She explained that they had developed a source inside the movie theater, and the person had confirmed this.
“What about the roof?” Crocker asked.
“What roof?”
“The roof of Quds Force headquarters.”
Danush: “You would need a helicopter to get there, and the guards would see and hear it.”
“There’s a guard station up there, too,” Anahita added. “It’s manned day and night. But there’s an old passageway between the buildings that was blocked up when the theater was renovated three years ago.”
“What kind of passageway?” Crocker asked.
“A doorway, I think. Some kind of emergency exit on the third floor that’s blocked.”
“Blocked, in what way?”
Danush shrugged. “With steel plates, I think.”
Crocker was in no mood to accept defeat. “You said you knew someone who worked in the movie theater. Can he get us inside?”
“When?” Anahita asked.
“Tonight.”
She grinned, covered her mouth with her hand, then conferred with Danush in Farsi.
Akil, who stood behind Crocker, followed their discussion.
“What do you think?” Crocker asked.
“We have to arrange some things first,” Anahita said, “but we can try.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.
– Charles Bukowski
Approximately two hours later, the two Iranians returned in the same car. The engine continued running as Anahita stepped out and red dust swirled in front of the headlights.
“What happens now?” Crocker asked, shielding his eyes with his hand.
Her figure cast a huge black shadow over the plant. “Danush is going to take you to a place five minutes from here. When you get there, our friend will transport you in a truck.”
“Let me make sure I understand. You’re saying your friend is going to drive us to the movie theater?” Crocker asked.
The veins on her forehead shone in the car’s lights. “It’s extremely dangerous,” she replied, “but he’s going to try.”
“Good. Thanks. What’s this man’s name?”
“You can call him Rahman.”
“You know him and think you can trust him?”
She nodded and retied the scarf around her head. “Yes.”
“Are you coming?” Crocker asked her.
“No, I’ll wait here and worry. Maybe I should pray.”
“Pray, but don’t worry,” Crocker replied. “This is what we do.”
Akil sat in the passenger seat next to Danush. Crocker, Ritchie, and Mancini tried to look inconspicuous in back. The car rumbled past the steel plant and turned onto a paved four-lane road with little traffic. The gas flares from oil wells danced against the night sky ahead.
In an attempt to break the tension, Ritchie asked Danush if he’d ever been to the United States.
“No, but I would like to some day.” His English seemed to improve the more he spoke.
“If you go, what’s the first place you want to visit?”
“Miami,” Akil suggested. “I’d recommend Miami. South Beach, hot chicks, great clubs.”
“No, the Big Apple. New York City.”
“Why?” Ritchie asked.
“To see all the millions of people from all over the world living together in tall, tall buildings, riding in subways underground. And I want to go to Madison Square Garden to see the Knicks. They’re my favorite basketball team. I watch them on live streaming on my computer.”
Danush turned the Toyota onto a dirt road and wound past a hill to a place that smelled like rotten eggs. Crocker saw three trucks parked at odd angles fifty feet ahead. Danush stopped, shut off the engine, and got out.
“Where are we now?” Crocker asked.
“This is a garbage dump. I have to talk to Rahman.”
“Is it okay if Akil goes with you?”
Danush considered for a moment and nodded. Akil left his submachine gun on the floor in front.
Crocker watched them disappear behind the trucks. Fifteen long minutes stretched by, according to his watch.
“Wasn’t Rahman the name of that blind cleric who helped plan the first World Trade Center attack?” Ritchie asked.
“Sheikh Omar Abdel-Rahman,” Mancini answered. “He was an Egyptian cleric who ended up preaching at some mosque in Brooklyn. In his sermons he told fellow Muslims it was okay to rob banks and kill Jews. He said Americans were descendants of apes and pigs who had been feeding off the scraps from the tables of Zionists.”
“I had a feeling you’d know that,” Ritchie said. “Where’s that blind camel-fucker now?”
“Living in Ahvaz, Iran,” Mancini answered.
“Very funny.”
Mancini: “Last I heard he was serving a life sentence for conspiracy at some federal pen in the U.S.”
“Nice.”
Crocker saw the dark outline of a man climb into one of the trucks. The engine started. Then he noticed Akil waving from the back. When the headlights came on he saw that it was a Scania garbage truck for industrial bins, with a front loader arm and hydraulic lift that rested on top of the cab.
Crocker turned to Ritchie and said, “Go see what Akil wants.”
Ritchie ran back two minutes later. The pupils of his dark eyes were drawn tight. “The truck is going to take us. Bring the gear!” he shouted through the window.
Rahman was a short, squat, thick-armed man with thick black hair, a mustache and goatee. He looked like a wrestler, and wiped sweat and dust off his face with a blue bandana as he conversed with Akil.
Akiclass="underline" “He wants us to ride in the back, and he wants to cover us with garbage.”
“Garbage?”
“To hide us,” Akil explained.
“Tell him to make sure it’s dry,” Ritchie commented. “I don’t want any liquids or toxic chemicals dripping on me and burning into my skin.”
“Since when did you grow a pussy and become a Kardashian?” Akil asked.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Guys. Guys,” Crocker said, cutting them off and aware that they were all getting revved up. “Okay, Rahman’s driving us to the theater. Does he think he can get past the guards on the street?”
Akil nodded. “He believes so. Yeah.”
“Then he’s the man. Load in!”
One after the other, the SEALs climbed up the tall sides into the hopper and hid between the hydraulically powered moving metal wall and the rear panel of the truck. Rahman and another man covered them with stacks of cardboard boxes.
When Rahman said something in Farsi, Akil laughed.
“What’s funny?” Crocker asked.
“He told me a joke. He asked me, What do you call a Persian woman who knows where her husband is all the time?”
“What?”
“A widow.”
“Fuck, that’s bad.”
“Iranians aren’t known for their sense of humor.”
“Let’s hope this isn’t his idea of a sick joke,” Ritchie said.
There was nothing in the hopper to hold on to, so each time the truck hit a bump, they flew into the air, and each time it turned, they rolled into one another. The experience reminded Crocker of a ride at an amusement park, minus the sodas and cotton candy. Half an hour of jostling and bouncing later, the truck stopped and Ritchie threw up.
“Hold your breath,” Crocker whispered when he heard someone climb the metal steps, then poke into the boxes overhead. Tense seconds passed with fingers on triggers and safeties open. Any moment Crocker was expecting something sharp to slice into him.
The four SEALs exhaled together as the footsteps descended. Ritchie stunk to high heaven.