The biker called it “faggot’s necklace” and tried to rip it off. Ritchie slapped the biker’s hand away and said he’d heard he liked to suck cock.
Whereupon the biker pulled a knife and lunged at Ritchie’s throat. Ritchie, who was fast and a lot stronger than he looked, redirected the force behind the blade back into the biker’s chest, under his ribs, into his heart. The biker died on the spot.
He was thrown in jail, but was later exonerated and promoted to master chief. His SEAL teammates thought it was funny in a can-you-believe-it kind of way. Ritchie? Easygoing Ritchie?
But Crocker knew. He ran with Ritchie three mornings a week through the forested lowlands near where they lived. Ritchie seemed like a laid-back guy until you challenged him. Then watch out.
Now he smiled at Crocker and shut off the TV.
“I’ve got all our climbing gear waiting in Islamabad,” Ritchie said. “Ice axes, climbing helmets, harnesses, ascenders, carabiners, trekking poles.”
“You get the carabiners I asked you for?” Crocker started rearranging the furniture. Desk by the window. Bed turned so that it faced the door.
“Locking and nonlocking.”
“Good.”
Unpacking, he laid out a black T-shirt and pants on the chair. He had multiples of each, exactly the same.
“The weather might be more difficult than we-”
The soft-spoken team leader stopped him. “I thought we’d get a clear window through September.”
“Just got a weather update from the German team that’s there. There’s a chance of high winds and freezing temperatures at base camp.”
“The weather hopefully won’t stop us.”
Ritchie got up and threw the bolt on the door. Then he punched on the TV again and cranked up the sound.
Crocker, who had stripped down to his underwear, noted the all-business look in the explosive expert’s dark eyes. “What you got?”
Ritchie pulled a large envelope out of one of the dresser drawers and threw it on the bed. Then pointed to a series of surveillance photos of a three-story apartment building.
Crocker stopped. “Where are we?” he asked.
“Kemari. The port area of Karachi. Near the railroad tracks.”
He knew the general vicinity. “Good.”
Crocker noted that the primitive concrete structure stood on a corner next to what looked like a car repair lot. Behind it stood an abandoned field littered with junk.
“What’s here?” Crocker asked, pointing to the opposite side of the street.
“A warehouse. It’s mainly a pretty rundown commercial area.”
Crocker nodded. “Okay. Call Akil. Tell him to meet us by the pool.”
The three men sat at a round metal table and drank from bottles of local Murree Classic beer, which was available only to non-Muslims after the ban by President Ali Bhutto in ’77. Broad-shouldered, tattooed Mancini swam laps in the pool. A couple of kids were trying to do cannonballs off the diving board. Davis-the most talented athlete on the team-was showing them how.
Crocker thought back to his wife and daughter in Virginia Beach. Both complained that he was away too much. Jenny, sixteen, had been having trouble adjusting to her new high school.
Akil cleared his throat and started. “You hear the one about the guy who took his blond girlfriend to her first football game? They’re sitting right behind their team’s bench. After the game he asks her how she liked it. ‘It was great,’ she says. ‘Especially the tight pants and big muscles. But I couldn’t understand why they were killing one another over a quarter.’ ‘What?’ the guy asks. ‘What are you talking about?’ She says, ‘Well, they flipped a coin, one team got it, and then for the rest of the game, they all kept screaming Get the quarter back! Get the quarter back! I’m like…Hellooo? It’s only twenty-five cents!’ ”
They laughed. Then Crocker got up. “Let’s walk…”
They strolled past a row of jasmine trees to the patio. Crocker waited for two men to drift away-one British, one Pakistani, discussing cars and heroin. Nearing the rectangular aqua pool, he watched the two light cigarettes. Smoke wafted into the yellow artificial light.
Then he turned to Ritchie, who had stuck his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts. “You think you can get your hands on ten fifty-gallon barrels of diesel fuel and enough ammonium nitrate to mix a good batch of ANFO?”
“The diesel fuel is easy. I can buy that at the port.”
“What about the ammonium nitrate?”
“I know a local contractor who can get anything for a price.”
“You got cash?”
Ritchie patted his pocket. “Many rupees, yes.”
“Akil, Ritchie’s going to give you a map. I want you to eyeball the site. Make sure we can drive a car bomb into the place without causing too much collateral damage.”
“A car bomb?”
“Yeah, a car bomb,” Crocker answered. Then he looked at Ritchie. “You think you can put one together in less than a day?”
“No problem.”
Akil asked: “When do you want me to surveil the site?”
“Tonight.”
“All right.”
“Before you go I want you to talk to Wasir. Tell him to rent a van first thing in the morning. Park it in back, then give the keys to Ritchie. Ritchie will take it from there.”
Ritchie grinned so that his eyes were almost hidden. “Boss, I like the way you think.”
“We’ll meet out here tomorrow 0700 hours to go over the plan.” In the morning, he’d get input from his men, then incorporate that into a PLO (patrol leader’s order). They’d discuss insertion, fire positions, concealment, what to do with prisoners, what to do in case of an emergency, and other contingencies.
He said: “Akil, check with Mancini now. Make sure he gets his hands on everything we need from our contact at the Agency. Glocks, AKs, comms, NVGs, maps, GPS units.”
“Got it.”
“Go.”
Akil crossed to the pool, which left Crocker and Ritchie standing together.
The explosives expert lowered his voice. “So we’re going in with one van packed with a VBIED and one SUV?”
By VBIED he meant vehicle-borne improvised explosive device.
“That’s correct.”
“Sweet.”
Crocker put a hand on Ritchie’s shoulder. “How many fucking truck bombs has Zaman sent our way?”
“One too many.”
“I want that baby packed tight. As much as you can fit. Let’s give that bastard a taste of his own medicine.”
Chapter Two
It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.
– Raymond Chandler
Stepping out of the shower, she remembered seeing his face through the front-hall curtains, dark and curious, somewhat exotic, looking up from the road past the chestnut tree. Then she shivered. A strange rumble that rose from her toes, like crows taking flight. Was it excitement? Expectation? She wasn’t really sure.
Not surprising, because Malie Tingvoll had just turned eighteen.
Pausing before the full-length mirror, she let the coarse white towel slip away and studied the glow of her body and how it offset the cool Oslo light. Already in late August the tan she had worked on during the summer was starting to fade. Holding her breath, she watched the color rise in her face and crawl down her neck to her breasts.
They stood full and proud. Nipples pink and taut. Her stomach smooth. Her hair long and light, like two pale yellow curtains that accented her light blue eyes and the sharpness of her high cheekbones, inherited from her mother. She also had her mother’s high waist and long legs. Narrow hips.
Better for dancing, she’d been told. If only her feet weren’t so clumsy and her chest so large, she might have had a chance of dancing professionally. Her dreams of twirling on the big stage got her through the long dull days cleaning in the Residence Kristinelund. Dreams of being eighteen and the toast of London. Rehearsals by day. Performances at night. Limousine drives through the countryside. Handsome young men sitting across from her at dinner, charming her with clever stories. She changed sheets to Tchaikovsky on the radio. Cleaned bathrooms to Schubert playing in her head.