SEAL Team Six Hunt the Falcon(54)
“Correct.”
“Hi, Mercedes.”
“Ciao.”
He remembered bouncing on the backseat of the SUV. The woman, illuminated by the headlights, opening a rusted green gate. She wore dark green pants and a cream-colored sweater.
Now he was seated outside by a swimming pool, and a doctor with a shaved head and a deep crease between his friendly blue eyes was taking his blood pressure. He pressed a stethoscope to Crocker’s chest and back, then started asking questions. “Where were you born? What are your parents’ names? Where did you go to school?”
He had no problem answering, but was starting to feel impatient.
He saw DZ standing off to one side, seemingly intent on the leaves floating in the pool. Mercedes, who was short, with round hips, stood behind him smoking a cigarette. Her hair was cut parallel to the line of her jaw, and he thought she looked vaguely French. Crocker waved DZ over.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
DZ said, “The doctor’s checking to see if you’re healthy enough to fly.”
“Where am I going?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“What have you learned about the three men on the plane?” Crocker asked.
“The Brazilians recovered four bodies. They haven’t released any information about them, but we’ve heard they’re communicating with both the Venezuelan and Iranian embassies.”
“That’s a good sign,” Crocker said. The fact that the Iranians had been notified meant that some of their people were involved. He remembered the two sets of dark eyes glaring at him from the cockpit window. Something about them—the thickness of the brows, the way they were set, the pride and outrage in them—told him they were Iranian eyes, not Venezuelan.
An hour later he was in the same terminal he and Akil had entered the city in two days ago. This time he felt slightly dizzy as he stood with DZ and the dark-haired woman. “Mercedes will travel with you to Bogotá,” DZ explained. “She’s going to act like your girlfriend and never leave your side.”
She had a pretty face. Pouty lips, thick wavy hair, sparkling dark eyes, smooth skin. When she spoke, her accent was Brazilian. “You need anything, you tell me,” she said with confidence.
“Okay. But why Bogotá?”
“So the embassy doctor there can examine you again,” DZ answered. “See if you’re fit to return to Venezuela. You’ve also got two cracked molars that need to be fixed.”
Crocker said, “I want to return to Venezuela. My men are still there, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take care of the teeth later.”
“The doctor will decide that.”
The whine of the jet’s engine bothered him, and when it gained speed down the runway, he had to resist a panicked urge to get up from his seat. In a flash it all came back to him, the man shooting at him from the cockpit, him at the wheel of the tanker truck, the blinking red light on the end of the 737’s wing. Then the powerful jolt as the truck hit the jet.
He found Brubeck on his iPod and let the 5/4 swing of “Take Five” work its magic. The melody and rhythm calmed him, and he started to feel like himself. Music was transcendent. He wanted to learn more about it and understand how it worked. Not the hard rock and metal he’d listened to as a kid, but jazz, especially cool fifties jazz and bebop—Stan Getz, Dizzy Gillespie, Zoot Sims, Charlie Byrd, Art Tatum, Ben Webster, Lester Young.
Crocker never graduated from college, having gone straight from high school into the navy. Not that he had any regrets, except that he hadn’t rubbed shoulders with people who were knowledgeable about a wide range of subjects, particularly the arts and music.
Drinks were served. He ordered a Diet Coke, then turned to Mercedes, tapped her on the shoulder, and asked what she was listening to.
“Music,” she said grinning.
“No kidding.” At least she had a sense of humor.
“If you really want to know, his name is Caetano Veloso.” She had a tough, self-possessed demeanor that he found appealing.
“Caetano…who?”
Her eyes glistened with mischief. “You’ve never heard of Caetano Veloso?” she asked, tossing back her hair and pursing her full lips.
“No. You ever hear of Malcolm and Angus Young?”
“Caetano is a huge international star.”
“So are Malcolm and Angus Young. They’re the ass-kicking leaders of AC/DC.”
“Tell me about it, Thomas.”
He laughed inside. The last person who’d called him Thomas was his high school girlfriend Natalie, who was married now and living in Northern California. She had dark eyes, too, and an insatiable sexual appetite that got them both in trouble when they were caught making love on her parents’ sofa. Natalie had not been allowed to see him after that, which pissed him off to the point that he got drunk and banged on her front door one night, only to be chased away by her shotgun-wielding father. Mercedes was like a shorter, curvier, Brazilian version of her.