“Sir, you haven’t mentioned my wife.”
Remington tried to pull him out the door, whispering, “Not now.”
Holding his ground, Crocker said, louder this time, “Mr. Ambassador, is there any news? Any new developments I should know about?”
Saltzman looked at Remington, who cleared his throat and said, “Yes, your wife. Of course. We’ve been working on that 24/7 and believe she’s safe.”
“Where, sir? Where is she?”
“We’re tracking down some leads on that, which I can’t divulge.”
“You know who’s holding her?”
“We have some ideas, yes.”
“And you believe she’s being well treated?”
“Yes we do, Crocker.”
He felt overcome with emotion, as though he was going to cry. He bit down hard and said, “Please do everything you can to get her back safely.”
“We will, Crocker,” Remington said.
Ambassador Saltzman: “We’re doing all we can.”
He wanted to scream “All isn’t enough!” but used every ounce of his willpower to restrain himself.
“Okay,” he muttered, turning on his toes. He walked back to the Suburban feeling he was about to explode.
He dreamt he was underwater. The tank on his back had run out of oxygen, and he was trying to fight his way to the surface, but the hulls of several large ships blocked his access.
Holly whispered urgently in his ear, “Tom. Tom. Help me! I’m up here!”
His lungs burning, he tried to squeeze between two ships and got stuck.
“Tom! Tom, quick!”
Kicking, pushing, and squirming with all his might.
“Holly! Holly, I’m coming!”
He woke up in the guesthouse bedroom gasping for air, his entire body covered with sweat.
Akil lay gently snoring on a cot under an open window. The light was fading outside. In the distance he heard the call for evening prayers being blasted from loudspeakers.
The door opened with a creak. He turned and looked for his weapon.
“Boss,” Davis whispered, “you awake?”
“Yeah. What’s going on?”
“Doug Volman’s here to see you.”
“Volman? What does he want?”
“He’s here to talk to you. Says it’s important.”
What Crocker really wanted to do was go back to sleep, but he forced himself awake. “Alright.”
Crocker found Volman standing in the living room wearing a yellow-black-and-white Hawaiian shirt and black pants. He was sipping a can of Coca-Cola and looked more like a college kid on vacation than a State Department officer.
He said, “I heard you guys had a rough time down south.”
“Yes, we did. What’s up?”
Volman scowled. His watery eyes protruded and his skin was splotchy. He said, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but sometimes personal feelings trump career ambition, if you know what I mean.”
It hurt Crocker even to think. “Please explain what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about being a human being first. You know, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
Crocker was familiar with the Golden Rule. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I still don’t understand.”
Volman removed a crushed carton of Camels from his pants pocket. His hands shook as he started to separate one from the pack. “Okay if I smoke?”
Crocker walked across the room on bare feet, leaned on the sofa behind Volman, and cranked open the window. Beyond the wall that separated the two residences, he heard the neighbor’s kids laughing. “Go ahead.”
Volman fumbled with the lighter, then dropped the lit cigarette on the floor. “Sorry.” He bent down to scoop up the ashes.
“Don’t worry about that. What’s this about?”
Sitting down on the faded wine-colored sofa, Volman blew the cigarette smoke over his shoulder. “Your wife and Brian Shaw.”
Crocker pulled up a chair and sat across from him. “What about them?”
Volman looked down at the cigarette he was holding and asked, “You spoke to Remington earlier today, right?”
“Yes, I did.”
Volman leaned forward and whispered. “Did he mention anything about a ransom offer?”
“No, he didn’t.”
Volman nodded. “I didn’t think so.”
“The kidnappers issued a ransom note? Who are they? What did the note say?”
“I could be fired for telling you this. Dismissed from the service.”
“I won’t tell anyone.” Crocker’s whole body started to tingle. He was wide awake now.
“You’re going to have to force them to be more proactive.”
“Force who?”
Volman inhaled smoke from the cigarette and shook his head. “The ransom offer came from a group that calls itself Martyrs of the Revolution.”
“Who are they?”
Volman exhaled and shrugged. “Nobody’s ever heard of them before.”
“What do they want?”
“I don’t know the details. I heard one rumor that says they want the release of prisoners, another that they want ten million dollars in gold.”
“Gold?”
“Yes, gold. Apparently the logistics are daunting. I’ve heard it involves a bank vault in Benghazi and a plane to fly it to the Sudan. Once the gold arrives safely there, the hostages will be released unharmed.”
It sounded fantastic, almost implausible.
“You sure about this?” Crocker asked.
“According to the rumor, the kidnappers claim that it’s Gaddafi gold seized illegally by the French. Apparently it’s still in French custody. But the French say they’re guarding it for the interim government.”
Crocker’s head started spinning-gold, a group of kidnappers nobody had ever heard of. He asked, “Who are these Martyrs?”
“I don’t know,” Volman answered.
“Who does?”
“If anyone does, it’s Ambassador Saltzman. You need to push him. That’s why I’m here. If I were you, I’d talk to him immediately.”
Crocker: “You know where he is now?”
“Yes. My car’s outside.”
Crocker pulled on a pair of khaki pants, a blue polo shirt, a pair of black Nike sneakers. Combed his hair back. He found Davis on the computer, talking to his wife and infant son on Skype, and asked, “Any news about Jabril and Lasher?”
“They left an hour ago for Germany.”
“Good. Where’s everyone else?”
“Ritchie’s next door watching Cars 2 with the neighbor’s sons. Akil and Mancini drove into town to look for dinner.”
“I’m going to see the ambassador. I’ll be back.”
“Wait a minute. You need help?”
“I’m fine. Hold down the fort.”
He joined Volman, who was outside the gate, standing next to a new powder-blue Mustang convertible. The night air was cooler than he’d expected.
“Is this your car?” Crocker asked, climbing into the passenger seat.
“My mother gave it to me as a birthday present. She’s Hungarian”-as though that explained why he was driving something so conspicuous.
Volman drove like a wild man, way too fast and barely maintaining control, almost slamming into the back of a truck that had stalled on the road. As he swerved around it he started to shout over the engine noise about their destination, Janzour, a few kilometers west of Tripoli. How it was home to an equestrian academy, olive, lemon, orange, and fig orchards, and a Punic tomb discovered in the nineteen fifties.
Crocker wasn’t paying attention. He was wrestling with the incredible tension he was feeling and trying to imagine what he could do to save his wife.
“The Punics were Phoenician settlers who were based in Carthage, which was in Tunisia, to our west,” Volman continued. “They were traders who were eventually wiped out by the Romans before the birth of Christ.”
Sirens wailed behind them, only adding to Crocker’s anxiety.
“You should visit it sometime-a beautifully preserved burial room decorated with frescoes of women, antelopes, and lions.”
Crocker realized they were leaving the city. He said, “Hey, Volman, where the hell are we going?”