Hunt the Falcon (16 page)

C
rocker, Mancini,
and Neto were examined, X-rayed, and patched up by a doctor and nurse at a clinic, then driven to the safe house in La Florida, where they crashed. Crocker heard Mancini shouting in his sleep, “They're coming! Quick! Find a place to hide!”

That afternoon after he woke and was limping from the living room to the kitchen, he heard rap music, then saw a big young African American man sitting on the sofa, typing on a laptop.

Recognizing him, Crocker said, “Tré, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Tré's real name was Dante Tremaine. Why the former marine and University of Nevada, Las Vegas basketball player was called Tré had never been explained to him. Maybe it was because he'd been an excellent three-point shooter in college, or maybe it was because Tré was an abbreviation of his last name, which was pronounced
Tree
-maine, not
Tray
-maine. Crocker knew him as an expert munitions and weapons man, a tireless worker, and a fun guy to be around despite his complicated personal life, which involved three children with two women.

“Captain Sutter sent me 'cause of what went down with Ritchie,” Tré responded with a toothy smile.

“How's Rich?”

“He's making slow progress, but it's gonna take a while.”

“How long you been here in Caracas?”

“Two days, one night.”

“Well, it might be a short deployment,” Crocker observed.

“Whatever happens is cool with me,” Tré responded. “Oh, and the Captain wants you to call him when you're awake.”

“I'm awake now.”

“If you say so.” Tré smiled.

Crocker had suspected he might be hearing from his CO after what had happened in Foz and Barinas. Pointing to the half-eaten protein bar on the wooden coffee table, he asked, “Where'd you find the Promax bar?”

“There's a whole box in the kitchen,” Tré responded. “Help yourself.”

He gobbled one down with a quart of milk he found in the refrigerator.

Tré pointed to the multiple burn marks and bandages crisscrossing Crocker's torso and said, “Fuck, man. Looks like someone used you as a dartboard.”

“I ran into some lit cigarettes.”

“Hope you punished them sons-a-bitches.”

Crocker grinned. “Some of them, yeah.”

Tré chuckled. “That's what I dig about you, chief. The glass might be a drip or so from empty, but you always see the silver lining. Like the movie, right?”

Crocker hadn't seen a movie in months. He lifted the receiver of the STU secure telephone, picked up the key that lay beside it, inserted it into the hole at the top of the phone, and turned it. Then he pointed at the stereo and said, “Turn it down.”

Tré said, “Those are my brothers Kanye and Jay-Z.”

As Crocker punched in the numbers, he muttered, “It's all the same nasty rap shit to my ears.”

“Then you need some educating to appreciate where it's coming from—lyrically, I mean.”

“Turn it down or plug in.”

Captain Sutter picked up in his office at SEAL Six command and spoke in his distinctive Kentucky drawl, “Sutter here. Who's this?”

“It's Warrant Officer Crocker, sir, calling from Caracas.”

“Chief Tom Crocker, speak of the devil. Several of us here were just talking about you. We expected you and Mancini to continue to Panama City with the rest of your team.”

“There was no need, sir,” Crocker said. “The two of us are ready and able to continue with the mission.”

“Jesus Christ, Crocker, don't you ever stop?” Sutter asked.

“Stop, sir? What for?”

“Stop, as in take a break, heal, attend to your mental health, smell the friggin' roses.”

“Sir?”

“I know you, Crocker, and I know you push yourself beyond the breaking point. I've heard your motto: Blood from every orifice. I admire your dedication and courage, but everyone has their limits.”

Crocker said, “I know that, sir, but maybe my limits aren't as narrow as you or I think they are. The point is, I only suffered minor cuts and bruises. I'm rested and ready to go.”

Sutter snorted. “Bullshit.”

“Sir?”

“Maybe I heard wrong, but I was told on good authority that you suffered a major concussion, then spent a day and a half being tortured. Now you're ready to go? Go where? An insane asylum?”

“Proceed with the mission, sir. Continue our pursuit of the Falcon and Unit 5000.”

Sutter chuckled and drawled, “We have a saying in Kentucky that goes: Don't give cherries to pigs or advice to fools.”

“Are you calling me a fool, sir?”

“Draw your own conclusions,” Sutter answered. “I'm not sure who's being more irrational here, you for wanting to continue after you've gotten the shit kicked out of you, or me for letting you.”

“Did I hear you correctly, sir?” Crocker asked. “Are you giving us approval to proceed?”

“I probably should have my head examined, but yes I am, Crocker. Check in with the station when you're ready. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will, sir.”

“Dante Tremaine should be there by now.”

“He is.”

“Then Godspeed.”

As Crocker hung up, he noticed a number written on a pad by the phone. “What's this?” he asked Tré.

“That Melkasian cat left it. Wants you to call him in the morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, mañana.”

Why waste time?
Crocker thought. He was motivated, energized, and ready to jump back into the fray.

Melkasian picked up at home, where he was helping his wife assemble her new Fuji bicycle. “Hey, Crocker, you know anything about installing the axle on a Fuji mountain bike?” he asked.

“Yeah, it's pretty simple. After you insert the skewer through the front axle, make sure you put the spring in narrow side first, and don't tighten it too much or you'll damage the bearings.”

“I think I need help.”

“You got it. I'm ready to meet with you and Rappaport when you are,” Crocker answered. “Bring the bike.”

“Now?” Melkasian asked. “You sure you don't want to rest up and do this in the morning?”

“I'm fine.”

“All right,” Melkasian answered. “Give me forty minutes. You need me to send someone to pick you up?”

“Not necessary.”

Crocker showered, dressed, downed another Promax bar, two apples, some old roast chicken he found in the fridge, and half a gallon of water. Refreshed and energized, he decided to walk the mile or so to the bank building on Avenida Principal de las Mercedes. The coincidence of names amused him as he recalled the tight ass in the red bathing suit.

The more he got to know this upscale part of the city, the more it reminded him of Miami, a city he'd spent a lot of time in over the years and liked.

Rappaport and Melkasian sat waiting in the conference room, coffee cups and plastic-wrapped sandwiches in front of them on the table.

“We got you a roast beef and half a tuna,” Rappaport said.

Crocker bit into both, popped the tab on a Diet Coke, took a seat. “You bring the bike?” he asked Melkasian.

“What bike?” Rappaport wanted to know.

“The mountain bike I bought for my wife. Crocker wanted to see it. It's downstairs in the back of my car.”

“I thought we were here to discuss operations,” Rappaport growled.

“We are.”

“How's Ernesto? I mean, Neto,” Crocker asked, changing the subject.

“He's taking some time off,” Rappaport shot back. “He's still shaken up.”

“Give him my best. And I regret what happened to Sanchez. I wanted at least to recover his body, but that wasn't an option,” Crocker said.

“Good man,” Rappaport observed. “Not your fault. We'll get his body, one way or another.”

“He left a family?” Crocker asked.

“A wife and three-year-old son.”

“Damn.” Crocker hung his head. Losing friends and colleagues was the worst part of the job. “If there's any way I can help them…”

Rappaport: “Let's talk about that later.”

“And Señor Tomás?” Crocker asked, remembering their host in Barinas, a place he hoped never to have to visit again. “What happened to him?”

Rappaport grinned. “That's a man who knows how to take care of himself.”

Melkasian: “He manages to make friends on every side of any conflict.”

Crocker was about to ask how he did that when Rappaport cut him off. “Tomás was arrested and held in a local jail. Claimed that he knew nothing about you guys, but was simply renting out rooms. Venezuelan authorities released him this morning. He thinks they bought his story. I'm not so sure.”

“Interesting character,” Crocker said, pivoting in the chair and grabbing another Diet Coke off the table, popping it open, and downing it. His thirst seemed unending.

Rappaport leaned back in the chair and, holding his hands behind his head, said, “You sure you want to continue, or have you had enough?”

“I don't plan to stop until we get the Falcon,” Crocker said, remembering the short man sitting at the table in the interrogation room and involuntarily clenching his teeth. “I spoke to my CO. My two associates and I are cleared to go.”

“Then pay close attention, because things just got a lot more complicated,” Rappaport said, reaching into a manila envelope and tossing a BlackBerry on the table. “Where'd you recover this bad boy?”

Crocker stared at the phone for a second before his memory kicked in. “Isn't that the one we found in the truck we stole outside the interrogation center?”

“Correct,” Melkasian answered.

“We found some interesting e-mails on it,” Rappaport offered.

Crocker finished chewing and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”

Rappaport said, “Save your aggression for the field, Crocker.” Then, turning to Melkasian, he growled, “Get Sue from the Crime and Narcotics Center and Sy Blanc on the secure phone.”

“Done and dusted.”

While Melkasian dialed the number in Langley, his boss continued, “Remember the three suspected Unit 5000 operatives who were staying in Mexico under assumed names?”

Crocker's memory was a bit cloudy. A lot had happened since the last time he and Rappaport and Melkasian had met.

“The guys in San Miguel de Allende,” Rappaport offered, trying to help him.

“Yes, sir. I remember.”

“Well, they seem to be referred to in some of the e-mails on here,” he said pointing to the BlackBerry. “One of the most recent messages reads, and I translate: ‘Time to move the furniture from SMA to TX.' ”

“SMA as in San Miguel de Allende?” Crocker asked.

“Most likely. And TX as in Texas.”

The danger posed by Unit 5000 operatives entering the States struck Crocker like a kick to the head. “Holy fuck,” he said out loud.

“Yeah, holy fuck.”

Melkasian pointed to the speakerphone and gave a thumbs-up. Rappaport looked at Crocker and said, “Let's see if Sue and Sy Blanc agree.”

The consensus among the CIA analysts was that Unit 5000 had activated a plan that involved smuggling the three Iranians with Venezuelan passports into the United States. Their purpose for doing so wasn't clear, although the NSA had picked up some chatter on Hezbollah and Hamas websites and blogs about a possible terrorist attack on the upcoming Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans.

Everyone agreed that the Iranians had to be stopped. Sue reported that Mexican PFM had tracked them to the city of Chihuahua. They were driving a silver 2009 Corolla registered to a Venezuelan businessman living in Mexico City, and seemed to be heading to Ciudad Juárez, across from the Texas border.

Donaldson and Anders were brought into the discussion, and it was decided that the FBI and Homeland Security would be alerted immediately. Also, Crocker, Tré, and Mancini would leave for Ciudad Juárez as soon as possible. There they would coordinate with the CIA case officer on the scene named Jim Randal.

After the phone conference ended, Melkasian got on his cell and arranged for a private CIA-owned carrier to fly the three men directly to Ciudad Juárez.

“You need to be at the airport at six a.m.,” Melkasian reported.

“We'll be there.”

Crocker didn't know whether it was the seriousness of the threat or all the caffeinated sodas he'd consumed in the conference room, but either way, he was fired up. Back at the safe house, he briefed his men on the upcoming mission. Then the three of them went to a local Italian joint for dinner—fried calamari, pasta, grilled fish, salad, dessert, and bottled water.

Later that night, after packing his gear, he called Holly, who was watching a rerun of
Suits,
which Crocker didn't care for but was one of Holly's favorite shows. She said, “Tom, my therapist has diagnosed me with PTSD and mild depression.”

The PTSD didn't surprise him, given what she'd gone through in Libya, but the depression was troubling. “You trust her?” he asked.

“I have no reason not to. I told you I haven't been feeling well.”

“But isn't it normal that you would feel down for a while after what happened?”

“She put me on Prozac.”

Crocker wasn't a big fan of prescription medication. To his mind, doctors often used it to deal with one set of symptoms without taking into consideration how it might affect the patient's overall health. “How much?”

“Forty milligrams daily,” Holly answered.

“That sounds like a lot.”