Walking back to his room, hoping that Klausen or someone would arrive with good news, Crocker felt something darker lingering on the edge of his euphoria, demanding his attention.
A scowling Lou Donaldson and Jim Anders stood in his room, waiting.
“We thought you’d escaped the hospital,” the CIA officer snarled.
“I was visiting the French girl and her parents.”
Crocker sat on the edge of the bed listening to their complaints, trying to figure out what was bothering him. They, too, like the officials from the embassy, seemed more concerned about the irked Omanis than about the fact that a girl’s life had been saved and a kidnapping ring quashed.
Apparently, maintaining smooth relationships was more important than protecting young women from predators.
“Did Davis and the others find the Norwegian girl?” he asked.
“I don’t think so, but they did stop the men who tried to escape from the hotel,” Anders answered.
That was something. “Are you sure they didn’t find her?”
Donaldson, in khakis and a rumpled blue blazer, groaned. “Listen, Crocker. Your men have created another huge headache.”
“How come?”
“Because they pistol-whipped a personal friend of the sultan’s. A Sheik Rastani, from Kuwait. And when Omani security forces tried to intervene, they fought them, too.”
“Good. Where’s Sheik Rastani now?”
“No idea, but your guys Davis and Akil are currently being held in an Omani jail, along with a security officer from the Norwegian embassy.”
Crocker felt his blood pressure shoot up. “What the fuck are they doing there? I want them released.”
“We’re waiting for our ambassador to convince the sultan of Oman to turn them over to us.”
Crocker jumped to their defense. “Sheik Rastani is the pig who bought those girls and smuggled them out of Pakistan.”
“Allegedly.”
“Not allegedly. It’s a fact!”
“He’s also a good friend of the sultan.”
“My men and I need to be released immediately, so we can locate the other girl.”
“If she’s here, the Omanis will find her.”
“I don’t trust them.”
“When did you turn into the fucking Masked Avenger?” Donaldson snarled.
“When did you turn into a goddamn pussy?”
The CIA officer’s face turned a bright shade of red. “Watch your mouth, Crocker! I’ll have you railroaded out of the service right now!”
The SEAL team leader didn’t doubt that the CIA official was capable of doing that. So he softened his approach. “Look. We know the sheik is dirty. We got his name from a computer that was in the possession of the kidnappers. And we have evidence that he purchased the Norwegian girl for a million dollars.”
“So what?”
“We need to locate him.”
“Sheik Rastani? My money says he’s left the country.”
“He needs to be arrested.”
Jim Anders, who was standing with his arms crossed against his chest, chewing the inside of his mouth, chimed in. “Your men beat up the other two kidnappers so bad they’re not going anywhere.”
“I hope they die and rot in hell.”
“You might get your wish,” Donaldson snapped. “One of them sustained a major head injury and is barely alive.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“They get a guy named Cyrus?”
“Yeah. We’ve ID’d him as Cyrus Aghassi.”
“He’s the one who snatched Malie in Oslo. I want to talk to him.”
The CIA officer cleared his throat. “You’re not talking to anyone, Crocker. You’re going home.”
The thought of ending the mission brought the dark idea that had been looming to the front of his consciousness.
Still seated on the edge of the bed, Crocker said, “Wait a minute. What’s the latest on the Syrena?”
Donaldson looked at bland-faced Anders, who was scrolling through his BlackBerry, then back at Crocker. “Why?”
“Where is it now?”
“I have no idea. I traveled here to get you to sign an apology to the Omanis and give you your orders to return home.”
“It could be important.”
Donaldson snapped his finger at Anders, who reached into a manila envelope and produced the typed apology.
Crocker quickly scanned the letter on U.S. embassy stationery and tossed it on the bed. “I’m not signing anything until you get me out of this hospital.”
“Hurry up, Crocker, I’ve got more important things to do than cleaning up your messes.”
“You’re forgetting something.”
“What?”
“The connection between the kidnappers and Zaman.”
“Just sign the letter.”
“Last I heard, the Syrena was headed into the Persian Gulf. Remember, this is a ship that first came to our attention on an invoice we recovered during the raid on AZ’s safe house. It just happens to be the same ship that was used by the kidnappers to smuggle Malie and the French girl out of Pakistan.”
“So?”
“There were photos of blondes in cages on Zaman’s computer.”
Donaldson’s thin lips curled into a disgusted snarl. “That blow to the head must have scrambled your brains, Crocker.”
“I think Zaman was selling those girls as a way to raise money for his other terrorist activities.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“Look. If the ship is part of AZ’s operation, so are those two kidnappers in the hospital. They need to be interrogated, we have to find Malie, and, finally, the Syrena needs to be boarded and searched.”
Donaldson stared hard at Crocker, then turned on his toes and started pacing back and forth across the tile floor.
“Don’t you ever fucking quit?” the CIA officer asked.
“You should be thanking me and my men for stopping the kidnappers and recovering the girl.”
“Sign the apology so we can get you out of Oman.”
“I’m not signing anything.”
“Then enjoy your stay, Crocker.”
Donaldson gestured to Anders, and the two started to leave.
“I thought you cared about stopping Zaman. I guess I was wrong.”
The CIA officer turned.
“If you weren’t busted up already, I’d punch you in the fucking mouth.”
Crocker tightened the belt of the hospital robe and stood. “Go ahead, Donaldson. Take your best shot!”
Donaldson started toward him, then halted and growled, “You’ll regret the way you’ve conducted yourself.”
“Interrogate the kidnappers and find the girl!”
“You’re finished here, Crocker. Go home.”
Chapter Eighteen
A hero is a man who does what he can.
– Romain Rolland
Tom Crocker found himself somewhere in the desert behind the wheel of a pickup truck. A big saguaro cactus behind him cast a long shadow, which made him think he was in the American Southwest, or maybe northern Mexico, along the border.
The morning sun burned through the windshield and stung his eyes.
Squinting, he turned the ignition key and tried to remember what he was doing here and where he was going. The starter burped and turned, then very quickly ground to a stop.
He tried the ignition again, only to hear the same terrible churning sound and get the same result. The alternator light shone red.
Now what?
He got out warily, boots crunching the sun-baked dirt past the motel sign that he couldn’t read through the glare. Five paces back, he popped open the hood, which was already hot. As he swung it up, the thick smell hit him like a brick to the face.
He almost passed out.
Hot damn!
A small animal, a cat maybe, had crawled up into the engine compartment and gotten chewed up in the fan belt. The stench thick and horrendous, a cloying sweetness mixed with burnt flesh and entrails. He felt bile rising from his stomach and grabbed his throat.