“Who wants to know?”
“Colonel Najar Bahrami of the Internal Security Service.”
“Then maybe you can answer some questions.”
“When did you arrive in Oman?”
“I need to talk to someone from the U.S. embassy first.”
“Your embassy already knows you’re here.”
“Then please let me use your phone.”
“When did you arrive here?”
“I lost track of time. Am I under arrest?”
“Do you realize that you landed in our country without permission?”
“I’m an official of the U.S. government. I came here on a mission for the king of Norway.”
“The king of Norway?”
“Yes.”
The men whispered back and forth. The doctor put a hand on Crocker’s forehead to check his temperature, just like his mother used to do.
When the American awoke the next morning, the guard at the door was gone. Sunlight streamed past the bars in the window and fell across the empty chair.
He felt stronger. More alert.
The same nurse arrived to bathe him and change his bandages, then supply him with a fresh hospital gown. Like an angel.
“I need immediate access to a telephone.”
“Your American friends are waiting,” she said as another nurse arrived with a bowl of yogurt and a cup of hot tea.
As soon as Crocker finished eating, a sandy-haired man with a long face entered. He didn’t look American.
“Mr. Crocker,” the man said, beaming as he crossed to the bed and offered his hand. “Claude Mathieu from the French embassy. Thank you for saving Brigitte.”
“Brigitte? Yes. How is she?”
The whole messy episode came back.
“You’re a hero in my country! The president himself sends his regards.”
“Is she okay?” Wondering how much damage the smoke had done to their lungs.
“She’s recovering very nicely, I think. She’d like to thank you in person when you’re feeling better.”
“I’m ready to get out of here now. Maybe you can help.”
The Frenchman smiled quickly, then excused himself to attend to some urgent business, promising to return soon.
Almost immediately a half-dozen serious-looking U.S. officials in suits entered. The faces of the five men and one woman were all unfamiliar.
One of them stepped forward and said that the Omani government was extremely annoyed about the incident at the Al Bustan Palace and the fact that they hadn’t been briefed about Crocker’s mission.
The SEAL team leader hadn’t expected this and didn’t know what to say. “There was no time. Everything happened so fast.”
A tall, red-haired U.S. embassy officer explained that the Omanis had spent years carefully cultivating an image of a tolerant, peaceful haven on the Arabian Peninsula, an ideal place to conduct business. The violence at one of their most prestigious international hotels had shattered that image. It could take years for them to repair it. In the meantime, hundreds of millions of dollars in revenue could be lost.
“Two things you need to understand,” Crocker said. “One, I didn’t initiate the violence. And two, it couldn’t have been avoided. Besides, I entered the hotel unarmed.”
“Maybe not. But the Omanis are still upset.”
“They’re not completely innocent, either.”
“What do you mean?” the lone female asked.
“I mean they allowed human traffickers and two kidnapped girls to enter their country. That girl, Brigitte, and the Norwegian, Malie, obviously weren’t carrying passports with valid visas.”
“How do you know that?”
Crocker took a deep breath and took them through the incident step by step, beginning with meeting the man in the lobby. Then he answered questions. At the end, one man of the half dozen said, “I admire your courage.”
The others looked skeptical and worried.
Crocker, who didn’t care about their judgments, was starting to feel tired. “Listen,” he said. “There was this girl, a Norwegian named Malie. Do you know if she was found?”
They didn’t.
“Where are the other members of my team?”
“I believe they’re still in Muscat,” the red-haired officer answered.
“If they’re here, I need to communicate with them immediately.”
“Certain things need to be straightened out first.”
“What things?”
They gave no answer.
“I need to get out of this hospital as soon as possible.”
“We’re working on that.”
An hour later Crocker was thumbing through a back issue of Time magazine, reading about the dangers of global warming, when Claude Mathieu returned carrying a vase of white roses.
“To cheer you up,” the Frenchman said with a wink.
“Thanks.”
“They’re from Brigitte’s parents,” he added, setting them down on the bed table. “They’d like to thank you in person.”
The SEAL chief warrant officer usually didn’t like thank-yous, but this time he welcomed any excuse to get out of the room. Moving slowly down the hall like a broken old man, he tried to look dignified despite the ugly bruises on his face and neck.
The door at the end was guarded by two serious-looking plainclothesmen with guns. Through the crack in the door Crocker saw large bouquets of flowers and bunches of balloons.
“The story of her rescue has been headline news throughout my country,” Mathieu whispered.
A week ago, French authorities had been mad at him and Akil for the raid in Toulon.
The second he entered, a middle-aged couple rose to greet him. Seeing the state of Crocker’s face, the pretty woman with a bob of graying brown hair covered her mouth with her hands and gasped, “Mon Dieu!”
Mathieu muttered something in French, and the woman, who was about to throw her arms around the American, stopped. Instead, she grabbed both of his hands in hers and kissed them.
Her husband joined her, a well-built man with a square, worn face. He was sobbing, too, muttering something in French that Crocker couldn’t understand. He grabbed the American’s hands and squeezed them so that the three pairs of hands were linked together.
A bolt of emotion traveled up Crocker’s arm into his chest.
They showed him to a chair by the bed. That’s when the SEAL focused on Brigitte-small and radiant, surrounded by white pillows. She looked like a sad little doll. When she opened her eyes, he saw that a very faint flame still burned inside them.
Despite the tube in her mouth she formed the words “Thank you.”
Crocker bit his lip and nodded. “It makes me very happy to see you with your family.”
Brigitte took his big hand in hers, which felt as delicate as flowers.
Crocker remembered all the psychic pain he’d endured to get to this moment-his turbulent youth, his mother’s death, his divorce, his training, all the violence he’d witnessed.
Didn’t matter if he was dismissed from the SEALs for his actions or given a medal. He had to stay focused, trust his instincts, overcome his fears. All that he’d learned, and everything he was, boiled down to that.
He asked Brigitte’s parents if he could ask their daughter a few quick questions before he left.
“Of course,” her mother said in French. “Please do whatever you can so that these horrible people are stopped.”
“Brigitte,” he asked. “You and the other girl, Malie, traveled on the ship together?”
She nodded yes.
“And you disembarked together here in Muscat?”
Yes again.
“And the two of you were together in the hotel suite.”
She nodded a third time.
“How many men were there?”
She held up five fingers, then pulled the tube away from her tongue.
“All Middle Eastern,” she said. “I think they were speaking Arabic. One man was in charge.”
“Cyrus?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“And Sheik Rastani?”
She winced. “A fat man with thick lips. I found him disgusting.”
No clues to the Norwegian girl’s location, but she had confirmed that he was on the right trail.