She nodded. “I hope not, for our son’s sake.”
When Crocker related what he had heard from Jamila to Colonel Oz, the colonel seemed highly skeptical. “This man leaves because he doesn’t want to be a father, and the WMDs are taken at the same time? I don’t believe in such a large coincidence. Forget that theory. It’s bullshit!”
Crocker had his own doubts. There were contradictions in Jamila’s story. She’d said the last thing Hassan had told her was that he loved her. Then she’d suggested that he might have left the camp to get away from her and their son.
“Why would the same person who warned us about the existence of the sarin and led us to it, at some personal risk, participate in hijacking it when it arrived in Turkey?” he wondered out loud.
Human motivations were often gray and murky.
Oz ran a hand over his smooth head and looked directly into Crocker’s eyes. “I don’t know the answer to this question, but we’ll find out. We have to. My country is now in tremendous danger.”
The question Crocker had posed to Colonel Oz burned in his brain as he and Janice huddled with the rest of the SEALs and the two schoolteachers in the lobby of the clinic, discussing what everyone had seen or heard that morning. Meanwhile, Colonel Oz went with his men to account for every single refugee in the camp to try to ascertain whether any of them had participated in the theft.
What should have been a happy morning had turned into a nightmare. Amira and Natalie were frightened and had little to say. In fact, Natalie completely shut down again. Amira explained that the women had been offered beds in the clinic housed in the old train station. They fell asleep immediately, heard nothing, didn’t see Hassan after they left the lobby, and were unaware that anything had happened until they were awakened by camp commander Nasar, who they claimed had treated them harshly. Now they worried that they would somehow be held responsible and forced to return to Syria.
“Why do you say that?” Crocker asked gently.
Amira covered her eyes with her hands. She had worn the same black stretch pants and a dark-red tunic since the first time they’d met. “Because the Turks are angry, and they’re men.”
He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, but he stopped himself, remembering what the two schoolteachers had gone through in Syria.
“Not to worry,” he said. “My men and I will make sure you’re treated well and never forced to return.”
“Thank you,” Amira replied, lowering her eyes. “You’ve been very kind…so far.”
Next he went to the visitors’ tent and asked each man to describe what he had seen or heard since their arrival.
“I slept in the clinic on a cot,” Akil said. “I don’t remember seeing Hassan after I left the truck. I went out like a light and didn’t hear or see shit. Don’t even remember dreaming.”
“I carried all the comms out of the van and set them in the corner of this tent,” Davis remembered. “I wanted to Skype with my wife and tell her I was safe but was too tired to even think. And I was scheduled to relieve Suarez at 0730, so I wanted to catch some z’s. Don’t remember seeing Hassan at all. I was awakened by shouts from the Turkish guards at around 0700 and saw them trying to revive Suarez. I looked for you, boss, but didn’t know where you were. That’s all…”
“Davis and I helped the women out of the van,” said Mancini. “Jamila and Hassan seemed to be squabbling about something. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but they both looked unhappy. I saw him checking his phone, which I thought was odd. Then one of Nasar’s men escorted Davis and me to the white visitors’ tent. I threw my gear in, and went outside to the latrine to wash up. When I came back, Hassan was sitting by the cot beside the door. I asked him if anything was wrong. He shook his head. I lay down and fell asleep.”
Hassan’s backpack, with a Spiderman pin attached, still lay by the cot. They searched it: a change of clothes, dirty underwear, toothbrush, toilet paper, and three thousand pounds in Syrian currency, which was worth about twenty U.S. dollars.
“Travels light,” said Davis.
Akiclass="underline" “Not even a pack of rubbers.”
Interesting that Hassan was arguing with Jamila when they exited the truck, then went to the clinic a few minutes later, kissed her, told her he loved her for the first time, and disappeared.
Crocker sorted through the information in his head, thinking that he had to talk to Jamila again, when the light on the sat-phone lit up. On the other end of the line he heard the voice of his commander, Captain Alan Sutter, calling from ST-6 headquarters in Virginia.
“Crocker, you okay?” he asked in the raspy Kentucky drawl that evoked horse farms and bourbon.
“Been a whole lot better, sir. I’m here with my team trying to make heads or tails of a very troublesome and confusing situation.”
“I imagine you were halfway home in your head when it happened.”
“I was asleep, sir,” said Crocker. “Dead to the world. Most of us were.”
“How’s Suarez?” Sutter asked.
“Not so good, from what I’ve heard, but still alive. He was taken to a local hospital. Soon as I sort things out here, I’ll follow up.”
“Wait…Good news. Just got word from Ankara that his condition has stabilized.”
Crocker felt relieved. “That means they’ve stanched the internal bleeding. That’s good.”
“He’s being medevaced to the NATO hospital in Diyarbakır.”
“When?”
“Soon. Hold on.” Sutter came back twenty seconds later and said, “Look, Grissom wants you out of the country. He’s pretty adamant about that. Anders seems too overcome by events to express an opinion.”
Crocker said, “I believe it’s a mistake to run away now. We’ve got a very dangerous situation here, and we need to help the Turks figure it out.”
“I knew you’d say that. And I know that if I tell you to take your tail straight to the airport you’ll find a way to stick around.”
“Sir-”
“Do what you gotta do, Crocker. But keep in mind that you’re the one who’s going to have to justify this at some point. This goes further south and guys like Grissom will feast on your throat.”
Crocker swallowed hard. “I know how it works.”
“Remember, he’s the chief and he’s under fire, so don’t expect him to be supportive.”
“I won’t.”
“Stay alert, be smart, don’t get led by emotion.”
“Sound advice, sir.”
“Godspeed.”
Chapter Sixteen
The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it emotionally.
– Flannery O’Connor
Crocker felt as though everything he had ever accomplished was slipping down the drain and the earth itself was shifting under his feet. On his way back to the clinic to talk again with Jamila, Captain Nasar-a tall man with a gray handlebar mustache-intercepted him and said, “Colonel Oz is waiting for you by the gate. He wants you to bring one of your men and go with him.”
Crocker looked down and saw that he was still wearing the medical robe over his black pants. “Where?”
Nasar shook his head.
“Did he say why?”
“No, but he asked you to hurry.”
If Akil hadn’t still been recovering from the wound to his shoulder, he would have chosen him, because even though he didn’t speak Turkish, he had a good understanding of people from this corner of the world.
He asked Mancini to accompany him instead, borrowed a black tee from him that he pulled over his head, and told Davis to monitor developments at the camp as best he could. Should he learn anything new from Jamila, he should communicate it to Captain Nasar, who seemed to be a smart guy.
“Inform me, too. I’ll carry my burner.”
“Where are you going?”
Crocker shrugged. “No idea. But I’ll let you know when we get there.”