Certain Jeopardy

by Jeff Struecker

“Soldiers in Martin’s line of work sometimes receive coded calls. He never explained it to me, but when the call comes they have a limited amount of time to get things together, say good-bye, and leave for wherever their mission takes them. Martin got that kind of call.”

  “Ah. And you’re worried about him.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re a remarkable woman, Orla Caraway. Your former husband runs off with another woman; then when he’s dumped he tries to come back to you. You divorce, but he refuses to pay alimony and child support. But when he gets called up, you start worrying about him.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t be concerned?”

  Albert rubbed his chin. “No. It’s the Christlike thing to do. The irony of it all is just a bit much for me.”

  Orla sighed. “I’ve been praying for him. He hates Christians. He thinks my faith is what ultimately doomed our marriage.”

  Albert laughed. “I’m sorry. You’ve told me that before, but I can’t wrap my mind around it. He’s an adulterer who abandons his family then feels slighted when you won’t run back into his arms.”

  “I came to Christ during the months he was gone. It’s what got me through everything. I suppose I would have survived without faith, but not nearly with the sanity and dignity.” She gave up on the salad. “In some ways, Martin is a miserable pain in my life, but he is also a man of some honor. Maybe I should pray that he grows up.”

  “If he did, would it change our relationship? Are you regretting the divorce?”

  “No. My pastor believes the divorce is biblical. Martin did commit adultery and abandon his family. I just hate the idea of his being halfway around the world without someone at home caring what happens to him.”

  “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be praying for him.”

  “I think I’ll drop the alimony and child support case. Sean and I will find a way to get along.”

  “You’ve found a way, Orla. I’ve told you, I’ll take care of you. Money means very little to me. Soon we’ll be sharing a bank account. You need to understand: I love you and Sean. Nothing brings me greater joy than seeing you two happy.”

  “You’re a good person, Albert.” “

  My mother always said so.”

  CHAPTER 42

  HECTOR CENOBIO HAD NEVER been in a helicopter before, although he had wanted to do so since he was a child. Not under such circumstances, however. He lowered his head and kept his face turned to the ground to keep the rotor blast from his eyes. Costa moved him forward with a tight hand on Hector’s elbow. Surrendering to an urge of defiance, Hector yanked his arm free but continued toward the open door of the helicopter. The fenced perimeter and the thick jungle beyond meant there was nowhere for Hector to run. Besides, he could do his family no good by escaping—at least not by escaping here.

  A nylon zip cord held his wrists together, making the climb into the helicopter more difficult than if his hands were free. Still, he managed it without help. The interior of the business craft sported two rows of three leather seats each. The seats faced each other.

  “Move over,” Costa ordered and slipped in behind Hector. “All the way to the other side.”

  He did as told, plopping down next to the window on the starboard side. Costa reached across Hector and snapped the safety belt.

  “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “Don’t press my patience, Dr. Cenobio. I have very little of it left.” Although there were five other seats available in the helicopter, Costa sat in the seat to Hector’s left. Two minutes later he knew why: Antonio Santi slipped into the cabin. A man with him closed the door once the foreign minister sat. The noise of the large motors and the spinning rotors were nearly shut out by the well-insulated hull. Seconds later the craft lifted into the air, and Hector’s stomach dropped like an elevator in freefall, partly from their rapid rise and partly because he feared what the next hour would bring.

  “What happens now?” he asked.

  “You do as you’re told,” Costa said.

  Hector turned to the window. Below him the variegated greens of the jungle scrolled by. In the jungle lived jaguars, anacondas, and boa constrictors, any of which would make better and safer company than Santi and Costa.

  Santi sat at the far end of the opposing row of three seats. Hector surmised that Costa pushed him to the starboard side of the craft to put as much distance between him and his boss. Perhaps he feared Hector would attack the foreign minister.

  “When do I see my family?” Hector spoke louder than necessary.

  “If you behave, then soon. If you cause trouble, then never.”

  “Have I caused you any trouble yet?”

  Costa looked at him. “Desperate men are prone to stupidity, even intelligent men like you.”

  Hector turned to Santi. “Does President Chavez know you are doing this?”

  Pulling his eyes from the window, Santi stared at Hector for several long moments. “Tell me, Dr. Cenobio, why did you abandon your country?”

  “Abandon my country? Is that what I did?”

  Santi turned in his seat. “Were you not born here? Did you not receive an early education as good as anywhere in the world?”

  “I’m not an expert on grammar school education—”

  “Answer me!”

  The man’s tone startled Hector. He had been aggravating Santi on purpose—a childish effort, perhaps, to show courage where none was present.

  “My early education was sufficient.”

  “Did your country not provide you with safety, health care, a home?”

  Hector gave a short nod.

  “Yet you leave it behind.”

  “I was accepted to a college in the United States. After graduate school I was offered a teaching and research position at a university in Canada. Of course, that meant I had to live there.”

  “Did it mean you had to surrender your Venezuelan citizenship?”

  “It seemed the right thing to do if I was going to live in the country for the rest of my career.”

  “We have fine universities here, Dr. Cenobio. You could have helped your country raise better scientists, but you chose to reject the country of your birth.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” Hector said. “The science community is rather cliquish. Where one is educated matters as much as the degrees earned. In some cases, having a PhD in a subject isn’t enough; the graduate school itself is considered, and in some circles even the major professor who oversaw the research and dissertation work. I had to choose my institutions carefully.”

  Santi leaned forward and Hector leaned back as if the man’s gaze could bore through his skull. “I’ve spent my life in politics and in power; I know a liar when I see one. All those things may be true, but you left Venezuela for other reasons, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Santi unsnapped his safety belt and backhanded him. Then, as if he had just swatted a fly, Santi returned to his seat and buckled again. The pain from the blow fired through Hector’s head and down his neck. Perhaps Costa sat Hector where he did to protect him from his boss. If so, it hadn’t worked.

  Hector worked his jaw. “I left because thugs like you were taking over the country.” He prepared himself for another assault, but it never came. Instead, Santi nodded.

  “This is a difficult world, Dr. Cenobio. Difficult indeed. Unrest in our own country is bad enough, but when it is fomented by foreign interference, it is even dangerous. Every week I must read reports about interference by the United States and its allies attempting to undermine our government and our president. Their spies move across our borders, infiltrate our political enemies, and publish lies about us. We are a noble country with noble goals.”

  “Lies?” Hector couldn’t stifle his laughter. “I’ve been taken against my will, my family has been abducted, and you plan to turn us over to the Iranians. And you consider yourself noble? You, sir, are a criminal and nothing more
.”

  Costa put a hand on Hector’s shoulder.

  “No, let him speak,” Santi said. “His words don’t frighten me.”

  “Why should they frighten you? You’re going to hand me off to an unstable nation, or some faction of that nation. Why?”

  “There are certain … returns.”

  “For you or for Venezuela?”

  Santi’s face darkened. “All I do, I do for my country.”

  “What you do, you do for yourself.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand this, but God is not mocked. What a man sows, he shall reap.”

  This time Santi laughed. “I thought scientists were all atheists.”

  “Not all of us.”

  “Well, feel free to pray all you want, Dr. Cenobio, because only a miracle will save you.”

  “I’m in God’s hands no matter what happens.”

  This made Santi smile. “It appears, Doctor, you are in my hands. As is the fate of your family.”

  “You will not kill my family. It is the only hold you have over me. I’ve given this some thought: The Iranians will need them to keep me working. If my family is killed, then I will have no motivation to do the work they want. And don’t think you can torture me into submission. Without my family, torture would just be another outlet for my grief.”

  “Your words are brave, but surprisingly your logic is weak.” Again Santi leaned forward. “You are right. We would not kill your family—not all of them at least. Tell me, Dr. Cenobio, which of your family would you least regret losing? Your wife? Maybe your little girl.”

  Hector felt sick enough to vomit.

  CHAPTER 43

  ROB HAD CHANGED THEIR destination since Chaplain Bartley let him choose the burger joint he wanted. To Bartley’s relief and surprise, Rob had stayed beneath the speed limit, didn’t roll through STOP signs, blow through red lights, or sideswipe any cars. So far, so good. Rob had deftly pulled the car into a space at the Sonic drivein. Bartley noticed that the young man had surveyed the area and seemed happy that several short-day students from the high school were parked in other slots. He had been seen behind the wheel of a classic Camaro convertible.

  A few minutes later they had ordered, and Bartley knew he was dealing with a teenager: Rob ordered enough food for two men.

  Rob ran a hand over the dashboard. “This is sure a sweet ride. Wow, is that an eight-track player?” He fingered the controls of the stereo.

  “Yup. It still works. Maybe on the way back, I let you listen to some real music.”

  “Real music, huh? What do you call real music?”

  “Okay, it was real music for my dad. Blood, Sweat, and Tears. Tommy James & the Shondells. Otis Redding. The Rascals. Oh, and Donovan. Man, my dad loved Donovan. The eight-track had already given way to cassette players before I was born, but every time I rode in this car with my dad, he played the music of the late sixties and the seventies. Got to where I liked it.”

  “What’s a Donovan?”

  Bartley chuckled. “Donavan is a who, not a what. Folk-style ballads, velvety-smooth voice. A child of the Love Generation.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Pity.”

  Silence filled the space between them. Bartley started to say something when he saw a Sonic employee exit the front door of the restaurant and walk in their direction. He carried a plastic tray with what looked like their order. A minute later the aroma of freshly fried burgers and onion rings settled in the open cabin of the car. Bartley told the truth when he said he hadn’t eaten lunch. The food tasted better than he thought possible.

  Rob downed the first burger like a man at the end of a week-long fast. He unwrapped the second and took a bite. With a full mouth he muttered, “So, my mom put you up to this.”

  Bartley wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Yup. She sure did.” Rob stared at him. “What?”

  “I didn’t expect a straight answer. I figured you’d have some excuse ready.”

  “I don’t need an excuse. The truth works great for me.”

  “You should tell my dad about it.”

  “What’s that mean?” Bartley grabbed an onion ring. “Your dad not good with the truth?”

  “He wouldn’t recognize it if he stepped in a puddle of it.”

  “Ouch. Harsh.”

  “Maybe, but you’re the one who said truth works.”

  “You think he’s been lying to you?”

  Rob returned to his second burger but stopped before taking a bite. “He doesn’t so much tell lies as he lives them.”

  “You’ll have to explain that to me.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. You’re probably no different.”

  Bartley heard some heat in the words. “Best I can tell, we’ve only known each other twenty minutes. Can’t learn much about a man in twenty minutes. Well, not usually. Twenty minutes in battle reveals a lot about a person’s character.”

  “You see, that’s it. That’s it right there. Everything is about fighting with you guys. My dad sees everything through Army eyes. He’s probably going to force me to enlist the day after I graduate.”

  “No one can force you to enlist in the Army, Rob.”

  “Yeah? Well you don’t know my dad.”

  “My brother does and he speaks highly of him. They serve on the same team.”

  “So your brother is off saving the world, too.”

  Bartley ignored the sarcasm. “As we speak. Wherever he is.”

  “He didn’t tell you where the Army was sending him? I mean you’re an officer and everything. And you’re his brother.”

  “I was with him when he got the call. We were mountain biking. To answer your question, no he didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. I’m not part of his unit, therefore I don’t have a need to know where he is and what he’s doing. My being an officer has nothing to do with it.”

  “But don’t you want to know?”

  “Yeah, I do. I pray for him daily. I think of him hourly.”

  Rob shook his head. “It’s not right. My dad didn’t even come home to say good-bye. He just left.”

  “That’s a shame. Maybe he couldn’t get home in time. You know, guys in your dad’s position have to report within a certain amount of time. You were at school anyway, weren’t you?”

  “What difference does that make? He’s done this before. Get a call and leave right after. It’s killing my mom.”

  “She looked pretty strong when I talked to her, but I can tell something is bothering her.”

  “Ya think? She never knows when he’s leaving or if he’ll ever come back.”

  “They also serve who only stand and wait.”

  “What?” Rob gave a quizzical look.

  “It’s the last line of a poem written by John Milton. ‘On His Blindness.’ He was writing about Christian service, but I’ve often thought those words applied to family members of the military who stand and wait for a loved one to return. In many ways it is as noble a service as that provided by the soldier. Your job is not easy, pal, and knowing that you’re not alone in it doesn’t help much.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Things are better at home when he’s gone.”

  “If it’s so much better, then why didn’t you go home last night?”

  “So that’s what all this is about.” Rob delayed his answer, choosing to finish the last bit of his burger. Bartley didn’t press him. “Well, I wasn’t doing anything illegal, if that’s what she’s worried about.”

  “I think she’s more worried about you than about what you did or didn’t do.”

  “I can’t help that. All I did was go to a friend’s for band practice. We practiced late then played some video games. I fell asleep on the sofa.”

  “And it didn’t occur to call your mother this morning?”

  Rob turned away. “It’s no big deal.”

  “It is to your mother.” Bartley shifted in his seat. “Look, let’s do a lit
tle man-to-man talking here. You just told me that your father lives a lie, that his work forces him to leave on short notice. I don’t have to have a degree in psychology to see that bugs you. Well, it should. No one likes it. I guarantee your dad doesn’t like it any more than you.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “Well, Rob, I would. Here’s my point: Last night when you didn’t go home and didn’t bother to warn your mother, you did the same thing you accuse your father of doing, except he’s fulfilling a responsibility. You were just irresponsible.”

  “I don’t need this.” Rob reached for the door, but Bartley had a hand on his shoulder before he could move.

  “Sit still for a moment. Did you think because I was a chaplain I would pat your hand and tell you to be a good boy? I’m not here to make your life miserable; I’m here to add a little wisdom.”

  “Fine. Talk. Just do it fast.”

  “Do you really care about what your father’s Army career is doing to your mom and the family?”

  “Yes. Of course. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “You know what I think you’re really worried about? I think you’re worried about being a man.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I think you’re worried that one day your father will not come home. I think you’re afraid that if he’s killed, his death will reveal how much you really love him.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I also think you’re afraid of becoming the man of the house.”

  “That’s stupid.” Again, Rob turned away.

  “Is it? Look at me, Rob. I said look at me.” Rob turned. “Being sixteen is tough work. Being the father of a sixteen-year-old is just as hard. Everyday you take a step closer to manhood. It’s natural for you and your father to clash from time to time. Being the son of an Army team leader is even worse. Frankly I’m impressed that you’re not more goofy than you are.”

  “Hey!”

  Bartley laughed. “Okay, the last line was a joke, but I mean it when I say I’m impressed with you. Most other guys your age have no idea what it’s like to be the son of a Spec Ops soldier. Let me tell you something, Rob. I ship out with these guys. I talk to them every day—here and overseas when I’m deployed. They think about two things and two things only: their jobs and getting home to their families. I take it your dad is hard on you.”