Said Blanc, “The Iranians have grown increasingly desperate. Not only are the economic sanctions hurting their economy, but we’ve also been running a number of covert operations aimed at their nuclear program. And they know it. They seem determined to hit us back, and Unit 5000 seems to be the means they’ve chosen to do that with. President Chávez, who has his own issues with us, has been helping them and allowing them to operate on his territory. With Chávez on his deathbed, the Iranians seem to be picking up the pace.”
“What do you want from us?” Crocker asked.
Anders said, “You’ll go into Venezuela in alias. Agency officials there will assist you. Basically we want to find out what Unit 5000 is doing there, what they’ve established in terms of resources, and what they’re planning. To whatever degree is possible, we want you to thwart their operations.”
“Happily,” Crocker replied. “What about the Falcon?”
Ms. Walker clicked her red nails on the table and said, “We seem to have lost track of him temporarily.”
Crocker was disappointed. He asked, “Isn’t it fair to assume that he’s behind Unit 5000’s activities?”
“I would have to agree with that,” she answered.
“Then why aren’t we doing everything we can to go after him?”
“Because we think it’s very likely that Farhed Alizadeh is back in Iran,” Blanc asserted. “And since he’s in Iran, he’s out of reach. Besides, our immediate concern is what Unit 5000 is doing in Venezuela.”
Crocker nodded. He understood, and he started thinking ahead. He had to contact his teammates, talk to Holly and Jenny, pack his gear.
It was 11 p.m. by the time he pulled into the driveway and found Holly sitting at the kitchen counter sipping a glass of rosé and looking forlorn.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“You could have called,” she said accusingly. “I expected you home at seven.”
He said, “I just spent the last several hours with Captain Sutter.”
“Really?” Holly said. “Work related?”
“Yeah. Important.”
“Are you leaving again?” she asked anxiously.
“First thing tomorrow.”
He noticed her hand trembling as she lifted the glass. She took a long sip and threw it toward the sink, where the glass shattered and wine splattered across the window and wall. “You might want to take a look at that!” she said, pointing to a letter on the counter.
“Holly, wait.” He tried to stop her, but she avoided his grasp and left.
Over her shoulder she shouted, “I’ve had it! I’m exhausted. Don’t ask me for any more help!”
He picked up the letter, unfolded it, and heard the bedroom door upstairs slam. Blood rising into his neck and face, he read the letter from Jenny’s high school counselor. It said she was in danger of flunking two classes-biology and calculus-if she didn’t perform better on her finals and turn in several missing assignments.
He sighed, refolded it, climbed the stairs, and knocked on Jenny’s door.
“Honey?”
“Yeah?”
He pushed the door open. She sat up in bed, connected to her laptop via earbuds and wire.
“What are you listening to?” he asked.
She pulled the buds out, removed the retainer from her mouth, half smiled. “I’m studying.”
“While listening to music?”
“Yeah.” She was like a longer, younger version of his first wife, Kim-thin legs, big doelike eyes and reddish brown hair, dressed in gray sweatpants, a loose blue First Colonial High School T-shirt and socks. “It’s that CD of yours that I downloaded,” she said, offering him the earbuds.
He listened to the smooth modal changes of “So What” from the Miles Davis-Bill Evans masterpiece album Kind of Blue. It was one of Crocker’s favorites, and to his mind the best Davis ever recorded.
“You really like it?” he asked.
“It’s cool and…like…helps me relax.”
He sat on a pink plastic stool across from her. “Sweetheart, let’s talk about the letter that came from your counselor.”
“Oh that…” As if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen on her seventeen-year-old shoulders.
He cut to the chase. “Is this about a boy, drugs, alcohol, or something else not related to school?”
“No, Dad,” she answered. “Is that what Holly told you?”
“No.”
“I’m not partying or fooling around,” she said. “Maybe I go out on the weekends with my friends, but I come home every day after school and study.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She sighed, “Dad, I’m trying. I’m just dealing with a lot of like…personal stuff.”
He wanted to believe that, and knew it had to be tough having a mother who couldn’t deal with her and sent her to live with a father who wasn’t around most of the time. He tried to be involved, the way he was doing now, asking her what was going on at school, patiently waiting for her to explain. According to her, things weren’t as bad as they seemed. Teachers in both classes had failed to enter some of her assignments into the computer grading system. And there were some tests and quizzes that she was planning to retake.
In the end, she accused Holly of overreacting.
Crocker begged her to be understanding. Holly, he explained, was going through a difficult time of her own.
Jenny nodded. “I know, Dad. I think she still feels guilty about her friend who died.”
Both women were hypersensitive, especially with regard to each other.
He said, “I agree,” then kissed her, told her he loved her, and that he had to leave the next morning.
“You think you’ll be back for Christmas?” Jenny asked.
The holiday was four days away. “I don’t know,” he answered. “The odds aren’t good.”
“But you’ll call?”
“Every opportunity I get.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you. Be safe.”
He closed the door behind him, and padded down the hall to his bedroom, where Holly lay in bed with the reading lamp on beside her. He splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth, pulled off the sweater he’d worn all day, and sat down on the bed beside her.
“Holly,” he whispered. “Sweetheart…”
She turned and he saw she’d been crying. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and tell her to snap out of it, but he knew that wouldn’t work. So he wiped the tears from her eyes, told her he’d spoken to Jenny and she had assured him that her grades weren’t as bad as they seemed. In fact, she thought she was getting A’s in her three other classes.
“I can’t help her, Tom,” Holly said, squeezing his hand. “I’m too busy trying to deal with my own problems.”
He kissed her on the lips. “I know, sweetheart. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Chapter Eight
There is not a righteous man on earth who always does what is right and never sins.
– Ecclesiastes 7:20
The six members of Black Cell sat in the Corona Beach House in Terminal D of the Miami International Airport, watching the Heat-Jazz game on TV, sipping beers and snacking on nachos as they waited for their connecting flight. The last time Crocker had been in Caracas he’d been part of a security team guarding President George H. W. Bush back in 1990 and not too long after he graduated from BUD/S.
That was before Hugo Chávez had assumed power and become a thorn in the side of the United States. He even blamed the States for causing the earthquake that devastated Haiti in January 2010.
Crocker pulled Cal over to the salsa bar and asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just checking.”
Working with the men on the team was easier than dealing with people in civilian life. They bled, but they didn’t complain. Their bones cracked, but they’d been trained not to break down psychologically.