Hunt the Falcon (9 page)

“And the enemy he got to sleep with was Pamela Anderson,” Davis added.

Mancini: “That's before Kid Rock got hold of her and turned her into trailer trash.”

“Monica isn't like that,” Ritchie said. “She's classy, and we get along.”

Akil: “Just wait.”

“You know why marriage is like a violin?” Mancini asked. “After the music is over, the strings are still attached.”

As the SEALs bantered back and forth, Cal used his fingernail to peel the label off a Dos Equis bottle.

“Cal, you dating anyone?” Ritchie asked.

“Not really. No.”

“You keep in touch with that Thai girl?”

“Naw.”

“You live by yourself?”

“I'm sharing a house in Lago Mar with two young waitresses who work at Hooters.”

“Seriously?” Ritchie asked, raising his left eyebrow.

Cal nodded. “Yeah.”

“What are they like?” Akil wanted to know.

“Beautiful but messy as all get-out. Leave their clothes and shit everywhere. Walk around in their panties.”

“That's all?” Akil asked.

“Sometimes even less.”

“And that's a problem?” Ritchie asked.

Cal smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Naw.”

After dinner, he, Akil, and Ritchie ducked into a theater to catch the newest James Bond movie. Davis returned to the hotel to Skype his wife and year-old son. Crocker and Mancini entered a bar called Islands and found a young Hispanic man in a white polo with a Miami Dolphins logo on the front pocket sitting in a booth in the back.

“Ernesto Navarro. Most people call me Neto,” he said, offering a hand with a large burn scar.

Crocker asked, “You the guy who's selling the beachfront property?”

“On Margarita Island. Yes.”

Having dispensed with the bona fides, the SEALs sat. The room was dark and noisy, with most of the young patrons crowded around the bar.

Neto, who was with the Caracas CIA station, asked, “You guys okay to talk here, or do you want to go somewhere else?”

“This is fine,” Crocker said, looking around and seeing that no one was seated close by. “Do we run any risk of being watched?”

“By SEBIN this time of year? About as much of a chance as the Wizards winning the NBA finals.”

SEBIN (Servicio Bolivariano de Inteligencia Nacional) was the Venezuela secret police, previously known as DISIP. The Washington Wizards were the worst team in the NBA, with a record of two wins and fifteen losses.

“I assume you've been briefed on why we're here,” Crocker said, cutting to the chase.

“Unit 5000,” Neto answered, pointing to his head. “I've become an expert.”

“Thanks for doing this on Christmas Eve.”

“Duty, man. Whatever needs to be done. My kids are already in bed dreaming about Santa Claus.”

“How many do you have?” Mancini asked.

“Two young boys. Total rascals.”

Crocker: “I hope Santa's going to be generous.”

“He will be.”

The waitress, who wore a Hawaiian shirt tied above her waist, placed three bottles of cold beer on the table and smiled to reveal a metal ball in her tongue. She left behind a cloud of orchid-scented perfume.

“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.

B
lack 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
.

Neto said, “This is El Centro. We'll distribute the toys here.”

Sanchez got out of the lead vehicle, and he and Neto walked into one of the bodegas. A few minutes later a half dozen boys and girls in shorts and dresses ran out into the rain. Seeing Santa Claus, they pounded aggressively on the Toyota's doors and hood. Mancini got out “Ho-ho-hoing” and started handing out toys, one per kid.

The number of children grew exponentially—like the raindrops. They seemed to come from all directions, shouting with excitement. The SEALs couldn't hand out the toys fast enough. When they ran out of gifts, they gave the kids dollar bills until they had no more.

It all happened in a fifteen-minute frenzy of hands, pleas, and squeals of delight. Then, shouting “Feliz Navidad!” the men piled back into the trucks and raced up one of the trails into the dark.

“What about the gangs?” Crocker asked, checking the SIG Sauer P226R 9mm pistol Neto had given him and concealing it in the inside-the-waist holster under his black shirt.

“Seems like they're taking the night off.”

As they climbed, the shacks seemed to be packed closer together and the trail became so narrow they could barely squeeze through. Sanchez, who was driving the lead vehicle, braked at a steep turn that veered to the left and cut the lights.

Neto stopped behind him. With the wipers flapping frantically, he said, “It's just ahead, at the top of this hill. We should get out here.”

“Okay.”

Mancini slipped out of the beard and Santa suit, and they armed themselves with handguns, a few MP7 submachine guns, and night-vision goggles.

“Do you think they've been warned that we're coming?” Crocker asked.

“It's possible,” Neto answered.

“Let's move fast.”

Davis and Cal stayed behind to guard the vehicles. Sanchez led the way, with Crocker and Mancini behind him. Neto took Ritchie and Akil down another trail to cover the rear of the shack, which hung precariously on a ledge to the right of the trail at the top of the hill. The shack was little more than a patched-together wood-and-tin-siding structure with a big blue plastic tarp covering most of the right side. The whole thing was perhaps thirty feet wide in front, accessed by a door on the right side next to a narrow debris-filled dirt alley that separated it from the shack beside it. The left side of the building bordered the edge of a cliff, and though it was difficult to see, there appeared to be a whole slew of shacks behind it.

A pale yellow light shone through the soiled and cracked window. Crocker and Mancini took up preassigned firing positions as Sanchez rapped on the door.

A woman appeared, wide and dark-skinned, midtwenties, her dark hair pulled back, wearing what looked like panties and a blue sports bra. A very young boy and girl stood behind her. She held the screen door open and was waving her hands and explaining something in Spanish when Crocker heard the sound of scraping wood in the narrow alley, then footsteps. Turning to Mancini, he whispered, “You and Sanchez inspect the house. I'm going into the alley.”

He took off, pushing past Sanchez, and tried to find the object moving in the narrow space. Everything he saw was either black or shades of green through the night-vision goggles.

Hearing something being dragged across the roof, he looked up and saw a dark object the size and shape of a length of sewer pipe falling toward his head. There was no room to jump back and no time to lunge forward, so he tried to push it away with his hands.

The cement pipe grazed his left forearm, tearing away skin. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Crocker jumped back against the opposite wall so the pipe wouldn't hit his feet. He wanted to scream, but focused on scooting around the big pipe and following the sound of feet scurrying across the tin roof, then jumping and landing farther down the alley.

He quickly reached the back of the house and, seeing a moving shadow to his left, turned and squeezed into a little passageway, past a latrine overrun with rats. As he stepped around them, he heard three quick gunshots from the house, followed by a woman's screams.

Crocker had no radio. For a second he considered entering the shack from the rear, but decided to continue pursuing the person running away. He wondered what had happened to Neto and the others, then saw the back of his assailant's head sliding down a ledge and disappearing from sight.

He ran fast, and when he tried to stop on the muddy ground, his feet slid out from under him and he fell off the cliff. He saw the tops of skyscrapers and clouds in the distance, and had enough presence of mind to twist his body and get his arms under him to break his fall. Still, he hit the wet grassy turf with a thud that jarred his neck and caused him to tumble sideways into the back of his assailant's legs.

He realized it was a male when he saw a densely bearded face. Then he felt the man's hot breath and fingernails digging into his neck. Crocker couldn't reach his pistol, which had dislodged from his holster during the fall and landed somewhere in the high grass. Nor could he think clearly, because the abrupt landing had winded him.

His instincts took over, and his body carried out the unarmed defensive tactics drilled into his head fifteen years ago by an overweight, badass instructor named Al Morrel, who had been Elvis Presley's personal bodyguard.

“At any point or any situation, there will be some vulnerable point of your enemy's body open to attack,” Morrel had said. “Attack this point with all your strength—while screaming, if the situation allows. Screaming serves two purposes. One, it frightens and confuses your enemy. And two, screaming allows you to take a deep breath, which will put more oxygen in your bloodstream.”

It was hard to scream with the savage's dirty hands around his neck, but still Crocker drew air through his nasal passages and tried. At the same time he drove the heel of his right hand into his enemy's nose with a tremendous upward motion, shoving the nasal bone into the man's brain. Crocker's attacker groaned his final breath and loosened his grip, which allowed Crocker to bellow.

His roar echoed as the man's body twitched. Crocker took a deep breath, shoved him off, then tried to move his own body to assess the damage he'd sustained.

Luckily, he hadn't suffered an injury to his spinal column or broken any bones—just scratches, abrasions, a severely bruised left forearm, and a sore ass and lower back. Searching the dead man's body, in the inside pocket of his gray plastic rain poncho he found a plastic pouch containing a Venezuelan passport and other documents. According to the passport, the man's name was Octavo Alvarez.

Something about his thick black eyebrows and the shade of his skin caused Crocker to doubt he was an Alvarez, or even Venezuelan. The little gold pendant the man wore around his neck confirmed Crocker's suspicions when Crocker ripped it off and examined it closely with the night-vision goggles he found nearby in the grass. It was stamped with the image of a hand raising an AK-47 with a globe in the background—the logo of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards.

Known as Sepah or IRGC, members of this militant Shiite Muslim group took their orders from the Iranian mullahs, whose authority they believed superseded those of the elected government. Contained under the umbrella of the IRGC was the Quds Force, a special forces element tasked with unconventional warfare (i.e., terrorism). Unit 5000 was the aggressive new Quds Force element run by Colonel Farhed Alizadeh—the Falcon.

“Makes sense…” Crocker said, looking down at the grimace on the dead man's face, which was being pelted with rain. He stuck the plastic sleeve with the man's passport and other documents in the front waistband of his pants and felt in the wet grass for his weapon.

Locating it, he wiped the action dry with his shirttail, and clicked off the safety so it was ready to use. Hearing people above, he crawled up the embankment and hid by the lip.

He recognized Akil's voice whispering, “Let's look down here.”

“Akil?” he whispered back.

“Boss?”

Akil slid down with Ritchie behind him, both clutching MP5s.

“Who the fuck is he?” Akil asked, pointing at the dead man.

“Some guy who called himself Alvarez but is really IRGC.”

“You get his Iranian name?”

“Don't worry about that now,” Crocker whispered, grimacing.

“You hurt?”

“A couple bumps and bruises, but I'm fine.”

They reached the top, where Neto informed them that the Venezuelan police would probably be arriving soon.

“Let's go then,” Crocker said. “Get in the trucks.”

At 0705 the next morning, the six members of Black Cell were back at the hotel packing their bags when Crocker got a call from Neto.

“What's up?” he asked, swallowing two Advils with a glass of water to help ease the pain in his lower back.

“The chief wants to see you.”

“The station chief? When?”

“Now.”

“We're in the process of moving to another hotel,” Crocker said, assuming this summons had something to do with the previous night's raid. He'd handed the documents he had taken from the terrorist over to Neto. Maybe the Agency had gleaned some important info from them.

“There's been a change of plans,” Neto said.

Plans always changed. Crocker was okay with that. “No problem, Neto. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

Neto explained, “We have an office not far from where you are. Go to Las Mercedes Avenue and turn right. You'll see a tall Banco Popular building halfway down the street. Go up to the ninth floor and look for Global Partners Investments.”

“What time?” Crocker asked.

“ASAP. We're here now.”

“You want me to come alone?” Crocker asked.

“Let me check,” Neto said, then put the phone on hold.

Crocker and his men had returned shortly after 0400, napped, and had ordered breakfast from room service. Now the two hours they had spent after they had left the slum of Petare replayed in his head, a movie of Caracas side streets, back alleys, byways and highways. Neto and Sanchez had made sure to shake off any SEBIN or Venezuelan police tails before dropping them off at their hotel.

Neto's deep voice came back on the line. “Bring your deputy.”

“Mancini and I will be there in ten.”

Crocker didn't have time to change his clothes or shave. He limped down Avenida Principal de las Mercedes in his dirty black pants and T-shirt, with Mancini by his side talking about the recent announcement that President Chávez had slipped into a coma.

“Any chance he'll recover?” Crocker asked, scanning the street for plainclothes police and seeing men in brown uniforms throwing plastic bags of garbage into a large green truck.

“Unlikely,” Mancini answered. “Apparently he's got stage-four colon cancer. He had a baseball-sized tumor removed several years ago, along with chemotherapy. During the recent election campaign he claimed he was cancer free, which turned out to be a lie.”