Hunt the Wolf (2 page)

“Good to see you again, too. How’s your family?”

“Very good. Thank you.”

“I’m glad.” Crocker wasn’t much for small talk.

“Mr. Maguire is waiting at the hotel.” That would be Ritchie, the fifth member of Crocker’s team.

“Good.”

The Ramada Plaza Karachi was a long punt from the airport, nestled in an industrial zone. A standard semimodern structure inside concrete barriers manned by police.

The sky was turning dark by the time they arrived. The city of twenty million glowed in the distance like a murky orange dream, a polyglot of glass-and-steel business towers, colonial monuments, mosques, neo-Gothic cathedrals, Sikh and Hindu temples.

While the other guys checked in, Crocker went directly to the room he was sharing with Ritchie. He found him watching BBC World News and sipping from a can of Coke. The air conditioner groaned under the burden of the humid ninety-degree-plus August heat.

“What’s going on?”

Ritchie was a cool customer. Six feet tall, fit, straight dark hair, fierce black eyes, high cheekbones from the Cherokee blood on his mother’s side. He was a meticulous explosives expert and breacher who had a wild side that he kept well concealed. Mostly.

A couple of years ago he’d been arrested for murdering a biker who pulled a knife on him in a bar, a big dude with a beard and a skull and crossbones tattooed on his bald head. Ritchie had stopped there after work, to have a beer and flirt with the blond bartender, when this big biker and a couple of his buddies started giving Ritchie shit about a turquoise amulet he wore around his neck. Some kind of tribal thing that had been passed down from his grandfather.

The biker called it “faggot’s necklace” and tried to rip it off. Ritchie slapped the biker’s hand away and said he’d heard he liked to suck cock.

Whereupon the biker pulled a knife and lunged at Ritchie’s throat. Ritchie, who was fast and a lot stronger than he looked, redirected the force behind the blade back into the biker’s chest, under his ribs, into his heart. The biker died on the spot.

He was thrown in jail, but was later exonerated and promoted to master chief. His SEAL teammates thought it was funny in a can-you-believe-it kind of way. Ritchie? Easygoing Ritchie?

But Crocker knew. He ran with Ritchie three mornings a week through the forested lowlands near where they lived. Ritchie seemed like a laid-back guy until you challenged him. Then watch out.

Now he smiled at Crocker and shut off the TV.

“I’ve got all our climbing gear waiting in Islamabad,” Ritchie said. “Ice axes, climbing helmets, harnesses, ascenders, carabiners, trekking poles.”

“You get the carabiners I asked you for?” Crocker started rearranging the furniture. Desk by the window. Bed turned so that it faced the door.

“Locking and nonlocking.”

“Good.”

Unpacking, he laid out a black T-shirt and pants on the chair. He had multiples of each, exactly the same.

“The weather might be more difficult than we—”

The soft-spoken team leader stopped him. “I thought we’d get a clear window through September.”

“Just got a weather update from the German team that’s there. There’s a chance of high winds and freezing temperatures at base camp.”

“The weather hopefully won’t stop us.”

Ritchie got up and threw the bolt on the door. Then he punched on the TV again and cranked up the sound.

Crocker, who had stripped down to his underwear, noted the all-business look in the explosive expert’s dark eyes. “What you got?”

Ritchie pulled a large envelope out of one of the dresser drawers and threw it on the bed. Then pointed to a series of surveillance photos of a three-story apartment building.

Crocker stopped. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Kemari. The port area of Karachi. Near the railroad tracks.”

He knew the general vicinity. “Good.”

Crocker noted that the primitive concrete structure stood on a corner next to what looked like a car repair lot. Behind it stood an abandoned field littered with junk.

“What’s here?” Crocker asked, pointing to the opposite side of the street.

“A warehouse. It’s mainly a pretty rundown commercial area.”

Crocker nodded. “Okay. Call Akil. Tell him to meet us by the pool.”

The three men sat at a round metal table and drank from bottles of local Murree Classic beer, which was available only to non-Muslims after the ban by President Ali Bhutto in ’77. Broad-shouldered, tattooed Mancini swam laps in the pool. A couple of kids were trying to do cannonballs off the diving board. Davis—the most talented athlete on the team—was showing them how.

Crocker thought back to his wife and daughter in Virginia Beach. Both complained that he was away too much. Jenny, sixteen, had been having trouble adjusting to her new high school.

Akil cleared his throat and started. “You hear the one about the guy who took his blond girlfriend to her first football game? They’re sitting right behind their team’s bench. After the game he asks her how she liked it. ‘It was great,’ she says. ‘Especially the tight pants and big muscles. But I couldn’t understand why they were killing one another over a quarter.’ ‘What?’ the guy asks. ‘What are you talking about?’ She says, ‘Well, they flipped a coin, one team got it, and then for the rest of the game, they all kept screaming Get the quarter back! Get the quarter back! I’m like…Hellooo? It’s only twenty-five cents!’ ”

They laughed. Then Crocker got up. “Let’s walk…”

They strolled past a row of jasmine trees to the patio. Crocker waited for two men to drift away—one British, one Pakistani, discussing cars and heroin. Nearing the rectangular aqua pool, he watched the two light cigarettes. Smoke wafted into the yellow artificial light.

Then he turned to Ritchie, who had stuck his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts. “You think you can get your hands on ten fifty-gallon barrels of diesel fuel and enough ammonium nitrate to mix a good batch of ANFO?”

“The diesel fuel is easy. I can buy that at the port.”

“What about the ammonium nitrate?”

“I know a local contractor who can get anything for a price.”

“You got cash?”

Ritchie patted his pocket. “Many rupees, yes.”

“Akil, Ritchie’s going to give you a map. I want you to eyeball the site. Make sure we can drive a car bomb into the place without causing too much collateral damage.”

“A car bomb?”

“Yeah, a car bomb,” Crocker answered. Then he looked at Ritchie. “You think you can put one together in less than a day?”

“No problem.”

Akil asked: “When do you want me to surveil the site?”

“Tonight.”

“All right.”

“Before you go I want you to talk to Wasir. Tell him to rent a van first thing in the morning. Park it in back, then give the keys to Ritchie. Ritchie will take it from there.”

Ritchie grinned so that his eyes were almost hidden. “Boss, I like the way you think.”

“We’ll meet out here tomorrow 0700 hours to go over the plan.” In the morning, he’d get input from his men, then incorporate that into a PLO (patrol leader’s order). They’d discuss insertion, fire positions, concealment, what to do with prisoners, what to do in case of an emergency, and other contingencies.

He said: “Akil, check with Mancini now. Make sure he gets his hands on everything we need from our contact at the Agency. Glocks, AKs, comms, NVGs, maps, GPS units.”

“Got it.”

“Go.”

Akil crossed to the pool, which left Crocker and Ritchie standing together.

The explosives expert lowered his voice. “So we’re going in with one van packed with a VBIED and one SUV?”

By VBIED he meant vehicle-borne improvised explosive device.

“That’s correct.”

“Sweet.”

Crocker put a hand on Ritchie’s shoulder. “How many fucking truck bombs has Zaman sent our way?”

“One too many.”

“I want that baby packed tight. As much as you can fit. Let’s give that bastard a taste of his own medicine.”

S
tepping out
of the shower, she remembered seeing his face through the front-hall curtains, dark and curious, somewhat exotic, looking up from the road past the chestnut tree. Then she shivered. A strange rumble that rose from her toes, like crows taking flight. Was it excitement? Expectation? She wasn’t really sure.

Not surprising, because Malie Tingvoll had just turned eighteen.

Pausing before the full-length mirror, she let the coarse white towel slip away and studied the glow of her body and how it offset the cool Oslo light. Already in late August the tan she had worked on during the summer was starting to fade. Holding her breath, she watched the color rise in her face and crawl down her neck to her breasts.

They stood full and proud. Nipples pink and taut. Her stomach smooth. Her hair long and light, like two pale yellow curtains that accented her light blue eyes and the sharpness of her high cheekbones, inherited from her mother. She also had her mother’s high waist and long legs. Narrow hips.

Better for dancing, she’d been told. If only her feet weren’t so clumsy and her chest so large, she might have had a chance of dancing professionally. Her dreams of twirling on the big stage got her through the long dull days cleaning in the Residence Kristinelund. Dreams of being eighteen and the toast of London. Rehearsals by day. Performances at night. Limousine drives through the countryside. Handsome young men sitting across from her at dinner, charming her with clever stories. She changed sheets to Tchaikovsky on the radio. Cleaned bathrooms to Schubert playing in her head.

It wasn’t too much to ask, she thought. She’d work hard for everything, of course. And she’d be humble, appreciative, the way she’d been raised by her parents, who had retired to Kristiansand on the south coast.

The phone rang in her tiny room. At a quarter to five the afternoon sun was already starting to sink, casting a band of gold across her wrist.

“Hello? Cyrus…It’s Malie, yes.”

He was calling already. They had met just forty minutes earlier. A brief conversation in the lobby. He said he was the friend of an Italian cyclist Malie had met in Lyon last summer when she was volunteering for the Tour de France.

Cyrus was speaking quickly, excitedly, about a friend of his in Malta who was opening a restaurant housed in a fancy hotel.

Malta. “Nice…”

She didn’t catch all the details as he rattled on in heavily accented English. Enough to hear that this friend was looking for a hostess for his new restaurant. Someone young and beautiful. And, more importantly, someone who liked people, could put them at ease with her lovely smile.

Cyrus said that even though they’d talked earlier for only a few minutes, he had a feeling that she was the one. He had called his friend, who said that Malie sounded perfect.

“That’s so sweet.”

Something opened in her chest. A feeling of hope. Then the tremor came again and she remembered she was naked. Wrapped the coarse towel tight.

It was a chance to escape the Residence Kristinelund and the narrow confines of Norway, the cruel winter that made her feel sad and heavy. She imagined sunshine, new friends, money to spend, days at the beach.

“Do you know if they have a ballet school in Malta?” she asked. “It’s important to me.”

“They have everything there,” Cyrus answered. “Absolutely everything, you know. But I’ll find out.”

“I’d love to meet your friend.”

“He’s in the south of France now.”

“Oh…”

“He’s leaving tomorrow for New York.”

“I see…” More disappointment. Hope slipping away.

But Cyrus’s voice remained bright, with a funny accent that she would ask about at the right time. He said, “Maybe we can meet later and Skype.”

“What do you mean, Skype?”

“You don’t know what Skype is? I guess you don’t have a computer.”

“Not my own. No. Not yet.” Her parents were frugal. Things had to be earned.

“Skype is a computer program where you can see the person you’re talking to on the computer screen,” Cyrus offered. “Maybe we can arrange to do one with Michael tonight before he leaves for New York City.”

“Michael is the name of your friend?”

“Michael Mannus. He’s a great guy. Very successful. You’ll like him. Everybody does.”

“I like his name.”

“You know where the Café Con Bar is, yes?”

“Of course.” Café Con Bar was a café/hangout/restaurant/music club near the Spektrum, downtown. Ten minutes away by metro. Get off at Grønland.

“Why don’t we meet there at ten.”

“At the bar?”

“We can meet there, and I’ll take you after.”

“Where?”

“To the Internet place.”

“Yes. But I have to be back here at midnight.” Her employers were strict.

“No problem. We should be able to do this whole thing in an hour.”

“Good.”

“I’ll see you at Café Con Bar, then, at ten.”

“I’ll be there. Thank you.”

“Ha det.”

She dressed carefully. Tight Diesel jeans, a blue V-neck top that highlighted her blue eyes and showed a hint of cleavage, red heels that added two inches to her five-foot-eight height. She struggled with whether to let her hair hang or pull it back. Loose, she thought, made her look younger and sexier. Pulled back, she saw herself as older and more professional.

She chose to wear it down, with little mascara and lipstick. Very subtle. Butterflies spun in her stomach as she entered the metro.

The
click-click-click
of her heels across the Brugata sidewalk like the beating of her heart.

The club was big. Crowded dark rooms with long sofas. She ordered a White Russian and checked her watch. The numbers glowed 10:05. She stood by the door and looked out, wondering if Cyrus would show.

She felt men’s eyes measuring her. She was comfortable with her body. Nudity at the beach wasn’t a problem. She wasn’t embarrassed to admit that she liked sex, as long as it was with the right person. She even figured one day she’d marry and have children. Saw herself living in another country, maybe in California. But that was at least ten years away. Ten years to dance, explore the world, have fun, learn.

Malie felt a tap on her shoulder and turned abruptly into Cyrus’s big smile.

“Hey!”

Warm kisses on both cheeks.

He said quickly: “I was waiting inside. I have a table.”

“I didn’t know.”

She followed him. A checked pink shirt, unbuttoned over a brilliant white tee. Shredded black jeans. Tan boots, worn at the heel. A brown leather blazer with a stain on the sleeve. Dark hair slicked back. A funny hitch in his stride. A hint of lime cologne. She thought he looked older than she remembered. Like he’d been around.

He smiled a lot. Dark eyes. A dark complexion.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“My father is French. My mother, Lebanese.”

“How do you know Tulio?”

“I spent some time in Rome. We raced together.”

“Bicycles?”

“No, no. Motorbikes. Cross-country.”

“Oh.”

He looked down at his watch, then pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a text.

“Is there a problem?”

“That was Michael. He’s ready. As soon as you finish your drink, we’ll go.”

“You found an Internet café already?”

“Yes. No hurry. It’s not far away. We can drive.”

She took a last sip of her White Russian and said, “Okay.”

He stood and pushed back his hair. “You look very beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She wanted to like him. He seemed confident, worldly, energetic, a little nervous, the way he kept touching his face, his hair, something in his front pocket.

“My car’s in back.”

“You have a car?”

“It’s a delivery van, actually. That I borrowed from a friend.”

Clumsy feet, always getting in the way. She carefully lifted them across the carpeted back room, down the stairs. Her back straight, her chin up, imagining she was already a hostess at a glamorous restaurant. A famous model.

The alley was dark. She had to step around a puddle.

“If you want to wait here, I’ll get the car.”

“That’s okay. I can walk.” She wanted to stay positive and friendly, so she could make the best impression on Michael.

The
click-click-click
of her heels again. He offered his arm and smiled. “I think you’ll like him.” His teeth were big and white. She caught him glancing down at her breasts, then quickly away.

The van was parked close to the side of a store. Gray with a white roof. Japanese make, Danish plates.

“I’ve been helping a friend move his business,” Cyrus remarked as he unlocked the passenger door. “Electronics. Flat-screens. Stereos. I can set you up with a good price.”

There was something dark on the passenger seat. A coat, maybe. A blanket. He bent in ahead of her to move it.

That’s when she felt rough hands grab her from behind.

“Hey!”

A hand with a cloth over her mouth. A strange smell that reminded her of a hospital. Strong arms lifted her off her feet. Then Cyrus spun and threw the dark blanket he had been holding in his hands.

“No!”

Two men, maybe three, pushed her violently into the back of the van. Malie tried to get her high-heeled feet under her and fell. The back of her head hit the floor hard.

She came to several minutes later. The taste of blood in her mouth. A dull throb at the back of her head. Her mouth had been taped shut, her hands and arms bound together, too. She lay on a thin mattress and tried to kick herself free, until her jeans chafed her thighs.

They were parked somewhere. Vigeland? Slottsparken? Ekeberg? The wind was blowing. Branches scraped the top of the van.

She heard a car door shut and men’s voices speaking a strange language. The smell of cigarette smoke.

Feeling like she was five years old and lost in a forest, she started to pray for help.

The van door slid open. A sharp light hit her eyes. Behind it, dark dull faces. Strangers. One with a beard. Another wearing a green ski mask. A third, shorter man holding a knife.

“No, please…” she tried to say through the tape.

When they leaned over her, she shut her eyes and prayed silently to her grandmother in heaven, her mother and father, who all seemed so far away.

Something cold touched her stomach. She shivered, then realized they were cutting away her sweater. They pulled it off her roughly. Then ripped her bra.

She heard one man sigh with appreciation. Another seemed to scold him with a guttural sound like he was clearing his throat.

Someone squeezed a nipple. She winced and tried to lift herself up. Strong hands held her down and slapped her. Another squeeze, then someone spit. “
Putain!
” Saliva landed on her face.

Oh, God!

Something in Malie shut down, as though she knew what was coming. A feeling of panic gripped her stomach and threatened to turn it inside out.

Please don’t be sick.

They handled her roughly, pulling off her jeans. Her heart-patterned panties. Praying to God that they wouldn’t hurt her. Cold sweat oozed down the insides of her thighs.

One of the men shouted in accented English: “Open your eyes, you bitch!”

She did for a moment, and saw the knife. Cold, jagged sparks ran up and down her spine as it passed over her tender stomach. Rough hands pulled her legs apart.

Please don’t hurt me!

She clenched with all her might, expecting something to enter. It had happened half a dozen times before with boys her age. Fumbling efforts.

I’m not an expert, not nearly. If that’s what they think.

Instead the van door banged open violently. She opened her eyes.

Cyrus held a pistol in one hand and grabbed the backs of the men’s shoulders with the other. “You fucking idiots!” he screamed.

The men mumbled protests and backed away. Cyrus threw the blanket over her.
“Imbéciles. Je vous ai dit. Le cheik veut qu
’
elle sera intacte!”
(Imbeciles. I told you. The sheik wants her untouched!)