A faint bluish light spilled out the bottom of the door. He clenched his fists and entered.
The first thing he noticed was the light from the desk lamp filling the small rectangular room with strange shadows. Next, his eyes focused on a single bed. In the folds of the covers Crocker saw a shiny object he identified as a six-inch kitchen knife.
Then he noticed a pool of blood on the floor near the desk. Stepping past the bed, he saw a man’s body lying facedown. The back of his head had been blasted off, indicating an exit wound.
Instinctively, Crocker felt for an artery on his neck to confirm that he was dead. No pulse.
Lifting the body under the shoulders, he turned it over carefully.
It didn’t resemble Brian Shaw or anyone else he recognized. Poor fellow looked to be a local-dark skin, hair, and eyes, a couple of days’ growth of beard.
Crocker set the body back down, relieved and unsettled-relieved that his worst fears hadn’t been confirmed, unsettled because he realized that something equally terrible had happened. A man had been killed, and Holly and Brian were missing.
He wanted to run and find her but had no idea where to go.
He also felt violated.
Nobody touches my wife and gets away with it. No one!
The whoop-whoop-whoop of the helicopter blades still echoed in his head as he sat in a comfortable leather chair in Ambassador Saltzman’s office. Air-conditioned air tickled his nose. He wanted to sneeze but caught himself. The ambassador sat behind his desk speaking into a cordless phone.
Crocker had remained in Sirte the previous night with a group of Canadian soldiers who worked the scene. Canucks, they called themselves. Good guys who loved the North African weather but missed their girlfriends back home. All the female residents of the city were hiding, they reported as they gathered evidence from the house, searched the area, and set up local roadblocks, all in a frenzy.
They’d come up with practically nothing. The deceased man in the house turned out to be the caretaker, a Libyan engineering student named Ali ak-Riyyad, twenty-one years old. The owners had fled to Morocco before the war and hadn’t returned. When friends and family members weren’t using the place, they rented it to visitors.
Holly and Brian Shaw had learned about the house from the man who ran the information desk at the airport. They had driven there in a cab two afternoons ago. Judging from the condition of Ali’s body, the attack had taken place in the early morning hours of the following day, approximately eighteen hours before Crocker arrived.
Shoe marks and handprints indicated that the attackers had climbed over the front wall and entered the house through an open kitchen window. They had exited out the front door. Someone had been injured, because drops of blood were spotted leading outside.
Now, sunlight streamed in through a crack in the curtains of the ambassador’s office. A quick glance at his watch showed Crocker it was almost one in the afternoon.
“Please, general, this is a priority. You must do everything in your power,” Saltzman said into the phone, “and act quickly. The last thing we want is for this to reach the press.”
The last sentence jarred Crocker’s attention. Who gives a shit about the press?
He looked up. Remington sat across from him, next to a framed photograph of the ambassador standing next to the Clintons. He was writing something on a yellow pad as the ambassador spoke.
“No. Absolutely not,” the ambassador continued. “We haven’t heard anything here. I’ll let you know as soon as we do. Remember, speed is of the utmost importance. Yes. Yes. Thanks.”
He hung up, undid the top button of his white oxford shirt, and called, “Nancy, find Leo Debray and tell him I want to see him.”
Crocker was picturing Holly-the way her long brown hair framed her face, the warmth in her brown eyes, the fullness of her lips. She was strong, but delicate inside.
Amazing woman…Grace under pressure…A beautiful, compassionate soul…
He jerked his head up when he heard his name. “Crocker? Warrant Officer Crocker?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is a terrible situation. I wish I knew you and your wife better.”
Strange thing to say.
“Why?”
“Why?” The ambassador pulled up a chair, sat directly in front of him, and adjusted his suspenders. “Sometimes people in authority are put in a godawful position. So please excuse me for asking, is there any chance that your wife and Mr. Shaw ran off together?”
It was like a slap in the face. “Why do you ask?”
“Not that I’ve heard anything. No. I’m referring to a spur-of-the-moment decision. Maybe they realized they had some time off and chose to explore the country together.”
“Where would they go?”
“I don’t know. Misrata? Benghazi? One of the towns along the coast?”
Crocker’s throat had turned so dry that he found it difficult to speak. “Why, sir? Has someone said something?”
“No. No. Not at all. I don’t want you to think…”
“Think…what?”
“The fact is that we’ve seen very little residual violence in that area. It’s been more or less completely calm.”
Crocker felt his fists clenching. He wanted to shout something but held back. He took a breath and said, “Sir, the house was attacked. There’s no doubt about that. The caretaker was killed. My wife and Mr. Shaw left behind a good number of their personal belongings.”
“But not their suitcases, correct? Did you find their suitcases?”
This line of questioning was pissing him off. “No, I didn’t, but-”
“It makes one wonder…”
“What, sir? I found my wife’s favorite hairbrush. She takes it with her everywhere. Her grandmother gave it to her. There’s no way in…”
Remington crossed his long legs. He was clearly uncomfortable.
The ambassador rubbed his chin. “I see.”
“See what, sir?”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
Crocker said, “The obvious one is that they’ve been kidnapped.”
Remington jumped in. “Let’s not rush to conclusions. Transportation and communication in this country are both problematic. It’s something we deal with on a daily basis.”
“This is clearly more than a transportation problem.”
“Jumping to conclusions doesn’t help.”
He wanted to shout “Fuck you!” But before he could, the ambassador spoke.
He said, “Crocker, I can assure you that we’ll do everything in our power. Everything. We’re currently deploying all our in-country assets, which are considerable. We’ve got on-the-ground assets; we’ve got drones we can deploy in the air. We’ll find your wife. I promise.”
“Yes, we will,” Remington echoed.
“You can count on us, dammit. I’ll stake my career on that.”
It’s exactly what Crocker wanted to hear. Gazing down at the coat of arms in the rug, he said, “I appreciate that, sir.”
“What good are we, if we can’t look after our own?”
“I agree, sir.”
“Try and get some sleep. You must be exhausted.”
True, he hadn’t slept. But it seemed like a ridiculous idea. Crocker muttered, “I’ll try, sir,” and rose to his feet. His head hung like a huge weight on his shoulders. He wanted to do something to help recover his wife but didn’t know what.
The ambassador said, “I have one request before you leave.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Under no circumstances are you to talk to the press.”
The press. The press? Why would I talk to the press? He didn’t trust what they reported and did everything he could to avoid them. Besides, the presence of SEAL Team Six operators in Libya was supposed to be top secret.
Doesn’t Saltzman know that?
Someone drove him to the guesthouse in a black sedan. An Amy Winehouse song was playing on the stereo. He opened his eyes as the tire wheels crunched on the gravel drive. Birds were singing. Two green parrots with red beaks chased each other past the windshield and into a nearby tree.