Crocker: “Thanks for your concern.”
It was half past seven in the morning when he and Mancini dragged themselves through the front gate of the guesthouse. Akil and Davis greeted them at the door, both wearing gym shorts and worried expressions.
“Boss, can I talk to you alone?” Akil asked, the rising sun gilding his face.
Crocker felt too numb to think. He’d been shot up with painkillers, the back of his head had been bandaged, and his wrist had been placed in a hard cast.
Akiclass="underline" “Brian Shaw’s body was dumped in front of the embassy about an hour ago.”
The name jolted him out of his stupor. “What’d you say?”
“Brian Shaw’s body was found in front of the U.S. embassy.”
“Shit…” A sick feeling gathered at the pit of his stomach, then morphed into white-hot rage.
“Attached to his body was a note from the kidnappers.”
“What did it say?”
“They’re giving the U.S. government twenty-four hours to meet their demands before they execute Holly, too.”
With the taste of bile in his mouth, Crocker swallowed hard. “Fuck! I need to find her. Now!”
Akiclass="underline" “All of us are ready to help, boss. We’ll do anything.”
Davis: “We’re ready to kick ass, but we don’t know where to look.”
Crocker: “We’ve got to find out more.”
Akiclass="underline" “How?”
Davis: “When Volman called with the news, I asked him the same questions: Who are the kidnappers? Where are they hiding? He says he doesn’t know.”
Mancini: “Who do you think does?”
Crocker looked at his boots and the bottom of his pants, still splattered with blood. “Where’s Ritchie?” he asked.
Davis: “He went with Volman to some of the militia camps, searching for intel.”
Crocker glanced at his watch, then at a big red spider crawling up the front of the house. They had approximately seventeen hours to find Holly. He said, “The two of you throw on some clothes and grab some weapons. I need you to drive me somewhere. But first, call the embassy and find out if Remington’s in yet.”
“Yes, sir.”
He heard the morning call for prayer drift over the wall; heard the children laughing next door. Thought: Normal life goes on for some people.
He stepped inside the guesthouse. Splashed water on his face and appraised his ghastly-looking face in the bathroom mirror-his right ear blood encrusted and swollen, lacerations running from his cheekbone to his mouth. He found a bottle of disinfectant in his emergency medical kit, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and sprayed it on his face.
He looked older, gaunter, his skin gray and tired. But his blue eyes still burned with intensity.
He grabbed two energy bars and a bottle of water off the kitchen counter, realizing he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a meal. Hurrying to the front door, he shouted, “Let’s go!”
The neighbor’s twin boys were standing outside in their school uniforms and backpacks, waiting for their father. As they drove off, they waved to Crocker, big smiles creasing their faces.
He waved back.
One of the boys shouted, “Have a good day.”
“You, too. Thanks.” A sob caught in his throat.
Mancini climbed into the Suburban with Davis and Akil. He was ready to come along, too, but Crocker wanted him to stay near the phones in case Ritchie should call with news.
“Okay, boss. Good luck. Signal if you need me to meet you somewhere.”
“Thanks, Manny. I will.”
Davis: “Where are we going?”
Akiclass="underline" “I spoke to the watch officer at the embassy. He said Remington’s at home and not expected in the office ’til noon.”
“Let’s go see him.”
Davis drove as if demons were chasing them. Fortunately, the streets were mostly empty, and they arrived at the station chief’s house in less than ten minutes, tires screeching.
Two Libyan guards outside stood at attention and looked scared. They watched Crocker ring the front gate bell. No answer. He was about to climb over the gate when a thin Hispanic man wearing a shoulder holster came out.
Crocker: “I’m the SEAL team leader, and I need to see Remington immediately.”
“I know who you are. He’s asleep.”
“Wake him.”
“I can’t.”
“Then get out of my way.”
Crocker tried to squeeze by. The aide held out an arm to stop him as the Libyans watched.
“He gave me strict orders not to bother him unless it’s an emergency.”
“This is a fucking emergency,” Crocker growled, pushing his arm aside and entering.
He knew the house well enough from his earlier stay to locate the back bedroom. There he found Remington sleeping with the curtains drawn and a CD of nature sounds playing.
He yanked open the curtains and pulled the stereo plug from the wall. The CIA man blinked, rubbed his eyes, and raised himself up on his elbows. Seeing Crocker, he asked, “What are you doing here?”
Crocker shouted in his face, “You forgot to tell me about Brian Shaw.”
Remington lay back on the bed and turned away from the window. “I thought we agreed that you were going to let me handle this.”
“And you said you were working nonstop and going to keep me informed!”
As Remington turned to look at the clock, an enormous racket echoed from the hallway, sounds of men shouting curses and struggling.
Seconds later the Hispanic aide burst through the door. Davis had an arm around his neck and Akil was in the process of wrestling the man’s pistol away from him.
Remington shouted, “What the hell is going on?”
His aide: “Sir, I tried to stop them from entering the house!”
“This is unacceptable! Out of control!”
An angry Remington turned and pointed a finger at Crocker. “I blame you. You’re way out of line, Crocker. I’m reporting this to your command!”
“Call the fucking president if you want. You’re not doing your job.”
Remington grabbed the sat-phone from the night table and started to dial a number. Reconsidering, he stopped and shouted, “Come with me!”
“Where?”
“We’re going to see the ambassador.”
Saltzman was pacing the floor with his hands behind his back and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played softly on the stereo. He stopped when he saw the two large men. Said cheerfully, “Come in. Make yourselves at home.” Pointed to a silver coffee service on a tray. “Who would like a morning beverage? Coffee or tea?”
The clock on his desk read 9:35. The whole setting seemed absurd to Crocker. Time was slipping away.
Remington ordered his coffee black. The SEAL opted for a glass of water. The men took seats facing the ambassador, Crocker in a straight-backed chair. The red-haired secretary lowered the music volume.
Saltzman said, “I learned as a young attorney filing civil rights cases against the Justice Department to never panic, never lose hope. Things can change in unexpected ways. They often do.”
The emotion Crocker held back was almost overwhelming. He wanted to slap them both in the face. Wake them the fuck up.
The ambassador calmly wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and pushed the tray aside like an actor in a play.
While my wife is suffering and the minutes tick away.
He raised an eyebrow and turned to Crocker. “I assume you heard about Brian Shaw.”
Crocker: “What are you doing about that, sir?”
“Shocking and horrible.”
Remington: “Leo ID’d the body.”
Saltzman: “Animals. Savages.”
“I’m here to talk about my wife.”
Silence. Saltzman and Remington shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Tension hung in the air like an electric charge.
“I was getting to that, Crocker,” the ambassador said smoothly. “First of all, let’s not lose hope. The kidnappers have given us a deadline, but that doesn’t mean they’ll act on it.”