“Do you blame yourself?” Dr. Mathews asked, staring at him with big, dark eyes.
“Somewhat. Yes. The cartel assassins wouldn’t have attacked my house if I hadn’t gone on the mission. It was my job. I understand my job and the risks I take. I never expected blowback like that. Never in a million years. I should have. That’s on me. My failure. But there’s a high level of tunnel vision that kicks in on missions like that.”
“You mean, you didn’t anticipate that the cartel leader would attack your family?” she asked.
“That’s correct, yes. I didn’t see it coming. They killed my colleague’s brother, too.”
“Paul Mancini.” Paul was Joe Mancini’s brother. Mancini was Crocker’s right-hand man.
“Do you feel responsible in any way?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Like I said…I should have considered it. I should have known it was a possibility that the cartel leader would go after our families. I was so focused on what I was doing, it didn’t cross my mind.”
It hadn’t crossed the minds of his superiors at HQ, either. But he didn’t mention that.
He parked the bike outside the hotel, waited a minute to see if anyone was following, then passed through the carpeted lobby, trying not to drip blood on the white marble patches. Sundry quick impressions registered in his head-stately, old world, regal, sophisticated, a faint smell of jasmine. White filigreed ceilings, blown-glass chandeliers.
He stood at the rear of the elevator, trying not to draw attention. A man in his condition didn’t belong here.
He waited another thirty seconds for anyone to enter the lobby, then pushed the button for the sixth floor. A young European couple hurried from inside the hotel and entered just as the doors were closing. He looked them over carefully and relaxed when he realized they were too soft and distracted to be agents or operatives.
As the elevator ascended they spoke to each another in French, complaining about the size of their bed.
Enjoy your life while you have it. Forget the size of the bed, and make love on the floor.
He smiled at them briefly, exited at the sixth floor, found the stairway, and climbed to seven. Waited at the stairway door to see whether the elevator stopped there. It didn’t.
Stood for several seconds listening outside room 732, wondering if it was unwise to even be here. Maybe he was still in shock. He punched the buzzer.
Jim Anders answered, wearing a blue oxford shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking fit and rested. Early forties, medium height, clean-cut with a bodybuilder’s physique. A shorter, younger, brown-haired woman in a blue business suit stood behind him.
“Welcome, Crocker. This is Janice Bloom. Janice is a targeter and analyst working on the Syrian account…Jesus-you okay?” he asked, seeing the blood on Crocker’s white shirt. “What happened?”
“Hi, Janice,” Crocker said. He turned to Anders. “We need to talk in private.”
Anders shut the door and flipped the lock behind him. “Talk? Are you aware that you’re bleeding?”
“Yes.”
They were in a suite with a big living room containing a table and four chairs set in front of the window. Dark hardwood floors, maroon brocade curtains. A big bed was visible through a door to the right. Classy in an old-world way.
“Point me toward the bathroom and I’ll clean up,” Crocker said.
“Here?”
“Yeah.” He grabbed Anders by the elbow. “Come with me.”
“Okay. Janice, wait here. Call a doctor.”
“No,” Crocker said. “No need.”
Anders pulled his cell out of his pocket. “You’re bleeding, Crocker. For Christ’s sake.”
“It’s a flesh wound,” countered Crocker. “Janice, please call downstairs for some towels, hydrogen peroxide, bandages, and tape, and I’ll do this myself.”
Anders pointed to the bathroom by the front door. “Jesus, Crocker, what happened?”
Crocker closed the door behind him.
“Two punks on a Kawasaki,” he said in a low voice. “I was with Jared.” Then he remembered. “Fuck…”
They stood in the white marble bathroom. Anders’s face reflected in the mirror looked alarmed. “What? Is he injured, too? Where is he? He’s supposed to be here.”
“Jared’s dead.”
Crocker pulled two shards of glass out of his right forearm as the news sunk in. When he looked up into the mirror he saw Anders hold his chest as though he’d been shot.
“What?”
“Jared’s dead. I left him lying on the street with his brains spilled out.”
“What the hell are you-Jared, the young case officer?”
Crocker held his forearm under warm water, wrapped it tightly in a towel, and waited for the bleeding to stop.
“They were attempting to kidnap him. There was a struggle. Someone pushed him in front of a bus. He fell. Crushed his head on the street.”
Anders shook his head as if he couldn’t quite comprehend. “What the hell are you saying? This is awful. Who attacked him?”
“Don’t know. At least four, maybe five young punks. Middle Eastern-looking. I checked the pockets of one of them. Found no ID. It was a planned op. Orchestrated.”
“Where?”
“On Torun, just around the corner from the Arasta Bazaar. A crowded street, broad daylight. They attacked Jared, then came after me.” Crocker pointed to his back. “Help me pull off this shirt.”
The bloody fabric on the back stuck to his skin. Anders helped him peel it up slowly.
“Broad daylight…”
“Yeah, with people everywhere. Bold motherfuckers.”
“Jared was one of our best operatives,” Anders said sadly. “You sure he’s dead?”
When the hem reached his neck, Crocker pulled it over his head. “He’s dead, Anders. He’s dead. Yes.”
Anders looked as if he was tearing up. “It’s hard to believe. Poor Jared. I…I…That’s a real nasty gash.”
“I was lucky.”
Anders shook his head. “Don’t say anything to Janice. Please don’t. She and Jared were close. They trained together at the Farm; maybe they dated, hooked up, whatever. I’d better notify the Station.”
Anders retreated to the bedroom, spoke in a low voice on the phone, and returned ten minutes later and closed the bathroom door.
“They follow you here? Were you able to ID them? They say anything to you? They identify themselves in any way?”
“No. No. No. No,” Crocker answered. “I told you that already.”
“So you saw nothing that could help us identify them?”
“I saw four of them. Two on a motorcycle; two in a van. All young guys, trained, tough.”
The front door buzzer sounded.
“Who’s that?” Crocker asked, getting ready to defend himself.
Janice answered it. A minute later she knocked on the bathroom door cradling towels, a bottle of peroxide, bandages, medical tape.
“You absolutely sure you don’t need a doctor?” she asked.
“No, I can handle this myself. Thanks.” She was pretty, with straight hair to her shoulders.
“Are we still doing this?” he asked Anders.
“What?”
“The meeting. The meeting you called us to. My colleague Akil is supposed to be here, too.”
An alarm sounded in a far corner of his brain.
“That…uh, I don’t know.” Anders quickly looked at his watch. The news had clearly thrown him off his game.
Crocker said, “Maybe we should do it later.”
Anders frowned and shook his head. “No, no, can’t. Our source is bringing us critical information. Important evidence. My understanding is that he returns to Damascus right after this.”
“Okay, then. I’ll get ready.”
“This is so goddamn disturbing,” Anders continued. “I just spoke to Jared this morning. He was scheduled to go on R &R after the mission.” His face was beet red, and he looked like he wanted to scream.