“Here’s to getting lucky,” Neto said, raising his Corona.
Crocker leaned on his elbows and spoke directly into Neto’s dark eyes. “What’s the story with 5000?”
“It’s an interesting one,” Neto said, “with several new developments. Two things. One, we’ve been watching a house in Petare, which is one of the city’s two major barrios. It’s more like a shack on a hill. We’ve been tracking several known Unit 5000 operatives in and out of there for the past three weeks.”
“Sounds like a good place to start,” Crocker commented.
Neto said, “You’ll never find it on your own. I’ll have to show you.”
“When?”
“How about Wednesday?” That was the day after Christmas.
“How about tomorrow night?” Crocker countered.
Neto frowned, then consulted his BlackBerry. “Christmas night? That might work.”
“Good. We’re gonna need gear.”
“What, exactly?”
Crocker pointed to Mancini. “Talk to my colleague here.”
Mancini grabbed a napkin and started writing. He said, “I’ll give you a list right now.”
Neto continued. “The barrios are dangerous, lawless places. Something like sixty percent of the city’s population lives in them, and they’re run by gangs.”
“What kind of gangs?” Crocker asked.
“Primarily young punks who deal dope.”
“You tell us how you want to handle getting in,” Crocker said. “Maybe we’re from a humanitarian organization handing out medicine. Maybe we give the gangs money to look the other way. Maybe we kick their asses. We don’t care. We just want to get in and take a look at the house. Maybe grab a couple of the terrorists.”
“You’re talking about a raid, right?” Neto asked.
“Exactly.” Crocker finished his beer and set the bottle down. “We’re all about hitting 5000, capturing their asses, getting the guys we grab to talk, stopping them before they do more damage.”
“I got it.”
“What was the other thing?” Mancini asked Neto as he rubbed the stubble on his chin. “You said there were two.”
“Yeah…We’ve picked up something from a source close to the minister of the interior. Seems like the Venezuela side of the Unit 5000 operation is being run by one of the president’s top men-a colonel high up in SEBIN named Chavo Torres. A real shit-bag who we know is involved in drug dealing, prostitution, dogfighting, human trafficking, smuggling. Travels to Cuba frequently and hangs with the Castros. He happens to be the right-hand man of Nicolás Maduro, who is the current VP and will probably succeed Chávez when he croaks-which according to our sources could happen anytime.”
“Torres sounds like a charmer,” Crocker commented.
“A snake charmer, maybe.”
“Can we assume that this Chavo character wouldn’t be involved with Unit 5000 unless President Chávez and this Maduro guy approved?” Crocker asked.
“No question about it.”
“And what is this Chavo guy doing for U-5000?”
“We’re not sure,” Neto answered, “but there’s been a real marked step-up of activity now that Chávez is on his deathbed. I get the sense that they’re building up to something big.”
“A big attack, or a big expansion?” Crocker asked.
“Both.”
He dreamt the wind was blowing and snow was piling up at the door and on the windowsill. The sky outside was black. Embers glowed in the fireplace. Seeing yellow eyes looking at him through the window, he reached under his bed for his pistol but found a stuffed toy animal instead.
In the morning, Crocker called Holly and Jenny to wish them a Merry Christmas. They were getting ready to go to her brother’s house.
Holly said, “Your sister Karen called. She wants to talk to you about your dad.”
“Tell her there’s nothing I can do now. I’ll call her when I get back.”
He tried not to feel nostalgic but couldn’t help it, with the colored lights and Christmas carols playing everywhere in the hotel. Biting into the grilled chicken sandwich he’d ordered from room service, he thought of his family gathered around the dining room table, his dad saying grace in his red Christmas sweater, the mom he loved so much serving the roast turkey, brussels sprouts, string beans, and potatoes. He remembered going outside in the cold to play touch football with his cousins from Ohio, then hunting for quail and rabbits with BB guns.
At sunset, rain started to fall. Minutes before seven, Neto arrived with an older Hispanic man named Sanchez, who had a flat, unexpressive face like a mask.
He said, “Sanchez knows the barrio far better than I do. We’re probably going to need a four-wheel-drive vehicle in this weather, so I brought two Toyota FJ Cruisers.”
While Mancini went down to inspect the gear and weapons, Neto and Crocker drew up a plan.
Chapter Nine
War may be an armed angel with a mission, but she has the personal habits of the slums.
– Rebecca Harding Davis
Black Cell set out an hour later, with Mancini in the passenger seat of the first Toyota dressed up as Santa Claus, complete with white wig and beard. The backs of both vehicles were packed with toys Neto had gotten from a storeowner friend.
“Feliz Navidad!” Mancini shouted out the window.
“Don’t overdo it,” Crocker groaned back.
They drove past modern apartment towers, through an upscale residential area, then off a major street to a smaller road that led up a steep hill into the barrio, which was dense and surprisingly colorful despite the falling rain and the slapdash quality of the shacks. They were put together with wooden packing crates, scraps of lumber, metal, and plastic, and featured corrugated tin roofs. Precariously clinging to steep slopes, the primitive structures were painted bright red, orange, and blue. Some were decorated with Christmas lights. A few had beat-up cars and trucks parked in front or at the sides.
“Who lives here?” Davis asked.
“Poor people,” Mancini shot back.
“Many of them are refugees from other countries-Ecuador, Colombia, Bolivia,” Neto explained. “The barrios also get a lot of people from Central America. They come here because of the relative prosperity.”
“Prosperity?” Davis asked skeptically.
“It’s relative, man. Chávez might have been a nut job who broke into song during televised speeches, but he treated the poor well.”
Crocker said, “He’s not dead yet.”
“Practically,” Neto shot back.
“You said he treated the poor well,” Mancini interjected. “How, in terms of specifics?”
“Land reform, improved public services like state-run grocery stores that sell discounted staple foods, soup kitchens, open clinics, free education.”
Crocker had an intrinsic distrust of politicians. “Socialism,” “freedom,” “democracy,” and “justice” were words they twisted to justify different agendas.
Sanchez spun the SUV ahead of them up a steep turn. The road was now a river of muddy water and sewage.
Mancini was in a jolly mood, befitting his new role. “Did I tell you what happened to my next-door neighbor Sam?”
“What?” Crocker asked.
“He forgot his wedding anniversary, and his wife was really pissed. She told him, ‘Tomorrow morning, I expect to find a gift in the driveway that goes from zero to two hundred in less than ten seconds!’ The next morning Sam got up early and left for work. When his wife woke up she looked out the window and found a gift-wrapped box in the middle of the driveway. So she ran out in her robe, ripped open the box, and found a brand-new bathroom scale inside. Sam has been missing ever since.”
Crocker and Davis were still laughing when they arrived at a makeshift plaza where five narrower dirt trails converged. It was lined with a few little bodegas, two bar/restaurants, a bicycle repair stand, and a peluquería.