“How big a base are we talking about?” Crocker asked, trying to appear alert.
“Let him finish,” Rappaport snapped.
Crocker wanted to reach across the table and punch him in the face. He used a paper clip to dig the dried blood from under his fingernails.
“The men you killed were probably lower-level people in charge of distributing money and documents,” Melkasian continued, picking a stack of Xeroxes off the table. “Couriers, basically. Inside the packet you recovered was a coded log and copies of visa applications and travel documents. From them we’ve been able to ascertain that the group contains at least a dozen individuals of Iranian origin who have been given Venezuelan citizenship and new identities, which allows them to travel throughout the region without raising suspicion.”
Crocker immediately thought of the Falcon, because this sounded like one of the devious plans he had cooked up in the past. The proximity of this new program to the United States alarmed him.
Then Melkasian said, “Obviously, they’re planning something, but we don’t know what.”
Crocker leaned forward and said aggressively, “We can’t sit back and wait.”
“We’re cross-checking recent immigration records and flight manifests, hoping to ID some of these cats,” Melkasian continued.
“Alizadeh is dangerous. You have to move fast.”
Rappaport shot back, “When we find out something, we’ll tell you what you need to know.”
Crocker felt his anger rise. He wanted to tell Rappaport that he didn’t appreciate his snippy attitude, but he was disciplined enough to know this would serve no purpose.
He asked, “What do you want from us?”
“You’re to stay in-country and await further orders,” Rappaport responded. “This thing is red hot. Insidious. We plan to give you a chance to do what you do, which is to kick some ass.”
“Excellent,” Crocker said. “I assume you’ve cleared this with my CO.”
“You can be sure about that. Captain Sutter, Jim Anders, Lou Donaldson-they’re all on board.”
“Good.”
“Melky and Neto will be your point men. Be ready to deploy.”
Chapter Ten
Character is power.
– Booker T. Washington
First, he and his men checked out of the InterContinental Tamanaco Caracas and moved their gear to a safe house in the nearby La Florida section of the city. Then they slept.
Crocker dreamt he was swimming against a strong current with a huge white shark close behind. When the beast opened its mouth, he saw teeth made of serrated steel. The shark closed in on his legs and snapped its jaws, causing Crocker to wake with a start and grab his cramping right foot. Sore from head to toe and running a slight fever, he downed two more Advil with a glass of H2O and then met his men in the kitchen, where they were feasting on takeout from a local Taco Bell.
Through the large patio door he watched two big green parrots sail through a bolt of sunshine and land in the backyard. He thought he might be dreaming but realized he wasn’t when Neto walked in, leaned on his shoulder, and whispered, “I need to talk to you alone.”
Crocker took a last bite of the cold beef taco and wiped his mouth. As he walked over cool tiles in his bare feet, he noticed he still had on the same black polo and pants he’d worn on the raid last night.
They sat on a back patio with a view of big flowering hibiscus bushes. The last couple of weeks were becoming a blur.
“Did I tell you about the Iranian official who arrived two days ago?” Neto asked, his dark eyes searching Crocker’s face.
Crocker thought back to the conversation they’d had in the bar on Christmas Eve and the waitress with the metal ball in her tongue. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Rappaport didn’t mention it?”
“He might have, but I don’t remember. No.”
“Well, this Iranian big shot has been meeting with Colonel Torres and other Venezuelan officials. In fact, we think he’s staying at the colonel’s house.”
“Do you know the Iranian’s identity?” Crocker asked, standing and lowering his head in an attempt to get blood into his brain.
“All we have is what we assume is a fake name from the flight manifest. Cy Norath.”
“You get a photo of him?” Crocker asked, stretching his arms over his head.
“No, he arrived on a private jet.”
“He’s here in Caracas now?” Crocker asked, bending from the waist.
“Yeah, staying at Torres’s residence, which borders the Caracas Country Club,” Neto answered. “We’ve got a surveillance team stationed outside.”
“He could be important. Show me the house.”
“Now?” Neto asked.
“Give me a minute to shower and change.”
Crocker left Akil and Davis behind to coordinate with the station chief and inform him about new developments. He took the four Spanish speakers on his team-Cal, Ritchie, Mancini, and himself. Cal and Mancini were fluent; his and Ritchie’s version was rudimentary but good enough.
With Neto at the wheel of the Pilot and the GPS guiding them, they drove east along the autopista and entered a very upscale neighborhood of gated mansions, stately cedar trees, and manicured gardens. Colonel Torres’s estate stood on a small road off Avenida los Cedros. The red-tiled roof of the two-story house was visible from the street, but they couldn’t see the front gate because the access road was blocked by two jeeps and half a dozen uniformed soldiers.
The level of security was fitting, given that Colonel Chavo Torres was Chávez’s man in charge of SEBIN’s external operations, and the whole country was on alert. As he drove past the estate, Neto explained that Torres and Chávez had graduated from the Venezuelan military academy and served in that army’s counterinsurgency unit together.
“Back in the late seventies the enemy was local Marxist insurgents. But when Chávez read the works of Marx, Lenin, and Mao Zedong, he took a sharp turn to the left and founded a revolutionary movement,” Neto explained. “Colonel Torres followed in lockstep behind him. Unlike those of the president, it’s hard to determine the colonel’s true politics. What we do know is that he’s an opportunist who loves power and wealth, likes to inflict pain on people, and like Chávez and Maduro hates the United States.”
“Let’s go get him,” Ritchie said.
“We’re not here to start a war in Venezuela,” Crocker reminded him. “Our mission is to track and disrupt the activities of Unit 5000.”
“I know.”
A tall sandy-haired woman and a bald man from the station sat in a Toyota Camry parked at the end of the block, approximately four hundred yards from the house. While the man waited in the Camry, the woman got into the Pilot with them. Neto turned right at the corner and parked at the intersection of Avenida Lecuna, next to a man with a bicycle who was sharpening knives and scissors.
“The visitor has been inside since last night,” the female officer reported. “Colonel Torres left about an hour ago, but the visitor didn’t accompany him.”
“You sure about that?” Crocker asked.
She nodded. “Not only have we maintained twenty-four/seven visuals on the front entrance, but we also had someone attach a tracking device to his briefcase at the airport.”
“There’s no other exit?” Crocker asked.
“No, there isn’t.”
“What’s the best possible way to clandestinely access the house?”
She had soft green eyes and an easy smile. “If I were trying to get in, I’d approach from the back, the side that borders the golf course.”
“Thanks,” Crocker said.
Neto added, “Stay on the radio. Let us know if you see the visitor exit.”
“Sanchez is relieving us in an hour,” she reported. “He’ll be on a motorcycle and get a flat, which he’ll take his time to repair. We have another team following after him.”