“Really?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Which one?”
The man shrugged.
He searched and found Cowens near the bottom, the top left side of his head and face missing, and his tongue hanging out. Crocker sat on the floor, rested his back against the wall, and covered his face with his hands, exhausted. Completely spent. “It isn’t Al,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s just his body. Al, rest his soul, has hopefully gone to a better place. God bless him.”
Chapter Six
The wound that bleedeth inwardly is the most dangerous.
– Arab proverb
He dreamt that he was bleeding from a hole in his stomach and trying to get it to stop. His blood kept pouring out. It flowed into a clear hose that led to a fountain. Buzzards drank from it.
He woke up in a sweat, lying on a single bed in an unfamiliar room. An African mask staring at him from the opposite wall. Alicia Keys singing from a stereo in another room.
While he was washing his face in the bathroom, a woman with a blue scarf tied around her head entered the bedroom with food and fresh tangerine juice on a tray. Sunlight created a sharp angle on the floor. Through the doorway he saw a courtyard with a lemon tree.
“Where am I?” he asked her.
Smiling, she said, “Palm City.”
“Palm City. Where’s that?”
“It’s in Janzour.”
“Oh…” He remembered the woman in the hotel shower, Doug Volman crouched in the front seat of the SUV, flames rising from the front of the Sheraton.
He’d forgotten about Volman and Mustafa. And he hadn’t seen Davis since leaving him in the brasserie.
What the hell happened to them? he asked himself.
“This home of…Mr. Remington,” the local woman said.
“Remington?”
“Yes.”
Crocker didn’t know the name. He felt disoriented, perplexed.
“Mr. Remington is American?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
She returned a minute later with clean boxers, a T-shirt, a dark green polo shirt, black workout pants. “For you.”
“Thanks.”
Standing under a warm shower, he felt sharp pains in his back. His whole right side was sore and bruised. The muscles in both arms were tired and tight. Otherwise, he seemed intact. Alive.
Not like Al Cowens, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.
He dressed and entered the courtyard, where an orange cat was stalking a little bird with an orange beak-a finch maybe. Looked up at the sky above and saw the sun at approximately 9 a.m. The angle of the light reminded him of Southern California, when he was a young member of SEAL Team One living in a double-wide trailer with his first wife. She’d kept spice finches as pets.
A tall African American man in khaki pants and a white shirt entered. The lines in his face were deep.
“Crocker,” he said. “My name’s Jaime Remington. I’m Al’s deputy. Rather, I was his deputy. I’m running the station now.”
“Al.”
“Yeah…It’s terrible. I just got off the phone with his wife. She’s in California. They were living apart.”
“Children?”
“Two daughters. One married; the other a junior at Fresno State.”
The image of his dead body flashed before Crocker’s eyes.
“Fucking tragic. I saw him last night at the Sheraton.”
“I heard you were there in the middle of everything.”
“Yeah.”
“We’re all in shock…How did you sleep?”
“So-so.”
“I’m kind of in a fog myself. But here’s the situation…You were brought to my house last night.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Your men are being moved to a guesthouse near the embassy. You’ll meet them there later.”
“What about Davis?”
“Who’s he?”
“A member of my team. He was with me at the Sheraton last night, in the brasserie.”
“What about him?”
“He was hurt. I want to know if he’s alright.”
“I’ll ask. What’s his last name?”
“Davis. John Davis. I left two more people in an SUV out front. Doug Volman and a driver named Mustafa.”
“Volman’s resting. The embassy doctor said he’ll be fine. Mustafa is back at work.”
“What’s wrong with Volman?”
“High blood pressure and heart palpitations. Look, I’m about to leave for NATO headquarters. I’d like you to come with me, if you feel up to it.”
“I’m fine.”
“Finish your breakfast.”
“No appetite. Let’s go.”
A weird calm hung over the city. Crocker had no idea in which direction they were headed. All he was aware of was movement, the sunlight, and the automatic pistol Remington held in his hand as they sat in the backseat. A bodyguard with an Uzi and sunglasses sat in the passenger seat. A backup car behind them held more armed guards.
They were speeding; tires screeched around turns. Everyone seemed tense. The muscles around Remington’s mouth twitched.
A thousand thoughts were flying through Crocker’s head-Davis, Al Cowens, the attackers, the kid who had helped him, the helicopter that blew up in the sky.
He noticed that the safety on Remington’s pistol was off. He was about to say something but stopped.
He tried to think clearly. First I have to find out if Davis is alright. Then I have to ascertain if what happened last night affects our mission.
His head felt thick and heavy on his shoulders.
“How many casualties?” he asked.
“We counted twenty, but more bodies are still being recovered. Another fifty-seven spent the night in various local hospitals. We’ve got doctors and nurses out checking on them now.”
“How many Americans?”
“Five, including Cowens.”
They were speeding east along the coast, which was mostly barren. It reminded him of the desert. The majority of the nearby buildings were ravaged-bombed out, burned, pockmarked with bullets. Arabic graffiti scrawled over everything. More black flags.
They turned and stopped at a heavily fortified gate. The blue-and-white NATO flag flew at half mast. Soldiers in battle fatigues and blue helmets leaned into the windows of the SUV, anxiously scanned their faces, checked a clipboard, then waved them in.
Through the waves of heat rising from the sand he saw a runway, a control tower, and several badly damaged buildings. Tall palm trees in the distance. They stopped at a long three-story building that was under repair. Men on scaffolds were painting it a funny mustard color that seemed to clash with the vivid blue sky.
Crocker wondered if the local construction workers could be trusted, which reminded him a little of Iraq, where you couldn’t distinguish your enemies from your friends.
That sense of uncertainty put him on edge.
“This is it,” Remington announced, stashing his pistol in the SUV door’s pocket and grabbing his briefcase.
“This is what?”
Remington was already bounding ahead, sunglasses reflecting the strong sun. Crocker had to move fast to catch up.
Tall, good-looking African soldiers in dark green uniforms stood at attention and saluted as they entered. Asian soldiers on duty inside wore odd-colored camouflage and maroon berets. On the chest of one, Crocker read MONGOLIA.
“What are we doing here?” Crocker asked. “What’s the agenda?”
“The absolute disaster last night,” Remington said out of the side of his mouth.
He had the long legs and stride of a runner. Crocker followed him up a flight of stairs and into a crowded conference room. The table was covered with papers, cups, half-empty water bottles. A mélange of nationalities and uniforms.
Three dozen weary-looking men and one woman were focused on a tall man at the head of the table. His face was grim and creased with concern. He wore frameless oval glasses and an ironed khaki shirt with red bars on the collar. On his epaulets shone three gold stars.