“They did in Brian’s case,” Crocker countered bluntly. He watched the two officials’ faces turn sour, as if he’d let out an awful stink.
“Regretfully, yes. But your wife is different.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because without her the kidnappers have no leverage.”
Crocker shook with frustration. “Who are they, and why do they want leverage?”
“I’ll let Remington answer that.”
Crocker waited. Another slow minute passed as Remington crossed his legs, cleared his throat, leaned forward in his chair.
“Remember the three men you arrested at the refugee camp near Busetta?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, one of them happens to be the half brother of a Tuareg leader named Anaruz Mohammed.”
Mention of Anaruz’s name put Crocker even more on edge. “I know who he is.”
“We believe Anaruz, or people working for him, are behind the kidnapping.”
“What led you to that conclusion?”
“Because in exchange for Brian and Holly the kidnappers have been demanding the release of the three men you detained.”
The irony hit Crocker hard. He said, “I heard it was gold.”
“The gold was just a rumor.”
“So Martyrs of the Revolution is just a cover?”
“That’s what we’ve believed all along, yes.”
It made sense. Awful sense. Americans had arrested Anaruz’s half brother, so he struck back by kidnapping two U.S. officials.
But wait…
“Do you think it’s a coincidence that he seized my wife, or does he know she’s married to the man who arrested his half brother?”
“I suspect they saw an opportunity to kidnap a couple of Americans, without knowing who they are.”
“Where are the three prisoners now?” Crocker asked.
“They’re in NTC custody,” Saltzman answered. “I made a point of turning the three men over to the NTC. Officials there didn’t want to take them at first, but I convinced the NTC that they would improve their human rights profile if they made public examples of them. I pushed hard. They locked the men away and pressed charges. Then Holly and Brian were kidnapped.”
“Shit.” It was worse than he thought, and it put the onus squarely on him.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you know where the men are being held?”
“No, we don’t,” Remington answered.
“And you probably wouldn’t tell me if you did.”
“Crocker, there are big issues at stake,” the ambassador said. “Even if we could pressure the NTC to exchange the men for Holly-which we can’t, because it goes against U.S. policy-the release of these men would make the NTC look weak, and that’s something we don’t want to do.”
“I don’t give a shit about the NTC, I care about my wife.”
“I’m sure I’d feel the same if I were in your position.”
“Where does that leave me, Mr. Ambassador? What’s going to happen to Holly?”
“Nothing now. I think that eventually the kidnappers will get tired of holding her and set her free.”
“You really believe that?”
“Ask yourself this: What do the kidnappers gain by hurting her? Nothing, except to make themselves look like barbarians. We should presume the kidnappers are rational people.”
He hated the word “presume” and wished the ambassador hadn’t used it. He took a deep breath and asked, “What if they’re not reasonable? What if they think killing my wife helps them achieve their goals? What if they think sparing her will make them appear weak?”
No answer.
“Sir, why aren’t we out there turning this country upside down to find her?”
“Because it’s not an option. The deadline will pass and your wife will still be alive.”
Crocker wanted to pick up the coffee table in front of him and throw it out the window. Instead, he gritted his teeth and said, “You’re bargaining with my wife’s life!”
Remington: “We continue to do everything we can to locate the kidnappers. The more time passes, the more our odds of finding them increase. We’re talking about a relatively small country. We’ve got multiple sources out talking to people from different groups. We’re quietly offering money in exchange for information. I’m confident someone will say something that will be useful.”
“What have you learned so far?” Crocker asked aggressively. “Where is she being held?”
Remington: “We believe she’s somewhere in the capital.”
Crocker was on the verge of losing control. “Where, exactly?”
Remington: “We don’t know that.”
“East? West? South? Along the coast?”
Remington: “We don’t know exactly. But once we have actionable intelligence, we’ll move quickly.”
“Have you examined Brian’s body? Did you learn anything from that?”
“Nothing of material value.”
Crocker stood, took a deep breath, and said, “If anything happens to my wife, you’re both going to have hell to pay. I guarantee that.” As he started to walk, his arms and legs shook with emotion.
They seemed to know little, and had given him practically nothing.
“Crocker,” the ambassador said as he reached the door.
“What?”
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret later. The NTC is plenty annoyed with you and your team already.”
“Fuck them.”
His whole body burning with outrage, he walked past the secretary standing beside the Stars and Stripes, past the marine guard station, and into the dry heat outside. Sunlight glinted off multiple surfaces and stung his eyes. He saw the Suburban waiting and climbed inside, hoping for a few quiet minutes to figure out what to do next. But instead of two men inside, there were four, which confused him.
Then he recognized Volman, leaning over the front seat, sweaty and reeking of garlic, wearing a blue crewneck shirt with snaps at the neck, looking odd, out of place, like he always did. “What’d they tell you?” he asked.
Crocker took a moment to get his bearings. He turned to glimpse Ritchie behind him in the rear seat, with Akil beside him. Davis was at the wheel.
“Nothing, except that they think Holly’s being held somewhere in the city.”
“Where?”
“They don’t know.”
“What’s their strategy?”
“Their strategy is to wait.”
Davis: “Wait for what? Are they insane?”
“They reason that the terrorists won’t carry out their threat, because if they do, they’ll lose the leverage they have by holding her.”
Akiclass="underline" “What if they’re wrong?”
Ritchie: “Yeah, what if they’re fucking wrong?”
Crocker felt a throb at the pit of his stomach.
Akiclass="underline" “That’s ridiculous, boss. Stupid.”
Volman tapped Crocker on the shoulder and asked, “Who did they say is behind it?”
“Anaruz Mohammed.”
“Why?”
“Remember those three thugs we arrested at the refugee camp? It turns out that one of them is his half brother.”
“Fuck.”
Volman: “I have a source, someone with his ear to the ground, who is willing to help. He’s going to meet us at the guesthouse.”
“When?”
“Soon as he gets back into town. About an hour.”
“Thanks.” A slim ray of hope.
At the guesthouse gate Akil stopped to ask Volman why he was helping them.
Volman said, “I admire you guys and understand your frustration. I also think our policy of refusing to negotiate with terrorists is wrong. I mean, it’s fine to say that publicly, because you don’t want to encourage them to take our people hostage. But behind the scenes I believe we should do anything, including paying ransom, to get our people back.”
The more time Crocker spent with the young State Department officer, the more he liked him. He was an awkward man, but intelligent and with a good heart.
Crocker wanted to go on a short run to clear his head, but he thought it was more important to be ready when Volman’s contact arrived. So he lay on the sofa with his MP5 by his side and leafed through a copy of Sports Illustrated. One minute he was looking at a picture of Danica Patrick, the next he was dreaming that he was with Holly, lying on a bed in a hotel room. She was reading a magazine with Michelle Obama on the cover and wearing a white cheerleader-type skirt that showed off her tanned, smooth legs. When he reached out to touch them, they felt warm. Almost hot.