Hunt the Scorpion

by Don Mann

  Crocker asked, “Any news about my wife and Brian?”

  Remington shook his head as though he didn’t want to be bothered. “No. Not yet.”

  Crocker groaned. “Shit.”

  The acting CIA station chief looked up at him and said, “Before you leave, the ambassador wants to see you.”

  Feeling numb, Crocker followed him down several halls and past the ambassador’s secretary, who said, “Go in.”

  They found the ambassador leaning toward a mirror, adjusting the knot in his tie. CNN International was playing in the background.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Sit down. I want to hear what happened…”

  Crocker’s brain wanted to shut down, and the muscles in his legs were shaking. But he forced himself to relate everything in detail again. The ambassador didn’t seem as upset as Crocker had expected him to be.

  He said, “Transitions are messy. After forty years of a military dictator, no one expected this to be easy. I’m sorry for your trouble, Crocker. I commend you and your men. Trust me when I tell you that we’ll deal with this and put it behind us.”

  Saltzman took his hand and squeezed his shoulder. “Thank your men for me. Get some rest.”

  Crocker stood, but his feet didn’t want to carry him out.

  He felt awkward, disoriented, unsure that what he’d just experienced was real. The ambassador’s low-key reaction seemed at odds with the importance of his team’s discovery.

  A red-haired secretary entered and whispered something to the ambassador, who was combing his hair.

  Remington put an arm around Crocker’s shoulders and asked, “Are you alright?”

  As he looked at Remington, his whole body started to tremble, and he realized that neither man had mentioned Holly, even though she’d been missing for more than two days.

  “Sir, you haven’t mentioned my wife.”

  Remington tried to pull him out the door, whispering, “Not now.”

  Holding his ground, Crocker said, louder this time, “Mr. Ambassador, is there any news? Any new developments I should know about?”

  Saltzman looked at Remington, who cleared his throat and said, “Yes, your wife. Of course. We’ve been working on that 24/7 and believe she’s safe.”

  “Where, sir? Where is she?”

  “We’re tracking down some leads on that, which I can’t divulge.”

  “You know who’s holding her?”

  “We have some ideas, yes.”

  “And you believe she’s being well treated?”

  “Yes we do, Crocker.”

  He felt overcome with emotion, as though he was going to cry. He bit down hard and said, “Please do everything you can to get her back safely.”

  “We will, Crocker,” Remington said.

  Ambassador Saltzman: “We’re doing all we can.”

  He wanted to scream “All isn’t enough!” but used every ounce of his willpower to restrain himself.

  “Okay,” he muttered, turning on his toes. He walked back to the Suburban feeling he was about to explode.

  He dreamt he was underwater. The tank on his back had run out of oxygen, and he was trying to fight his way to the surface, but the hulls of several large ships blocked his access.

  Holly whispered urgently in his ear, “Tom. Tom. Help me! I’m up here!”

  His lungs burning, he tried to squeeze between two ships and got stuck.

  “Tom! Tom, quick!”

  Kicking, pushing, and squirming with all his might.

  “Holly! Holly, I’m coming!”

  He woke up in the guesthouse bedroom gasping for air, his entire body covered with sweat.

  Akil lay gently snoring on a cot under an open window. The light was fading outside. In the distance he heard the call for evening prayers being blasted from loudspeakers.

  The door opened with a creak. He turned and looked for his weapon.

  “Boss,” Davis whispered, “you awake?”

  “Yeah. What’s going on?”

  “Doug Volman’s here to see you.”

  “Volman? What does he want?”

  “He’s here to talk to you. Says it’s important.”

  What Crocker really wanted to do was go back to sleep, but he forced himself awake. “Alright.”

  Crocker found Volman standing in the living room wearing a yellow-black-and-white Hawaiian shirt and black pants. He was sipping a can of Coca-Cola and looked more like a college kid on vacation than a State Department officer.

  He said, “I heard you guys had a rough time down south.”

  “Yes, we did. What’s up?”

  Volman scowled. His watery eyes protruded and his skin was splotchy. He said, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but sometimes personal feelings trump career ambition, if you know what I mean.”

  It hurt Crocker even to think. “Please explain what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about being a human being first. You know, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

  Crocker was familiar with the Golden Rule. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I still don’t understand.”

  Volman removed a crushed carton of Camels from his pants pocket. His hands shook as he started to separate one from the pack. “Okay if I smoke?”

  Crocker walked across the room on bare feet, leaned on the sofa behind Volman, and cranked open the window. Beyond the wall that separated the two residences, he heard the neighbor’s kids laughing. “Go ahead.”

  Volman fumbled with the lighter, then dropped the lit cigarette on the floor. “Sorry.” He bent down to scoop up the ashes.

  “Don’t worry about that. What’s this about?”

  Sitting down on the faded wine-colored sofa, Volman blew the cigarette smoke over his shoulder. “Your wife and Brian Shaw.”

  Crocker pulled up a chair and sat across from him. “What about them?”

  Volman looked down at the cigarette he was holding and asked, “You spoke to Remington earlier today, right?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Volman leaned forward and whispered. “Did he mention anything about a ransom offer?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Volman nodded. “I didn’t think so.”

  “The kidnappers issued a ransom note? Who are they? What did the note say?”

  “I could be fired for telling you this. Dismissed from the service.”

  “I won’t tell anyone.” Crocker’s whole body started to tingle. He was wide awake now.

  “You’re going to have to force them to be more proactive.”

  “Force who?”

  Volman inhaled smoke from the cigarette and shook his head. “The ransom offer came from a group that calls itself Martyrs of the Revolution.”

  “Who are they?”

  Volman exhaled and shrugged. “Nobody’s ever heard of them before.”

  “What do they want?”

  “I don’t know the details. I heard one rumor that says they want the release of prisoners, another that they want ten million dollars in gold.”

  “Gold?”

  “Yes, gold. Apparently the logistics are daunting. I’ve heard it involves a bank vault in Benghazi and a plane to fly it to the Sudan. Once the gold arrives safely there, the hostages will be released unharmed.”

  It sounded fantastic, almost implausible.

  “You sure about this?” Crocker asked.

  “According to the rumor, the kidnappers claim that it’s Gaddafi gold seized illegally by the French. Apparently it’s still in French custody. But the French say they’re guarding it for the interim government.”

  Crocker’s head started spinning—gold, a group of kidnappers nobody had ever heard of. He asked, “Who are these Martyrs?”

  “I don’t know,” Volman answered.

  “Who does?”

  “If anyone does, it’s Ambassador Saltzman. You need to push him. That’s why I’m here. If I were you, I’d talk to him immediately.”

  Crocker: “You know w
here he is now?”

  “Yes. My car’s outside.”

  Crocker pulled on a pair of khaki pants, a blue polo shirt, a pair of black Nike sneakers. Combed his hair back. He found Davis on the computer, talking to his wife and infant son on Skype, and asked, “Any news about Jabril and Lasher?”

  “They left an hour ago for Germany.”

  “Good. Where’s everyone else?”

  “Ritchie’s next door watching Cars 2 with the neighbor’s sons. Akil and Mancini drove into town to look for dinner.”

  “I’m going to see the ambassador. I’ll be back.”

  “Wait a minute. You need help?”

  “I’m fine. Hold down the fort.”

  He joined Volman, who was outside the gate, standing next to a new powder-blue Mustang convertible. The night air was cooler than he’d expected.

  “Is this your car?” Crocker asked, climbing into the passenger seat.

  “My mother gave it to me as a birthday present. She’s Hungarian”—as though that explained why he was driving something so conspicuous.

  Volman drove like a wild man, way too fast and barely maintaining control, almost slamming into the back of a truck that had stalled on the road. As he swerved around it he started to shout over the engine noise about their destination, Janzour, a few kilometers west of Tripoli. How it was home to an equestrian academy, olive, lemon, orange, and fig orchards, and a Punic tomb discovered in the nineteen fifties.

  Crocker wasn’t paying attention. He was wrestling with the incredible tension he was feeling and trying to imagine what he could do to save his wife.

  “The Punics were Phoenician settlers who were based in Carthage, which was in Tunisia, to our west,” Volman continued. “They were traders who were eventually wiped out by the Romans before the birth of Christ.”

  Sirens wailed behind them, only adding to Crocker’s anxiety.

  “You should visit it sometime—a beautifully preserved burial room decorated with frescoes of women, antelopes, and lions.”

  Crocker realized they were leaving the city. He said, “Hey, Volman, where the hell are we going?”

  “I told you. Palm City, in Janzour.”

  The speedometer had drifted past ninety. The air carried a whiff of salt from the ocean, combined with a citrusy scent.

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s where the French ambassador lives, and Saltzman is attending a party at his house.”

  As they sped along the coast, Volman talked about how developers from Malta, the UK, and Italy had selected this area in the late nineties for the development of luxury expat communities. The newest and most elegant of these was Palm City, a secure enclave of over four hundred units with its own private beach, tennis courts, and swimming pools, right on the coast.

  Crocker, meanwhile, was focused on names and faces flashing in his head—Brian Shaw, Farhed Alizadeh, Major Ostrowski, Dr. Jabril. As he sat wondering if there was some way they fit together into an explanation of what was going on and what had happened to Holly, he became aware of the car stopping in front of a guard station.

  Volman reached into his pocket and said, “I forgot something.”

  “What’s that?”

  He handed Crocker a folded envelope. Inside was a letter from Dr. Jabril. It read:

  Dear Mr. Crocker:

  I am leaving Libya today with Mr. Lasher, before the work we were doing is finished. First, I apologize for that. Then, I want to thank you and your brave men for saving my life. Finally, I ask you to please complete the job we started. It is very important that you visit the nuclear facility at Tajoura, because this was the destination of the UF6. Talk to the man who runs the facility. His name is Dr. Salehi. Also, inspect the facility to determine what the UF6 was used for. It is critical that you do this.

  Thank you again and God bless you,

  Dr. Amadou Jabril

  Crocker stuffed the letter in his pocket as they pulled into the driveway of a sand-colored townhouse.

  “This is my place,” Volman announced.

  “Saltzman is here?”

  “No.”

  “What the fuck…”

  “Like I said, he’s at a dinner party at the French ambassador’s house, which is also in Palm City. You can walk there from here. I’ll show you the way. Calm down.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I’ve got to change. Help yourself to something from the kitchen or the bar.”

  “You know anything else about the ransom offer?”

  “No. I’ll be right back.”

  It was a modern place, decorated in bland tones of beige and brown. Pleasant and comfortable, but Crocker didn’t want to be there.

  He reminded himself that Volman was trying to be helpful. A sad song by one of Holly’s favorite composers, Antônio Carlos Jobim, played on the stereo. Everywhere he went he seemed to find reminders of his wife.

  He wanted to move, do something. But what?

  The French ambassador’s residence was a five-minute walk away, in one of the compound’s luxury villas. Volman explained that many of the residents, predominantly foreigners, had fled during the war. Those who hadn’t already departed had left abruptly in late November of the previous year, when militiamen from the Misurata Brigade tried to take over the compound. They engaged in a firefight with some of the compound guards and eventually ran off when soldiers from the Tripoli Brigade were dispatched by the NTC.

  “None of the residents were hurt,” Volman said, “but four soldiers were killed.”

  “What do you know about the Tajoura nuclear facility?” Crocker asked.

  “I know that it’s close to here, and I believe it’s no longer in operation.”

  “Can you get me some background info about it? History, capacity—you know, stuff like that.”

  “Sure. When do you need it?”

  “First thing in the morning, if possible. More important, find out anything you can about the kidnappers, the ransom.”

  “I will. There it is,” Volman said, pointing at a sand-colored house surrounded by tall palms. “I’ll wait for you at my place.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Crocker was stopped by a phalanx of French soldiers and plainclothes security personnel who checked his passport before escorting him into a round vestibule festooned with blue-white-and-red French flags. Edith Piaf was singing “La Marseillaise” over the sound system. Many of the hundred or so people crowding the large central room were singing along. The mood was more festive than anything Crocker had expected.

  “What’s the occasion?” he asked a young man holding a small American flag.

  “V-E Day, of course.”

  Crocker felt underdressed, out of place. Young women wearing World War Two–era French military uniforms circulated with trays of champagne. One of them stopped in front of Crocker and asked, “Vous êtes américain?”

  “Yeah, I’m American, and proud of it.”

  She looked more North African than French—Algerian, most likely. Winking, she said, “You are the heroes tonight. Vive les Etats-Unis!” and left.

  Crocker surveyed the crowd. Under other circumstances he would have been more than ready to join in the celebration. But the frustration and anxiety he felt tonight were completely at odds with the frivolity around him. In fact, the party seemed perverse, given the violence he’d experienced in Sebha and the situation with Holly and Brian. Spotting the U.S. ambassador, who was dressed in an elegant blue shirt and silver-gray slacks and was talking to a tall man in a vintage French military uniform, he pushed his way through the crowd.

  “Sir!”

  Saltzman smiled warmly when he saw him and extended a hand. “Tom Crocker. It’s good to see you again. I want you to meet Ambassador Moreau.”

  Crocker: “It’s an honor, sir.”

  “Mr. Crocker is the leader of a group of American engineers who are doing a study of the city’s electrical grid.”

  Moreau: “My pleasure. We’re celebrating one
of those critical historical moments, you know. The whole map of Europe could have been different. We could all have been speaking German if you, our American friends, had not decided to join the war in Europe.”

  “Our fathers did, yes,” Crocker answered. In fact, his father had quit high school the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor and joined the navy. He was the most honest person Crocker had ever known.

  Moreau: “Maybe the situation in Europe was not too different from what the Libyans are facing now.”

  Crocker wasn’t sure about that.

  The French ambassador put his arm around him and whispered, “Enjoy yourself, Mr. Crocker.”

  “I will, sir. Thank you.”

  Smiling confidently, Moreau slipped into the crowd, leaving Crocker alone and feeling like a visitor from another planet. A radio-controlled model of a B-19 buzzed overhead.

  He spotted Saltzman, who was now huddled with a pretty young brunette, and made a beeline for him. Whispering into the ambassador’s ear, he asked, “Can I talk to you a minute? It’s important.”

  “Now, Crocker?”

  “Yes. In private, sir.”

  They walked out onto a terrace overlooking the moonlit sea. A couple to Crocker’s right giggled and kissed, then left holding hands. Another reminder of Holly.

  “Mr. Ambassador, I heard there’s been a ransom offer,” Crocker said.

  “Oh, that. Yes,” Saltzman said with a groan, looking as if he wanted an excuse to escape.

  “What do you make of it, sir?”

  “What do I make of the kidnappers’ ransom demand?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is very difficult, Crocker. I like you and respect you. I can only imagine the agony you’re in.”

  “You can’t, sir. Believe me.”

  “Alright. You’re a man who likes the unvarnished truth, so here it is: The ransom note is almost irrelevant.”

  Crocker felt staggered. “Irrelevant? Why?”

  “Because, one, it tells us very little about the kidnappers except that they’re opportunistic. And two, we can’t make a deal.”

  “Why not, sir?”

  “I’m surprised you don’t know this. It’s United States policy never to negotiate an exchange of money or prisoners with terrorists or kidnappers.”