Hunt the Wolf (18 page)

“Did Davis and the others find the Norwegian girl?” he asked.

“I don’t think so, but they did stop the men who tried to escape from the hotel,” Anders answered.

That was something. “Are you sure they didn’t find her?”

Donaldson, in khakis and a rumpled blue blazer, groaned. “Listen, Crocker. Your men have created another huge headache.”

“How come?”

“Because they pistol-whipped a personal friend of the sultan’s. A Sheik Rastani, from Kuwait. And when Omani security forces tried to intervene, they fought them, too.”

“Good. Where’s Sheik Rastani now?”

“No idea, but your guys Davis and Akil are currently being held in an Omani jail, along with a security officer from the Norwegian embassy.”

Crocker felt his blood pressure shoot up. “What the fuck are they doing there? I want them released.”

“We’re waiting for our ambassador to convince the sultan of Oman to turn them over to us.”

Crocker jumped to their defense. “Sheik Rastani is the pig who bought those girls and smuggled them out of Pakistan.”

“Allegedly.”

“Not allegedly. It’s a fact!”

“He’s also a good friend of the sultan.”

“My men and I need to be released immediately, so we can locate the other girl.”

“If she’s here, the Omanis will find her.”

“I don’t trust them.”

“When did you turn into the fucking Masked Avenger?” Donaldson snarled.

“When did you turn into a goddamn pussy?”

The CIA officer’s face turned a bright shade of red. “Watch your mouth, Crocker! I’ll have you railroaded out of the service right now!”

The SEAL team leader didn’t doubt that the CIA official was capable of doing that. So he softened his approach. “Look. We know the sheik is dirty. We got his name from a computer that was in the possession of the kidnappers. And we have evidence that he purchased the Norwegian girl for a million dollars.”

“So what?”

“We need to locate him.”

“Sheik Rastani? My money says he’s left the country.”

“He needs to be arrested.”

Jim Anders, who was standing with his arms crossed against his chest, chewing the inside of his mouth, chimed in. “Your men beat up the other two kidnappers so bad they’re not going anywhere.”

“I hope they die and rot in hell.”

“You might get your wish,” Donaldson snapped. “One of them sustained a major head injury and is barely alive.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.”

“They get a guy named Cyrus?”

“Yeah. We’ve ID’d him as Cyrus Aghassi.”

“He’s the one who snatched Malie in Oslo. I want to talk to him.”

The CIA officer cleared his throat. “You’re not talking to anyone, Crocker. You’re going home.”

The thought of ending the mission brought the dark idea that had been looming to the front of his consciousness.

Still seated on the edge of the bed, Crocker said, “Wait a minute. What’s the latest on the
Syrena
?”

Donaldson looked at bland-faced Anders, who was scrolling through his BlackBerry, then back at Crocker. “Why?”

“Where is it now?”

“I have no idea. I traveled here to get you to sign an apology to the Omanis and give you your orders to return home.”

“It could be important.”

Donaldson snapped his finger at Anders, who reached into a manila envelope and produced the typed apology.

Crocker quickly scanned the letter on U.S. embassy stationery and tossed it on the bed. “I’m not signing anything until you get me out of this hospital.”

“Hurry up, Crocker, I’ve got more important things to do than cleaning up your messes.”

“You’re forgetting something.”

“What?”

“The connection between the kidnappers and Zaman.”

“Just sign the letter.”

“Last I heard, the
Syrena
was headed into the Persian Gulf. Remember, this is a ship that first came to our attention on an invoice we recovered during the raid on AZ’s safe house. It just happens to be the same ship that was used by the kidnappers to smuggle Malie and the French girl out of Pakistan.”

“So?”

“There were photos of blondes in cages on Zaman’s computer.”

Donaldson’s thin lips curled into a disgusted snarl. “That blow to the head must have scrambled your brains, Crocker.”

“I think Zaman was selling those girls as a way to raise money for his other terrorist activities.”

“That’s a stretch.”

“Look. If the ship is part of AZ’s operation, so are those two kidnappers in the hospital. They need to be interrogated, we have to find Malie, and, finally, the
Syrena
needs to be boarded and searched.”

Donaldson stared hard at Crocker, then turned on his toes and started pacing back and forth across the tile floor.

“Don’t you ever fucking quit?” the CIA officer asked.

“You should be thanking me and my men for stopping the kidnappers and recovering the girl.”

“Sign the apology so we can get you out of Oman.”

“I’m not signing anything.”

“Then enjoy your stay, Crocker.”

Donaldson gestured to Anders, and the two started to leave.

“I thought you cared about stopping Zaman. I guess I was wrong.”

The CIA officer turned.

“If you weren’t busted up already, I’d punch you in the fucking mouth.”

Crocker tightened the belt of the hospital robe and stood. “Go ahead, Donaldson. Take your best shot!”

Donaldson started toward him, then halted and growled, “You’ll regret the way you’ve conducted yourself.”

“Interrogate the kidnappers and find the girl!”

“You’re finished here, Crocker. Go home.”

T
om Crocker
found himself somewhere in the desert behind the wheel of a pickup truck. A big saguaro cactus behind him cast a long shadow, which made him think he was in the American Southwest, or maybe northern Mexico, along the border.

The morning sun burned through the windshield and stung his eyes.

Squinting, he turned the ignition key and tried to remember what he was doing here and where he was going. The starter burped and turned, then very quickly ground to a stop.

He tried the ignition again, only to hear the same terrible churning sound and get the same result. The alternator light shone red.

Now what?

He got out warily, boots crunching the sun-baked dirt past the motel sign that he couldn’t read through the glare. Five paces back, he popped open the hood, which was already hot. As he swung it up, the thick smell hit him like a brick to the face.

He almost passed out.

Hot damn!

A small animal, a cat maybe, had crawled up into the engine compartment and gotten chewed up in the fan belt. The stench thick and horrendous, a cloying sweetness mixed with burnt flesh and entrails. He felt bile rising from his stomach and grabbed his throat.

Struggling to keep his breakfast down, Crocker awoke. Opened his eyes in the Omani hospital room, which was more familiar and real.

But the nausea was still with him, and the smell surrounded him, stronger than ever—entering his mouth, nose, skin, and eyes. Pulling the sheets aside, he searched for its source in the bed and underneath it, then in the room’s shadows, and found nothing.

Strange.

The room was empty. Walls painted with long dark shadows created by the moon. And he was alone.

Still the smell grew thicker, and his stomach was about to spasm.

Unable to stand it anymore, he removed his hand from his mouth and shouted, “Nurse! I need to see you! Quick!”

He slid out of bed and inspected his hospital gown again. Clean.

Where the hell is it coming from?

Growing more intense, traveling up his nose into his brain. If the bars weren’t blocking him, he would have jumped out the window.

Christ!

A young Asian nurse in white flung open the door and turned on the light. He stood squinting and doubled over in his light blue hospital gown by the edge of the bed.

“Sir, what’s wrong?” she asked, hurrying to his side.

“The smell is making me sick.”

“What?”

“The stench! The smell. Get rid of it. I can’t stand it. Please.”

“What smell?”

“What? You don’t smell it?”

She sniffed the air, then shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

“But—”

Unimaginable. Yet her face, her demeanor, the sound of her voice were all sincere.

That’s when Crocker remembered where he’d experienced the awful stink before. Emanating from the smoldering, eviscerated body on the floor of the suite in the Al Bustan Palace hotel.

The Asian nurse saw the troubled look in his eyes.

“Is there some way I can help you?” she asked.

The smell was some type of flashback. An echo of the trauma he’d endured, the violence, the fact that he’d narrowly escaped death.

“I’ll call a doctor,” she said as she helped him back into bed.

“That won’t be necessary.” He’d experienced flashbacks before, but they’d always been visual.

“It will just take a minute.”

“I was having a bad dream. I’m okay.”

Her expression remained compassionate and sweet. “If you want, sir, I can crack open the window.”

“That would be helpful. Thanks,” he said, slipping back under the covers, feeling like a little boy who had disturbed his parents’ sleep.

When he’d had nightmares as a child, his mother had told him to think of pleasant things. So he imagined himself and Holly hiking in the Shenandoah Valley. A beautiful late October day. The trees blazed with fall colors. As he conjured the smell of leaves and grass and burning firewood in the distance, the stench disappeared and he fell asleep.

“Boss?”

“What?”

“Wake up, boss.”

The SEAL team leader pushed himself up and rubbed his eyes, aware that he was still in the hospital and thinking he had to be somewhere else.

“Boss.”

“What is it?” Grasping for details in the half-conscious fog.

The face looming over him was unidentifiable because of the angle, but he recognized the voice—deep and resonant, with a hint of foreign accent. Akil.

“Akil, what’s going on? Did you find the girl?”

The Egyptian American looked thinner and paler than before.

“Not yet, boss. You feeling better?”

Funny, coming from him.

“Fine. Yeah. How about you? And how’d you get in here?” The reality of his circumstances was coming back, along with familiar aches and pains.

“I was running a fever,” the Egyptian American explained, “so they transferred me to the hospital, where I met Colonel Bahrami. You remember Colonel Bahrami, don’t you?”

“Who?”

A stiff-backed, uniformed man stepped out of the long shadow across the door, and Crocker recognized the intelligent, mustached face from the afternoon before.

“Oh, yes. Hello, Colonel.”

“Sorry to interrupt your sleep, sir, but your colleague told me you wouldn’t mind,” he said in his clipped British accent.

“Did I hear correctly? You still haven’t found the Norwegian girl?”

“Not yet, sir.”

Akil explained that the colonel had visited his room the night before and the two had started talking about their experiences growing up, their respective intelligence services, and what they perceived to be the primary threats to their countries.

Colonel Bahrami’s interest had been piqued when Akil mentioned Abu Rasul Zaman. He said that Omani intelligence was very concerned about al-Qaeda activity in the area, and particularly in Yemen. The colonel had explained that Oman, which continued to make an effort to get along with all countries, had a complicated relationship with its neighbor to the southwest that dated back to the 1970s, when Yemen had supported the pro-communist Dhohar rebels who were trying to overthrow the sultan of Oman. After the rebels were defeated, Sultan Qaboos bin Said Al Said had launched a diplomatic campaign to improve relations between the two neighbors, which had been successful in fostering trade and commerce.

But now Yemen was embroiled in political turmoil. Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP) controlled important territory in the south of the country, near the borders of Oman and Saudi Arabia, and seemed to be growing in strength. Meanwhile, Houthi Shiite rebels in the north were fighting a civil war that threatened to overthrow the government.

“What does this have to do with me and my men?” Crocker asked, shifting to the edge of the bed and flexing his knees.

Colonel Bahrami stood before him in his clean khaki uniform. His white teeth, dark eyes, and black mustache all gleamed, set off by his caramel-colored skin.

“The fact that this ship, the
Syrena,
is registered in Yemen and was used to smuggle these kidnapped girls into my country intrigues me,” he said with great seriousness.

“It intrigues me, too,” Crocker said.

“Your colleague Akil explained how a document found in Zaman’s safe house seems to connect him to this ship. Do you agree?”

“Yes. I do.”

“According to our people stationed in Khasab, the
Syrena
has already passed through the Strait of Hormuz and has entered the Persian Gulf,” Colonel Bahrami added.

Crocker looked up. “Bound for where?”

“Bushehr, Iran, apparently.”

The SEAL leader remembered, and as he did, the noxious smell seemed to rise again from the floor.

“I was under the impression that security at the strait was relatively tight,” Crocker remarked, squeezing shut his nostrils.

“All we know is that the ship had the necessary papers and clearances to get through. Where they came from, and whether or not they were fraudulent, is unclear.”

“And your people are a hundred percent sure that it has entered the Gulf?”

The Omani colonel grinned sheepishly. “The question I have, sir, the one that continues to trouble me, is this: Why would a Yemeni ship be bound for Iran? These two countries are barely on speaking terms. I think this is highly unusual.”

“I agree.”

Crocker ran a hand gently over his mouth and right eye. The swelling seemed to have subsided considerably, and most of the soreness was gone.

“I might know a way to find out more about the ship,” the American offered. The more he focused on the unfinished aspects of his mission, the more the smell seemed to subside.

“How?”

“I heard that two of the kidnappers were captured. Is that correct?”

“They’re under guard on an upper floor of this hospital.”

“Would it be possible for us to pay them a visit?”

“That could be complicated.”

“They were on the
Syrena
. They might be persuaded to tell us what they know,” Crocker reasoned.

Colonel Bahrami considered for a minute, then looked at his watch. “This will require permission from my superiors.”

“How long will that take?”

“Several hours at least,” the colonel answered.

“In the meantime, help me find the missing girl.”

Bahrami looked surprised. “But the Norwegian ambassador has already expressed his concern to our sultan, and our sultan told him he’s not convinced that this girl ever arrived in Muscat.”

Crocker sat up. “I’m almost certain that she did.”

“We’re not.”

“And I think I can prove it.”

“How?”

“I can show you, if you bring me my clothes and get a car to drive us to the Al Bustan Palace hotel.”

Crocker’s pants, underwear, and shirt, which had been washed and pressed, were still stained with blood. But he didn’t care. The three men exited the black Mercedes. It was lunchtime, and several groups of businessmen and tourists sat eating at metal tables overlooking the hotel’s lagoon and garden. They craned their necks to watch the big American with the badly bruised face and the pronounced limp pass. These well-heeled travelers hardly registered with the SEAL leader, who was hoping that his hunch was correct.

The head of hotel security—a short, stocky former ISI officer named Waleed—recognized Crocker and confirmed that yes, all entrances to the establishment and elevators were monitored by security cameras.

“I figured they would be,” Crocker said.

“We take pride in our security,” Waleed offered as he escorted them to a dark room behind the front desk. There, the men leaned forward to study grainy video footage from the passenger elevator that serviced the sixth-floor suite.

“It takes a special key to operate this particular lift,” Waleed explained.

“I rode in it,” Crocker told him. “I know.”

When the time signature on the bottom of the video registered 03:14:05 two mornings earlier, a corpulent man wearing a dishdasha and a black goatee entered with two large men in suits.

“There he is,” Crocker said pointing to the man in the dishdasha. “That’s Sheik Rastani.”

“Perhaps. But that proves nothing,” Colonel Bahrami replied.

“Wait.”

Approximately five minutes later, another group of passengers entered the same elevator on the ground floor, four men and two women in dark burkas. When the woman on the right side of the screen turned away from the camera, Crocker recognized Brigitte’s profile.

“Two girls entered. You see?”

He couldn’t make out the second young woman’s features, but thought he spotted strands of light hair sticking out of the hood of her burka.

“That’s Malie,” he said, excitedly. “There she is. There’s your proof!”

“That’s hardly proof,” Colonel Bahrami countered. “How do we know she’s not a servant, or some other sort of employee?”

Good question.

“Did anyone see this woman leave the hotel?” Crocker asked.

Mr. Waleed stuck his bottom lip out and shook his head. “We saw the sheik. We saw his men. At least, the ones who survived. But not this girl. No.”

Crocker asked the hotel security officer to fast-forward the tape. Images of a mostly empty elevator overlapped one another on the screen.

At around 08:42:23, according to the time signature on the bottom, Crocker saw his own image standing with two other men.

The events that had happened soon thereafter returned to Crocker’s consciousness, along with the stench of the smoldering body.

“Slow it down!” he shouted a little too loudly.

Waleed complied.

Crocker felt uncomfortable as he and the other three men watched his black-and-white image exit the elevator. It was like looking at one’s own ghost.

Roughly twelve minutes later, Sheik Rastani, wearing a white dishdasha, and several other men hurried into the tight space and started to descend. They seemed highly agitated, which made sense, because they were running away from Crocker, who had entered the suite.

They had left Brigitte in the bathroom, where he found her. But where was the second girl?

Another ten minutes of videotape passed before a group of armed Omani soldiers were seen entering the same elevator and going up to six.

“I didn’t see the second girl anywhere,” Crocker said.

Colonel Bahrami snapped, “Play it back.”

They reviewed the tape six more times, once so slowly that they were watching it one frame at a time, then viewed it again from 3 a.m. two mornings ago all the way to the present.

Two young women in burkas had gone up, but only one of them had come down, and that was Brigitte.

“What the hell happened to Malie?” Akil asked. “She couldn’t have just disappeared.”

Colonel Bahrami: “Maybe they took the second female down the stairway.”

The emergency stairway and all the exits were also monitored by security cameras. But none of them had captured the second woman either leaving the sixth floor or exiting the building.