Hunt the Wolf (17 page)

Rounding the corner, he saw a dozen soldiers in black riot gear and visored helmets pointing automatic weapons at him.

Reminded him of an image he’d seen in a video game.

A shorter soldier on the right of the group, holding a 12-gauge M1014 combat shotgun with a telescoping tubular stock, shouted in British-accented English: “Freeze right there or we’ll shoot!”

Stopping, he suddenly felt exhausted. The smoke was creating havoc in his head.

“Now slowly hand the girl to my men.”

“Okay.” Coughing.

Brigitte, in his arms, whimpered.

Crocker, feeling lightheaded, tried to reassure her. “They’re government soldiers,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

He transferred her to two big men who carried her away. Two other soldiers stepped forward and pointed their weapons at his head.

“Now get down the floor and hold your arms over your head!”

“I’m an official of the U.S. government.” Actually, his situation was a bit more complicated. But he couldn’t explain that he was a leader of a U.S. Navy SEAL Team Six unit on assignment with the CIA.

“Get on the floor!”

“I need to talk to—”

“GET DOWN, NOW!”

Crocker didn’t have the energy to argue. His head was wobbling. As he bent his knees, his legs gave out.

He was already unconscious when he hit the floor.

H
e woke
up dreaming that he was floating in clouds looking for something below in the choppy blue water.

What?

The question was immediately lost in the flood of messages that crowded his brain. Pain first, emanating from his arms, legs, face, and ribs. Then, impressions of his current surroundings.

He lay on a metal hospital bed in a pale blue room approximately twenty feet by twenty. Steel bars painted white over the one window that faced another wing of the hospital. Birds chirped playfully outside. A uniformed guard watched him from a folding metal chair by the door.

“Where am I?” he asked.

The guard put his hands behind his head and yawned.

Crocker pushed himself up on his elbows, and as he did, a thick knot of pain traveled from his shoulder up to the base of his skull.

There was no phone on the nightstand. No immediate means of connecting with the outside world.

For the moment he welcomed the peace and quiet. The space to think.

An IV fed a vein in his left forearm. Two monitors attached farther up relayed information to a series of machines on a cart—blood pressure, heartbeat, and so on.

“How long have I been here?” he asked, realizing that he was wearing a light green hospital gown and that his clothes and other personal belongings were nowhere in sight.

“How long have I been lying here?” he asked the soldier again. He looked to be in his thirties. A wide, flat face, clean shaven. Hooded dark eyes. A green-red-and-white Omani flag patch on the shoulder of his uniform.

The soldier tapped his watch, held it to his ear, then stood and opened the door. Crocker watched him turn from the waist and say something in Arabic to someone in the hallway.

That’s when he remembered the girl, Brigitte, and the events at the Al Bustan Palace hotel. The terror, gunfire, and flames returned.

Malie? I wonder what happened to Malie?

Dozens of related questions begged for answers. First of all: Where’s the rest of my team? Did they find her? Were they able to stop Sheik Rastani, Cyrus, and the others?

He made a careful evaluation of his body, starting with his feet and ankles—all bare and sore, but otherwise functional. Pain pulsed from a bruise below his right knee, which was covered with a bandage. Both hamstrings were tight. His lower back ached, especially on the right. His ribs were tightly wrapped in bandages. And there was a big dressing near his right shoulder where he’d been burned.

Raw claw marks on his neck. His mouth swollen, sore, and dry. Lower lip ripped and stitched. His right incisor had been broken, a triangular-shaped piece missing from the top.

He’d been in worse shape than this. During previous operations, he’d broken his back and other bones, fractured his pelvis, suffered high-altitude pulmonary edema, and nearly drowned.

When he tried to move, sharp warnings rose from almost every part of his body. The guard stood at the door looking anxious, fingering the pistol that hung from a leather holster at his side.

“I have to use the bathroom,” Crocker explained slowly, trying to recall the words in Arabic.

Just a frown from the soldier. A threatening look in his eyes.

“The bathroom.
Le pissoir
.”

The Omani shouted something urgently down the hall.

Crocker considered disconnecting himself from the machines and taking his chances, when a nurse in a brilliant white uniform entered. Short, straight brown hair cut in a pageboy. Her features were somewhat Hispanic.

“How do you feel?” she asked in lilting English.

“Sore as hell.”

“Sore’s not so bad.” She introduced herself as Luci, from the Philippines. Told him he’d arrived at the hospital yesterday in the early afternoon. It was now 3 p.m.

“I assume I’m still in Muscat.”

“Yes, you are. Lovely city. This morning I watched dolphins playing in the water from the window of my apartment.”

What he would do to change places with those creatures now.

“I need to talk to someone from the U.S. embassy.”

“We need to get you to a dentist first.”

“No, the embassy. It’s urgent. How do I get to a phone?”

“I’ll ask.”

She helped him out of bed and to a bathroom down the hall. The guard walked beside them, muttering a prayer under his breath, and waited outside the door.

Crocker’s face looked worse than he thought it would. His right eye was practically swollen shut, and the blue-and-​purple bruise around his mouth extended high up his cheek and down across his jaw. Long red gashes marked his neck.

Returning to his bed exhausted, he fell asleep. Dreamt he was watching his mother iron clothes with a cigarette clenched in her teeth. The expression on her tired, weathered face said Learn to take the good with the bad, son.

I will, Mom. I will.

When he awoke hours later a bright light burned overhead. The sliver of sky through the window had turned deep Prussian blue. He felt like he was floating.

Three dark-skinned men stood at the end of the bed, two in military uniform, the third in a doctor’s white lab coat.

“U.S. Navy Chief Warrant Officer Thomas Crocker?” the uniformed man with the thick black mustache asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“Colonel Najar Bahrami of the Internal Security Service.”

“Then maybe you can answer some questions.”

“When did you arrive in Oman?”

“I need to talk to someone from the U.S. embassy first.”

“Your embassy already knows you’re here.”

“Then please let me use your phone.”

“When did you arrive here?”

“I lost track of time. Am I under arrest?”

“Do you realize that you landed in our country without permission?”

“I’m an official of the U.S. government. I came here on a mission for the king of Norway.”

“The king of Norway?”

“Yes.”

The men whispered back and forth. The doctor put a hand on Crocker’s forehead to check his temperature, just like his mother used to do.

When the American awoke the next morning, the guard at the door was gone. Sunlight streamed past the bars in the window and fell across the empty chair.

He felt stronger. More alert.

The same nurse arrived to bathe him and change his bandages, then supply him with a fresh hospital gown. Like an angel.

“I need immediate access to a telephone.”

“Your American friends are waiting,” she said as another nurse arrived with a bowl of yogurt and a cup of hot tea.

As soon as Crocker finished eating, a sandy-haired man with a long face entered. He didn’t look American.

“Mr. Crocker,” the man said, beaming as he crossed to the bed and offered his hand. “Claude Mathieu from the French embassy. Thank you for saving Brigitte.”

“Brigitte? Yes. How is she?”

The whole messy episode came back.

“You’re a hero in my country! The president himself sends his regards.”

“Is she okay?” Wondering how much damage the smoke had done to their lungs.

“She’s recovering very nicely, I think. She’d like to thank you in person when you’re feeling better.”

“I’m ready to get out of here now. Maybe you can help.”

The Frenchman smiled quickly, then excused himself to attend to some urgent business, promising to return soon.

Almost immediately a half-dozen serious-looking U.S. officials in suits entered. The faces of the five men and one woman were all unfamiliar.

One of them stepped forward and said that the Omani government was extremely annoyed about the incident at the Al Bustan Palace and the fact that they hadn’t been briefed about Crocker’s mission.

The SEAL team leader hadn’t expected this and didn’t know what to say. “There was no time. Everything happened so fast.”

A tall, red-haired U.S. embassy officer explained that the Omanis had spent years carefully cultivating an image of a tolerant, peaceful haven on the Arabian Peninsula, an ideal place to conduct business. The violence at one of their most prestigious international hotels had shattered that image. It could take years for them to repair it. In the meantime, hundreds of millions of dollars in revenue could be lost.

“Two things you need to understand,” Crocker said. “One, I didn’t initiate the violence. And two, it couldn’t have been avoided. Besides, I entered the hotel unarmed.”

“Maybe not. But the Omanis are still upset.”

“They’re not completely innocent, either.”

“What do you mean?” the lone female asked.

“I mean they allowed human traffickers and two kidnapped girls to enter their country. That girl, Brigitte, and the Norwegian, Malie, obviously weren’t carrying passports with valid visas.”

“How do you know that?”

Crocker took a deep breath and took them through the incident step by step, beginning with meeting the man in the lobby. Then he answered questions. At the end, one man of the half dozen said, “I admire your courage.”

The others looked skeptical and worried.

Crocker, who didn’t care about their judgments, was starting to feel tired. “Listen,” he said. “There was this girl, a Norwegian named Malie. Do you know if she was found?”

They didn’t.

“Where are the other members of my team?”

“I believe they’re still in Muscat,” the red-haired officer answered.

“If they’re here, I need to communicate with them immediately.”

“Certain things need to be straightened out first.”

“What things?”

They gave no answer.

“I need to get out of this hospital as soon as possible.”

“We’re working on that.”

An hour later Crocker was thumbing through a back issue of
Time
magazine, reading about the dangers of global warming, when Claude Mathieu returned carrying a vase of white roses.

“To cheer you up,” the Frenchman said with a wink.

“Thanks.”

“They’re from Brigitte’s parents,” he added, setting them down on the bed table. “They’d like to thank you in person.”

The SEAL chief warrant officer usually didn’t like thank-yous, but this time he welcomed any excuse to get out of the room. Moving slowly down the hall like a broken old man, he tried to look dignified despite the ugly bruises on his face and neck.

The door at the end was guarded by two serious-looking plainclothesmen with guns. Through the crack in the door Crocker saw large bouquets of flowers and bunches of balloons.

“The story of her rescue has been headline news throughout my country,” Mathieu whispered.

A week ago, French authorities had been mad at him and Akil for the raid in Toulon.

The second he entered, a middle-aged couple rose to greet him. Seeing the state of Crocker’s face, the pretty woman with a bob of graying brown hair covered her mouth with her hands and gasped,
“Mon Dieu!”

Mathieu muttered something in French, and the woman, who was about to throw her arms around the American, stopped. Instead, she grabbed both of his hands in hers and kissed them.

Her husband joined her, a well-built man with a square, worn face. He was sobbing, too, muttering something in French that Crocker couldn’t understand. He grabbed the American’s hands and squeezed them so that the three pairs of hands were linked together.

A bolt of emotion traveled up Crocker’s arm into his chest.

They showed him to a chair by the bed. That’s when the SEAL focused on Brigitte—small and radiant, surrounded by white pillows. She looked like a sad little doll. When she opened her eyes, he saw that a very faint flame still burned inside them.

Despite the tube in her mouth she formed the words “Thank you.”

Crocker bit his lip and nodded. “It makes me very happy to see you with your family.”

Brigitte took his big hand in hers, which felt as delicate as flowers.

Crocker remembered all the psychic pain he’d endured to get to this moment—his turbulent youth, his mother’s death, his divorce, his training, all the violence he’d witnessed.

Didn’t matter if he was dismissed from the SEALs for his actions or given a medal. He had to stay focused, trust his instincts, overcome his fears. All that he’d learned, and everything he was, boiled down to that.

He asked Brigitte’s parents if he could ask their daughter a few quick questions before he left.

“Of course,” her mother said in French. “Please do whatever you can so that these horrible people are stopped.”

“Brigitte,” he asked. “You and the other girl, Malie, traveled on the ship together?”

She nodded yes.

“And you disembarked together here in Muscat?”

Yes again.

“And the two of you were together in the hotel suite.”

She nodded a third time.

“How many men were there?”

She held up five fingers, then pulled the tube away from her tongue.

“All Middle Eastern,” she said. “I think they were speaking Arabic. One man was in charge.”

“Cyrus?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“And Sheik Rastani?”

She winced. “A fat man with thick lips. I found him disgusting.”

No clues to the Norwegian girl’s location, but she had confirmed that he was on the right trail.

Walking back to his room, hoping that Klausen or someone would arrive with good news, Crocker felt something darker lingering on the edge of his euphoria, demanding his attention.

A scowling Lou Donaldson and Jim Anders stood in his room, waiting.

“We thought you’d escaped the hospital,” the CIA officer snarled.

“I was visiting the French girl and her parents.”

Crocker sat on the edge of the bed listening to their complaints, trying to figure out what was bothering him. They, too, like the officials from the embassy, seemed more concerned about the irked Omanis than about the fact that a girl’s life had been saved and a kidnapping ring quashed.

Apparently, maintaining smooth relationships was more important than protecting young women from predators.