Hunt the Wolf

Chapter Fifteen

The only easy day was yesterday.

– U.S. Navy SEAL motto

He rode in the Sheraton Karachi elevator with a youngish couple from Vancouver who’d just been shopping on Tariq Road. Both tall and full of pride, wearing designer jeans, carrying multiple shopping bags. She had blond windswept hair, a tight little mouth, a dimpled chin. Assuming that the SEAL team leader was an American, the young couple started complaining about the room service at the hotel.

He half listened, still wrestling with his emotional response to the meeting. But the outrage behind their words drew his attention.

“It’s a crime, with what we’re paying,” the man said, thrusting out his square chin. “My wife ordered eggs Benedict for breakfast and they brought us something that looked like it had been scooped out of the sewer.”

“Completely disgusting. It smelled bad, too.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She tossed her head back and swiveled her narrow hips as she stepped off. “We’re never coming back!”

Why? Because of the eggs? What about the fact that Pakistan is harboring terrorists who want to destroy our way of life?

He wanted to put her over his knee and spank her; tell both of them to wake up. But what good would that do?

His annoyance was quickly drowned in the flood of concerns roaring through his head.

What happens now? What do I say to the men?

The room he returned to smelled of burnt coffee and mildew. Klausen stood by the bed, speaking Norwegian on the hotel phone. Confusion, anger, frustration.

“He’s working on something,” Davis whispered from one of the chairs by the window. He and Mancini were watching a soccer match on TV with the sound turned off.

Crocker couldn’t hear clearly over the guttural sounds coming from Klausen’s mouth.

“What did you say?”

“Klausen is trying to get us to Oman.”

He wanted to change into shorts and go for a long run, but instead waited on the Norwegian, who slammed down the phone.

“Corruption,” Klausen snorted. “With all the other things we have to deal with, they add this! Always! Human complications.”

“Who?”

Klausen crossed the pale green carpet to Crocker and took him by the arm. “What do you say we go back to the mountains? It’s so good there. It’s healthy. We climb as far as we feel like. The air is pure. There’s nobody in our way. Here…we have to deal with one son of a bitch after another. You deal with one greedy person, you pay a second. A third one pops up behind him with his goddamn hand out!”

Crocker watched Klausen’s cheeks turn a rich crimson color.

“Davis said you were working on something,” the American said, hoping to turn the conversation in a positive direction.

“Yes.” The special advisor to the king of Norway inhaled deeply and shifted gears.

Mancini punched off the TV. He and Davis turned in their chairs and listened.

“I’ve arranged for a Gulfstream to fly you to Salalah.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. You’ll land at the military airport. A man from the Norwegian embassy will meet you there. Since you don’t have visas, you’ll avoid immigration. It’s all arranged.”

“Wait a minute,” Crocker interjected. “Donaldson has agreed to this?”

“That’s correct. You have three hours to board the ship and search it,” Klausen continued. “Then you have to get back on the Gulfstream and return to Karachi.”

It wasn’t a lot of time, but it was something.

“What do you think?” Klausen asked, running a hand through his hair.

“That’s great news.”

“At least it gets you there, yes? If you find anything, this man from my embassy, his name is Halvor Reiersen. He’s an ex-soldier who is in charge of security.”

“Halvor?”

“Hal for short. He’ll meet you at the airport. If, God willing, you find Malie, Halvor will contact the proper Omani authorities. He’s a close friend of an influential Omani general. They will make any arrests, or seize the ship, if necessary.”

Crocker and his team had loads of experience with Visit, Board, Search, and Seizure (VBSS) operations. In fact, Crocker had taught the course to various platoons of SEAL Teams One, Two, and Six, and to combat troops stationed in Central America at Special Boat Unit 26.

During Operation Just Cause in Panama, he and his team had boarded and searched hundreds of vessels on the Panama Canal, capturing hundreds of General Noriega’s PDF combatants, weapons, demolition supplies, and valuable intelligence. Everything from large oil transports to carved canoes. He’d also run VBSSs on the open seas, in which he and his men would parachute in and, using cigarette boats, overtake ships. As the assault team’s lead climber, Crocker was responsible for being the first SEAL to ascend a telescoping pole with a ladder attached to get onto the deck of the target ship.

Klausen said, “Of course, you’re to communicate immediately with Mr. Donaldson if you uncover any information that might be of value to him.”

“Of course. What about weapons?” Crocker asked, thinking ahead.

“What kind of weapons do you need?”

“Submachine guns preferably, but automatic handguns at least. Chances are we’ll encounter resistance if we board the ship.”

Mikael Klausen, who hadn’t thought of that, considered the problem now. “This could be difficult.”

“Weapons are necessary. We entered the country without them. I can’t risk sending my men onto the ship unarmed.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Five, including me.”

“I’ll talk to Reiersen and see what we can arrange.”

“All right.”

“Anything else?”

Crocker said, “Get us to Salalah, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

The Gulfstream V loaded with five SEALs landed shortly past one in the morning on a straight asphalt strip along the alluvial plain before the rough Jebel Akhdar mountains. A big half-moon hung slightly off-center in the blue-black sky.

“That’s where Job is buried,” Mancini said, pointing to the rough outline of peaks in the distance.

“Who the hell is Job?”

“You don’t know Job? The prophet from the Bible. The blessed, righteous man who was tempted by Satan.”

“Oh, him.”

“Remember the story of how God tested Job’s faith by taking away his children, wealth, and health?”

“I didn’t pay attention in Sunday school,” Crocker said. In fact, he’d hardly given any school a thought until he joined the navy at age eighteen. Before then he’d been a bat-out-of-hell shitkicker more interested in riding motorcycles and raising hell with his friends than in any form of study. The navy and SEALs had given him a purpose and goals.

“Where do you find this stuff?” Ritchie asked Mancini.

“I’m curious about things. I read and retain.”

“Read and retain-I like that,” Akil remarked.

They taxied past jets from Air India Express and Jazeera Airways, and stopped before the military terminal. A thick-shouldered man in camouflage pants and a white T-shirt waited outside.

“I’m Hal Reiersen,” he said in a thick Norwegian accent, extending a hand with stars tattooed on the knuckles.

Several French-made helicopters, two British SEPECAT Jaguar jet fighters, and a C-130 Hercules transport all painted with Royal Air Force of Oman insignia stood behind him.

“My name is Tom Crocker. This is the rest of my team.”

The night air was warm and fragrant with the lemony smell of frankincense, which grew in the nearby mountains.

“Let’s proceed to the port.”

“Good idea.”

They piled into a black van. Crocker sat up front next to Reiersen, who was built like a weightlifter and had an undistinguished round face and short, very light blond hair.

“The port is a few minutes from here. There are only two major hotels.”

“We’re not planning to spend the night.”

“Oh.”

There was no one on the highway that hugged the rocky coast stretching west, past a small fishing harbor. Then came a long strip of moonlit beach on their right.

“The Bedouins used to control this area,” Mancini explained from the back row of seats. “It was the beginning of the legendary frankincense trail.”

“Thanks, professor.”

A few miles past the city of Salalah, they entered the port area, which was bigger and more modern than Crocker had expected, with a half-dozen modern cranes and wharves stacked high with containers.

The gate was locked, so Reiersen had to get out to find the person in charge. He returned ten minutes later accompanied by a short man in tan overalls and a round Bedouin-style hat.

“This is Samir, the night manager of the port.”

“As-Salamu Alaykum.” Bowing like a character out of a movie.

“As-Salamu Alaykum. Peace be with you, too.”

“The night…it is beautiful.”

“Yes, it is.”

Moonlight glistened off the whites of Samir’s eyes.

Reiersen cleared his throat. “He told me the Syrena never docked here.”

“What!” Crocker did a double take. Did we land in the right fucking place?

The night manager spoke a little English in short sibilant bursts. “The Syrena, no. Never dock here, sir. Not this day.”

“But it was supposed to dock yesterday at noon, correct?”

“Cor-rect.”

“What happened?”

Samir threw up his arms. “No here. You can see.” He waved at the pier where a half-dozen ships lolled in the water.

“You’re sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a tanker, isn’t it?” Crocker asked.

“A not very big one.”

Mancini, who had climbed halfway up the fence, shouted over his shoulder, “I don’t see any tankers here, boss.”

“This is messed up.”

“What you mean?” Samir asked.

“Bad, Samir. Not good.”

The night manager twisted his mouth into a curious half-smile. “Why? You have friend on the ship? You are expecting something?”

Crocker slapped the side of the van. “Where the fuck did it go, then?”

The Norwegian and the five Americans waited the better part of an hour at the gate, trying out various theories, while the night manager went inside to see if he could ascertain the Syrena’s current location.

As the minutes ticked by, defeat wormed its way into Crocker’s head, started slowly eating away at his confidence. I screwed up. What have I done?

This would be the second or third really bad decision he’d made in the past month. The first was letting Zaman slip away. His CIA handlers would probably report their displeasure to SOCOM in Tampa, Florida, and Naval SpecWar in Coronado, California.

Complaints would be filed. Disciplinary action taken.

Holly was annoyed at him, too. She’ll be even madder if she finds out that I’ve been court-martialed.

He imagined various responses to that possibility-hiring a good lawyer, writing a detailed report that explained all his actions, retiring and finding other employment, even leaving the States to work with Klausen in Norway. But none of them seemed to dampen his growing sense of dread.

“Where the hell is Samir?” Crocker asked out loud.

At half past two the moon was high in the sky, and they were running out of time. Reiersen, who was the only one with the credentials to get past the sleepy guards, went inside to check, grumbling to himself in Norwegian.

Fifteen minutes more of standing around and yakking about college football, and Ritchie shouted, “Here they come!”

Three men strode toward them-Reiersen, Samir, and a guy in a white robe. Samir waved something over his head.

“What he’s got?”

He had news. The Syrena had in fact bypassed Salalah, where it was scheduled to stop, and docked at Port Sultan Qaboos, some 540 miles up the coast instead.

“Where’s Sultan Qaboos, exactly?” Crocker asked.

“Right outside the capital of Muscat.”

“And the ship’s still there?”

“According to the latest communications, yes,” Reiersen answered. “But Qaboos doesn’t know for how much longer.”

Now what do we do?

Crocker, who had led his men way out on a limb, wanted to get to Muscat asap. But there were myriad complications. Like the fact that he and his team didn’t have the visas that were required to enter Oman. Secondly, the pilot of the Gulfstream V had been hired only to fly them from Karachi to Salalah and back. Third, Akil was running a fever.

Reiersen offered a solution. “We can all travel in the plane I flew in on.”

It was something.

So an hour later the six men crammed into the single-engine plane, which puttered up the Gulf of Oman coast. Dawn was breaking when they touched down in Muscat. A majestic glow from the east turned the faces of the minarets and white buildings of the capital gold.

Reiersen had radioed ahead for help: SEAL candy, aka 800-milligram Motrin for Akil. Weapons. A satellite phone.

They were met by two SUVs and a Norwegian who called himself Jakob and had spent two years at USC as a member of the track and field team. He looked like a Trojan. Square jaw, wide shoulders, a close-clipped mustache and beard.

They sped to the port as fast as the vehicles could take them-only to find that the Syrena wasn’t at Sultan Qaboos, either.

“You got to be kidding!” Like some kind of cosmic joke.

According to the port manager-a Muslim from Bangladesh named Mohammed-it had left at 11 p.m. Approximately eight hours ago. His records showed that the tanker had docked at two in the afternoon, received two hundred gallons of diesel fuel, and left for the Persian Gulf.

“What’s its current destination?”

“Bushehr, Iran.”

“Iran?”

“Yes.”

That posed a whole host of other complications. First and foremost, the Iranian government-a declared enemy of the United States-would never give Crocker and his team permission to enter.

“Did anyone disembark in Qaboos?” Crocker asked.

“What do you mean, sir?” Mohammed asked back, smoothing his black handlebar mustache.

“Did your people see anybody leave the ship while it was docked here?”

Mohammed had a few missing teeth. His longish hair was greased back. He projected goodwill and sincerity. “I don’t have that information.”

“Can you find out?”

Fifteen minutes later he returned with the answer. “One of the fuel men saw some people get off. He thinks there were four of them, but isn’t certain.”

“Four men?”

“Three Arabic-looking men and at least one woman.”

Crocker’s eyes lit up. “Was she blond?”

“He couldn’t tell. She was wearing a chador.”

“Can you find out their names?”

“We don’t have that information,” Mohammed said. “You will have to check with immigration.”

That was a risky proposition, since Crocker and his men had entered Oman illegally. Jakob volunteered and ran off.

“Does this fuel man have any idea where those four individuals who got off the ship went?” Crocker asked the port manager, praying that he had an answer.

“No. I’m sorry. He said they were met by two men in a black Mercedes. A large one. One man never got out. He saw the four passengers get into the Mercedes limo and drive off very fast.”

“Thanks.”

Very fast. Like they were running away from something, which apparently they were. Because Jakob came back to report that the port immigration official said that no passengers had disembarked from the Syrena.

“Impossible,” Crocker remarked.

“He was probably paid to look the other way. That happens here.”

No shit.

Crocker’s stomach growled as he sorted through this new set of challenges.

Their minds sharpened by chai tea and grilled sardine sandwiches purchased from a canteen nearby, the five Americans and two Norwegians put their heads together. Time was critical. They decided they needed to fan out in order to be most efficient.

Hal would call his Omani friend General al-Maskari and see what he could pry out of immigration. Mancini would use the satellite phone to communicate with Mikael Klausen, Lou Donaldson, and others to try to ascertain the current location of the Syrena. Reiersen and Ritchie would eyeball outgoing flights at Muscat International Airport. Crocker and Davis would go with Jakob to check the registers at the major hotels.

Crocker’s thinking went like this: A transfer seemed to have taken place. In other words, Cyrus delivered Malie to “Sheik Rastani.” Assuming that his supposition was correct, Crocker doubted that a sheik would risk doing something so potentially embarrassing on his own turf. Likely he’d flown to Muscat from a neighboring Arab country-Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait.

If Rastani could afford to spend a million dollars on a girl, he’d probably be staying at a local luxury hotel, where he could examine the goods-i.e., Malie-before a deal was concluded and money exchanged.

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.

Smoke and cordite hung in the air.

Before Crocker could scramble to his feet, the wrestler was on him, spitting curses and reaching for his throat. Crocker could feel the man’s sweat and smell the madness on his breath. His thick hands were strong, with nails that sunk into Crocker’s neck.

Doubting that he had the strength or leverage to pry them loose, the American reared his head back and smashed it into the wrestler’s nose. Then again, and two more times, until its bridge gave way and he felt the man’s warm blood on his face.

But when the American tried to get his feet under him, he slipped on the broken glass, blood, and sweat, and went down hard on his ass.

The wrestler roared and kicked Crocker in the stomach. Then the big man threw himself on him, and the two grappled on the shower floor. Body against body. Strength versus strength.

The physical dynamic of wrestling had never been Crocker’s strong suit. But here he was side by side with a beast who was using his powerful legs to push against the door opening and pin him against the wall.

Crushing him.

Each man had his arm around the other’s neck, but the wrestler had the advantage, because Crocker couldn’t move his legs or arms. The pressure against his ribs and chest was growing by the second, making it increasingly hard to breathe.

Trapped and losing ground, Crocker heard something move by the sink.

Peering past the wrestler’s thick head and chest, through the shower doorway he saw the pockmarked guy trying to push himself up on his elbow and steady the pistol as blood gushed from his neck. It was a desperate last effort. His hand shook badly. But he still had the determination to curl his finger around the trigger and squeeze.

Shit…

Crocker ducked behind the wrestler as the shots rang out.

Three bullets in succession glanced off the floor and struck the wrestler, who jerked and groaned.

The pistol clattered across the tile floor.

“In sha’Allah,” moaned the man by the sink. God willing.

The big wrestler was trembling and loosening his grip enough that Crocker could pull away and stand in a crouch.

On the floor by the sink, the pockmarked man lay still in a dark pool of his own blood, his mouth caught between a smile and grimace, a look of expectation in his eyes.

Crocker stepped quickly out of the shower and recovered the Makarov pistol. Then turned and pointed it at the wrestler’s head.

His big yellowish eyes pleaded up at him. “No.”

“Yes!”

Two quick rounds into his skull. Then silence.

Just the loud thumping of Crocker’s heart as he reached down and retrieved a hotel keycard and passport from the dead man’s pocket.