SEAL Team Six Hunt the Falcon(65)

“Interesting character,” Crocker said, pivoting in the chair and grabbing another Diet Coke off the table, popping it open, and downing it. His thirst seemed unending.

Rappaport leaned back in the chair and, holding his hands behind his head, said, “You sure you want to continue, or have you had enough?”

“I don’t plan to stop until we get the Falcon,” Crocker said, remembering the short man sitting at the table in the interrogation room and involuntarily clenching his teeth. “I spoke to my CO. My two associates and I are cleared to go.”

“Then pay close attention, because things just got a lot more complicated,” Rappaport said, reaching into a manila envelope and tossing a BlackBerry on the table. “Where’d you recover this bad boy?”

Crocker stared at the phone for a second before his memory kicked in. “Isn’t that the one we found in the truck we stole outside the interrogation center?”

“Correct,” Melkasian answered.

“We found some interesting e-mails on it,” Rappaport offered.

Crocker finished chewing and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”

Rappaport said, “Save your aggression for the field, Crocker.” Then, turning to Melkasian, he growled, “Get Sue from the Crime and Narcotics Center and Sy Blanc on the secure phone.”

“Done and dusted.”

While Melkasian dialed the number in Langley, his boss continued, “Remember the three suspected Unit 5000 operatives who were staying in Mexico under assumed names?”

Crocker’s memory was a bit cloudy. A lot had happened since the last time he and Rappaport and Melkasian had met.

“The guys in San Miguel de Allende,” Rappaport offered, trying to help him.

“Yes, sir. I remember.”

“Well, they seem to be referred to in some of the e-mails on here,” he said pointing to the BlackBerry. “One of the most recent messages reads, and I translate: ‘Time to move the furniture from SMA to TX.’ ”

“SMA as in San Miguel de Allende?” Crocker asked.

“Most likely. And TX as in Texas.”

The danger posed by Unit 5000 operatives entering the States struck Crocker like a kick to the head. “Holy fuck,” he said out loud.

“Yeah, holy fuck.”

Melkasian pointed to the speakerphone and gave a thumbs-up. Rappaport looked at Crocker and said, “Let’s see if Sue and Sy Blanc agree.”

The consensus among the CIA analysts was that Unit 5000 had activated a plan that involved smuggling the three Iranians with Venezuelan passports into the United States. Their purpose for doing so wasn’t clear, although the NSA had picked up some chatter on Hezbollah and Hamas websites and blogs about a possible terrorist attack on the upcoming Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans.

Everyone agreed that the Iranians had to be stopped. Sue reported that Mexican PFM had tracked them to the city of Chihuahua. They were driving a silver 2009 Corolla registered to a Venezuelan businessman living in Mexico City, and seemed to be heading to Ciudad Juárez, across from the Texas border.

Donaldson and Anders were brought into the discussion, and it was decided that the FBI and Homeland Security would be alerted immediately. Also, Crocker, Tré, and Mancini would leave for Ciudad Juárez as soon as possible. There they would coordinate with the CIA case officer on the scene named Jim Randal.

After the phone conference ended, Melkasian got on his cell and arranged for a private CIA-owned carrier to fly the three men directly to Ciudad Juárez.

“You need to be at the airport at six a.m.,” Melkasian reported.

“We’ll be there.”



Crocker didn’t know whether it was the seriousness of the threat or all the caffeinated sodas he’d consumed in the conference room, but either way, he was fired up. Back at the safe house, he briefed his men on the upcoming mission. Then the three of them went to a local Italian joint for dinner—fried calamari, pasta, grilled fish, salad, dessert, and bottled water.

Later that night, after packing his gear, he called Holly, who was watching a rerun of Suits, which Crocker didn’t care for but was one of Holly’s favorite shows. She said, “Tom, my therapist has diagnosed me with PTSD and mild depression.”

The PTSD didn’t surprise him, given what she’d gone through in Libya, but the depression was troubling. “You trust her?” he asked.

“I have no reason not to. I told you I haven’t been feeling well.”

“But isn’t it normal that you would feel down for a while after what happened?”

“She put me on Prozac.”