The city, which was just coming to life, boasted a handful of five-star hotels-the Al Bustan Palace, Shangri-La’s Barr Al Jissah, the Chedi Muscat, the Grand Hyatt, and the InterContinental. They were located downtown, in the upscale government and residential district along the beach.
Jakob drove the SUV past the recently constructed and very majestic Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, which, he said, “Cost a couple billion dollars. Contains the world’s second-largest woven carpet, which weighs twenty-one tons.”
“That’s a lot of bald sheep,” Crocker remarked.
“Where’s the world’s largest carpet?” Davis asked.
“Tehran,” Akil answered weakly. He was running a fever and drifting in and out of sleep.
The InterContinental wasn’t nearly as impressive as the mosque, but it was still elegant and large, even by Western standards. Crocker and Jakob entered the tall white lobby and strode to the front desk. The big American said he was there for a breakfast business meeting with Sheik Rastani, who might have checked in as Mr. Rastani.
The polite young clerk reported that there was no one by the name of Rastani registered at the hotel.
Crocker told him that Mr. Rastani would have checked in sometime the previous afternoon or evening with an associate or two and his daughter.
“No, sir. I’m sorry.”
They followed the same routine at the Chedi and Grand Hyatt and were met with the same response.
The Al Bustan Palace was the most luxurious by far, an impressive Indian sandstone hexagon surrounded by a lagoon and lush gardens against a backdrop of rugged charcoal gray mountains. It faced the deep blue Gulf of Oman.
The lobby, lined with white marble, reminded Crocker of the inside of a mosque.
“My name is Mr. Wallace,” he said to the clerk in the immaculate white robe and red-and-black Omani cap. “My associate and I are here for a lunch meeting with Sheik Rastani.”
The man consulted a computer hidden in the counter and asked in English, “Mr. Wallace, do you have an appointment? Because I don’t see your name here.”
“The sheik is expecting me.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll have to check. Please have a seat.”
Does that mean he’s here? Crocker asked himself excitedly, as he led Jakob over to a fountain where they couldn’t be overheard.
“Go outside and tell Davis and Akil to watch the garage. They might try to run.”
“What about you?” the former Trojan shotputter asked.
“I can handle myself.”
Crocker studied the Islamic pattern of the floor tiles, trying to appear inconspicuous and stay calm.
Hearing footsteps approach, he looked up into a face that caused him to stop midbreath. Big, with a large forehead and bulging eyes, a nasty sneer on his thick lips. Both eyes drooped, and one was set lower than the other. A long, deep scar ran from the lower eye to the side of his mouth. He was a thick, muscular man with very short black hair, dressed all in black.
“Mr. Wallace?” he asked in rough American English.
“Yes. Is Cyrus here?”
Malice poured from his eyes. “Follow me.”
Crocker did, to an elevator, thinking that the man moved like a wrestler. It was a private lift around the corner from the public ones, which the big man opened with a key.
“How long have you worked for Cyrus?” the American asked.
The big, swarthy man said nothing. Stared ahead.
They stopped at the sixth floor. Two other large Middle Eastern men in white shirts stood waiting in the teak-paneled hallway.
Not a good sign.
One wore tailored gray pants, the other, jeans. They positioned themselves on either side of Crocker and grabbed him by the arms.
“I can walk by myself, thanks.”
When the American tried to pull away, the one in the tailored pants with the pockmarked face pointed a Makarov pistol at his head.
They guided unarmed Crocker eight paces down a hallway, then pushed him into a private bathroom, crowded in, and locked the door.
This is trouble.
Four big bodies filled the tight space Resplendent gold-colored glass tiles covered the walls. The dual-sink counter, fixtures, and floor were all black. Elaborately etched glass doors hid the toilet, urinal, and shower.
Strange place to hold a meeting.
Trying to push back the fear that was pressing in on all sides.
The wrestler put the full weight of his body behind his forearm, which he smashed into Crocker’s chest. The American fell back and hit the tile wall.
Fuck…
He saw stars spinning; fought to catch his breath.
The pockmarked guy pushed the muzzle of the weapon into his face.
“Who are you?”
“A Canadian business-”
Smacked him hard in the face.
“What do you want?”
“Cyrus…” Crocker tried to answer, gasping for breath.
“How do you know Cyrus?”
The third guy in jeans was rifling through his pockets. Crocker was glad he’d left his wallet and ID in the SUV.
“Answer! How do you know Cyrus?” the pockmarked dude asked again, grabbing the collar of Crocker’s polo and twisting it until he started to choke.
“I met him at a farm…outside Toulon.”
Crocker managed to remain calm, in part because his brain was releasing a higher level of a neurotransmitter called neuropeptide Y than was normal with most people. The neuropeptide Y worked as a natural tranquilizer to control his anxiety. He’d also developed his mental toughness over years of vigorous training and experience.
The guy going through his pockets was slick and handsome in a predatory way. The kind of man, Crocker thought, who could easily charm a naïve eighteen-year-old girl.
“Cyrus?” he asked him.
The wrestler reared back and clocked him in the mouth.
Christ!
He tasted blood.
“How do you know Cyrus?”
He tried to pull free, only to get kicked in the nuts. All the air went of him, and he struggled to stay on his feet.
Crocker wanted to say something clever, but his mind wasn’t working. He heard the man he thought was Cyrus mumble in Arabic, and tried his best to translate. It went something like this: “Take him away from here. Into the mountains. Shoot him in the head. Dump his body somewhere where the vultures will get to him.” Then he started to leave.
“It’s over, Cyrus. You’re fucked,” Crocker said to his back.
The fists came at him rapidly from two directions. He tried to defend himself and fight back, but there was very little room to move.
The wrestler grabbed the front of Crocker’s shirt, spun him, and threw him through the shower door, which shattered loudly.
The SEAL chief warrant officer lay half-conscious on the tile floor, hurting, his mind wobbling.
He understood now that it was insane to go in the way he had-no backup, no commo, completely solo.
Sharp pains issued from the back of his head. Blood dripped from his mouth. Figured he had a couple of broken or chipped teeth, maybe a broken rib. Later, he’d have Davis or Mancini tie his chest with binding wrap to immobilize his rib cage.
If I get out of here alive.
Through blurry eyes he saw the pockmarked thug lean down to pull him up, the gunmetal pistol clutched in his fist. The savage leer on his ravaged face told Crocker how much he was going to enjoy torturing an American and watching him die.
“Get up!”
The SEAL team leader flashed back to the video Akil had shown him on the first flight into Karachi.
No fucking way! he said to himself, aware of a thick triangle of glass near his right hand.
“Get up, dead man!”
Grabbing the glass so that it sliced into the edges of his palm, Crocker pushed off the floor and thrust it into the man’s neck with all the force he could muster-ripping through cartilage, skin, and bone. The man’s half-screams reverberated against the tile walls as he fell back against the sink and, twisting, fired wildly into the ceiling, walls, and floor.