Amanda pushed past Bartley, and Char followed.
“That could have gone better,” Bartley said. “I don’t think I’ll be welcome back anytime soon.”
“Their emotions are getting the best of them. Not that I can blame them.” “
You all right?”
“Just worried about Eric.”
Bartley nodded. “Having a rebellious teenage son doesn’t help.
Let’s go to the cafeteria and have a soda or coffee. We can finish our conversation about Rob.”
“Are you sure you feel up to that?”
“Of course. It’s what we chaplains do.”
CHAPTER 40
MIGUEL COSTA STEPPED FROM the helicopter the moment it touched the helo pad and jogged to the mansion. Santi stood on the balcony watching. Costa could feel the man’s eyes boring into him. His boss would be pleased with the good news, not so pleased with the bad.
Costa plunged through the front door and up the grand staircase that led to the second floor and the expansive balcony. He found Santi still staring into the surrounding jungle, binoculars held to his eyes. He didn’t turn when Costa opened the French doors and stepped onto the deck. He took several deep breaths to replace what he had expelled sprinting up the slope to the house.
“What have you found?” Santi didn’t turn.
“We believe the surrounding area to be secure. I did an aerial survey and saw no indication of intrusion.”
“The jungle canopy is too thick for a proper aerial survey.”
“Yes, Minister, it is. I also sent men to scout the area. All have reported in, and as yet there is no indication of intruders.”
“Did they search beyond the motion detectors’ perimeter?” He lowered the binoculars and finally turned to Costa.
“Yes, sir.”
“Still, a well-trained commando team might escape detection.”
“Perhaps, but they wouldn’t get past the motion detectors without disabling them. To be sure, I had the men check each detector, and they report that all is as it should be. No one has touched them.”
“Video?”
“I’ve added a guard to the video surveillance post. We have one man watching the monitors and another reviewing footage from the last few days. So far, no sign of intruders.”
Santi nodded, but his face remained grim. “We have to assume that something is afoot. If the injured American with the tattoo had stayed in the hospital and cooperated with the police, I’d be less suspicious. His fleeing the hospital tells us that we must keep up our guard.”
“I have an operative working with the police. They’re searching hotels. I expect to hear from them soon—” Costa’s cell phone sounded. He answered, listened, then ended the call. “A rental car employee at the airport recognized two of the men from the hospital surveillance photos.”
Santi set the binoculars on the balcony rail and put his hands behind his back. Costa had seen this before. His employer was a methodical man prone to logic over emotion—most of the time. When the emotions kicked in, Santi became as volatile as unstable dynamite.
“Nothing unusual in that,” Santi said. “We have an open airport. We know the U.S. sends spies to our land. The question is, what do they want? The fact that they are here during this … operation … raises my suspicions. It may be only a coincidence, but we must assume they know about our plans. If they do not, we lose nothing.”
“Understood, sir.”
“I’ve made arrangements for additional support. We will have two dozen soldiers here to set up another perimeter and search the jungle.”
“What do we do with Cenobio?”
“Our friends are expecting to receive their package. The longer we wait, the greater opportunity we give our enemies to interfere. Have you heard from our people in the city?”
“Yes, sir. I checked with them just before landing. They say they have seen nothing unusual.”
“And the woman?
“She and the children are confined to a small room.”
“I wonder …”
“Sir?”
Santi didn’t answer at first. Instead he paced, turning every six steps. “I wonder if the enemy knows about the other location.”
“I don’t see how that is possible, sir. It is well hidden and known only to a handful of people.”
“If these Americans are part of a military operation, then there would have been an advance intelligence team, maybe spies that are already in country.” He stopped, tilted his head back, and gazed at the blue sky. “We have three men on scene now, correct?”
“Yes, sir. Well, actually, the Iranians have three men guarding the woman and children.”
“Time is running out. We need to act quickly.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Get Dr. Cenobio.”
* * *
ON NUMEROUS OCCASIONS MOYER had spent days, hidden from sight, watching some object of concern to his government. In such situations, time moved at tortoise speeds, and that was fine with him. A good soldier not only knew how to spring into action at a moment’s notice; he also knew how to hunker down and wait.
This last quality now eluded Moyer.
J.J. had been eager to charge in and rescue the woman and kids. Moyer understood that. J.J. was young, impetuous, full of vinegar and gung-ho attitude. Impatience had killed too many men. Moyer determined that none of his team would die needlessly. He would be patient.
Such decisions are easy to speak even in the vault of one’s own mind, but to exercise patience is an entirely different matter. Moyer had struck the calm, reserved, cautious pose of a leader, but inside he was dying to do something, anything.
It was the cancer thing. Every hour his intestines grumbled, cramped, churned, twisted, ached, and occasionally bled. Every abnormal sensation reminded him that cells in his body had turned traitor, ending his career and possibly his life.
Moyer tried to put such thoughts out of his mind. Everyone died. Death held no fear for him. The demise of his career proved a different matter. Assuming the disease didn’t kill him, what would he do for a living? He’d have some retirement from the Army but not enough to support a family of four, two of which would probably want to go to college. He thought of Rob. Well, at least one would want to go to college.
Normally thinking of his son made Moyer angry. The kid had so much potential yet chose to waste his opportunities. While Moyer had to admit that his own teenage years had added gray to the heads of his parents, he had never been disrespectful and never flushed his future before it had a chance to become a reality.
For some reason the image of Rob flashing on his mind made Moyer miss his son.
“You okay, Boss?” J.J. looked up from the monitors in the panel truck.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You seemed a long way away.”
“Just thinking things through.” Moyer directed his attention to the monitors. The images hadn’t changed. “Caraway tells me we’ll have to replace the batteries in the fiber-optic cam if we want to keep it running.”
“The batteries on the LVRS units too. Maybe tomorrow.”
Moyer frowned. Every excursion to the rooftop could lead to discovery.
“Do you think they’re waiting because of Pete’s tattoo?” J.J. asked without moving his eyes from the monitors.
“Yeah, I do. It’s what I’d do. If I were running their operation and someone told me about a dog-tag tattoo on an American’s arm, and then that American sneaks out of the hospital, I’d be real suspicious.”
“How long do you think they’ll wait? Everything we’ve seen makes me think that this was supposed to be a short turnaround. Maybe I should ask, how long can they wait?”
“They hold all the aces for the moment.”
“I don’t know how much longer that poor woman can hold out. She’s got to be going out of her mind.”
“She’ll hang in there,” Moyer said. “She’s a mother. She’ll keep herself together for the
kids.”
“I’ve been thinking about how we can make entry. There are windows for the office and a couple that open to the work area. We split the team. Alpha team breaks the work-area window and tosses a couple of flash-bang grenades. I’m sure they can pop one or two of the bad guys through the window. Bravo team makes entry through the window on the other side of the building, the one that leads to the offices. They can neutralize any targets that remain. Since the woman and children are locked in the room, the grenades won’t stun them. We snatch and go.”
“And what about Cenobio? How do we find and deal with him? Saving his family won’t keep him out of the hands of the Iranians. He’s got to be our primary focus.”
“But, Boss—”
“Drop it, Colt. I want to save that woman as much as you. Maybe more so; I got a wife and children. We stick to the plan.”
“Understood, Boss.”
What Moyer didn’t tell J.J. was that the plan was about to change. If this was going to be his last mission, then it would be one to remember.
CHAPTER 41
CHAPLAIN BARTLEY, DECKED OUT in his combat uniform, stood in the office of the high school and stared at the somber son of Eric and Stacy Moyer. The kid oozed bad attitude. This wasn’t going to be easy.
“Who are you?” the boy asked.
Bartley corrected himself: Rob Moyer was no boy. Although only sixteen, he stood tall and lanky. Yet he wasn’t a man either and that was the problem. Rob traveled that twilight area between adult and kid. Most people his age found a way to enjoy these awkward years, while others seemed to twist every bit of pain and angst possible out of this time, choosing to play the role of misunderstood outcast. Such kids seemed to breed misery, as if making others unhappy was their calling in life.
Bartley had seen it more times than he could count. Enduring normal teenage years taxed most people Rob’s age; being tied to the Army by no choice of your own made it worse. While some kids relished the idea that their mothers or fathers were soldiers, the rebellious ones despised what their parents did. Rob was clearly acharter member of the latter group.
“My name is Paul Bartley.”
“So what do you want with me?”
Bartley handed him a note. He read it. “So my mother put you up to this.”
“She did.”
“The note says I should go with you. Is she all right?”
“Yes.”
“And my sister?”
“She’s okay too.”
Rob shrugged. “Then I don’t see any reason to go with you.”
“Interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“You didn’t ask about your father.” Bartley watched the color drain from the boy’s face and his eyes skip to the office staff in earshot. “As far as I know, he’s fine.” He thought he saw the boy relax slightly.
“Let’s take a ride, Rob. I’ve cleared it with the school.”
“I don’t want to go with you.” He took a step back.
“Listen, Rob. Just relax. I’m not a cop. I’m not going to lecture you. I just want to talk.”
Two beefy boys wearing letterman jackets stepped into the office. “I don’t want to talk.”
Bartley gazed at the athletes for a moment. “It’s your call, Rob. If you’re afraid, well, I understand.”
“I didn’t say I was afraid.”
“Frightened people seldom do.” Bartley started for the door.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Good. I was thinking of a burger. I skipped lunch. Let’s go.” Bartley didn’t wait for Rob to respond. He stepped to the office door and held it open. “Coming?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Bartley wasn’t sure what Rob expected but judging by his expression he didn’t expect a classic black ’68 Camaro SS convertible. “You like cars?”
“Yeah, they’re okay, I guess.”
“You guess, huh? Got your driver’s license yet?”
Rob’s eyes widened. “Sure. Got it two months ago.”
Bartley jiggled the keys. “Think you can handle it? It’s an automatic so you don’t have to worry about shifting—”
“I can handle it.”
“In that case, mount up, cowboy.” He tossed him the keys and slipped into the front passenger seat. Rob was in the car a second later.
“Pristine, man. You must have dumped some serious coin to get this restored.”
“It keeps me poor. My father bought it. He gave it to me when I enlisted. Gave my brother a ’64½ Mustang. Dad was into cars.”
“I guess so. Where to?”
“Jimmie’s makes a decent burger. Do you know where that is?”
Rob inserted the key and started the engine. The throaty rumble vibrated through the car. “Yeah, I know where it is.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“I’m trying to figure out the longest path there.”
Bartley laughed. “I think I’m gonna like you. Just remember this is a school zone—”
In a single motion, Rob dropped the car into gear. The tires squealed as he pulled from the curb.
* * *
“YOU SEEM DISTRACTED, ORLA.”
Orla Caraway looked up from her chicken salad and stared at the man on the other side of the restaurant table. “Sorry. Lost in thought.”
“Lost in thought, is it? I know that expression.” Albert Crenshaw wore a gray suit that covered his broad shoulders— shoulders made broad by genetics not exercise. Although trim and fit, the only exercise he committed to was fifteen minutes on a slowmoving treadmill three times a week and eighteen holes of golf as often as possible.
“And what expression is that?”
He set his fork down on the half-eaten broiled salmon on wild rice. His eyes sparkled. “It’s sort of a cross between indigestion and pity. It happens every time you think of your ex.”
“You know me that well?”
“We’ve been dating for nine months and been engaged for three. During that time I’ve made a point of memorizing every detail about you.”
Although she could think of no reason to do so, Orla blushed. “It must be the keen legal mind of yours. You attorneys are always looking for ways to gain advantage over other people.”
“Wait a minute now. I’m a real estate attorney—only partly slimy.”
They met at a continuing education seminar for real estate agents. Real estate law grew more complex every year. A week later, after admitting to some behind-the-scenes research, he asked her out. She was pleasantly surprised when he suggested dinner after a Saturday-night service at his church. Orla accepted. Three weeks later he came to her apartment and met Sean, her six–year-old son. They hit it off. Albert became so fond of Sean that he often insisted on including him on their dates. Orla had had to put her foot down.
“There’s nothing slimy about you.” She reached across the table and took his hand. Albert was five years older and showing just the right amount of gray at the temples, just the right spread of wrinkles around the eyes.
“So what’s on your mind?”
Orla pulled back and looked out the window. A stream of slow-moving traffic clogged the nearby freeway. “You’re right. I was thinking about Martin.”
“You said he called to give you a bad time about child support.”
“He did. I feel awful. I know he doesn’t make executive-level money. He’s a soldier. Supporting himself and paying alimony and child support can’t leave him with much.”
“Look, Orla, I’ve never met the guy. But from what you’ve told me, you’re better off without him.”
“I know. He’s a good man in many ways but very confused.”
“Was he a good father?”
Orla frowned. “No. But he wasn’t cruel—just never engaged.”
“Look, sweetheart, if it’s money that worries you, let me help. We’ll be married in two months, and you and Sean will be moving into my condo. What difference does it make if I start tak
ing some responsibility right now?”
Pressing her lips together she struggled with how to explain what he surely wouldn’t understand. “I guess it’s the principle of the thing. Sean is his son. Martin should step up to that responsibility.”
“I agree, but that doesn’t mean he will. You are certainly within your rights to pursue payment of back child support. Those are serious, court-mandated obligations. He can get himself into trouble by avoiding those duties.”
“If I wanted to get him in trouble, Albert, I’d call his commanding officer. That’d cost him in more ways than cash.” She leaned forward again and kept her voice low. “I have no desire to do that. The Army is the one thing he truly loves. Everything else in life is pure infatuation, and that included me and Sean.”
“That’s just wrong on so many levels.”
“I suppose.” She looked Albert in the eyes. “You were never in the military, were you?”
“You know I wasn’t. I went straight to college then law school.”
“I know, I know. Nonmilitary people have trouble understanding the mind-set of men and women who make a career of the service. It’s a sacrificial commitment. Low pay, moving every few years, and in times like ours, being shipped overseas where there’s a good possibility they may not come back whole if they come back at all. It takes a certain kind of person to do that. Oh, there are those who enlist for a short period of time and are glad to be out once their commitment is up. There’s nothing wrong with that, but the career soldier is a different breed.”
“I can’t imagine every career soldier is like Martin.”
“They’re not. Most are as honest as a person can be. My point is that a career man like Martin breathes a different kind of air from the rest of us.”
“I think you’re worried about him.”
“Worried? Maybe.”
“You never told me much about the phone conversation other than it ended abruptly.”
She stabbed at the salad. “I heard his cell phone ring.”
“Um, Orla, that’s what cell phones do.”
Certain Jeopardy Page 19
