Hunt the Scorpion (20 page)

Crocker rose, spun around, grabbed the man’s wrist, and snapped it back violently until it popped, just the way his defensive tactics instructor had taught him soon after he was selected for ST-6. The man arched his back and released a terrible wailing sound that ended when Mancini drove his head into the sharp edge of the cabin door. Then he let go and let the body slump to the floor.

Feeling the red gashes carved down his neck, Mancini said, “Ugly bastard scratched me like a girl.”

Crocker, hugely relieved, said, “Manny, it’s real good to see you. Your neck will heal.”

“Sorry it took me so long.” This comment delivered like it was no big deal. He plunked himself down in the copilot seat and took control of the second steering tiller as if he knew what he was doing. He started to level the jet off.

“You know how to fly something this big?” Crocker asked.

“Does a rabbit know how to fuck?” Mancini felt along the ridge of his front teeth and asked, “Jesus, boss, were you deliberately trying to crash this thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey. That little fucker mess up my front tooth?”

Crocker waited for Mancini to push away the blood with his tongue, then reported, “There’s a piece missing on top. Makes you look even meaner.”

“You know I’m a nice guy. I just have zero tolerance for assholes, especially tyrants and fanatics.”

“I’m real glad.”

Crocker watched him check the gauges and reset the flight director. Wiping the sweat off his brow, he asked, “Where the hell were you?”

“Snuck onto the aircraft after you. Went up the back stairway but got locked in the rear storage compartment where I was hiding. Luckily I had my Swiss Army knife with me. Couldn’t tell if it was a lever lock or tumbler. After numerous tries, I picked it.”

“Think there’s a chance you can land this sucker?” Crocker asked.

“We wanna go back to Tripoli, right?”

“That would be good.”

“You sure? I bet I can locate Ibiza. We can have a few days of R&R.”

“I’ve got some unfinished business in the Libyan capital.”

“Roger that. Love these old 727-200s. My next-door neighbor bought an entire cockpit instrument panel on eBay, and the two of us have been assembling it in his basement.”

“What for?”

“Fun.”

T
wenty minutes
later they touched down smoothly on runway 1B at Tripoli International Airport and were immediately surrounded by three pickups filled with NTC soldiers. Crocker refused to let them board the plane. He borrowed a cell phone from a Belgian soldier and called Jaime Remington, who showed up twenty minutes later with an NTC deputy foreign minister in tow.

A tense hour of back-and-forthing later, the deputy minister still wanted the plane’s cargo turned over to him.

Crocker was willing to let them have the bodies, but as for the six shipping containers, he said, “No way that’s ever going to happen.”

Remington: “Be reasonable. These people are extremely sensitive when it comes to issues of national sovereignty.”

“We’re talking about nuclear material that was being smuggled out of the country.”

“The trouble is that technically it belongs to the Libyans.”

“I don’t care who it belongs to. We’ll fly this motherfucker back to the States if we have to. Under no condition am I turning it over to them.”

The American ambassador, the NATO commander, and the head of the Libyan interim government got involved. Frantic calls were made to the White House, IAEA, and NATO headquarters in Brussels.

At 2 a.m. the Libyans agreed to release the six containers to the temporary custody of the NATO commander until IAEA inspectors could arrive and identify their contents.

Ambassador Saltzman asked, “You happy now, Crocker?”

“I’m a little less annoyed. Any news about Holly?”

“No news is good news.”

“Is it, sir? Are you sure about that?”

“I suggest you and your colleague go to the hospital to have your injuries looked after.”

Crocker: “Thanks for your concern.”

It was half past seven in the morning when he and Mancini dragged themselves through the front gate of the guesthouse. Akil and Davis greeted them at the door, both wearing gym shorts and worried expressions.

“Boss, can I talk to you alone?” Akil asked, the rising sun gilding his face.

Crocker felt too numb to think. He’d been shot up with painkillers, the back of his head had been bandaged, and his wrist had been placed in a hard cast.

Akil: “Brian Shaw’s body was dumped in front of the embassy about an hour ago.”

The name jolted him out of his stupor. “What’d you say?”

“Brian Shaw’s body was found in front of the U.S. embassy.”

“Shit…” A sick feeling gathered at the pit of his stomach, then morphed into white-hot rage.

“Attached to his body was a note from the kidnappers.”

“What did it say?”

“They’re giving the U.S. government twenty-four hours to meet their demands before they execute Holly, too.”

With the taste of bile in his mouth, Crocker swallowed hard. “Fuck! I need to find her. Now!”

Akil: “All of us are ready to help, boss. We’ll do anything.”

Davis: “We’re ready to kick ass, but we don’t know where to look.”

Crocker: “We’ve got to find out more.”

Akil: “How?”

Davis: “When Volman called with the news, I asked him the same questions: Who are the kidnappers? Where are they hiding? He says he doesn’t know.”

Mancini: “Who do you think does?”

Crocker looked at his boots and the bottom of his pants, still splattered with blood. “Where’s Ritchie?” he asked.

Davis: “He went with Volman to some of the militia camps, searching for intel.”

Crocker glanced at his watch, then at a big red spider crawling up the front of the house. They had approximately seventeen hours to find Holly. He said, “The two of you throw on some clothes and grab some weapons. I need you to drive me somewhere. But first, call the embassy and find out if Remington’s in yet.”

“Yes, sir.”

He heard the morning call for prayer drift over the wall; heard the children laughing next door. Thought:
Normal life goes on for some people.

He stepped inside the guesthouse. Splashed water on his face and appraised his ghastly-looking face in the bathroom mirror—his right ear blood encrusted and swollen, lacerations running from his cheekbone to his mouth. He found a bottle of disinfectant in his emergency medical kit, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and sprayed it on his face.

He looked older, gaunter, his skin gray and tired. But his blue eyes still burned with intensity.

He grabbed two energy bars and a bottle of water off the kitchen counter, realizing he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a meal. Hurrying to the front door, he shouted, “Let’s go!”

The neighbor’s twin boys were standing outside in their school uniforms and backpacks, waiting for their father. As they drove off, they waved to Crocker, big smiles creasing their faces.

He waved back.

One of the boys shouted, “Have a good day.”

“You, too. Thanks.” A sob caught in his throat.

Mancini climbed into the Suburban with Davis and Akil. He was ready to come along, too, but Crocker wanted him to stay near the phones in case Ritchie should call with news.

“Okay, boss. Good luck. Signal if you need me to meet you somewhere.”

“Thanks, Manny. I will.”

Davis: “Where are we going?”

Akil: “I spoke to the watch officer at the embassy. He said Remington’s at home and not expected in the office ’til noon.”

“Let’s go see him.”

Davis drove as if demons were chasing them. Fortunately, the streets were mostly empty, and they arrived at the station chief’s house in less than ten minutes, tires screeching.

Two Libyan guards outside stood at attention and looked scared. They watched Crocker ring the front gate bell. No answer. He was about to climb over the gate when a thin Hispanic man wearing a shoulder holster came out.

Crocker: “I’m the SEAL team leader, and I need to see Remington immediately.”

“I know who you are. He’s asleep.”

“Wake him.”

“I can’t.”

“Then get out of my way.”

Crocker tried to squeeze by. The aide held out an arm to stop him as the Libyans watched.

“He gave me strict orders not to bother him unless it’s an emergency.”

“This
is
a fucking emergency,” Crocker growled, pushing his arm aside and entering.

He knew the house well enough from his earlier stay to locate the back bedroom. There he found Remington sleeping with the curtains drawn and a CD of nature sounds playing.

He yanked open the curtains and pulled the stereo plug from the wall. The CIA man blinked, rubbed his eyes, and raised himself up on his elbows. Seeing Crocker, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

Crocker shouted in his face, “You forgot to tell me about Brian Shaw.”

Remington lay back on the bed and turned away from the window. “I thought we agreed that you were going to let me handle this.”

“And you said you were working nonstop and going to keep me informed!”

As Remington turned to look at the clock, an enormous racket echoed from the hallway, sounds of men shouting curses and struggling.

Seconds later the Hispanic aide burst through the door. Davis had an arm around his neck and Akil was in the process of wrestling the man’s pistol away from him.

Remington shouted, “What the hell is going on?”

His aide: “Sir, I tried to stop them from entering the house!”

“This is unacceptable! Out of control!”

An angry Remington turned and pointed a finger at Crocker. “I blame you. You’re way out of line, Crocker. I’m reporting this to your command!”

“Call the fucking president if you want. You’re not doing your job.”

Remington grabbed the sat-phone from the night table and started to dial a number. Reconsidering, he stopped and shouted, “Come with me!”

“Where?”

“We’re going to see the ambassador.”

Saltzman was pacing the floor with his hands behind his back and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
played softly on the stereo. He stopped when he saw the two large men. Said cheerfully, “Come in. Make yourselves at home.” Pointed to a silver coffee service on a tray. “Who would like a morning beverage? Coffee or tea?”

The clock on his desk read 9:35. The whole setting seemed absurd to Crocker. Time was slipping away.

Remington ordered his coffee black. The SEAL opted for a glass of water. The men took seats facing the ambassador, Crocker in a straight-backed chair. The red-haired secretary lowered the music volume.

Saltzman said, “I learned as a young attorney filing civil rights cases against the Justice Department to never panic, never lose hope. Things can change in unexpected ways. They often do.”

The emotion Crocker held back was almost overwhelming. He wanted to slap them both in the face. Wake them the fuck up.

The ambassador calmly wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and pushed the tray aside like an actor in a play.

While my wife is suffering and the minutes tick away.

He raised an eyebrow and turned to Crocker. “I assume you heard about Brian Shaw.”

Crocker: “What are you doing about that, sir?”

“Shocking and horrible.”

Remington: “Leo ID’d the body.”

Saltzman: “Animals. Savages.”

“I’m here to talk about my wife.”

Silence. Saltzman and Remington shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Tension hung in the air like an electric charge.

“I was getting to that, Crocker,” the ambassador said smoothly. “First of all, let’s not lose hope. The kidnappers have given us a deadline, but that doesn’t mean they’ll act on it.”

“They did in Brian’s case,” Crocker countered bluntly. He watched the two officials’ faces turn sour, as if he’d let out an awful stink.

“Regretfully, yes. But your wife is different.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because without her the kidnappers have no leverage.”

Crocker shook with frustration. “Who are they, and why do they want leverage?”

“I’ll let Remington answer that.”

Crocker waited. Another slow minute passed as Remington crossed his legs, cleared his throat, leaned forward in his chair.

“Remember the three men you arrested at the refugee camp near Busetta?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, one of them happens to be the half brother of a Tuareg leader named Anaruz Mohammed.”

Mention of Anaruz’s name put Crocker even more on edge. “I know who he is.”

“We believe Anaruz, or people working for him, are behind the kidnapping.”

“What led you to that conclusion?”

“Because in exchange for Brian and Holly the kidnappers have been demanding the release of the three men you detained.”

The irony hit Crocker hard. He said, “I heard it was gold.”

“The gold was just a rumor.”

“So Martyrs of the Revolution is just a cover?”

“That’s what we’ve believed all along, yes.”

It made sense. Awful sense. Americans had arrested Anaruz’s half brother, so he struck back by kidnapping two U.S. officials.

But wait…

“Do you think it’s a coincidence that he seized my wife, or does he know she’s married to the man who arrested his half brother?”

“I suspect they saw an opportunity to kidnap a couple of Americans, without knowing who they are.”

“Where are the three prisoners now?” Crocker asked.

“They’re in NTC custody,” Saltzman answered. “I made a point of turning the three men over to the NTC. Officials there didn’t want to take them at first, but I convinced the NTC that they would improve their human rights profile if they made public examples of them. I pushed hard. They locked the men away and pressed charges. Then Holly and Brian were kidnapped.”

“Shit.” It was worse than he thought, and it put the onus squarely on him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Do you know where the men are being held?”

“No, we don’t,” Remington answered.

“And you probably wouldn’t tell me if you did.”

“Crocker, there are big issues at stake,” the ambassador said. “Even if we could pressure the NTC to exchange the men for Holly—which we can’t, because it goes against U.S. policy—the release of these men would make the NTC look weak, and that’s something we don’t want to do.”

“I don’t give a shit about the NTC, I care about my wife.”

“I’m sure I’d feel the same if I were in your position.”

“Where does that leave me, Mr. Ambassador? What’s going to happen to Holly?”

“Nothing now. I think that eventually the kidnappers will get tired of holding her and set her free.”

“You really believe that?”

“Ask yourself this: What do the kidnappers gain by hurting her? Nothing, except to make themselves look like barbarians. We should presume the kidnappers are rational people.”

He hated the word “presume” and wished the ambassador hadn’t used it. He took a deep breath and asked, “What if they’re not reasonable? What if they think killing my wife helps them achieve their goals? What if they think sparing her will make them appear weak?”

No answer.

“Sir, why aren’t we out there turning this country upside down to find her?”

“Because it’s not an option. The deadline will pass and your wife will still be alive.”

Crocker wanted to pick up the coffee table in front of him and throw it out the window. Instead, he gritted his teeth and said, “You’re bargaining with my wife’s life!”

Remington: “We continue to do everything we can to locate the kidnappers. The more time passes, the more our odds of finding them increase. We’re talking about a relatively small country. We’ve got multiple sources out talking to people from different groups. We’re quietly offering money in exchange for information. I’m confident someone will say something that will be useful.”

“What have you learned so far?” Crocker asked aggressively. “Where is she being held?”

Remington: “We believe she’s somewhere in the capital.”

Crocker was on the verge of losing control. “Where, exactly?”