhere near the plane. A bullet sailed past Crocker's ear. Others slammed into the metal around him.

He ducked, flipped his body over to the right, grabbed the rail that ran along the other side of the tank, and let himself down. Akil and the second guard were wrestling on the opposite side of the truck. Ignoring his colleague's safety, the third guard sprayed the truck, causing bullets to ricochet off the tank and hood.

Crocker crouched by the front right wheel and fired at Guard #3, but the intense light in his face made it hard to see. The jet was bearing down on them. Turning and looking up, he saw the pilot's and copilot's eyes, their determined faces. Guard #4 now opened fire at him from near the parked jeep. Bullets skidded off the concrete around him, throwing up long sparks.

But he couldn't hear the shots, because the roar of the engines drowned out all other sound. The jet picked up speed. Its wing was practically overhead.

With bullets whizzing past him and slamming into the side of the truck, Crocker opened the passenger door and climbed in. The engine was still running. He glanced out the side window and saw Guard #1 reaching for his AK. Crocker leaned out and shot him three times in the head.

As he put the truck in reverse, bullets shattered the windshield. He ducked. The plane's wings were behind him now. Crocker saw Akil pulling himself up off the tarmac and knew he was in danger of being sucked up into the jet's engine. So he opened the door, leaned down, grabbed Akil around the torso with his left arm, lifted him into the cab, and pushed him over his lap into the passenger seat.

“Nice fucking plan,” Akil groaned, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand.

“Sloppy execution,” Crocker countered, shifting the vehicle into first and pushing down on the accelerator. He realized that bullets were no longer hitting the truck.

Maybe DZ or Hamid took the other guards out from behind.

“Now what?” Akil grimaced.

“Buckle your seat belt and hold on!”

He had the truck in fourth gear. The left front fender was about twenty feet wide of and thirty feet behind the oscillating red light on the tip of the jet's wing. Crocker gunned the engine and pulled even. Just then someone in the cockpit leaned out with an AK-47 and started shooting. Crocker ducked behind the dashboard as bullets slammed into the vehicle's hood and grille.

They were passing the terminal, and the jet was moving fast. Crocker thought,
Now's the time!

With bullets ricocheting off the hood and tearing into the dash, he turned the steering wheel sharply left just as the plane started to lift off. The top of the tanker grazed the side of the jet engine, then slammed into the landing gear with a tremendous explosion of sparks.

“Fuck, yeah!” Akil shouted.

Crocker felt an incredible jolt and tried to hold on to the steering wheel, but lost control. The tanker was knocked off its wheels and rolled once, twice, then flipped again and landed in the grass with a thud that jarred him so powerfully he passed out. He gained consciousness briefly at the sound of an enormous explosion that lifted the truck off the ground.

“Akil?” he called weakly.

H
e woke
up in a hospital. Blinked. Felt his legs and arms, which were still intact. It took him a couple of seconds to focus on the yellow walls and the man sitting in the corner in a green chair, talking into a cell phone in what he recognized as Portuguese. The first things about him that registered were the short dreadlocks and the tattoo on his neck. Then Crocker remembered his name.

“DZ,” he said, trying to sit up. “What the fuck happened? Where am I?”

The left side of his head hurt. He lifted his left arm and touched the bandage that ran from the top of his head to his ear.

DZ put the phone away and said, “You're one crazy lucky motherfucker.”

“Why?”

“Why?”
DZ threw back his head and laughed. “I can't believe you asked that.”

“Where are we?”

“Dude, we're in a hospital in Puerto Iguazú, on the Argentine side of the falls. You suffered a pretty bad concussion, a crack in your skull that's been closed up with staples, some lacerations to your wrist, and a couple of bruised ribs. Otherwise you're okay, which is totally unbelievable.”

“Okay?” Crocker asked, trying to recall what had transpired to split his head open and land him in the hospital.

“I saw the whole thing happen, man, and I still can't believe it,” DZ continued. “Are you Irish?”

“Irish? No, some French, German, Scottish, and Norwegian mixed together. Why?”

“You know the saying, the luck of the Irish. Never mind.”

Crocker looked for his watch, which wasn't on his wrist. The place where it used to be was covered with another white bandage. “What time is it?”

“A couple ticks shy of noon.”

Noon. The last thing he remembered was the jet taking off at the airport last night. He'd been driving a truck. Akil sat beside him. “Akil. How's he?” Crocker asked, realizing that his mouth was bone dry, and reaching for the bottle of water on the table beside him.

“Akil was taken to the airport in Ciudad del Este about an hour ago,” DZ answered, standing and adjusting the hems of his pant legs. Crocker noticed for the first time that the young man was wearing a cast on his left foot. “His right arm and wrist are both broken, and his right foot is messed up.” DZ pointed to the night table to Crocker's right. “Oh, and he left you his watch.”

Crocker leaned over and saw the black Luminox Colormark 3050 Series watch on the table's gray enamel surface. The Luminox wasn't as tricked out as his Suunto, but it was rugged, water resistant, and featured continuous-glow dive bezel, hands, and hour markers. “What happened to mine?”

“It got totaled, man. Big surprise.”

He liked that watch, which had been a present from Holly. “Totaled how?”

“Smashed to shit when the truck tumbled over like a toy, a little metal toy flicked by Godzilla. I never in a million years expected anyone to walk away from that alive.”

“Where's Akil going?” he asked, stretching his arms over his head.

“We're taking him back to the States to get his arm properly set.”

“Oh.” Crocker was starting to feel tired and wanted to rest, but there was one more question he needed answered first. “What happened to the guys on the plane?”

“You don't remember?”

“Nope.”

“The plane crashed and burned,” DZ answered. “Everyone aboard died.”

“Alizadeh, too?” Crocker asked excitedly. “Was he on it?”

“Who's he?”

“Farhed Alizadeh, a.k.a. the Falcon.”

“The Brazilians haven't released any names so far. All they said was that everyone aboard burned to death. They also confirmed that the aircraft was packed with cocaine. They're saying about two hundred million dollars' worth. But they don't know shit about you, or us, or why the plane crashed, which is one of the reasons you're not in their custody.”

Crocker's eyelids started to feel heavy. “Where am I, again?”

“Argentina.”

“That's right. Argentina.”

He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

He was sitting alone in a boat on a lake eating a bowl of chocolate ice cream. The surface of the lake shone like a piece of glass. He saw his reflection, then, looking up, realized the lake was vast, maybe endless. He couldn't make out a shore past the bluish mist in the far distance. He thought,
Maybe I'm dead. But even if I am, I trust in God.

Crocker woke in a sweat, sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear. Hands were holding him up and pulling on a pair of pants and a shirt. The hands belonged to DZ, Hamid, and a woman he'd never met.

“What's going on?” he asked, trying to focus.

“The Brazilian authorities are looking for you, so we're going to move you,” DZ answered.

“We're taking you to a house we have in the city,” Hamid added.

Crocker's head felt swollen and heavy. His entire body felt numb from the medication he'd been given. “Who's she?” he asked, nodding at the dark-haired woman tying his sneakers.

“Her name is Mercedes,” DZ answered.

The walls looked a richer shade of yellow than before. The fluorescent light that glanced off them bothered his eyes. “Mercedes, like the car?”

“Correct.”

“Hi, Mercedes.”

“Ciao.”

He remembered bouncing on the backseat of the SUV. The woman, illuminated by the headlights, opening a rusted green gate. She wore dark green pants and a cream-colored sweater.

Now he was seated outside by a swimming pool, and a doctor with a shaved head and a deep crease between his friendly blue eyes was taking his blood pressure. He pressed a stethoscope to Crocker's chest and back, then started asking questions. “Where were you born? What are your parents' names? Where did you go to school?”

He had no problem answering, but was starting to feel impatient.

He saw DZ standing off to one side, seemingly intent on the leaves floating in the pool. Mercedes, who was short, with round hips, stood behind him smoking a cigarette. Her hair was cut parallel to the line of her jaw, and he thought she looked vaguely French. Crocker waved DZ over.

“What's going on?” he asked.

DZ said, “The doctor's checking to see if you're healthy enough to fly.”

“Where am I going?”

“We don't know yet.”

“What have you learned about the three men on the plane?” Crocker asked.

“The Brazilians recovered four bodies. They haven't released any information about them, but we've heard they're communicating with both the Venezuelan and Iranian embassies.”

“That's a good sign,” Crocker said. The fact that the Iranians had been notified meant that some of their people were involved. He remembered the two sets of dark eyes glaring at him from the cockpit window. Something about them—the thickness of the brows, the way they were set, the pride and outrage in them—told him they were Iranian eyes, not Venezuelan.

An hour later he was in the same terminal he and Akil had entered the city in two days ago. This time he felt slightly dizzy as he stood with DZ and the dark-haired woman. “Mercedes will travel with you to Bogotá,” DZ explained. “She's going to act like your girlfriend and never leave your side.”

She had a pretty face. Pouty lips, thick wavy hair, sparkling dark eyes, smooth skin. When she spoke, her accent was Brazilian. “You need anything, you tell me,” she said with confidence.

“Okay. But why Bogotá?”

“So the embassy doctor there can examine you again,” DZ answered. “See if you're fit to return to Venezuela. You've also got two cracked molars that need to be fixed.”

Crocker said, “I want to return to Venezuela. My men are still there, right?”

“Yes.”

“I'll take care of the teeth later.”

“The doctor will decide that.”

The whine of the jet's engine bothered him, and when it gained speed down the runway, he had to resist a panicked urge to get up from his seat. In a flash it all came back to him, the man shooting at him from the cockpit, him at the wheel of the tanker truck, the blinking red light on the end of the 737's wing. Then the powerful jolt as the truck hit the jet.

He found Brubeck on his iPod and let the 5/4 swing of “Take Five” work its magic. The melody and rhythm calmed him, and he started to feel like himself. Music was transcendent. He wanted to learn more about it and understand how it worked. Not the hard rock and metal he'd listened to as a kid, but jazz, especially cool fifties jazz and bebop—Stan Getz, Dizzy Gillespie, Zoot Sims, Charlie Byrd, Art Tatum, Ben Webster, Lester Young.

Crocker never graduated from college, having gone straight from high school into the navy. Not that he had any regrets, except that he hadn't rubbed shoulders with people who were knowledgeable about a wide range of subjects, particularly the arts and music.

Drinks were served. He ordered a Diet Coke, then turned to Mercedes, tapped her on the shoulder, and asked what she was listening to.

“Music,” she said grinning.

“No kidding.” At least she had a sense of humor.

“If you really want to know, his name is Caetano Veloso.” She had a tough, self-possessed demeanor that he found appealing.

“Caetano…who?”

Her eyes glistened with mischief. “You've never heard of Caetano Veloso?” she asked, tossing back her hair and pursing her full lips.

“No. You ever hear of Malcolm and Angus Young?”

“Caetano is a huge international star.”

“So are Malcolm and Angus Young. They're the ass-kicking leaders of AC/DC.”

“Tell me about it, Thomas.”

He laughed inside. The last person who'd called him Thomas was his high school girlfriend Natalie, who was married now and living in Northern California. She had dark eyes, too, and an insatiable sexual appetite that got them both in trouble when they were caught making love on her parents' sofa. Natalie had not been allowed to see him after that, which pissed him off to the point that he got drunk and banged on her front door one night, only to be chased away by her shotgun-wielding father. Mercedes was like a shorter, curvier, Brazilian version of her.

He didn't mind that she shared a room with him, or that she walked around in a tank top and shorts, or that when they went out to dinner that night she peppered him with questions about his background, his failed first marriage, and what it was like to kill someone. Nor did it bother him when later that night she crawled into the other king-sized bed, and he was tempted to cross the space between them and take her in his arms. It made part of him feel alive. And also helped him remember how much he loved his wife and missed her.

“Love the One You're With” by Stephen Stills played in his head. He sat up, watched shadows wash across the walls, and recalled that he had now suffered seven—or was it eight?—concussions. Every severe impact to his head caused more brain cells to die. And every life taken left another scar on his soul.

In the morning he visited the embassy doctor, who like Crocker happened to be a former navy corpsman who had served in Japan. They discussed the strange obsessions of Japanese people—manga comic books, electronic games, Chinese dumplings, S&M—and their respective visits to the ancient city of Kyoto. The doctor cleared Crocker to travel to Venezuela, but warned him to take things easy.

Fat chance of that,
Crocker thought, before answering, “Sure, Doc. Thanks.”

That afternoon he and Mercedes swam laps in the hotel pool, then took a taxi to the airport. He was unable to shake the image of her round ass hugged by the tight red bathing suit. It screamed at him during the flight to Venezuela while she told him she had been born in Salvador de Bahia to an Italian economist father and Brazilian mother. They had split when she was ten. Her father was now living in Paris.

“Do you see him often?” Crocker asked. He was starting to understand how her background had made her worldly and self-reliant.

“About once a year. He's remarried. Because of him I'm always seeking men's approval, sometimes in self-destructive ways.”

He found her honesty and confidence kind of sexy.

Later, when she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, he debated whether she was inviting him to take things further, and whether he was a fool for letting an opportunity like this slip away or mature and intelligent for not giving in to temptation, risking his career, and destroying his marriage.

It bothered him that the answer wasn't as clear as he thought it should be. Maybe it was the medication he was still taking. Or maybe he was just being a red-blooded man genetically programmed to find attractive, fertile women and drag them back to his cave.

When he hugged her goodbye at the airport, she held on and whispered, “I hope I get to see you again, Thomas.”

“Me, too,” he answered, even though she was seventeen years younger than he and had trouble written all over her.

Pulling her suitcase, she disappeared into the crowd, taking with her the answers to many questions that popped into his head: How did she get into this line of work? How long had she been working for the Agency? Did she have a boyfriend? Where was she based?

He saw Sanchez waving above the bobbing heads, and raised his hand to acknowledge him. The sexual charge subsided.

Caracas seemed calm and orderly compared to Ciudad del Este. The city was starting to feel familiar—Miami with mountains instead of a coastline. Sanchez, at the wheel of the Ford Taurus, said, “Mr. Rappaport wants to see you later.”

“I figured,” he responded, remembering Mercedes getting out of the pool.