Hunt the Scorpion (17 page)

“What do they want?”

“I don’t know the details. I heard one rumor that says they want the release of prisoners, another that they want ten million dollars in gold.”

“Gold?”

“Yes, gold. Apparently the logistics are daunting. I’ve heard it involves a bank vault in Benghazi and a plane to fly it to the Sudan. Once the gold arrives safely there, the hostages will be released unharmed.”

It sounded fantastic, almost implausible.

“You sure about this?” Crocker asked.

“According to the rumor, the kidnappers claim that it’s Gaddafi gold seized illegally by the French. Apparently it’s still in French custody. But the French say they’re guarding it for the interim government.”

Crocker’s head started spinning—gold, a group of kidnappers nobody had ever heard of. He asked, “Who are these Martyrs?”

“I don’t know,” Volman answered.

“Who does?”

“If anyone does, it’s Ambassador Saltzman. You need to push him. That’s why I’m here. If I were you, I’d talk to him immediately.”

Crocker: “You know where he is now?”

“Yes. My car’s outside.”

Crocker pulled on a pair of khaki pants, a blue polo shirt, a pair of black Nike sneakers. Combed his hair back. He found Davis on the computer, talking to his wife and infant son on Skype, and asked, “Any news about Jabril and Lasher?”

“They left an hour ago for Germany.”

“Good. Where’s everyone else?”

“Ritchie’s next door watching
Cars 2
with the neighbor’s sons. Akil and Mancini drove into town to look for dinner.”

“I’m going to see the ambassador. I’ll be back.”

“Wait a minute. You need help?”

“I’m fine. Hold down the fort.”

He joined Volman, who was outside the gate, standing next to a new powder-blue Mustang convertible. The night air was cooler than he’d expected.

“Is this your car?” Crocker asked, climbing into the passenger seat.

“My mother gave it to me as a birthday present. She’s Hungarian”—as though that explained why he was driving something so conspicuous.

Volman drove like a wild man, way too fast and barely maintaining control, almost slamming into the back of a truck that had stalled on the road. As he swerved around it he started to shout over the engine noise about their destination, Janzour, a few kilometers west of Tripoli. How it was home to an equestrian academy, olive, lemon, orange, and fig orchards, and a Punic tomb discovered in the nineteen fifties.

Crocker wasn’t paying attention. He was wrestling with the incredible tension he was feeling and trying to imagine what he could do to save his wife.

“The Punics were Phoenician settlers who were based in Carthage, which was in Tunisia, to our west,” Volman continued. “They were traders who were eventually wiped out by the Romans before the birth of Christ.”

Sirens wailed behind them, only adding to Crocker’s anxiety.

“You should visit it sometime—a beautifully preserved burial room decorated with frescoes of women, antelopes, and lions.”

Crocker realized they were leaving the city. He said, “Hey, Volman, where the hell are we going?”

“I told you. Palm City, in Janzour.”

The speedometer had drifted past ninety. The air carried a whiff of salt from the ocean, combined with a citrusy scent.

“Why?”

“Because that’s where the French ambassador lives, and Saltzman is attending a party at his house.”

As they sped along the coast, Volman talked about how developers from Malta, the UK, and Italy had selected this area in the late nineties for the development of luxury expat communities. The newest and most elegant of these was Palm City, a secure enclave of over four hundred units with its own private beach, tennis courts, and swimming pools, right on the coast.

Crocker, meanwhile, was focused on names and faces flashing in his head—Brian Shaw, Farhed Alizadeh, Major Ostrowski, Dr. Jabril. As he sat wondering if there was some way they fit together into an explanation of what was going on and what had happened to Holly, he became aware of the car stopping in front of a guard station.

Volman reached into his pocket and said, “I forgot something.”

“What’s that?”

He handed Crocker a folded envelope. Inside was a letter from Dr. Jabril. It read:

Crocker stuffed the letter in his pocket as they pulled into the driveway of a sand-colored townhouse.

“This is my place,” Volman announced.

“Saltzman is here?”

“No.”

“What the fuck…”

“Like I said, he’s at a dinner party at the French ambassador’s house, which is also in Palm City. You can walk there from here. I’ll show you the way. Calm down.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ve got to change. Help yourself to something from the kitchen or the bar.”

“You know anything else about the ransom offer?”

“No. I’ll be right back.”

It was a modern place, decorated in bland tones of beige and brown. Pleasant and comfortable, but Crocker didn’t want to be there.

He reminded himself that Volman was trying to be helpful. A sad song by one of Holly’s favorite composers, Antônio Carlos Jobim, played on the stereo. Everywhere he went he seemed to find reminders of his wife.

He wanted to move, do something. But what?

The French ambassador’s residence was a five-minute walk away, in one of the compound’s luxury villas. Volman explained that many of the residents, predominantly foreigners, had fled during the war. Those who hadn’t already departed had left abruptly in late November of the previous year, when militiamen from the Misurata Brigade tried to take over the compound. They engaged in a firefight with some of the compound guards and eventually ran off when soldiers from the Tripoli Brigade were dispatched by the NTC.

“None of the residents were hurt,” Volman said, “but four soldiers were killed.”

“What do you know about the Tajoura nuclear facility?” Crocker asked.

“I know that it’s close to here, and I believe it’s no longer in operation.”

“Can you get me some background info about it? History, capacity—you know, stuff like that.”

“Sure. When do you need it?”

“First thing in the morning, if possible. More important, find out anything you can about the kidnappers, the ransom.”

“I will. There it is,” Volman said, pointing at a sand-colored house surrounded by tall palms. “I’ll wait for you at my place.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Crocker was stopped by a phalanx of French soldiers and plainclothes security personnel who checked his passport before escorting him into a round vestibule festooned with blue-white-and-red French flags. Edith Piaf was singing “La Marseillaise” over the sound system. Many of the hundred or so people crowding the large central room were singing along. The mood was more festive than anything Crocker had expected.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked a young man holding a small American flag.

“V-E Day, of course.”

Crocker felt underdressed, out of place. Young women wearing World War Two–era French military uniforms circulated with trays of champagne. One of them stopped in front of Crocker and asked, “
Vous êtes américain?
”

“Yeah, I’m American, and proud of it.”

She looked more North African than French—Algerian, most likely. Winking, she said, “You are the heroes tonight.
Vive les Etats-Unis!
” and left.

Crocker surveyed the crowd. Under other circumstances he would have been more than ready to join in the celebration. But the frustration and anxiety he felt tonight were completely at odds with the frivolity around him. In fact, the party seemed perverse, given the violence he’d experienced in Sebha and the situation with Holly and Brian. Spotting the U.S. ambassador, who was dressed in an elegant blue shirt and silver-gray slacks and was talking to a tall man in a vintage French military uniform, he pushed his way through the crowd.

“Sir!”

Saltzman smiled warmly when he saw him and extended a hand. “Tom Crocker. It’s good to see you again. I want you to meet Ambassador Moreau.”

Crocker: “It’s an honor, sir.”

“Mr. Crocker is the leader of a group of American engineers who are doing a study of the city’s electrical grid.”

Moreau: “My pleasure. We’re celebrating one of those critical historical moments, you know. The whole map of Europe could have been different. We could all have been speaking German if you, our American friends, had not decided to join the war in Europe.”

“Our fathers did, yes,” Crocker answered. In fact, his father had quit high school the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor and joined the navy. He was the most honest person Crocker had ever known.

Moreau: “Maybe the situation in Europe was not too different from what the Libyans are facing now.”

Crocker wasn’t sure about that.

The French ambassador put his arm around him and whispered, “Enjoy yourself, Mr. Crocker.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

Smiling confidently, Moreau slipped into the crowd, leaving Crocker alone and feeling like a visitor from another planet. A radio-controlled model of a B-19 buzzed overhead.

He spotted Saltzman, who was now huddled with a pretty young brunette, and made a beeline for him. Whispering into the ambassador’s ear, he asked, “Can I talk to you a minute? It’s important.”

“Now, Crocker?”

“Yes. In private, sir.”

They walked out onto a terrace overlooking the moonlit sea. A couple to Crocker’s right giggled and kissed, then left holding hands. Another reminder of Holly.

“Mr. Ambassador, I heard there’s been a ransom offer,” Crocker said.

“Oh, that. Yes,” Saltzman said with a groan, looking as if he wanted an excuse to escape.

“What do you make of it, sir?”

“What do I make of the kidnappers’ ransom demand?”

“Yes.”

“This is very difficult, Crocker. I like you and respect you. I can only imagine the agony you’re in.”

“You can’t, sir. Believe me.”

“Alright. You’re a man who likes the unvarnished truth, so here it is: The ransom note is almost irrelevant.”

Crocker felt staggered. “Irrelevant? Why?”

“Because, one, it tells us very little about the kidnappers except that they’re opportunistic. And two, we can’t make a deal.”

“Why not, sir?”

“I’m surprised you don’t know this. It’s United States policy never to negotiate an exchange of money or prisoners with terrorists or kidnappers.”

Crocker leaned on the rail and clenched his teeth. “You’re fucking kidding me! I thought the policy was amended in 2002.”

“It was modified briefly but has reverted back. When I first heard about Holly and Brian’s disappearance, I contacted the State Department legal office to get a clarification. Officials there read me the policy. Quote: The United States Government will make no concessions to terrorists holding official or private U.S. citizens hostage. It will not pay ransom, release prisoners, change its policies, or agree to other acts that might encourage additional terrorism.”

“That’s bullshit, sir! After all Holly and I have done to serve our country!”

“Easy, Crocker.”

“Sir—”

“At the same time, I’m at liberty to use every appropriate resource to gain the safe return of American citizens held hostage by terrorists.”

“What does that mean?”

The ambassador stepped closer. “It means we’re doing everything in our power to get Holly and Brian back. It means we’re using all our assets and leaning hard on the NTC. It means we’ve got teams out looking for them now, risking their lives, gathering intelligence, leads.”

“Are you, sir?”

“I said I was. The only thing I’m not allowed to do is negotiate or make any concessions to terrorists.”

Crocker swallowed hard. “Okay.”

“The same policy applies to me, Crocker, in the event I’m kidnapped. It’s a risk all of us take when we choose to represent our country overseas. It’s in the best interests of our country.”

Crocker wasn’t sure about that, but he knew there was no point debating the policy now.

“Trust us, Crocker. We’ll get them back.”

I
f the
ambassador and Remington knew where Holly and Brian were being held, they weren’t telling Crocker. So he and his men spent the entire night searching the city on their own, stopping at roadblocks manned by local militiamen and showing them her photo, questioning the few men they saw on the streets. They even drove out to the refugee camp next to the Busetta naval base and spoke to the French soldiers stationed there, who in turn questioned some prisoners and local guards. Nobody seemed to know anything about the kidnappers or where Holly and Brian might be. Crocker also called the Canadians in Sirte, who were continuing their search of that city but hadn’t come across any clues, either.

He returned to the guesthouse at dawn, angry and exhausted. He paced the living room floor and screamed in the shower. Put in more calls to Remington, Volman, and Debray.

Then he got down on his knees and prayed for a suggestion, a lead, anything.

His body and head literally burned with frustration. The word “trust” kept bouncing around in his brain like a taunt. Crocker knew that when it came down to it, when the shit hit the fan, justice and patriotism fell away and the only people he could really trust were his wife and his men.

He was sitting down with a cup of coffee when Remington called. The CIA officer said, “The good news is that I just heard that Dr. Jabril and John Lasher are recovering nicely in Germany. The unfortunate part is that they’re not returning to Libya anytime soon.”

“Any news about Holly and Brian?”

“We’re working on that. Trust me.”

At the word “trust” he winced.

“Crocker,” Remington continued, “I’d like you to write up a report of what you’ve found so far, especially as it relates to Sebha. Include a detailed map of where we can find the UF6.”

It was almost impossible to concentrate. “Now, sir?”

“Today or tomorrow. Then we can wrap this up.”

He remembered the letter from Jabril that he still had in his pocket. “What about the trail of the UF6?”

“Once I receive your report, I’ll forward it to headquarters and make sure they send out a team to Sebha to move it to a safe location.”

Crocker said, “Aren’t you interested in why the Libyans were in possession of the UF6 in the first place, and why it was hidden in a tunnel in Sebha?”

“Most likely it was being used for their energy program.”

“Maybe not. And what about the presence of the Iranians right across the Niger border?”

“I don’t see what one thing has to do with the other.”

“The presence of UF6 indicates that Gaddafi was enriching uranium, which is exactly what Farhed Alizadeh has been trying to get his hands on.”

“That’s a stretch. Besides, we have no evidence that Gaddafi succeeded in enriching uranium to the level needed to build a bomb. Even when he was trying to assemble one he didn’t succeed, because it’s not so simple. And in the unlikely event that he succeeded, who is the threat now? The pro-Gaddafi opposition? I highly doubt that they would ever consider destroying their own country.”

Even though Crocker wanted to focus on his wife, he knew the UF6 was important and that Remington’s line of reasoning was unsound. “What about al-Qaeda?” he asked.

“They don’t have a strong presence here. Besides, we keep them closely monitored.”

“What if my team and I take a look around the Tajoura Nuclear Research Center?”

“That’s not necessary. The center is inspected routinely by the IAEA.”

Crocker said, “Is this about not wanting to question the authority or the effectiveness of the NTC?”

Remington said bluntly, “I’ll expect the report on my desk tomorrow. Thanks.”

Crocker hung up with Jabril’s message burning in his head.

Akil asked, “What did he want, boss?”

“Pack the truck. You and Mancini and I are going out again. Tell Ritchie and Davis I want them to stay here by the phone in case there’s any news.”

“Yes, sir.”

They spent several hours driving the coast road east in the direction of Sirte and stopped at NATO headquarters, where Crocker was kept waiting half an hour only to be told that all NATO units in the country had been alerted to report any information relating to Holly and Brian Shaw’s location.

Then they drove south to NTC headquarters. No news there, either. Just a promise from the colonel in charge that he would alert the U.S. embassy the minute he had news.

Finally, they entered some of the poorer neighborhoods on the edge of the desert packed with ramshackle mud structures and tents. They showed Holly’s photo to women cooking and mending clothes, men drinking tea and attending to camels. All they got back were shrugs and suspicious looks. No clues.

“Now where, boss?” Mancini asked.

Crocker’s frustration level was almost unbearable. He looked at the map and saw that they were only a short distance from the Tajoura Nuclear Research Center. He said, “Let’s call the house one more time, then take a quick look at the nuclear center.”

“Why?”

“Duty. Dr. Jabril’s letter. A vague hunch.”

Mancini: “Didn’t you ask Remington, and he told you not to?”

“He said it wasn’t necessary. I think he’s wrong, and it’s too important to ignore. Let’s go.”

Crocker picked up the information packet Volman had given him and handed it to Akil, who read it out loud. The Tajoura Nuclear Research Center consisted of a ten-megawatt pool-type reactor, a neutron generator complex, and radiochemical laboratories containing gas centrifuges for the production of isotopes for use in agriculture, medicine, biology, and industry. The center also included a research laboratory, machine shop, and computer center.

The main reactor had been built by the Soviets in 1979. At one time the center was staffed by as many as 750 Libyan scientists and technicians. Now the only thing in operation was a German-built reverse-osmosis desalination plant that produced over ten thousand gallons of potable water a day.

As the black Suburban turned into a wooded area that led to the main gate, Akil read from a series of IAEA reports. The agency had been established in 1957 to promote the peaceful use of atomic energy and to inhibit its use for any military purpose, including nuclear weapons. According to one of the documents, Libya had begun receiving nuclear-weapons-related aid from Dr. A. Q. Khan, chief architect of the Pakistani nuclear weapons program and proliferator of nuclear technologies to Iran and North Korea, starting in 1997. Khan had supplied Libya with twenty assembled L-1 centrifuges and two tons of UF6—enough to build a single nuclear weapon.

In early 2002, U.S. intelligence officials discovered that Khan had also provided the Libyans with the blueprint for making a fission-type weapon that the Chinese had tested in the late 1960s. This document set forth the design parameters and engineering specifications for constructing an implosion weapon weighing over a thousand pounds that could be delivered by an aircraft or missile.

After the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks on New York and Washington, which Gaddafi denounced, he sought to make peace with the United States and offered to dismantle all of his WMD programs. According to CIA analysis, several factors contributed to Gaddafi’s decision. First, thirty years of UN economic sanctions had significantly limited oil exports and hurt the Libyan economy. Second, Libya’s nuclear program had progressed slowly and was extremely expensive. Third, the elimination of WMDs was a prerequisite to normalizing relations with the West. Fourth, Gaddafi wanted to avoid the fate that Saddam Hussein had suffered in Iraq. Finally, CIA operatives had seized a shipment of centrifuge-related equipment bound for Libya in October 2003, which may have persuaded Gaddafi that he would have great difficulty procuring materials needed for the manufacture of WMDs in the future.

In March 2004, IAEA officials assisted Libyan authorities in the removal of weapons-grade highly enriched uranium that had been stored at the Tajoura center. About thirteen kilograms of fissile uranium-235 was airlifted from Tripoli to Dimitrovgrad in the Russian Federation, where it was later blended down into low-enriched uranium (LEU). (Roughly that amount of uranium-235 was required to make one atomic weapon.) The fuel removal project had been funded by the U.S. Department of Energy and had cost approximately $700,000.

Since then the Tajoura Nuclear Research Center had been used strictly for developing a nuclear power infrastructure for electricity production, seawater desalination, and the creation of medical isotopes. In September 2008 IAEA director general Mohamed ElBaradei announced that because of Libya’s cooperation, the Tajoura center would be subject only to routine inspections. The last one had taken place in December 2009, and Libya was found to be in full compliance.

“What do you think, boss?”

Crocker didn’t answer. He had heard only about half of what Akil had read, but it was enough to make their discovery of UF6 in Sebha even more troubling. He remembered that John Lasher had called it “a smoking gun.”

The SEALs were stopped at the Tajoura center’s gate by a guard in an olive uniform who directed them to the main research facility, a three-story concrete-and-glass structure. The big red, green, white, and yellow abstract mural decorating the front featured palm trees on one end and minarets and missiles on the other.

“An interesting juxtaposition,” Mancini said as they climbed the steps to the lobby.

There they were greeted by an attractive young woman in a long dress and black headscarf. “Welcome,” she said in unaccented English. “My name is Assa. Director General Dr. Salehi will see you in his office.”

Upstairs, Dr. Saleem Salehi greeted them warmly. He was a slight man of medium height, with dyed black thinning hair and a mustache. On the walls behind him Crocker saw a large map of Libya and framed photos of landscapes and of Albert Einstein holding a white cat. On his large desk lay an open brochure for the new Audi A8 sedan, a car that Crocker knew cost in the vicinity of $80,000.

After the Americans had taken seats on a sofa and stuffed chairs in one corner, the director general’s secretary served coffee, tea, and cookies on a large silver tray.

Salehi said, “I started my higher education at Penn State. That’s when Coach Joe Paterno was still a god. I knew nothing about American football. I grew up in a town outside of Tripoli, playing what you call soccer. I remember the first football game I attended. It was fantastic—the marching band, the cheerleaders, all the pageantry. I was enthralled.”

Crocker pointed to Mancini, seated to his right. “My colleague, Mr. Mancini, played college football.”

“I’m impressed,” the director general said. “It’s a very violent game. I think it takes great courage and skill.”

“You’ve got to be a little crazy. I’m more of a climber, paddler, and cyclist myself,” Crocker added.

Salehi said, “One of the things Libyans admire about Americans is their energy. You know—the physical fitness, the striving to be the best. Libyans love sports as well. But Colonel Gaddafi did not allow any sports stars to gain prominence because he feared they would draw the national spotlight away from him.”

“An egomaniac,” Akil muttered.

“Did you know that soccer stars could only be identified in newspapers and on TV by their numbers?”

It was hard for Crocker to sit there and be polite. He said, “I never knew that.”

“So many things are changing now.”

“For the better?” Akil asked.

“In the long run for the better. Yes.”

He was a charming man, but Crocker detected some sort of hidden resentment around his mouth and in his eyes.

Crocker asked, “How long have you been the director general?”

“Here at Tajoura, three years,” Salehi answered. “I was recently asked to stay on by the interim government, but since the center is more or less closed, there is very little for me to do.”

“Oh.”

“I’m almost never paid, which is also a problem.”

Mancini: “I thought the NTC had plenty of money from oil revenues.”

Salehi shrugged. “I don’t know the reason. They’re very disorganized. Sometimes I don’t even know who to ask.”

“Are you planning to stay?” Crocker asked.

He pointed to several photographs on his desk. “It’s a question I ask myself every day. My wife and daughter went to Malta during the fighting. They like it there and don’t want to return.”

After a few more minutes of small talk, Salehi led them downstairs for a tour of the center. They were joined by the chief engineer, a tall man with a huge nose who also spoke English. He led them past a big concrete-and-metal sculpture of a crescent with a sun in the middle. Beyond it rose a tall red-and-white ventilator stack.

Salehi explained that all the facility’s structures were designed to withstand the specific seismic conditions of the region. The building housing the reactor complex and radiochemical lab were built to nine-point seismicity. These precautions almost completely eliminated the possibility of a core meltdown caused by an earthquake.

Crocker asked, “When was the last time you used your centrifuges to enrich uranium?”

Salehi raised one of his black eyebrows. “We have had no need to enrich uranium since 2003.”

Crocker, who was exhausted and had no more patience, cut straight to the point. “I’m sorry, but that’s not what I asked.”

“Perhaps I didn’t understand the question.”

“I didn’t ask if you needed to enrich uranium. I asked if you’ve done it since 2003.”

“No, of course not,” the director general answered curtly. He seemed offended.

Crocker didn’t care. “But you continue to store low-enriched uranium fuel to run the reactor?”

“That’s correct.”

As difficult as it was for Crocker to focus, he understood that there was a big difference between reactor-grade uranium and weapons-grade uranium. But even low-enriched uranium could be used to fuel a dirty bomb. He was one of a handful of people who were aware that something like that had almost happened when Iraq’s Tuwaitha Nuclear Research Center was looted in April 2003, following the fall of Saddam Hussein, and a quantity of low-enriched uranium was seized by al-Qaeda terrorists. Crocker had led a team into Iraq to recover the uranium in that highly dangerous environment. They succeeded, but Crocker still regretted that he had lost two men.