Hunt the Wolf (16 page)

“Did your people see anybody leave the ship while it was docked here?”

Mohammed had a few missing teeth. His longish hair was greased back. He projected goodwill and sincerity. “I don’t have that information.”

“Can you find out?”

Fifteen minutes later he returned with the answer. “One of the fuel men saw some people get off. He thinks there were four of them, but isn’t certain.”

“Four men?”

“Three Arabic-looking men and at least one woman.”

Crocker’s eyes lit up. “Was she blond?”

“He couldn’t tell. She was wearing a chador.”

“Can you find out their names?”

“We don’t have that information,” Mohammed said. “You will have to check with immigration.”

That was a risky proposition, since Crocker and his men had entered Oman illegally. Jakob volunteered and ran off.

“Does this fuel man have any idea where those four individuals who got off the ship went?” Crocker asked the port manager, praying that he had an answer.

“No. I’m sorry. He said they were met by two men in a black Mercedes. A large one. One man never got out. He saw the four passengers get into the Mercedes limo and drive off very fast.”

“Thanks.”

Very fast. Like they were running away from something, which apparently they were. Because Jakob came back to report that the port immigration official said that no passengers had disembarked from the
Syrena
.

“Impossible,” Crocker remarked.

“He was probably paid to look the other way. That happens here.”

No shit.

Crocker’s stomach growled as he sorted through this new set of challenges.

Their minds sharpened by chai tea and grilled sardine sandwiches purchased from a canteen nearby, the five Americans and two Norwegians put their heads together. Time was critical. They decided they needed to fan out in order to be most efficient.

Hal would call his Omani friend General al-Maskari and see what he could pry out of immigration. Mancini would use the satellite phone to communicate with Mikael Klausen, Lou Donaldson, and others to try to ascertain the current location of the
Syrena
. Reiersen and Ritchie would eyeball outgoing flights at Muscat International Airport. Crocker and Davis would go with Jakob to check the registers at the major hotels.

Crocker’s thinking went like this: A transfer seemed to have taken place. In other words, Cyrus delivered Malie to “Sheik Rastani.” Assuming that his supposition was correct, Crocker doubted that a sheik would risk doing something so potentially embarrassing on his own turf. Likely he’d flown to Muscat from a neighboring Arab country—Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait.

If Rastani could afford to spend a million dollars on a girl, he’d probably be staying at a local luxury hotel, where he could examine the goods—i.e., Malie—before a deal was concluded and money exchanged.

The city, which was just coming to life, boasted a handful of five-star hotels—the Al Bustan Palace, Shangri-La’s Barr Al Jissah, the Chedi Muscat, the Grand Hyatt, and the InterContinental. They were located downtown, in the upscale government and residential district along the beach.

Jakob drove the SUV past the recently constructed and very majestic Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, which, he said, “Cost a couple billion dollars. Contains the world’s second-largest woven carpet, which weighs twenty-one tons.”

“That’s a lot of bald sheep,” Crocker remarked.

“Where’s the world’s largest carpet?” Davis asked.

“Tehran,” Akil answered weakly. He was running a fever and drifting in and out of sleep.

The InterContinental wasn’t nearly as impressive as the mosque, but it was still elegant and large, even by Western standards. Crocker and Jakob entered the tall white lobby and strode to the front desk. The big American said he was there for a breakfast business meeting with Sheik Rastani, who might have checked in as Mr. Rastani.

The polite young clerk reported that there was no one by the name of Rastani registered at the hotel.

Crocker told him that Mr. Rastani would have checked in sometime the previous afternoon or evening with an associate or two and his daughter.

“No, sir. I’m sorry.”

They followed the same routine at the Chedi and Grand Hyatt and were met with the same response.

The Al Bustan Palace was the most luxurious by far, an impressive Indian sandstone hexagon surrounded by a lagoon and lush gardens against a backdrop of rugged charcoal gray mountains. It faced the deep blue Gulf of Oman.

The lobby, lined with white marble, reminded Crocker of the inside of a mosque.

“My name is Mr. Wallace,” he said to the clerk in the immaculate white robe and red-and-black Omani cap. “My associate and I are here for a lunch meeting with Sheik Rastani.”

The man consulted a computer hidden in the counter and asked in English, “Mr. Wallace, do you have an appointment? Because I don’t see your name here.”

“The sheik is expecting me.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll have to check. Please have a seat.”

Does that mean he’s here?
Crocker asked himself excitedly, as he led Jakob over to a fountain where they couldn’t be overheard.

“Go outside and tell Davis and Akil to watch the garage. They might try to run.”

“What about you?” the former Trojan shotputter asked.

“I can handle myself.”

Crocker studied the Islamic pattern of the floor tiles, trying to appear inconspicuous and stay calm.

Hearing footsteps approach, he looked up into a face that caused him to stop midbreath. Big, with a large forehead and bulging eyes, a nasty sneer on his thick lips. Both eyes drooped, and one was set lower than the other. A long, deep scar ran from the lower eye to the side of his mouth. He was a thick, muscular man with very short black hair, dressed all in black.

“Mr. Wallace?” he asked in rough American English.

“Yes. Is Cyrus here?”

Malice poured from his eyes. “Follow me.”

Crocker did, to an elevator, thinking that the man moved like a wrestler. It was a private lift around the corner from the public ones, which the big man opened with a key.

“How long have you worked for Cyrus?” the American asked.

The big, swarthy man said nothing. Stared ahead.

They stopped at the sixth floor. Two other large Middle Eastern men in white shirts stood waiting in the teak-​paneled hallway.

Not a good sign.

One wore tailored gray pants, the other, jeans. They positioned themselves on either side of Crocker and grabbed him by the arms.

“I can walk by myself, thanks.”

When the American tried to pull away, the one in the tailored pants with the pockmarked face pointed a Makarov pistol at his head.

They guided unarmed Crocker eight paces down a hallway, then pushed him into a private bathroom, crowded in, and locked the door.

This is trouble.

Four big bodies filled the tight space Resplendent gold-colored glass tiles covered the walls. The dual-sink counter, fixtures, and floor were all black. Elaborately etched glass doors hid the toilet, urinal, and shower.

Strange place to hold a meeting.

Trying to push back the fear that was pressing in on all sides.

The wrestler put the full weight of his body behind his forearm, which he smashed into Crocker’s chest. The American fell back and hit the tile wall.

Fuck…

He saw stars spinning; fought to catch his breath.

The pockmarked guy pushed the muzzle of the weapon into his face.

“Who are you?”

“A Canadian business—”

Smacked him hard in the face.

“What do you want?”

“Cyrus…” Crocker tried to answer, gasping for breath.

“How do you know Cyrus?”

The third guy in jeans was rifling through his pockets. Crocker was glad he’d left his wallet and ID in the SUV.

“Answer! How do you know Cyrus?” the pockmarked dude asked again, grabbing the collar of Crocker’s polo and twisting it until he started to choke.

“I met him at a farm…outside Toulon.”

Crocker managed to remain calm, in part because his brain was releasing a higher level of a neurotransmitter called neuropeptide Y than was normal with most people. The neuropeptide Y worked as a natural tranquilizer to control his anxiety. He’d also developed his mental toughness over years of vigorous training and experience.

The guy going through his pockets was slick and handsome in a predatory way. The kind of man, Crocker thought, who could easily charm a naïve eighteen-year-old girl.

“Cyrus?” he asked him.

The wrestler reared back and clocked him in the mouth.

Christ!

He tasted blood.

“How do you know Cyrus?”

He tried to pull free, only to get kicked in the nuts. All the air went of him, and he struggled to stay on his feet.

Crocker wanted to say something clever, but his mind wasn’t working. He heard the man he thought was Cyrus mumble in Arabic, and tried his best to translate. It went something like this: “Take him away from here. Into the mountains. Shoot him in the head. Dump his body somewhere where the vultures will get to him.” Then he started to leave.

“It’s over, Cyrus. You’re fucked,” Crocker said to his back.

The fists came at him rapidly from two directions. He tried to defend himself and fight back, but there was very little room to move.

The wrestler grabbed the front of Crocker’s shirt, spun him, and threw him through the shower door, which shattered loudly.

The SEAL chief warrant officer lay half-conscious on the tile floor, hurting, his mind wobbling.

He understood now that it was insane to go in the way he had—no backup, no commo, completely solo.

Sharp pains issued from the back of his head. Blood dripped from his mouth. Figured he had a couple of broken or chipped teeth, maybe a broken rib. Later, he’d have Davis or Mancini tie his chest with binding wrap to immobilize his rib cage.

If I get out of here alive.

Through blurry eyes he saw the pockmarked thug lean down to pull him up, the gunmetal pistol clutched in his fist. The savage leer on his ravaged face told Crocker how much he was going to enjoy torturing an American and watching him die.

“Get up!”

The SEAL team leader flashed back to the video Akil had shown him on the first flight into Karachi.

No fucking way!
he said to himself, aware of a thick triangle of glass near his right hand.

“Get up, dead man!”

Grabbing the glass so that it sliced into the edges of his palm, Crocker pushed off the floor and thrust it into the man’s neck with all the force he could muster—ripping through cartilage, skin, and bone. The man’s half-screams reverberated against the tile walls as he fell back against the sink and, twisting, fired wildly into the ceiling, walls, and floor.

Smoke and cordite hung in the air.

Before Crocker could scramble to his feet, the wrestler was on him, spitting curses and reaching for his throat. Crocker could feel the man’s sweat and smell the madness on his breath. His thick hands were strong, with nails that sunk into Crocker’s neck.

Doubting that he had the strength or leverage to pry them loose, the American reared his head back and smashed it into the wrestler’s nose. Then again, and two more times, until its bridge gave way and he felt the man’s warm blood on his face.

But when the American tried to get his feet under him, he slipped on the broken glass, blood, and sweat, and went down hard on his ass.

The wrestler roared and kicked Crocker in the stomach. Then the big man threw himself on him, and the two grappled on the shower floor. Body against body. Strength versus strength.

The physical dynamic of wrestling had never been Crocker’s strong suit. But here he was side by side with a beast who was using his powerful legs to push against the door opening and pin him against the wall.

Crushing him.

Each man had his arm around the other’s neck, but the wrestler had the advantage, because Crocker couldn’t move his legs or arms. The pressure against his ribs and chest was growing by the second, making it increasingly hard to breathe.

Trapped and losing ground, Crocker heard something move by the sink.

Peering past the wrestler’s thick head and chest, through the shower doorway he saw the pockmarked guy trying to push himself up on his elbow and steady the pistol as blood gushed from his neck. It was a desperate last effort. His hand shook badly. But he still had the determination to curl his finger around the trigger and squeeze.

Shit…

Crocker ducked behind the wrestler as the shots rang out.

Three bullets in succession glanced off the floor and struck the wrestler, who jerked and groaned.

The pistol clattered across the tile floor.

“In sha’Allah,”
moaned the man by the sink. God willing.

The big wrestler was trembling and loosening his grip enough that Crocker could pull away and stand in a crouch.

On the floor by the sink, the pockmarked man lay still in a dark pool of his own blood, his mouth caught between a smile and grimace, a look of expectation in his eyes.

Crocker stepped quickly out of the shower and recovered the Makarov pistol. Then turned and pointed it at the wrestler’s head.

His big yellowish eyes pleaded up at him. “No.”

“Yes!”

Two quick rounds into his skull. Then silence.

Just the loud thumping of Crocker’s heart as he reached down and retrieved a hotel keycard and passport from the dead man’s pocket.

U
sing a
wet paper towel to wipe the blood from his face and neck, Crocker remembered his circumstances—the hotel, his men waiting near the garage, Sheik Rastani, Cyrus and, hopefully, Malie, in a suite not far away—and knew that more trouble was coming.

He strode down the hallway unaware that he was leaving a trail of bloody footprints.

He felt like Clint Eastwood in
The Good, The Bad and the Ugly,
walking straight into the face of evil. Determined to stop the wolves. But there was no Ennio Morricone music playing in the background. No two-note howl to let the bad guys know he was coming to kick their asses.

Just the pounding of his boots into the carpet.

Nor was there time to call for help.

Crocker assumed that the shots fired in the bathroom had been heard and that Sheik Rastani, Cyrus, and others were scrambling to stop him and/or escape.

He wasn’t going to let that happen, not when he was so close he could smell victory in the air ahead of him.

His heart pounded. His mouth, ribs, and neck hurt. His teeth ached; so did his face and jaw.

The adrenaline shoved all physical pain aside and pushed him forward, around the corner, where he saw the double mahogany doors to Suite 6C.

Bingo!

He knew this was his destination because of the bloody keycard and cardboard sleeve he clutched in his right hand. In his left he held the Makarov the pockmarked thug had dropped on the floor of the bathroom. Still warm.

He put his ear against the door and listened. An announcer’s voice in English reporting on a flood in the Philippines. A rescue was under way.

I’m glad.

Then tried the keycard. The lock flashed green and beeped. One deep breath later, he swung the door open and waited.

Come out, you motherfuckers.

The newscast segued into a Madonna song on the radio, her voice soaring and pleading at the same time.

His mind made thousands of lightning-quick calculations—the depth of the space, the darkness of the shadows, the quality of the light, the smell in the air.

It was a big, luxurious open space divided into functional areas. His eyes scanned right to left. A big flat-screen TV on a paneled wall. Tan leather sofas, a vase full of orchids, a view of the ocean, a prayer rug on the floor near the window. A half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs, a cup of tea, steam rising from a metal and glass table, and a hallway at an angle to his far left. Someone had been here seconds before.

Every second marked with a beat of his heart.

The song climbed to a crescendo.

He sensed that there was at least one other door into the suite, and somewhere people were escaping.

Gritting his teeth, he held the pistol in the ready position—like an extension of his arm—and stepped inside. Crossed past the sunken sitting area, swung around the table with the orchids, and entered the hall.

Like entering a bubble that was about to explode.

His back against the wall, he waited as the seconds ticked from a clock in a room to his right. Thought he heard a low voice like a moan. Maybe the wind? Or a big cat?

How likely is that?

Then something moved behind him and he spun, half expecting a panther or a cougar to lunge at him.

Phugt! Phugt! Phugt!
Like someone spitting.

Bullets from a silenced pistol whizzed by his chin and tore into the wall. Throwing himself back, he crouched behind the corner. Residue of wallboard pelted his face and stuck in his eyes.

Tearing. Wiping the dust away. Trying to focus.

Aware of footsteps hurrying across the floor in the opposite direction, he stole a quick look only to see the blurry backs of two men running to the door. One wearing a long white shirt and pulling a large black suitcase, the other in a white dishdasha and
ghutra.

The one pulling the suitcase turned and squeezed off a succession of shots. Crocker aimed and fired back.

A bullet tore into the man’s arm, causing him to let go of the suitcase and scramble out the door.

Crocker had a split second to decide whether to pursue them or keep going.

The person he was really looking for was Malie, so he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and continued down the hallway, inch by inch. Rooms to his left, two doors to his right.

Trying to calculate how much time the men had to get away. Confident that Davis, Akil, and Jakob would do what they could to stop them. Then considering the problems they might encounter.

There was absolutely nothing he could do about that now.

The first opening left led to a kitchen. Lots of cherry wood and stainless steel. A shiny double-doored refrigerator purring. Toblerone chocolate bar, a bottle of Evian water, two Orangina bottles, a roll of paper towels, and a money belt on the counter, but no people inside.

Four steps farther down the hallway, he pushed down on the polished chrome handle and kicked the first door open. The mirrored closet door reflected back his image. Not recognizing himself, he almost fired.

The ferocity in his own eyes surprised him.

Shit, do I really look like that?

He took a deep breath from his diaphragm and counted to four before exhaling, then repeated the process a half-dozen times, the way Holly had taught him. Boxed breathing, she called it. Something she’d learned from yoga class at the gym.

He felt more centered in his body, clearheaded.

The room appeared empty. Opened suitcases. Clothes scattered across the double bed and floor. A travel guide to Oman open on the nightstand, next to a stack of CDs. A copy of the French edition of
GQ
.

A pair of women’s white high-heeled shoes by the drape-covered window. The shoes new. Barely worn, if ever. He stepped over them and opened a door to the right of the nightstand.

Another dark hallway that reeked of gasoline, with a sitting room to the right that overlooked the hotel gardens. To his left, a walk-in closet. Mostly empty, except for a silver-gray man’s suit wrapped in clear plastic, a pair of men’s sandals.

Sensing something emerging from the sitting room across the hallway, he twisted his body left to reduce the angle of access through the door. His heart skipped a beat as a gun behind him discharged.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Intense heat splashed against his face, and searing metal grazed the skin above his jaw.

His ears numb, he spun down to the carpeted floor and held himself up on his left forearm. Caught sight of the dark figure out of the corner of his eye.

A torch of some sort illuminated the man’s face and torso.

With the pistol in his right fist, Crocker fired repeatedly into the man’s shins and knees. First the sound of cracking, splintering bone, then a bottle exploded against the edge of the doorway and flames burst into the closet.

An eruption of gold singed Crocker’s eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair.

He jumped back into the closet as the man wailed from the sitting room and fire spread in the hallway between.

A patch of gasoline flames jumped onto the right front of Crocker’s shirt. He ripped the polo off and flung it against the wall. Smelled his own burning flesh.

Lying on his back, he raised the pistol in both hands and discharged round after round in the direction of the groans across the hall, spending the ammo completely. Then, pulling the suit from the hanger and ripping off the plastic, Crocker used it as a shield to cover his face and torso as he hurried through the flames into the sitting room.

Breathing hard, he stood over the man who had thrown the Molotov cocktail, watching his face relax with a final sigh, a kind of prayer. Then heard a rattle from his throat.

Another wolf down.

Crocker’s whole body throbbing with determination and fear, he felt above his right jawbone where blood oozed from a shallow crease. The skin near his right shoulder was red and tender. The smoke and heat burned his eyes.

He had to dismiss the pain now and recover the pistol from the man on the floor, because the one he’d been using was empty.

A terrible, soul-wrenching grimace leered from the man’s gaunt, bearded face. It didn’t appear to be Cyrus or anyone else he could identify. Dark pants, a white shirt, a round gold pendant around his neck engraved with the throne verse of Ayat al-Kursi from the Koran.

After prying the Glock 19 from the dead man’s fingers, he waited, expecting others. Then squeezed past the flames that were climbing up the wall and entering the closet. Through thick, astringent smoke, five more paces to a door that was locked.

A smoke alarm screeched and overhead sprinklers went off.

His head and shirt were practically drenched when he tried the a door second time.

Same result.

He had to get inside. So, holding the Glock in his left hand, he cocked his right foot back and smashed his boot into the door near the lock. The slick wood splintered and buckled but didn’t break. The second time he lifted his foot back, he slipped on the carpet and fell.

Bracing himself against the back wall, he kicked again. This time a piece of the frame shattered and the door came halfway open.

Standing behind the right door frame, he pushed it in with the hand holding the Glock. No response came from inside the bathroom. Just the hiss of falling water and smoke, which seemed to grow thicker by the second.

Seven rapid beats of his heart before he poked his head in. Through the light gray haze, he saw opulent green marble and gold interrupted by a large white object hanging from a hook on the left wall.

Crocker identified it as a wedding dress with a ruffled skirt and a lace top.

He thought he caught a whiff of flower-scented perfume in the acidic smoke.

On the double-sink counter rested a brush, a toothbrush, a tube of Colgate, a pair of scissors. To the far right corner an oversized tub. To his immediate right a glass-enclosed shower. And in front of that another door that he assumed hid the commode.

His eyes burning, Crocker turned the knob and swung it open.

Sitting on the toilet, bent over forward with her face toward the floor, was a pale-skinned woman in a frilly white bra and panties. Thick silver tape had been wrapped around her ankles, wrists, and mouth.

Crocker couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive.

“Malie?” he whispered, praying that she was still breathing.

No response.

“Malie, can you hear me?”

He saw the taunt skin near the base of her neck quiver.

“I’m an American. I’ve come to save you.”

He felt pride in saying it.

“Malie, look at me. Please.”

She lifted her head. With the light streaming through the window to her right and the fumes surrounding her, she reminded him of a painting of a Flemish Madonna. One eye blue, the other green, both wide with terror. The tears that had run down her cheeks left red streaks. Her wet, light brown hair was gathered on the sides in white ribbons.

“Malie, your ordeal is over.”

His heart clenched, imagining all she’d been through.

He tried to smile, but the effort hurt. And sensed that he must look frightening with the gash along his jaw, the claw marks, the blood running down his neck.

As she straightened up, her expression changed from a pleading anguish to a raw kind of anger.

She mumbled through the tape over her mouth. “My name isn’t Malie.”

“What?” Heavy disappointment. “Your name isn’t Malie?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Where the fuck is Malie?
he asked himself, ignoring for now the consequences of what he’d done so far.

Even though the fire was out, thick white smoke still poured in from the hall, burning his throat and eyes.

When she did look up, he was struck by the expression of hurt and shame frozen on her oddly inert face.

That’s when he realized that the body heals, but the psyche inside it is more fragile. Thinking about the hundreds of thousands of children’s and young people’s psyches that had been shattered because of some kind of abuse or war, he peeled the tape from the girl’s ankles and wrists. He took special care with her mouth, then brought her a wet towel to clean her face.

With the tape removed, she looked no more than sixteen.

“You have a name?”

“Brigitte.”

“Brigitte, do you know Malie?”

“There was another girl. But they didn’t allow us to speak.”

“Blond?”

“Yes. Very light hair.”

“She came over on the boat with you and was here, in this suite?”

“Yes.”

When he helped her up, she trembled on legs that appeared atrophied. Makeup had been applied to cover purple and blue bruises on both thighs.

“Do you know where they took her?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He found a white terry robe on a hook behind the door and wrapped it around her. As delicate as a porcelain doll.

“Keep the towel over your mouth and nose,” he said, the smoke clogging his throat.

Her brown hair hung in limp curls and ringlets around her soft pink face. “I don’t know where I am.”

“Muscat, Oman.”

She shuddered. “I’m—I’m not sure I can walk,” she said through the towel.

“Lean on me. I’ll help.”

They made it halfway down the hall. But seeing the smoldering corpse lying in the scorched entrance to the sitting room, her knees buckled. The smell was horrible.

Crocker lifted her in his arms.

“Cover your nose. Close your eyes.”

He felt her frail bones under the robe. Her heart beating against his chest like a little bird’s.

Through the wider hallway to the living room, out the door of the suite. He followed the bloody footprints he’d left, hoping that Akil and Davis would find Malie so he could return to his family. Spend time with Holly and Jenny. Laugh, play games together, maybe take a vacation.