Choking back a tear, she said, “I’ll be in the kitchen making dinner if you need me. Join me if you want to.” Then she quickly kissed him on the head and left.
Chapter Nineteen
The person with big dreams is more powerful than one with all the facts.
– Albert Einstein
Crocker was following the trail of water dripping from Mercedes’s body. She wore the red bathing suit he’d seen her in before. The hallways in the house were a labyrinth of circles. He was starting to feel dizzy. The only light came from candles in sconces on the walls.
He entered a big room and stopped. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was booming from speakers hung high in the corners. Wearing the wet red bikini was a little man seated at a long high table, hunched over a bucket of KFC chicken. Crocker thought he resembled Farhed Alizadeh, but he couldn’t see the man’s face.
A phone rang. He woke up.
“Crocker?” a familiar Kentucky voice asked. “It’s Captain Sutter. Stop by my office this afternoon at two.”
The clock by the phone read 7:46. It took him a second to get his bearings and answer, “Yes, sir.”
It was Wednesday, February 20. Holly had left him a note on the kitchen table. “I’ve got an appointment, then I’m going to the gym. I’ll meet you at home for dinner. Have a nice day.”
At HQ Captain Sutter reminded Crocker that he and his team had another week and a half of leave.
“I know that, sir.”
Sutter showed him a clipping from the Charlottesville Daily Progress with a picture of a horse his brother was training that he said might be running in the Kentucky Derby.
“What’s the horse’s name?”
“What’s It 2 Ya.”
“Cool name.”
“How you feeling, Crocker? Sit down.”
“Fine.”
“You talk to Dr. Petrovian?”
“I did.”
“He help you get your head screwed on straight?”
“He tried. Said some of the threads have worn out, which is why it wobbles a little when I walk.”
“Sounds like you’re okay,” Sutter said. “Either that, or you’ve lost your mind.”
Crocker felt better just sitting in the CO’s office. Being called in usually meant he had an upcoming mission. This time it might mean he was being put out to pasture like one of Sutter’s brother’s racehorses.
Sutter said, “I wanted to tell you what I know about the three men you encountered in the tunnel.”
Crocker sipped from the bottle of water he’d brought with him. He hadn’t given the men a lot of thought since he’d been home. In fact, he couldn’t remember their faces. But he did vividly recall the tunnel ceiling falling and the feeling of suffocation. He had decided a long time ago that if he had to die, he’d rather catch a bullet and go quickly than suffocate or drown.
Sutter continued, “Although they were carrying Venezuelan passports with new names, they were really Iranian members of Unit 5000.”
“I believe I knew that already, sir.”
“The FBI used contact information recovered in El Paso to find and arrest two more individuals living in New Orleans,” Sutter said, referring to a document on his desk. “They were also Iranian undercover operatives. They had magnetic bombs in their possession like the ones used in Thailand and Athens, and plans for detonating a number of explosive devices during the Mardi Gras parade and celebration. They also had sarin.”
Sarin is a colorless, odorless nerve agent that is extremely lethal when inhaled or absorbed through the skin-five hundred times more deadly than cyanide. Back in 1988, Saddam Hussein had bombarded the Kurdish city of Halabja in northern Iraq with bombs containing sarin that killed five thousand people within a matter of minutes.
Crocker leaned forward. “The FBI has been able to confirm that?” He had assumed that the Iranians were infiltrating the U.S. in order to carry out some long-term plan. He never thought they would be called on to act so soon.
“Yes.”
“Were they planning to carry out other attacks beyond New Orleans?”
“I heard that the attack on the parade was going to be used as a diversion for a larger and potentially more lethal attack on the Waterford 3 nuclear plant, which is roughly fifty miles northwest of the city.”
Crocker sat speechless as he considered the possible ramifications.
Sutter removed his glasses and folded his hands in front of him. He said, “The FBI and CIA believe there are more coming.”
“More attacks?”
Sutter nodded. “The president is furious. Donaldson thinks this is retaliation for some of the things the president has recently authorized in Iran,” he said, referring to the actions made by the CIA’s head of operations.
Crocker knew about the Stuxnet worm, a computer virus that had temporarily shut down Iran’s nuclear program. And he’d heard a rumor, which he hoped was true, that the virus had hit other targets in Iran, including IRGC headquarters.
“Donaldson is planning a response,” Sutter said.
“Good.” The United States and Iran had been waging a secret war for years now, and Crocker and his team had played a part in it, starting a year ago off the coast of Somalia and most recently in the tunnel under Ciudad Juárez.
“What’s the status of Black Cell?” Sutter asked, leaning back in his chair.
“Ritchie, Cal, and Tré are still healing. The rest of us are good to go.”
Sutter lowered his voice. “I want to warn you, Crocker, this op is likely to be highly dangerous. It’s unlike anything we’ve attempted before. I’d go so far as to classify it as a suicide mission-but I’m not sure Donaldson will tell you that.”
Crocker was on the edge of his seat. “Where, sir?”
“I can’t disclose that now. I want you to take a couple of days and think about it. You and your men have been through a number of bad shit storms already.”
“If this has to do with responding to Unit 5000, or if it involves confronting Alizadeh in any way,” Crocker said without hesitation, “I’m all in.”
Sutter shook his head like a concerned father. “I want you to sleep on this.”
“Sir, there’s no doubt in my mind that we’re ready.”
Sutter sighed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Be here at 6 a.m. tomorrow. We’re flying up to Langley. Plan to spend the night.”
He sprung out of bed at 0430, jogged through the woods, showered, shaved, and dressed in his only black suit. Three hours later he saw the spires of the Capitol building and the Washington Monument piercing the morning fog, which filled him with pride. Great men had lived, fulfilled their dreams, and died in this city. He didn’t pretend to be as wise or as important as they were, but he considered it an honor to be part of the tradition of service to a great ideal.
Outside the Dulles terminal, he and his CO in a khaki uniform climbed into the waiting black sedan. At CIA headquarters, they walked over the great white-and-gray marble seal in the lobby and past the Wall of Honor, which listed the names of CIA agents killed in action. Crocker had known some of them, including Mike Spann, who had died fighting off Taliban prisoners in northern Afghanistan in late 2001.
Their footsteps echoed through the glass-enclosed atrium where one-sixth-scale models of the U-2, A-12, and D-21 spy planes were suspended overhead. An aide in a dark blue suit waited at the elevator to escort them up to a fourth-floor conference room.
Lou Donaldson, Jim Anders, Sy Blanc, and Leslie Walker welcomed the two men. Crocker thought Ms. Walker looked even more attractive than the last time he’d seen her, with her long brown hair pulled back, wearing a tight charcoal gray pantsuit and white blouse. He was introduced to a half dozen other analysts from CIA, a man and a woman from the National Security Agency, two agents from FBI, a woman from Homeland Security. When the deputy director of the National Security Council arrived with a young African American aide, they all took their seats.