“I told you. Palm City, in Janzour.”
The speedometer had drifted past ninety. The air carried a whiff of salt from the ocean, combined with a citrusy scent.
“Why?”
“Because that’s where the French ambassador lives, and Saltzman is attending a party at his house.”
As they sped along the coast, Volman talked about how developers from Malta, the UK, and Italy had selected this area in the late nineties for the development of luxury expat communities. The newest and most elegant of these was Palm City, a secure enclave of over four hundred units with its own private beach, tennis courts, and swimming pools, right on the coast.
Crocker, meanwhile, was focused on names and faces flashing in his head-Brian Shaw, Farhed Alizadeh, Major Ostrowski, Dr. Jabril. As he sat wondering if there was some way they fit together into an explanation of what was going on and what had happened to Holly, he became aware of the car stopping in front of a guard station.
Volman reached into his pocket and said, “I forgot something.”
“What’s that?”
He handed Crocker a folded envelope. Inside was a letter from Dr. Jabril. It read:
Dear Mr. Crocker:
I am leaving Libya today with Mr. Lasher, before the work we were doing is finished. First, I apologize for that. Then, I want to thank you and your brave men for saving my life. Finally, I ask you to please complete the job we started. It is very important that you visit the nuclear facility at Tajoura, because this was the destination of the UF6. Talk to the man who runs the facility. His name is Dr. Salehi. Also, inspect the facility to determine what the UF6 was used for. It is critical that you do this.
Thank you again and God bless you,
Dr. Amadou Jabril
Crocker stuffed the letter in his pocket as they pulled into the driveway of a sand-colored townhouse.
“This is my place,” Volman announced.
“Saltzman is here?”
“No.”
“What the fuck…”
“Like I said, he’s at a dinner party at the French ambassador’s house, which is also in Palm City. You can walk there from here. I’ll show you the way. Calm down.”
“I can’t.”
“I’ve got to change. Help yourself to something from the kitchen or the bar.”
“You know anything else about the ransom offer?”
“No. I’ll be right back.”
It was a modern place, decorated in bland tones of beige and brown. Pleasant and comfortable, but Crocker didn’t want to be there.
He reminded himself that Volman was trying to be helpful. A sad song by one of Holly’s favorite composers, Antônio Carlos Jobim, played on the stereo. Everywhere he went he seemed to find reminders of his wife.
He wanted to move, do something. But what?
The French ambassador’s residence was a five-minute walk away, in one of the compound’s luxury villas. Volman explained that many of the residents, predominantly foreigners, had fled during the war. Those who hadn’t already departed had left abruptly in late November of the previous year, when militiamen from the Misurata Brigade tried to take over the compound. They engaged in a firefight with some of the compound guards and eventually ran off when soldiers from the Tripoli Brigade were dispatched by the NTC.
“None of the residents were hurt,” Volman said, “but four soldiers were killed.”
“What do you know about the Tajoura nuclear facility?” Crocker asked.
“I know that it’s close to here, and I believe it’s no longer in operation.”
“Can you get me some background info about it? History, capacity-you know, stuff like that.”
“Sure. When do you need it?”
“First thing in the morning, if possible. More important, find out anything you can about the kidnappers, the ransom.”
“I will. There it is,” Volman said, pointing at a sand-colored house surrounded by tall palms. “I’ll wait for you at my place.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Crocker was stopped by a phalanx of French soldiers and plainclothes security personnel who checked his passport before escorting him into a round vestibule festooned with blue-white-and-red French flags. Edith Piaf was singing “La Marseillaise” over the sound system. Many of the hundred or so people crowding the large central room were singing along. The mood was more festive than anything Crocker had expected.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked a young man holding a small American flag.
“V-E Day, of course.”
Crocker felt underdressed, out of place. Young women wearing World War Two-era French military uniforms circulated with trays of champagne. One of them stopped in front of Crocker and asked, “Vous êtes américain?”
“Yeah, I’m American, and proud of it.”
She looked more North African than French-Algerian, most likely. Winking, she said, “You are the heroes tonight. Vive les Etats-Unis!” and left.
Crocker surveyed the crowd. Under other circumstances he would have been more than ready to join in the celebration. But the frustration and anxiety he felt tonight were completely at odds with the frivolity around him. In fact, the party seemed perverse, given the violence he’d experienced in Sebha and the situation with Holly and Brian. Spotting the U.S. ambassador, who was dressed in an elegant blue shirt and silver-gray slacks and was talking to a tall man in a vintage French military uniform, he pushed his way through the crowd.
“Sir!”
Saltzman smiled warmly when he saw him and extended a hand. “Tom Crocker. It’s good to see you again. I want you to meet Ambassador Moreau.”
Crocker: “It’s an honor, sir.”
“Mr. Crocker is the leader of a group of American engineers who are doing a study of the city’s electrical grid.”
Moreau: “My pleasure. We’re celebrating one of those critical historical moments, you know. The whole map of Europe could have been different. We could all have been speaking German if you, our American friends, had not decided to join the war in Europe.”
“Our fathers did, yes,” Crocker answered. In fact, his father had quit high school the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor and joined the navy. He was the most honest person Crocker had ever known.
Moreau: “Maybe the situation in Europe was not too different from what the Libyans are facing now.”
Crocker wasn’t sure about that.
The French ambassador put his arm around him and whispered, “Enjoy yourself, Mr. Crocker.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
Smiling confidently, Moreau slipped into the crowd, leaving Crocker alone and feeling like a visitor from another planet. A radio-controlled model of a B-19 buzzed overhead.
He spotted Saltzman, who was now huddled with a pretty young brunette, and made a beeline for him. Whispering into the ambassador’s ear, he asked, “Can I talk to you a minute? It’s important.”
“Now, Crocker?”
“Yes. In private, sir.”
They walked out onto a terrace overlooking the moonlit sea. A couple to Crocker’s right giggled and kissed, then left holding hands. Another reminder of Holly.
“Mr. Ambassador, I heard there’s been a ransom offer,” Crocker said.
“Oh, that. Yes,” Saltzman said with a groan, looking as if he wanted an excuse to escape.
“What do you make of it, sir?”
“What do I make of the kidnappers’ ransom demand?”
“Yes.”
“This is very difficult, Crocker. I like you and respect you. I can only imagine the agony you’re in.”
“You can’t, sir. Believe me.”
“Alright. You’re a man who likes the unvarnished truth, so here it is: The ransom note is almost irrelevant.”
Crocker felt staggered. “Irrelevant? Why?”
“Because, one, it tells us very little about the kidnappers except that they’re opportunistic. And two, we can’t make a deal.”
“Why not, sir?”