“You mean bring them to justice, right?”
“Bring them to justice, or shoot them in the head. Same thing.”
It was the first time he’d seen Remington smile. He said, “I like your attitude, Crocker. But NATO’s going to want to handle that.”
Based on what he’d just seen and heard, he figured it would take the NATO command weeks to get their act together. By that time the perpetrators would have vanished-or, worse, carried out other attacks.
Remington said, “Given your experience as a SPECWAR WMD officer, I want you to work with John here and check the list. But you need to do it discreetly. The ambassador is wary of doing anything that makes it seem that we don’t trust or might be usurping authority from the interim government.”
“Of course.”
Back in the meeting room, Crocker listened to more distressed reports from frustrated, embarrassed, angry men. The only difference this time was that all of them were Americans-CIA case officers, military attachés, members of the embassy political section. He spotted Doug Volman in the corner, looking pale and worried.
Still no mention of Anaruz Mohammed.
The men described again how security at the Sheraton was lax. How reports about the effectiveness of the NTC were overblown. Its weak and disorganized central security apparatus still wasn’t willing or able to stop reprisals against former Gaddafi loyalists. Looting continued throughout the country. Cars were robbed; houses were broken into; women raped. Rival militias controlled different sectors of the city. All of them were basically looking after their own interests-namely, money and power in the new government.
The embassy was reluctant to put pressure on the NTC because they were competing with the French for influence with the new Libyan government. Their primary focus seemed to be the political maneuvering going on behind the scenes. The prize: the lucrative contracts that would be handed out to service and maintain Libya’s substantial oil industry.
Internal security, though troublesome, was less of a concern. Nobody wanted to alienate the leaders of the NTC.
Crocker left two hours later, angry, tired, and depressed. Doug Volman, smelling like he needed a shower and a change of clothes, joined him in the hall.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Volman asked.
“You did.”
“Nobody wants to talk about the political vacuum that was created when we helped force out Gaddafi. Or the opportunity we’ve created for al-Qaeda, or other Islamic fundamentalists, or countries like Iran and China.”
“What about Anaruz Mohammed?” Crocker asked. “Would you include him, too?”
Volman, seeing John Lasher approaching, lowered his voice to a whisper. “Anaruz is a simple kid who’s garnered a lot of media attention because of his background. He hasn’t proved that he can generate much of anything on his own.”
“Take everything he tells you with a big grain of salt,” Lasher muttered after Volman left. Then he informed Crocker that Remington was going to take him to meet the ambassador. Crocker said he wanted to meet the embassy security chief first.
“Make it quick,” Lasher answered. “I’ll be waiting outside the ambassador’s office on the second floor.”
The head of security was Leo Debray, a huge man with a smashed-in nose and a big, sunburned face. He had a marine flag on the wall of his little office and pictures of himself as a fighter standing in various boxing rings and gyms.
“What can I do you for?” he asked with a crooked smile. Although friendly, he radiated violence.
“I’m trying to connect with my wife, Holly Crocker. I heard she’s in Cairo conducting a security survey.”
Debray leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head and howled, “Holy shit! You mean to tell me Holly is your wife?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, ain’t that something. Great gal. She’s been a big help. You’re one of the civil engineers, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“She know you’re here?”
“As a matter of fact, she doesn’t.”
“Holy shit! You undercover?” He lowered his voice. “Is she not supposed to know?”
Crocker: “I didn’t plan to be here, and didn’t have a chance to inform her. Can you tell me where she’s located now?”
“Holly, let’s see…” He leaned back again. “Well, I assume you know she was staying at the Sheraton the night before last.”
Crocker’s blood turned cold. “No!”
“Jesus, man, I’m sorry. I should have told you first, she’s fine! She wasn’t even there at the time of the attack.”
“Thank God.”
“She and her colleague finished up early in Cairo and stopped here on their way to Tunisia. They’re due back in Libya to eyeball our consulate in Benghazi any day now. That puppy’s in pretty ragged shape.”
Crocker felt relieved. “The consulate in Benghazi?”
“Yup. Whole town had the shit kicked out of it by the colonel’s hooligans and mercenaries. The uprising started there, so when the colonel’s forces retook the city, they punished the joint. Sacked our consulate in the process. Nice touch, huh?”
Crocker had had his fill of Libyan history for one day. “When is she expected back?”
“Holly and Brian? I thought they were coming back today. Wait here. I’ll check.”
Debray returned a few minutes later with a short woman in her thirties. Dirty blond hair cut short, blue slacks, blue oxford shirt, a tattoo of a rose covering the back of her hand.
“Kat Hamilton.”
“Hi, Kat. Tom Crocker.”
She bounced from one side to another, and spoke with a Pittsburgh accent, turning “ows” into “ahs.” “Yeah, Holly’s great,” she said. “Flew to Tunisia yesterday morning. With Brian. You know Brian?”
“Brian Shaw?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“Sure do.” Brian Shaw was a good-looking guy in State Department Security, about ten years younger than Crocker and a couple of inches taller. A former major league pitcher, he’d been going through a bad divorce. Holly was giving him advice and support.
Kat said, “Everybody talks about the friggin’ Arab Spring and how wonderful it was, and all that. They forget to mention that most of our facilities got trashed in the process. It’s gonna cost us a fortune.”
“She’s okay?”
“Holly? Oh, yeah. I spoke to her about an hour ago. She and Brian were at the Carlton Hotel drinking mint tea. They’re finishing up in Tunis today, then flying from there to Benghazi.”
“After that she’s returning here?”
“To good ol’ Tripoli, that’s right. We’ve scheduled a regional meeting here for Friday to address the regional embassy security picture, evaluate needs, draft a budget, write a report. Holly’s input will be important. Critical, you might say.”
“When exactly do you expect her back?”
“Sometime Thursday.”
“Libyan Airlines?”
“I imagine.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He turned to leave and stopped. “Oh, and one other thing. Please don’t tell her I’m here. I want to surprise her.”
“Sure thing.”
Chapter Seven
Anyone who isn’t confused doesn’t really understand the situation.
– Edward R. Murrow
The guesthouse was roughly six blocks away, a relatively modest three-bedroom behind a concrete wall topped with broken glass and barbed wire. The oval pool in the backyard was covered with a blue tarp.
He found most of his team loading in supplies and cleaning the kitchen. Mancini had his head in the fridge, a plastic bucket at his feet, the floor around him covered with old food containers, muttering to himself. Seeing Crocker, he stopped. “Hey, boss,” he said. “You alright? Heard you had a difficult night.”
“I’m running on fumes. How’s the place?”