Jose clambered off Moyer. He had pinned the gun hand to the floor. “Release the weapon.” Estevez refused. Jose repeated the command then said something in Spanish. Still Estevez refused to comply.
Moyer pushed himself up and took hold of the attacker’s throat. Options ran through Moyer’s mind—most of them not good for Estevez. But he had not come to this place to kill the man. With his free hand, Moyer put a thumb to Estevez’s left eye and pressed. The man squealed. Moyer pressed harder. Estevez released his grip on the handgun.
Jose pulled it away. “Got it.”
Moyer removed his thumb from the man’s eye. Estevez wept, but not from the pain Moyer had inflicted. Moyer had seen men weep in pain. This was different.
These tears came from unmitigated sorrow.
Moyer stood, freeing Estevez, who rolled over on his side and covered his face with his hands. Moyer let him have a few moments. Jose had already removed the rounds from the handgun and dropped them in his pocket.
“Let’s get him up.” Moyer took the man by the arm. “Come on, Estevez. On your feet.”
A few moments later the three sat at one of the tables. Estevez’s tears dried over the next few minutes. Moyer saw no need to rush the man. It would do no good.
Estevez broke the silence. “What will you do to me?”
Moyer smiled. “Let you go home, of course. I told you, we don’t work for Santi.”
“How can I believe you?”
“If we worked for him, you wouldn’t be alive now.” Jose pushed the empty gun toward the man.
“Then what do you want?”
Moyer leaned forward. “Santi and some foreigners were in your restaurant. Your son was killed that same day.”
“How do you know about Santi and the strangers?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Moyer said.
Estevez frowned. “You may ask questions but I cannot, is that it?”
Moyer nodded. “I’m afraid so. I know it’s unfair, but it is better for you this way.”
“If she knows, my wife will be ashamed of me. I am glad she is at home and not here to see what I have done.”
“Grief is a powerful thing,” Moyer said. “Do you know why Santi and the foreigners were here that night?”
“You are CIA?”
“No.”
“American military?”
“We work for an oil company.”
Estevez surprised Moyer by laughing. “Of course you do. An oil company.” He rubbed his sore eye. “I don’t know why they chose my restaurant. I have a private dining room. Someone from the foreign minister’s office reserved the room the week before.” He looked down at the empty weapon. “I treated them with the greatest respect. I satisfied their every need, and they killed my son.” He rose. “Come with me.”
Moyer and Jose followed him to a back room. “They ate at that table. My son waited on them. He is—was—a good boy. Never caused us trouble.” He moved to a small room just off the reserved dining area. Moyer saw coffee makers, napkins, and other items a waiter might need. He also saw a stack of comic books. Estevez reached for one of the comics. “Ricardo had a … how do you say it … hungry mind?” He looked at Jose.
“Inquiring.”
“Yes, an inquiring mind. Restaurant work bored him. He used to listen to the customers and sometimes jotted down what he heard.” He handed the comic to Moyer.
Moyer took in the words. “Hector Cenobio … nuclear … fast capture … airport … nuclear … Iran.”
Moyer began to swear.
* * *
“WE CAN DO THIS,” J.J. whispered into the mike. “There are only three of them and they’re asleep.”
“Negative.”
“Shaq, we can make entry through a side door. We’d have the element of surprise.”
“I said negative, Colt. You are underarmed and undermanned. You don’t have the equipment to make entry through a locked door.”
“But …” J.J. couldn’t finish the sentence. Rich was right. If they could just walk through an open door, then he and Caraway could kill off the three guards before they opened their eyes. They wouldn’t need more than the 9mm they were packing, but they didn’t have an opening. If they made too much noise, the guards would come to and make short work of J.J. and Caraway. A pair of handguns were no match for three AK-47s. In the end
J.J.’s bravado might lead to the death of the very family he wantedto save.
“Understood.”
“Good,” Rich said. “Billy, reposition the spycam and set up the transmitter. I want you two back ASAP.”
“Roger that.” Caraway withdrew the camera and quietly made his way back to the original hole. Ten minutes later the system was set up. “You should have a signal now.”
“Affirm. Signal strength good. Now you two get out of there.” The trip back through the alley was the darkest J.J. had ever made.
CHAPTER 34
STACY PUSHED THE COVERS back on the bed and sat up. There were still three hours before daylight, but sleep had quit and gone home early. At the hospital she had lost count of the number of cups of coffee she’d consumed to keep her sharp while she sat with Lucy. Watching a woman weep proved to be hard work, especially when you’re trying not to mingle in your own tears. At eleven, Lucy ordered Stacy to go home.
The house was quiet when she arrived. An empty pizza box sat on the kitchen counter, as did several empty soda cans. Stacy checked in on Gina, who slept soundly in her bed. A light from Rob’s room slipped beneath the door. She knocked. “I’m home.”
“Okay.” Rob offered nothing more.
“Anything I need to know?”
“We’re almost out of milk.”
“Ah. Well, it’s been good talking to you. Maybe next time we can do it without a door between us.”
“Don’t start, Mom. I’m getting ready for bed.”
“Okay. Sorry. I’m a little tired. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Whatever.”
Stacy shook her head and crossed the house to her bedroom. Sleep had come quickly and left just as fast. She first awoke at one when she thought she heard something, then again at two then three. The last time she awoke she knew sleep had fled for the night and gave up the fight. Perhaps a magazine, a soft throw blanket, and a comfy chair might lure slumber back.
She crossed the threshold of her bedroom door and moved slowly through the dark living room and pulled the chain on a small reading light next to the sofa. Rifling through the magazines she found the latest Entertainment Weekly. As she was about to settle down on the sofa, something caught her attention. Rob’s room was at the end of the hall. Despite the dim light she could tell the door stood open. A few moments later her fears were confirmed.
Rob was gone.
* * *
LUCY GAZED AT THE muted television in her room. Hospitals, she decided, are the worst places to sleep. When she did doze, she was awakened by a nurse taking her temperature or blood pressure or changing her IV bag. A small red light on the IV monitor flashed with each drop of medical elixir that dripped through the plastic tube. She had no idea what the clear substance was, and while it did ease her pain, it did nothing to quiet her mind.
She worried about her children. Were they afraid because Mommy didn’t come home? How long could her sister care for them? That alone was enough to set ablaze the acid in her stomach, but other thoughts added explosive fuel to the fire. Would she lose the baby? Would she have to sacrifice her life for her unborn? If so, how would Jose Jr., Matteo, and Maria get along without her?
Tears flowed once more from her eyes. She had cried so much since this morning—no, it was yesterday morning—she had doubted any more tears were in her. Apparently the well of sorrow never ran dry.
Lucy wondered one more thing: How long before Jose came home?
* * *
“NO WAY, MAN. YOU’RE going to the airport and getting on that plane.” Moyer sat in the passenger seat, Ricardo’s comic book on his l
ap. Jose drove along the thoroughfare, keeping pace with the early morning traffic.
“Listen, Boss. In almost any other situation I’d agree. I’d swim home if I had too, but this is too important. You read the words.”
“We don’t know what they mean.”
“We’ve got a good idea, Boss. You know that. ‘Hector Cenobio—nuclear—fast capture—airport—nuclear—Iran.’ Any sentence with nuclear in it makes me nervous. Add the word Iran and I get the shakes.”
Moyer looked at the man next to him. Could he really be saying what Moyer was hearing? “It’s just a bunch of words scratched down by a teenager.”
“Boss, you know I got nothing but the greatest respect for you, but that is more baloney than a man can eat. I was there when you read the words for the first time, and unless things have changed, that’s not the kind of language you use around civilized people.”
“It caught me off guard.”
“Yeah, I could see that. Didn’t do much for me either.”
Moyer took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look, there is no way I’m going to let you stay here while your wife is in the hospital. Your replacement will be here soon enough.”
“You hope. You know that it might be several days, and I’m thinking we don’t have that long.” Jose steered off the highway to downtown streets. “Look at what we have: foreign nationals, most likely from an al-Qaeda country, setting up shop in Caracas; a kidnapped woman and two children; the involvement of the foreign minister of Venezuela; a cryptic note that indicates another kidnapping of someone named Hector Cenobio; mention of something nuclear; and the word Iran. I’m not much for making up stories, but the way I see it, there’s a plan to kidnap and export a nuclear expert to Iran.”
“We don’t know that Hector Cenobio is a scientist or engineer.”
“Come on, Boss, you wouldn’t put money on that and you know it. I bet a call to Ops Command will start a little research that will tell us that Cenobio is some big shot in the world of nuclear weapons or some other discipline.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll take care of it. You’re going home.”
“Let me stay until my replacement arrives. You need a Spanish speaker.”
Moyer would not be moved. “Forget it, Doc. If something happens to your wife or unborn child while you’re here when I could have sent you home … well, I’d never forgive myself. I could never look you in the eye again.”
“Boss.” He stopped. “Eric … don’t get me wrong. It isn’t that I don’t want to be by my wife’s side. I’d cut out my own heart and give it to her. I’d dig my own grave and crawl in it if I could give her and the baby the rest of the years I have left, but I can’t do that. I didn’t choose the Army for the money. I didn’t choose it for the excitement. I enlisted because I’m an idealist. I believe I can make a difference in the world. I hate to see the little guy get kicked around, especially when I can do something about it. I can’t change the world, and I can’t save everyone; but I can save a few along the way. It’s why I wear a uniform. It’s why I’m here.”
“I can’t let you do this.”
“I’m not asking you to say yes, Boss.” Jose pulled into the parking lot of Rich and Pete’s hotel. “I’m just asking that you don’t say no. Especially considering what you’re considering.”
“You a mind reader now? What am I thinking?”
“Certain jeopardy.”
Moyer looked at Jose. Maybe he was a mind reader.
CHAPTER 35
THE SOFT BED, THE well-appointed bedroom, the quality food prepared by a chef, the offer of wine or beer—all were nothing more than attempts to curry Hector Cenobio’s favor, and he recognized them as such. He didn’t need to be a professional spy to know this. Since his arrival at the airport, Hector had been treated like a foreign dignitary. A limo met him and the passenger who had shown him photos of his abducted family and ferried them to a distant part of the airport where a business helicopter waited, its engine already warming.
The limo stopped a short distance away from the aircraft and a powerfully built Venezuelan opened the door. He motioned for Hector to exit. Hector hesitated. “Please, Dr. Cenobio.”
The man who had flown with Hector gave him a shove. “Out. Now.”
Hector climbed from the vehicle and faced the stranger. “Who are you?”
“You may call me Miguel Costa. I am a …” He stopped to smile. “An acquaintance of your wife’s.”
“If you have hurt them—”
“They are fine for the moment and will remain so as long as you cooperate. You understand this, no?”
“I understand.”
Costa nodded at his cohort, took Hector by the arm, and walked him to the helicopter. The craft lifted off the moment the last safety belt had been snapped in place. Hector turned in time to see his unwanted flight companion drive off in the limo.
Even in the dark Hector could see the sprawling mansion in the jungles just outside of Caracas. A butler greeted them, bowing as he opened the door. A meal had been set at a massive table. He and Costa were the only two in the expansive room. Foods far too elaborate and expensive for Hector’s tastes were served. Duck, wine imported from France, and more. Hector touched none of it.
“You must be hungry, Dr. Cenobio,” Costa has said. “It does no good to go without. It changes nothing.”
“I will eat when I know my family is safe.”
Costa nodded. “That is too bad.”
“I will not eat my captor’s food.” Hector crossed his arms.
“The choice is yours, Doctor, but I think you are being foolish. When was the last time you had such fine cuisine spread before you. Maybe your stomach cannot tolerate such quality.”
“It isn’t the food that my stomach can’t tolerate; it’s the company.”
Costa’s face hardened then relaxed into a smile. “Very good, Dr. Cenobio. You talk a brave game. Unfortunately talk will not change matters for you. At least drink the wine. I can call for beer if you prefer.”
“I prefer to be taken to my family.”
“Soon, but not tonight.”
Hector took in his surroundings. Whoever owned the mansion must be wealthy beyond what Hector could imagine. He guessed the furniture and art were imported from Europe, but the furnishings did not interest him as much as the shadowy figures that moved past the windows every few moments. The place was heavily guarded. Usually guards were hired to keep people out; he had no doubt these had been hired to keep him in.
After Costa finished his meal, he led Hector to an upstairs bedroom. The room was better appointed than hotel suites he had seen. He noticed one exception: This room had wrought-iron bars on the window and a dead-bolt lock that locked from the outside. Hector had been treated as a guest but knew he was prisoner.
The night passed slowly and the sun rose lazily in the east. Hector had not slept, had not touched the bed. He passed the hours in prayer or staring out the window at the black jungle. He would not sleep in luxury when his family was who-knows-where.
The butler retrieved Hector for breakfast at 7:00 a.m. The elderly man led him down the wide stairway to the dining room where he had sat the night before. This time another man joined Costa—a thin, stately man with dark eyes as hard as marble despite the gracious smile he wore. He rose when Hector entered. A moment later Costa stood, although he seemed puzzled by the need to do so.
The stately man spoke first. “Dr. Cenobio, I’ve been looking forward to this moment for many months. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
“Please, Doctor. Come sit to my left. The chef is putting the finishing touches on a marvelous breakfast—”
“I won’t eat it.” He walked to the chair his host indicated.
“Are you certain, Doctor? I am told that you refused to eat last night.”
“I did, and I refuse to eat now or at any time in the future until my family is free.”
T
he man nodded. “Does your bravery keep you from sitting?”
Hector sat, as did the others. A second later a server dressed in white appeared with a tray of three plates. The aroma made Hector’s stomach come to life. Poached eggs over a white meat covered in a thick hollandaise, small cranberry muffins, and thick, rich coffee. Hector folded his hands on the table.
“Please try the food. The eggs rest on a bed of lobster meat. The hollandaise is the best in the country. My cook makes it fresh, of course.”
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, Dr. Cenobio, this saddens me. I wish only to show you the best of my hospitality.”
“A good host never kidnaps members of the guest’s family.”
The man chuckled. “No, I suppose not.” He took a bite of egg and lobster, then closed his eyes and chewed slowly. After he swallowed, he wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Do you know who I am, Dr. Cenobio?”
“A criminal is all I know.”
“Perhaps. My perspective is different, of course. I am Andriano Santi, foreign minister for Venezuela.”
“I knew things had deteriorated since Chavez came to power. I just didn’t realize he’d hired thugs to run the government.”
“Please don’t antagonize me, Doctor. I’m trying to be a gracious host, but there is a limit to my patience.”
“You don’t frighten me.”
“I frighten your wife and children.”
The words hit him like bullets. “I understand.”
“Good. After breakfast, you will be taken to your family. I must insist that you behave yourself, Doctor. The people in my employ are far less patient than I, and the other people—well, patience is not a virtue to them.”
“What other people?”
“All in good time, Doctor. I trust you didn’t unpack.”
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