Crocker indicated to Akil to follow him to the left, to the rear of the main house. The back door was wide open, inviting entry.
Crocker was about to oblige when his cell phone lit up. He read the text from Mancini: “WTF. Dr. exited front of the h. Getting in a car.”
Crocker quickly typed back, “Follow him w/ the Sub. Let me know where he’s going.”
The two SEALs entered the dark house, stood in a vestibule, and listened. Heard some birds chirping inside; sounded like parakeets. Saw a collection of worn men’s sandals on the floor to their right, and big ceramic dog bowls filled with water and food. The air was cool and smelled of curry and exotic spices.
Crocker pointed down a dark hallway and entered first. He stopped at a little table with a tray that contained an empty teacup and a plate of cupcakes. They were small and decorated with what looked like candied rose petals.
Akil picked one up and smelled it.
“Persian love cakes,” he whispered.
“So what?”
“Salehi is a Persian name.”
That hadn’t occurred to Crocker. During the time of Alexander the Great, the First Persian Empire extended west all the way to Afghanistan and east along North Africa to Morocco, which meant that Persian names were still found there.
Continuing down the hall, they arrived at a big stairway on the right, opposite a dining room with a crystal chandelier. In front of that was a living room with a portrait of a severe-looking older man on the wall.
Every room was dark and filled with shadows. The only light filtered down the stairway and through the curtain in front. The dogs had stopped barking, replaced by the birds chirping aggressively in the front room.
Crocker turned to Akil and signaled “Go back and close the back door. Lock it.”
Akil nodded and left. When he returned, Crocker pointed to a door under the stairway. They carefully opened it and found it led into a library/office. The walls were lined with books, and a big wooden desk occupied one end of the room. On the carpeted floor were several dozen cardboard boxes, some half filled.
He’s leaving, Crocker thought.
Akil watched the door while Crocker searched the desk drawers, looking for laptops, cell phones, passports, bank account ledgers. All he found were photos of Salehi’s wife and daughter, medical records, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, an old.38 revolver, and letters written in Arabic.
Crocker pointed and gestured. They moved upstairs.
The TV in the master bedroom was on and tuned to Al Jazeera news, but the sound was off. Several DVD cases lay on the dresser, porn flicks with French titles. Akil held one up and smiled as if to say, “Maybe we should check these out.”
Crocker shook his finger. Focus!
A half-filled suitcase lay open on the bed. On the night table, beside a copy of the Koran, Crocker found a receipt for a money transfer to Banque Pasche in Geneva, Switzerland. No amount, no account number, just a transit code and the name Salehi.
“Looks like he’s been moving money,” Crocker whispered, sharing his discovery.
“Or he just hit the lottery.”
His cell phone lit up again. The text from Mancini read, “U’ll never guess where Dr S went.”
“A strip club?”
Akil whispered, “No strip clubs in Libya.”
The answer from Mancini: “The Bab al Sahr H.” This was the hotel the SEALs had stayed in when they first arrived. Crocker typed back, “WTF!”
“He went to 8th fl. Meeting some1.”
This confirmed Crocker’s hunch that Salehi was up to something. “Find out who.”
“Who what?”
“Who he’s meeting w/.”
“Roger.”
“Stay w/ him. We’ll meet u.”
Akil drew the dogs to the back of the house as Crocker exited out the front. Then Akil ran through the house, joined him on the street, and led him two blocks to a commercial boulevard where they flagged down a cab painted black and white, like a zebra.
The driver looked them over carefully before he let them in.
The Bab al Sahr appeared a whole lot better at night, but the sour smell in the lobby was the same-cherry-scented disinfectant mixed with nicotine and mildew. They found Mancini seated on a bench facing the elevators, leafing through an old issue of Newsweek with Sarah Palin on the cover.
“Where’s Salehi?” Crocker asked.
Mancini set the magazine aside. “Still upstairs attending to his business.”
Crocker abruptly shifted gears: “You talk to Davis recently?”
Mancini: “Texted him five minutes ago. Still no news.”
Crocker returned to the business at hand. “Salehi went up alone?” he asked.
“That’s correct.”
Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly, but it was the only lead he had. “How long?”
“You mean how long has he been up there?” Mancini looked at his watch.
“Yeah.”
“Sixteen and a half minutes.”
Akiclass="underline" “Ten to one he’s meeting a woman.”
Crocker: “Maybe not.”
“If it’s a babe, he could be up there all night.”
Mancini: “The guy might have other motives. Try not to think with your dick.”
Crocker: “I’m gonna go up and try to listen.”
Akiclass="underline" “Perv.”
Mancini: “Room eight twenty-two.”
Crocker: “You guys wait here.”
Crocker rode up alone, trying to manage the flow of thoughts through his head-Holly, the suitcases and boxes, the receipt for the money transfer to Switzerland. Searching for a reasonable explanation for the last three, he got out on eight and saw a short man in a dark suit jacket exit a room down the hall.
He ducked into an intersecting corridor and caught a glimpse of the man passing as he walked to the elevator.
His face looked familiar. Very familiar. Short black hair and a close-cropped black beard, a big broken nose that veered sharply to one side. It was the cruel line of his mouth that struck him, and the fact that his black eyes were so deeply set.
Colonel Farhed Alizadeh of the Qods Force?
Then: What the fuck is he doing here?
As the elevator descended, Crocker was trying to figure out what to do next when he heard footsteps approaching. Seeing Salehi, he ducked farther down the corridor, found an emergency exit, and pushed through. In the stairway he tapped in Mancini’s number and texted, “A Persian-look man will soon get off elev. Try not 2 let him see u, but keep an i on him. Follow him if he leaves.”
Mancini texted back, “You want me to wait for u?”
“No worry about me. Don’t lose him.”
“10-4.”
“I’m on my way down. Salehi is, 2.”
Crocker ran down the stairs and found Mancini and Akil standing at the end of the check-in desk, looking at some faded tourist brochures.
“Where’d he go?” Crocker asked.
Mancini pointed his chin at the front window. “He’s standing over there, smoking a cigarette.”
Akiclass="underline" “Looks like he’s waiting for someone.”
“Who is he?”
Crocker: “I’m not sure.”
Akiclass="underline" “Then what the hell are we doing?”
Crocker: “I’m not sure about that, either.”
“Boss-”
“Ssh!”
The elevator door opened behind them. They turned to watch Salehi exit and walk briskly to the lounge.
Crocker whispered to Akil, “Go see where he’s going.”
Akil texted back a minute later, “He sat down at table alone and is looking at menu.”
Crocker: “Stick with him. M and I are gonna tail the other guy.”
“Why?”
“Just do it!”
“What do we do now, boss?” Mancini asked, bouncing on his toes, looking anxious.