by Don Mann
“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.”
Crocker was in the men’s room, using the light from his phone to find the toilet, when Jeri called.
“Crocker, you there?”
“Yeah, Jeri. What’s going on?”
“All the electrical power just went out throughout the city. My money says the guys upstairs will use this opportunity to bust out. Where are you?”
“Olives restaurant at the Bellagio, having dinner.”
“Oh…Hold on.” She came back thirty seconds later. “You think you can find your way back?”
“Now?”
“Yeah. Chop-chop. Meet me in the office.”
“See you in ten.”
Chapter Six
Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn’t so, life wouldn’t be worth living.
—Oscar Wilde
Nan Dawkins tossed and turned in the bedroom of their town house in Reston, Virginia, dreaming intermittently of riding in a car with James at the wheel. She had a vague sense that they were headed toward the beach, windows open, wind carrying the scent of orange blossoms swirling around their faces. She thought in that moment that they were as close as two people could possibly be. He turned to her with such openness and clarity that they seemed to be reading each other’s thoughts. The intimacy frightened her, so she looked away.
The next moment she was awake, staring at the face of the clock and trying to comprehend what it meant. It read 5:32. The trees outside the window were still. The half-moon she had noticed earlier was no longer visible. A lone bird perched on a branch, asleep.
Seeing the empty place beside her on the king-sized bed, she remembered the situation, looked at the clock again, and reached for her cell phone. Still no message from James.
The feeling of dread she had experienced earlier that night returned, worming its way down her neck into her shoulders, arms, and chest, as though it had been waiting and gathering strength. She want
ed to look in on their daughter, thinking the sight of her would be reassuring.
She turned on the light by her bed, pulled on the teal silk robe James had bought her for her birthday. Despite his awkwardness, he was always good at picking gifts.
She noticed her laptop recharging on the top of her dresser and stopped. Opening it, she logged in her password and waited for her e-mails to load. Among the various offers of discounts and services, she saw one from [email protected]—James’s personal e-mail account. No subject.
Holding her breath, Nan opened it and read:
Dear Nancy:
I need some time to myself, so I will be away for a period of time. Don’t expect to hear from me. I’m safe and I don’t want you to worry. I’ll return home when I’m finished.
Love,
James
Her hands trembling, she read it again, and then a third time. The message struck her as oddly formal and didn’t sound like James at all. For one thing, he almost never called her Nancy. It was always Nan, or in an intimate moment his pet name for her, Bird.
Second, there was no mention of Karen. Third, what did he mean by “when I’m finished”? Didn’t that imply that he was working on something?
She read it again. There seemed to be a disconnect between the phrases “I need some time to myself” and “when I’m finished.” As a detail person, she noticed things like that. The sequence of logical thinking was important. Why would James need time to himself, when he always carved out plenty of that in his life and Nan was almost always willing to give it to him? She wasn’t a nagging, needy wife.
The only possible explanation could be his job. He was a senior engineer at UTC Aerospace Systems, which worked almost exclusively on highly sensitive contracts for the U.S. government agency DARPA (Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency), a branch of the Department of Defense.
That’s the reason the two Homeland Security officers had visited her earlier. James rarely talked about his work, except in general terms. The idea that his research into guidance systems yielded products that were used to kill people sometimes kept him up at night. He had told her about nightmares he had centered on schools and children’s hospitals hit by laser-guided missiles and bombs. Bleeding, screaming boys and girls being carried out, some missing limbs.
Thinking that maybe his sudden disappearance was somehow related to his job, Nan waited until after seven, again called James’s best friend, Kevin, and invited him over for breakfast. A very eccentric and brilliant man, Kevin lived alone in a big house crammed with junk since his wife had left him five years ago. He and James shared the same adolescent sense of humor and obsession with mathematics and science.
To Nan’s mind, Kevin was even more emotionally shut off and socially awkward than her husband. It’s not that she didn’t like him; he just didn’t know how to behave like a normal human being. He seemed happy but dressed oddly, often ignored his personal hygiene, drove a disgusting ’88 Mercedes, and almost always carried around a video camera, which he used to record people and conversations with no regard to how intrusive it was. Despite these things, Nan had learned to appreciate Kevin’s sensitivity and intelligence, and his devotion to her husband.
So she showered, dressed, woke up Karen, took her to a neighbor’s house, and returned home before nine, when Kevin arrived with a Sony MC Series Camcorder on his shoulder.
“Put it away, Kevin,” she said at the door as she shielded her face with her hand. “I don’t want to be filmed.”
“Come on, Nan. You’ve got such a pretty smile.”
“If you don’t put the camera down and turn it off, I’m going to ask you to leave.”
“Gee, Nan. Where’s Jimmy?”
Kevin was the only one who called her husband that. Now he set the camcorder on the table with the red light still on and a mischievous look on his face.
“Turn it off!”
“Gosh, Nan,” Ryan said with a grin, “you know all my tricks. Where’s Jimmy? Where’s that rascal?”
She placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of him. Milk and sugar were already on the table. Turning back to the stove to pour the batter, she said over her shoulder, “James still hasn’t returned from Switzerland. You know that already.”
“Yeah, but I thought…” His voice trailed off as pancakes sizzled.
“He’s still not back. Nobody’s seen him since the presentation Thursday night. This morning I received this e-mail.” She handed him a printout.
Kevin groaned and shook his head as he read. “Oh, no. No, that’s not Jimmy. No…”
“I don’t think so, either.”
When she slipped a plate of hot pancakes in front of him, Kevin stared at them without moving. He said, “I don’t know what you want from me, Nan. Maybe I shouldn’t be here if Jimmy isn’t here,” and started to get to his feet.
“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re his best friend. I need your help. Sit down!”
Kevin sank back into his seat, deep in thought. “Yes, Nan, you’re right.”
“Is there something going on at work that I should know about?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is that the real reason he went to Geneva? Work.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you people work on things you’re not supposed to tell me about. I’m asking if maybe James is related to that.”
“No, Nan, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Because two officers from Homeland Security came here last night and asked me some questions.”
“They did? Oh, no…” Looking agitated, Kevin stood and started to pace beside the table. “I’m starting to feel uncomfortable, Nan,” he said. “Very strange. Do they think Jimmy stole sensitive information?”
She stepped in front of him and blocked his path. “Stole what for whom, Kevin? What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. For, like, another country?”
She followed him and his camcorder to the front door. “Kevin, you know my husband as well as anyone. Would James ever do anything like that?”
“No, I don’t think so. But you never know.”
In the dark Crocker sprinted down the steps to the promenade with Cyndi’s smiling face in his head. Hundreds of curious people crowded the walkway to stare at the darkened strip. Tall, unlit casino hotels loomed like ghosts. Police sirens wailed in the distance.
The crowds hindered his progress, so he hopped the waist-high barrier and ran alongside the stalled oncoming traffic. Las Vegas Boulevard had become a parking lot and provided the only light. He juked around stalled taxis, limos, and tourist minivans and through the snarl in the Flamingo Road intersection, oblivious to the gently falling rain and exhaust fumes. A car horn blared to his left and a gray-haired man leaned out. “You trying to get killed, dumbass?”
He wanted to respond but didn’t have time. Bigger fish to fry. Cyndi provided plenty of distraction already. He wanted to get this over soon and get back to her.
On reaching the corner, he texted, “Sorry. I have to take care of something. Will meet u later.”
He wanted to open up to her further. Maybe tell her about his family. Up the steps and past Serendipity 3 café a minute later his cell pinged. Holding it up to the reflected light, he read, “Wondered what happened. Be safe. Hope to see u soon.”
“Yes” he texted as he ran across the looping driveway blocked by fire trucks, their lights washing red and white across the façade. Stepping over the yellow police tape, he entered the lobby, now harshly lit with bright emergency lights. A fireman with a megaphone was telling restless, uneasy patrons to stand back and clear the rotunda.
“What the hell’s going on?” someone asked.
A woman to his right commented, “Who ever heard of a power outage in Las Vegas?”
Entering the check-in area, he saw a way around the huge crowd clogging the central atrium with its marble fountain and statues of half-naked nymphs. For once, t
he casino was quiet. No jangling slots, no clinking of chips. Soon, he figured, an emergency generator would be started up somewhere and the machines would be active again.
He found Walker’s office, which was lit by a battery-powered torch. Jeri stood in its penumbra, the harsh light transforming her face into a Halloween mask, speaking quickly into a cell phone. “I don’t care how the fuck they get here. I want all agents in the area contacted and told to report. Now!”
She sighed, took a sip of something out of a paper cup, and announced to the half-dozen people standing in the room, “NPC says the transponders at Henry Allen station overloaded. They’re trying to patch in other sources now.”
“Jeri—” Crocker started.
“Walker? Where’s Walker?”
“Jer—”
He was cut off by a man standing in front of him. “What kind of time frame are they talking about?”
“I don’t know. Has anyone seen Walker? Why are all you people standing around?”
Jeri spotted Crocker, crossed over to him, and grabbed his shoulder. “Crocker, oh god…”
“I got here as soon as I could.”
“Good. Good.” He could feel the anxiety coming off her body as she leaned into him and whispered, “Those slick fucks set their suite on fire and escaped.”
“The guys from before? The diplomats?”
“Yeah.” Remembering something, she called out, “Where the fuck is Walker? Somebody find him, now!”
Jeri took Crocker by the elbow, led him toward the door, and whispered, “Your colleague’s on his way to Parking C,” she said urgently. “He’s trying to stop those two assholes before they get away.”
“Mancini, good. I’ll find him.”
He turned toward the door and simultaneously reached for his cell.
Jeri shouted at his back, “Nelson here will show you the way.”
She pushed a heavyset, balding man through the door toward him.
“Nelson, Crocker.”
“Follow me.”
Jeri shouted, “Wait!” She ran to him, pushed a walkie-talkie into his hand, and said, “Talk to me, Crocker. Channel C.”