“An interesting coincidence, at least.”
Crocker straightened his back and turned to Akil, who was biting his nails. “Take the finger out of your mouth and go see the night traffic manager again. Ask him to tell you where the Syrena is headed. What time, exactly, did it leave? When is it scheduled to dock again, and where?”
Akil said, “It’s gonna require cash.”
Crocker reached into his wallet and handed him three twenties. “Bargain with the bastard. If that doesn’t work, beat it out of him.”
“Yes, sir.”
His mind picked up speed. Carpets, S. Rastani, the port in KP, the Syrena…the shards of info were starting to fit together. Now they had something that linked Zaman to the kidnapping operation and Cyrus.
“We’re gonna need a helicopter and equipment,” he said to Ritchie. “Get Donaldson on the phone.”
“Aye-aye.”
“Davis, call Klausen in Norway.”
“What time’s it there?”
“Doesn’t matter. This is important. Tell him we’ve gotta stop that ship!”
Chapter Fourteen
Never, never, never,…never give in.
– Winston Churchill
He couldn’t tell if it was the thick midmorning heat, his fitful, truncated sleep, or the fact that he was bracing himself for another meeting with CIA officer Lou Donaldson. Likely it was combination of the three that fouled Tom Crocker’s mood and set his mind whirring and turning in on itself like a rabid dog. Fueling his anger was intense frustration-the kind he felt squeezing his bones.
The sky beyond the wisps of white clouds and gray-orange patina of pollution was vast and infinite blue. He hated waiting.
Something important was happening while Crocker and his men napped, played video games on the hotel computer, and talked to their families. Maybe it involved an attack Zaman was planning, since the name of the ship Syrena had been found on an invoice in his hideaway. Maybe it held a clue to the location of Malie Tingvoll.
Why were they cooling their heels in the Karachi hotel room? Why?
In practical terms, he knew the answer. One, their evidence was slight-a coded e-mail about a “delivery” that could be the kidnapped Norwegian girl had led them to the port of Karachi, through which a ship mentioned in papers found in Zaman’s hideout had passed.
Two, they needed money and equipment to move forward and intercept the ship. That required authorization from the CIA as well as his CO back in Virginia. Now, because of the girl’s nationality, the Norwegian government was involved, too.
Lou Donaldson was on his way from Islamabad. Mikael Klausen had changed planes in Oman and was scheduled to arrive within the hour.
But couldn’t something be done sooner? Like…now!
All that was really required was a couple of phone calls to the right people, and Crocker and his team could be on their way.
He blamed the culture of Washington and the millions of bureaucrats and officials who were like a layer of fat covering the muscle of the rich men and politicians who made decisions and set policy.
The bureaucratic mind-set put a premium on climbing the ladder, which meant serving superiors and avoiding risk. Agency officers were particularly risk averse. They cloaked their cowardice and self-interest with words like “policy,” “options,” “strategic goals,” and so on.
Imagining the billions of words that had been spoken and churned out in papers when real contingencies required action-all the arguments that had been carefully reasoned to support one theoretical outcome or another-made Crocker want to put his fist through the window.
He kept seeing the withered, bruised bodies of the girls they had found above the garage at the farm near Toulon. In his current state of torment their faces morphed into those of other women he’d known, including Jenny and Holly back home. All of them had come from families that were part of communities, departments, and countries served by armies of officials whose job was to protect them. But somehow the girls had managed to “slip through the cracks.”
Were they so hard to find, in fucking Toulon, France?
The real truth was that most citizens, even in modern Western countries like Norway, felt powerless. And the men and women whose job it was to protect them were too often incompetent and lazy. They just didn’t give a shit about people who in their narrow view weren’t important.
“Any word from the embassy?” Crocker shouted from the balcony into the hotel room where Davis was reading a book about Willie Mays.
“Donaldson has landed. He’s on his way.”
“It’s about time.”
A muezzin in a minaret across the street began to recite the call to noon prayer.
Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
Ash-hadu an la ilaha ill-Allah.
Ash-hadu an la ilaha ill-Allah.
Loudspeakers amplified his voice so it echoed off the nearby buildings.
Crocker thought that everyone in the U.S. government, from the president on down, should be required to come to Pakistan and experience the country firsthand. The intense devotional pleading. The desperation and crushing poverty, with millions of slum dwellers pressed cheek to jowl. The cruelty and greed of those with any power. The enormous disparity between the rich and poor-and people thought it was bad in the States? The hovels that passed for hospitals, schools, and prisons. The millions of illiterate, ignorant people essentially living in the fifteenth century, who were perfect fodder for religious fanatics and demagogues.
Admitting that he was neither a prognosticator nor an intellectual, Crocker sensed that something important was happening in this far corner of the globe. Pakistan-with 180 million people. Its enemy India, with over a billion poised across the border. Both countries armed with nuclear weapons. As was China, with another 1.3 billion people, which loomed over both.
They were standing at the nexus of something. A moment in history. A cultural and political battlefield.
Crocker and his men weren’t just boots on the ground. They were part of the most highly trained and versatile military unit in history. But as talented as they were, they depended on political leaders to deploy them wisely.
Crocker was thinking about all the missed opportunities to crush al-Qaeda dating back to the late ’90s, when Davis emerged through the curtains, his blue eyes squinting into the hazy glare.
“Donaldson’s here,” he announced.
“Thanks.” Crocker took a deep breath and stepped inside, where the air-conditioned air cleaved to his skin.
Donaldson’s long face and body moved in deep shadow. Two shorter men in gray suits hung by his sides. He’d seen the shorter and stouter of the two before, at the meeting in Islamabad weeks earlier-Jim Anders.
“This is turning out to be one long, crazy fishing expedition,” Donaldson started off in his deep Carolina drawl. He wore a tan cotton suit with a white shirt open at the collar. “Where the hell are we now?”
The SEAL team leader recounted what he had learned so far, starting with his trip to the Club Rosa in Marseille. When he got to the raid at the farm, Donaldson leaned forward on the cream-colored leather sofa.
“I thought I told you I didn’t want any more casualties,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him.
“You said ‘collateral casualties.’ I wouldn’t put the men at the farm in that category.”
A big smile creased the CIA officer’s weathered face. “I wouldn’t either, Crocker. Nicely done.”
Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.
“Thanks.”
Donaldson turned to the thick-necked, gray-suited man to his right and asked, “What do you think, Anders?”
Anders pulled at the front of his Brooks Brothers shirt. “Feels thin.”
Crocker: “I assume you’re talking about the trail of evidence.”