Certain Jeopardy

by Jeff Struecker

  “You little—”

  Caraway seized J.J.’s upper arm. Before he finished locking down his grip, J.J. had a hand around the man’s throat. “Think, Caraway. Think. Is this how you want to end your career? Right here, right now, in the back of a truck in Caracas? Do you really want to do this?”

  Long seconds clicked by, then Caraway furrowed his brow and cut his eyes to the monitor. “What’s that?”

  J.J. didn’t look at first, expecting Caraway to try something sneaky. Finally he cut his eyes to the image. He let go of Caraway’s throat and focused on the video feed.

  “Let me in,” Caraway ordered. J.J. relinquished his seat. Surveillance was Caraway’s specialty.

  “It’s a van.”

  “Well done. You recognized a van with no help.”

  Caraway worked the controls that tighten the shot.

  The dark vehicle pulled to the double-wide chain-link gateand waited. The lone guard jogged to the gate, removed the lock and chain that secured it, and pulled it open, stepping to the side to allow the vehicle in. The moment the back bumper crossed the threshold, the guard closed the gates and locked them again. He then jogged to the van, which had pulled to the large metal roll-up door on the south side.

  J.J.’s eyes switched to the second monitor, which played the feed from the other remote video unit. The van blocked much of the view, but he could see the dark open space just beyond the open door.

  “Uh-oh,” Caraway said.

  J.J. swiveled his head back to screen one.

  Three men exited the side door of the vehicle. Between them

  were a woman and two children.

  “They don’t look happy to be there,” J.J. said.

  “Agreed. If body language means anything, I’d say the family is there against their will.”

  As he spoke, Caraway tightened the shot from both video locations, swinging the camera in an effort to capture faces. J.J. didn’t know when he did it, but Caraway had activated the recorder.

  Fewer than two minutes after the van arrived, the roll-up door closed and the building and lot returned to the very picture of inactivity. But Caraway wasn’t done. He zoomed in on the van, first focusing on the license plate then surveying as much of the exterior as the cameras would allow.

  J.J. activated his cell phone. “We got activity, Boss.”

  CHAPTER 25

  MOYER PULLED INTO THE parking lot of Hotel Azteca, parked, and walked into the building. His gait indicated a man of leisure, untroubled by the pressures of the day. It was a lie. The man inside, while calm and thoughtful, fought a battle to keep his anger in check.

  He made eye contact with no one. Instead he stared at his cell phone as if looking up a phone number. The lobby design and décor told Moyer that this place was a notch or two lower on amenities than the hotel he and J.J. were set up in.

  He stepped into the elevator, joining a mother with a young girl whom she held by the hand. He guessed she was four or five. She waved at him. Moyer smiled and waved back but said nothing. The mother tensed, so Moyer returned his gaze to the phone he had no intention of using.

  The mother and daughter stepped from the elevator cab on the fourth floor; Moyer continued to the twelfth. Green letters on yellow signs with arrows pointed him to room 1222. He knocked lightly on the white door. It looked like wood but felt like metal. A fire door, he assumed.

  A moment later the door opened. Rich stood just over the threshold and seemed to fill the doorway from jamb to jamb. At times Moyer forgot how big his assistant team leader and friend was.

  Rich stepped aside and Moyer entered. Jose sat in the chair by the work desk.

  “Hey, Boss.”

  The greeting came from a man reclined on the bed. He started to rise.

  “As you were, Pete.”

  “It’s okay, Boss. I’m fine. Just a little stiff.”

  “I said, ‘As you were.’” There was heat in the words.

  Pete lowered himself back to the bed. To Moyer’s surprise, he saw no bruises or contusions on Pete’s face. Both hands sported a road rash but nothing that couldn’t be concealed by placing his hands in his pockets.

  Moyer looked at Jose. “How is he?” The heat in Moyer’s delivery cooled. He was as mad at Pete as he had been at any man, but Pete had proved himself a good soldier time and time again. Staring at a man that had just missed the express train to death tempered Moyer’s fury.

  “I’m fine, Boss. A little banged up, but—”

  “I’m asking Doc.”

  Pete blanched. “Understood, Boss.”

  Jose looked at Pete then back to Moyer. “He is the luckiest dog I’ve ever seen. His injuries include a deeply bruised right thigh, bruised upper arm, separated—but not broken—ribs, and some abrasions.”

  “He jumped just before he was hit,” Rich said. “Rolled over the top of the car. If he’d hesitated a split second, we’d be sending him home in a body bag.”

  “It was just reflex,” Pete said.

  “Reflex or not, it saved your life.” Jose leaned back in the chair. “They gave him something for the pain at the hospital. That should be wearing off pretty soon. After we got him here, I slipped out to a pharmacy and bought some ibuprofen and acetaminophen. He can take those in tandem for pain and inflammation. It should keep the edge off.”

  Moyer nodded. It was all good news, especially considering how bad it could have been.

  “Boss, I’m sorry about the tattoo thing. I really did mean to get it removed, but you know how it is. I just couldn’t—check that— I didn’t make the time. I couldn’t decide between having it surgically removed, which might take me off duty for a few days, or go the laser or abrasion method.”

  “Well, you’re going to have time to think about it the next few days. I want you to take it easy.” Moyer looked to Rich. “When do the maids come by?”

  “They came by about 1100 hours yesterday and were just down the hall today when we went to lunch.”

  He faced Pete again. “When the maid comes by, take a walk, but get back in here when she’s done. Clear?”

  “But, Boss, I’m still good to go. The pain relievers will handle the aches. I want to do my job.”

  “This is not a discussion, Junior. Doc will check up on you from time to time. When he gives me the go-ahead, I’ll put you back in the rotation. For now, I want you to lie low. Got it?”

  “Got it, Boss. But why are we worried about the maids?”

  “Anyone want to answer that?”

  “We sprung you from the hospital without telling anyone,” Doc said. “The medical staff got a good gander at that tattoo and may put two and two together. If they do, they’ll call the local police. If you were a Caracas cop looking for an American with a military tattoo on his arm, what would you do?”

  “Search the hotels,” Pete said and raised a hand to his eyes. “Of course.”

  “There’s also a good chance that they’ll notify the military.” Moyer leaned against the wall. “It’s time to be a little paranoid, gentlemen. We carry on as if nothing happened, but vigilance is the order of the day.”

  Moyer’s cell phone rang. He answered and listened. “Stay put. I’m on my way.”

  * * *

  THE CHILDREN WERE FRIGHTENED, and although Julia tried to hide it, so wasshe. During the drive from the hotel, they had not said a word.

  “Where are you taking us?”

  No answer from the driver, the man in the passenger seat, or from Miguel Costa—if that was his real name—who sat behind her with a handgun.

  “Let the children go. You don’t need them. You have me.”

  No response.

  “My husband is due to meet with President Chavez. If I’m not at the airport to meet him, he’ll appeal to the president for help. He’s an important man—”

  That was when it hit her. This wasn’t about her or the children; it was about Hector. Dear Jesus, protect Hector. Protect us. She needed to keep the children cool, and the best
way to do that was for her to remain calm.

  Her mind raced to make sense of things, to find something she could do to protect Nestor and Lina. For a moment she had thought of jumping from the van as it slowed to turn a corner, pushing the children ahead of her, but she quickly abandoned the idea as foolhardy. She could have pounded on the window and screamed for help, but that would last only a moment before Miguel struck her or shot her or hurt one of the children. She even considered jumping forward and grabbing the steering wheel. She wore no seat belt. She could do it. If she could crash the van, or just cause the driver to swerve, then perhaps the erratic driving would draw the attention of the police or another driver. If she sideswiped a car, then the driver would certainly call the police. But she was not a strong woman and it would be just her against three men. She dismissed that idea but did not give up trying to formulate a plan.

  Julia forced herself to think. Many times she heard Hector tell the children, “Nine out of ten times your brain will help you more than your brawn. Think first. Always think first. Use the brain God has given you.”

  The more Julia thought, the more disturbed she became. Some things didn’t add up. Miguel was clearly Venezuelan, or at very least, South American. His Spanish flowed naturally, and he used local colloquialisms. The other two men didn’t fit. The hue of their skin was different. The only communication between them had been one way, with Miguel doing all the talking, which he did in English.

  Clearly this was about her husband, but why kidnap her and the children? They were not wealthy. They lived well on a professor’s salary, and Hector said that they would be rich once the commercialization of his new project was sold. But until then, they were strictly middle class. They must want something other than money, and the only thing that could be was her husband’s knowledge.

  One other thought bothered her: Her captors had not blindfolded her or the children. That meant they didn’t care if she memorized the way to their destination—wherever that might be. If they didn’t care what she knew, then they might not intend to let them go. She started to pray again.

  The inside of the building they had come to was dark and smelled of oil and dust. The building had housed some kind of industry, maybe a machine shop. Now it was a shell, an open expanse with a few small rooms she assumed had once been offices.

  Miguel motioned to the distant wall. Another small room with white exterior walls was tucked in the corner. The structure had two doors. Placards identified the doors as leading to the restrooms.

  “Get in.” Miguel pointed to one of the doors. Julia saw no choice but to obey.

  The bathroom was small, with one filthy toilet, a sink, several plastic bottles of water, and a chipped plate with a pile of energy bars on the floor. Like a hen guiding her chicks, Julia kept the children in front of her and stepped into the dark room.

  “Against the wall.”

  “Why? What do you want?”

  “Back against the wall. Children in front of you.”

  He’s going to shoot us. Right here. Right now. In this filthy bathroom.

  “No.”

  Miguel didn’t blink. He pointed his gun at Lina’s head.

  “Mamá!”

  Julia stepped in the line of fire. “Leave her alone. What do you want?”

  “I want you to stand with your back against the wall, with the children in front of you.”

  Julia did as she was told.

  Miguel motioned to one of the other men, who appeared with a digital camera.

  “Say cheese,” the man said.

  Julia recognized a Middle Eastern accent, possibly Arab, maybe Persian.

  The flash made her eyes water. A second later the door closed.

  CHAPTER 26

  HEATHROW AIRPORT IN LONDON bustled with activity. After the flight from Rome, Hector had a two-hour layover before boarding the plane to Caracas. He used the time to walk the stiffness out of his legs, to drink coffee in one of the sports bars, and watch the last fifteen minutes of a soccer game. Shortly before boarding the aircraft, he tried to call Julia. It was still midday there and a ten-minute chat would make the next long leg of the journey more tolerable. Julia never answered. He tried again once seated in first class. Still no answer. Perhaps her cell phone battery had died. He looked up the number of the hotel in Caracas that he stored in his phone and dialed. The front desk rang the room, but again no answer. He shook his head. He would have to talk to her about keeping her cell phone charged and in working order.

  He leaned back in the seat and toyed with the idea of taking a pill in hopes that he could sleep more than ten minutes at a time. He hated taking medication, but there were times when it made sense to use pharmaceutical magic. He reached for the pill he kept in a plastic baggie in his front pocket then stopped. The man who had traveled in first class with him from Rome to London stepped through the doorway. They looked at each other for a moment, exchanging glances. He didn’t seem as surprised as Hector to be sharing yet another flight. What were the odds that the same man would fly from Rome to London to Caracas? Not impossible, certainly, but it struck him as odd, and for some reason made him uncomfortable. To make matters worse, the man sat down next to him. This time he spoke.

  “We travel together again, I see.” The man’s accent sounded odd, as if it were an affectation—like a Brit trying to sound American, or a Frenchman trying to speak like an Irishman.

  “So it seems. I was just wondering about the odds.”

  “A little odd but not out of the bounds of possibility. At least as far as I can tell. Math is not my strength.”

  “It’s one of mine.”

  The man slipped a computer bag beneath the seat in front of him and fastened his safety belt. “Really? What do you do?”

  Hector chose to be cautious. “I’m a teacher.”

  “You teach math?”

  “Science.” He wanted to end this conversation, so he opened his cell phone again and dialed Julia. It had only been a few minutes since his last try, but he hoped the act would erect a barrier between them. Something about the passenger made Hector uneasy. He let the phone ring. No answer. Nothing to worry about, he told himself. He worried anyway.

  “I was in Rome on business. I import Italian furniture. How about you?”

  Hector said, “Never owned Italian furniture.”

  The man laughed. “You are a clever man. I meant to ask, ‘What brought you to Rome from Venezuela?’”

  “I live in Canada. I’m just visiting Venezuela.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t have assumed … Forgive me, but you don’t sound Canadian.”

  “I grew up in Venezuela but moved away to study in the United States then Canada. This is my first trip back.”

  “I see. A homecoming.”

  “Of sorts.”

  “Were you in Rome to teach?”

  Hector stifled a sigh. “No. A conference.”

  The man nodded. “Oh, I see. Were you at the symposium on nuclear power?”

  The question chilled Hector. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t mean to pry. I’ve been traveling alone for weeks now and have grown hungry for conversation. I read about the symposium in the papers and saw a news report on the television. You said you teach science, so naturally I thought there might be a connection.”

  “Naturally.” If the man had followed the news about the gathering then he might already know that Hector was there. “I attended.”

  “May I ask your name?”

  “I’m a little tired. I don’t travel well. I’m not much in the mood for conversation now.”

  “I understand,” the man said. “Flying makes me weary, too. I will let you rest.”

  A tall, thin steward closed the door. Fifteen minutes later they were in the air and flying over the Atlantic.

  * * *

  THE BATHROOM FAN IN the ceiling rattled as it spun on aged and over

  worked bearings. The rattle concealed the sounds of activity outside the door. It
also masked her conversation with the children from anyone standing by the door. And someone did stand at the door— she could see the shadow of his feet at the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor.

  “Why are they doing this, Mamá?” Lina was shaking.

  Julia put an arm around her. “I don’t know.” She wanted to tell her that everything would be all right, but she had never lied to the children.

  “It’s Papa. They want Papa.” Nestor sounded angry, but Julia could hear the fear in his voice. He was doing his best to be brave.

  “I think you’re right, Nestor. I don’t know what they want him for or want him to do.”

  “It’s because he’s smart about nuclear stuff,” Nestor said.

  The thought had occurred to her as well.

  “What are we going to do?” Lina asked.

  “I don’t know. Let Mamá think.”

  Julia took stock of the situation. She first looked for a surveillance camera and couldn’t detect one. She wondered about a listening device, but if their captors wanted to listen in on the conversation between a frightened mother and two terrified children, they would have fixed the noisy exhaust fan.

  Next she looked for something that could be used as a weapon. She wasn’t a fighter and had never been in a physical altercation, not even in grade school. But this involved her children and her maternal instincts prepared her to fight anyone who would harm her own.

  “What are you looking for, Mamá?” Nestor stood by her side.

  “Something we can use for a weapon.”

  “Like what?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Something. Anything.” Her eyes took stock of everything. Could the chipped plate be broken to make sharp shards that she could use? The bottles of water could be wielded like a truncheon. She remembered enough of her basic science classes in college to know that water could not be compressed, meaning a plastic bottle could be made to strike as hard as a rock. The problem was striking the person correctly. Hitting one of her captors with the side of the bottle would probably split the bottle, thereby releasing the water and diminishing the effect. She would have to strike with the butt end of the bottle. But how many times could she do that? If she were lucky, she’d get in one blow before one or more of her abductors were upon her.