Fucking Akil, Crocker said to himself, half relieved, half pissed. His teammate amused him, even when he was totally friggin’ exasperating. Like now.
He stood waiting as the burly, good-natured SEAL hurried through the glass doors, winking at the doorman and pulling on the blue blazer he’d been carrying on his shoulder.
“You’re late,” Crocker barked.
“Sorry, boss. Something wrong? You look stressed.”
They knew each other so well that they could read the other’s mood.
“Yeah, I’m stressed, because you don’t answer your fucking cell phone. You got it on you? It work?”
“Yeah. Oh, yeah. I was stuck in traffic. No signal,” Akil explained with a pat on Crocker’s back and a smile. “What’s up? The powwow canceled?”
“I texted you five fucking times.”
“Ease up, boss. I’m present and accounted for. Sorry I’m a few minutes behind schedule, but I had to take care of something.”
“I saw. Let’s go.”
Crocker’s irritation didn’t dim in the elevator, even though he wanted it to. It didn’t help that Akil quipped, “Nice shirt. When did you start shopping at Brooks Brothers?”
“Fuck off.”
“Looks like somebody got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.”
“No. Actually, I slept fine. It’s what happened since that’s got me annoyed.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll tell you later. No more bimbos, understand? No more fucking around. I need you to be present and alert. We got eyes on us. Killers.”
“She’s not a bimbo,” offered Akil. “She’s a visiting fellow at the archeological museum. Looks, brains, personality, and a fabulous tush all rolled into one.”
“Stop screwing around.”
“Okay. But honestly, how often in life do you find all three in one package?”
Crocker stopped in front of 732 and lowered his voice. “I’m serious, Akil. Cut the bullshit. I’m glad you met someone you like. Now forget her and focus.”
“I got it, boss,” Akil whispered back. “I figure we’re about to get into the shit, right? So I wanted to have some fun first.”
“We’re in it already, deeper than you think.”
“Have you experienced issues with PTSD yourself?” Dr. Mathews had asked two weeks ago.
Crocker twisted in the metal chair. He assumed that she already knew the answer, because he saw his carefully redacted psychological file on the table by her side, provided by Dr. Petrovian.
He nodded.
It contained the results of a recent personality test, which revealed him to be a combination of an aggressive and introverted intuitive personality type. That meant he liked to command and exercise power, but also tried to stay in the background until he felt the need to take over. He was active, adventurous, and someone who relied primarily on his instincts. Others with his unique slate of characteristics included Al Capone, Fidel Castro, and Jeffrey Dahmer.
The Al Capone part was a hoot. But the Castro and Dahmer associations were harder to swallow.
“Do you think your PTSD issues have anything to do with why you want to continue doing what you’re doing?” Dr. Mathews asked.
He lied. “No, ma’am. Not at all.”
The “ma’am” was a tell. He caught that. Warned himself not to use it again.
“Because research shows that PTSD is often triggered by guilt.”
She’d hit the bull’s-eye again. He flashed to the image of Ritchie’s bisected body lying on the ground inside the Syrian border, and a cold flash blew through his body.
“I’ve heard that,” he answered, shivering and quickly straightening his back. “But in my case, it’s a nonissue. The reason I continue has more to do with service to my country and loyalty to my teammates. They’re critical to me, Doc.”
Holly sighed loudly. She’d been uncommunicative so far during this session. Lost in her head.
“More important than saving your marriage?” Dr. Mathews asked.
“No, ma’am. I didn’t say that.”
He had a hard time keeping his eyes off her. Mr. Talab’s secretary had been introduced to him as Fatima. She sat by Talab’s side, almost directly across from Crocker, in a tight black skirt and matching jacket with a white blouse underneath. Red lipstick on full lips, contrasted with her caramel-colored skin and sparkling dark eyes.
He could feel the heat coming off her body, and had to resist the impulse to take her in his arms and rip her clothes off right there. He imagined himself pushing over the chair and taking her from behind, while reaching under her shirt and grabbing her breasts.
Hard and fast.
He stopped and asked himself, What the hell’s wrong with me? This is an operational meeting. I need to pay attention. Maybe it was this morning’s brush with death that made him preoccupied with sex.
She dabbed her lips with a napkin, caught him looking, and shot him a quick and intense glance dense with history and emotion. It traveled like an electric spark to his groin.
His burner cell phone vibrated, and he glanced at it in his lap.
“Stop eyeballing F like a t-bone steak!”
Akil, forty-five degrees to his right, grinned out of the side of his mouth. Crocker resisted the impulse to text something back.
He made an effort to ignore her, but her magnetic pull was strong. They were in the tub together; they were furiously making love on the carpet; she was screaming in ecstasy and covered with sweat.
Stop!
Anders, to his immediate left, continued to talk with Mr. Talab informally about his background. Crocker learned that he came from a prominent Lebanese-Syrian family that owned hotels throughout the Middle East. Educated in France, he maintained residences in Beirut, London, and Dubai, where his wife and two daughters lived. A sophisticated, well-traveled man, who spoke several languages.
Crocker immediately had questions and suspicions. Why is a guy like him working for us? He doesn’t seem to need the money. So what does he want?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fatima recross her legs, a hint of silk and black garters.
He focused on Anders and Talab so hard that it almost hurt.
Anders asked if he still owned a small interest in the professional soccer team Al Ahli Club that played in the UAE League.
“Oh yes,” Mr. Talab boasted. “We won the President’s Cup last year. The Brazilian striker Grafite scored the winning goal.”
He wished Jared was present to give him the skinny on these two. Anders, though highly intelligent, clearly didn’t know them that well and operated more on a need-to-know basis.
Janice passed a silver tray with cookies. She had a thin gold bracelet on her wrist with a name engraved on it that he couldn’t make out.
Crocker handed the cookies across to Fatima, who selected a round shortbread with raspberry jam in the middle. She craned her long neck left toward Talab, bit into it, and smiled.
He caught a whiff of her rosewater-scented perfume and wondered what her real relationship to Talab was. He knew that the role of women in this part of the world was fraught with compromise and religious restriction. The ones he had encountered in his many travels throughout the region almost never made eye contact with men they weren’t related to.
This lady knew her way around and understood her effect on men.
Anders mentioned the mysterious disappearance of the Malaysia Airlines 777 over the Indian Ocean and the continuing search for wreckage.
Mr. Talab, who claimed to have a great deal of knowledge about flying Boeing aircraft, said he believed that the autopilot on the plane had been interrupted via satellite signal from a foreign government. He noted that this system had been installed in all advanced Boeing passenger aircraft after 9/11 to foil terrorists should they gain control of the flight deck.
He came across as a consummate businessman-confident, prosperous, and pleased with himself. Crocker thought his theory about Flight 370 was wack.