Hunt the Scorpion

by Don Mann

  “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.” In fact, Crocker had specifically asked to see it. He was told the lab was closed and unsafe to visit because of high levels of radiation.

  Now what?

  They called Ritchie and Davis again, but they had no news. Then he called Leo Debray at the embassy; he was out of the office. Crocker didn’t feel like sitting around the guesthouse or driving around aimlessly. He also didn’t see the point of going back to the embassy and trying to explain his suspicions about Tajoura to Remington. He preferred that Remington and his staff focus on locating—or better yet, rescuing—Holly and Brian.

  Troubled about the UF6 and Salehi’s evasions, and not knowing what to do next, he said, “Let’s stop here and wait near the gate.”

  “Why?” Akil asked.

  “I need to think.”

  They parked on the opposite corner under a clump of eucalyptus trees and sat in silence, Crocker in his private agony, with Jabril’s warning echoing in his head. It was a horrible position to be in—wanting to be loyal and trust your superiors, while also being very aware of their limitations. Remington had lost his boss and seemed overwhelmed by his new position. Ambassador Saltzman—who appeared to be a kind, thoughtful man—was focused on building up the NTC so it could secure the country and lead the transition to some form of representative government.

  A black Acura sedan emerged from the gate and turned left.

  “That’s him,” Akil said.

  “Who?” Crocker asked, still lost in thought.

  “Salehi. He’s in the backseat, behind the driver.”

  “Let’s follow him.”

  Mancini made a U-turn and followed the Acura east, then south. They watched it turn into a compound surrounded by a high, burnt-sienna-colored concrete wall. A satellite dish leered from the terra-cotta roof like a big eye.

  “Now what?” Akil asked, scratching his stubble-covered jaw and neck.

  Crocker said, “We call the guesthouse again and see if there’s news.”

  There wasn’t any.

  Mancini: “Boss, you want to explore another part of the city?”

  All he had was an intuition and an urge to follow it. Even if it was hard to figure out how it related to Holly, it was better than wandering aimlessly. He said, “We’ll wait a few more minutes, until it gets dark. Then Akil and I will go in, while you wait in the vehicle.”

  Mancini immediately protested. “You sure that’s the best use of our time?”

  “You stay on the radio and watch the gate.”

  Akil got out and eyeballed the area as Crocker sat listening to Mancini talk about the dangers of nuclear proliferation. More specifically, the possibility of terrorists like al-Qaeda getting their hands on some kind of nuclear device. Mancini thought it was more likely that they’d get hold of a biological or chemical weapon first.

  “Why?” Crocker asked, trying to focus.

  “One, because chemical and bio weigh a whole shitload less and are easier to transport. And two, because nuclear weapons are hard to make and even harder to store, because you need to separate the critical masses to prevent the bomb from detonating too early.”

  “I agree.”

  Akil returned with falafel sandwiches and cans of soda he had purchased from a nearby vendor.

  Crocker said, “I told you to surveil the place, not buy dinner!”

  “Ever hear of killing two birds with one stone?”

  “Here’s one,” Crocker said, holding up the sandwich. “Where’s the other?”

  Akil smiled. “There’s a big palm tree along the back wall that we can climb and use to get over the fence. No surveillance cameras, but at least two dogs.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Big, mean-sounding motherfuckers.”

  “Your favorite kind.”

  “Not really.”

  Crocker was reminded of the two bull mastiffs in Bolivia who had bitten a friend’s balls off during a mission. Sesame sauce dripped down his hand onto his wrist, then onto the faux leather seat, as he started to formulate a plan.

  “Tasty, huh?” Akil asked handing him a napkin as thin as tissue paper.

  “Next time, follow orders.”

  Akil: “It’s really goat shit I scraped off the street.”

  “Whatever it is, it tastes good,” Crocker said, as he picked a piece of chopped parsley out of his teeth. “Here’s what we’re gonna do…”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a

  mistake.

  —Napoleon Bonaparte

  The sky had turned a deep shade of blue by the time he and Akil circled around to the back of the compound. They waited until Mancini started pounding on the gate to attract the dogs to the front before they took turns scooting up a palm tree, leaning on it so it dipped over the fence, then jumping ten feet onto the lawn, making sure to bend their knees and somersault over their left shoulders as they landed.

  It felt good to be doing something instead of slowly dying of frustration. Libyan music wafted out of a room near the garage, which was located in a two-story structure separate from the main house.

  “That’s Ahmed Fakroun,” Akil whispered.

  “Who?”

  “Only the most popular Libyan singer of the last twenty years.”

  “Like anyone gives a shit. Focus.”

  “I’m focused.”

  “Quiet.”

  Crocker peered in the window and saw a man in white underwear lying on a bed watching TV, apparently mesmerized by the music video he was watching—peacocks, a waterfall, dancing girls in colorful outfits. He was in condition white, Crocker thought, which meant a total lack of awareness of the circumstances around him.

  Crocker indicated to Akil to follow him to the left, to the rear of the main house. The back door was wide open, inviting entry.

  Crocker was about to oblige when his cell phone lit up. He read the text from Mancini: “WTF. Dr. exited front of the h. Getting in a car.”

  Crocker quickly typed back, “Follow him w/ the Sub. Let me know where he’s going.”

  The two SEALs entered the dark house, stood in a vestibule, and listened. Heard some birds chirping inside; sounded like parakeets. Saw a collection of worn men’s sandals on the floor to their right, and big ceramic dog bowls filled with water and food. The air was cool and smelled of curry and exotic spices.

  Crocker pointed down a dark hallway and entered first. He stopped at a little table with a tray that contained an empty teacup and a plate of cupcakes. They were small and decorated with what looked like candied rose petals.

  Akil picked one up and smelled it.

  “Persian love cakes,” he whispered.

  “So what?”

  “Salehi is a Persian name.”

  That hadn’t occurred to Crocker. During the time of Alexander the Great, the First Persian Empire extended west all the way to Afghanistan and east along North Africa to Morocco, which meant that Persian names were still found there.

  Continuing down the hall, they arrived at a big stairway on the right, opposite a dining room with a crystal chandelier. In front of that was a living room with a portrait of a severe-looking older man on the wall.

  Every room was dark and filled with shadows. The only light filtered down the stairway and through the curtain in front. The dogs had stopped barking, replaced by the birds chirping aggressively in the front room.

  Crocker turned to Akil and signaled “Go back and close the back door. Lock it.”

  Akil nodded and left. When he returned, Crocker pointed to a door under the stairway. They carefully opened it and found it led into a library/office. The walls were lined with books, and a big wooden desk occupied one end of the room. On the carpeted floor were several dozen cardboard boxes, some half filled.

  He’s leaving, Crocker thought.

  Akil watched the door while Crocker searched the desk drawers, looking for laptops, cell phones, passports, bank account ledgers.
All he found were photos of Salehi’s wife and daughter, medical records, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, an old .38 revolver, and letters written in Arabic.

  Crocker pointed and gestured. They moved upstairs.

  The TV in the master bedroom was on and tuned to Al Jazeera news, but the sound was off. Several DVD cases lay on the dresser, porn flicks with French titles. Akil held one up and smiled as if to say, “Maybe we should check these out.”

  Crocker shook his finger. Focus!

  A half-filled suitcase lay open on the bed. On the night table, beside a copy of the Koran, Crocker found a receipt for a money transfer to Banque Pasche in Geneva, Switzerland. No amount, no account number, just a transit code and the name Salehi.

  “Looks like he’s been moving money,” Crocker whispered, sharing his discovery.

  “Or he just hit the lottery.”

  His cell phone lit up again. The text from Mancini read, “U’ll never guess where Dr S went.”

  “A strip club?”

  Akil whispered, “No strip clubs in Libya.”

  The answer from Mancini: “The Bab al Sahr H.” This was the hotel the SEALs had stayed in when they first arrived. Crocker typed back, “WTF!”

  “He went to 8th fl. Meeting some1.”

  This confirmed Crocker’s hunch that Salehi was up to something. “Find out who.”

  “Who what?”

  “Who he’s meeting w/.”

  “Roger.”

  “Stay w/ him. We’ll meet u.”

  Akil drew the dogs to the back of the house as Crocker exited out the front. Then Akil ran through the house, joined him on the street, and led him two blocks to a commercial boulevard where they flagged down a cab painted black and white, like a zebra.

  The driver looked them over carefully before he let them in.

  The Bab al Sahr appeared a whole lot better at night, but the sour smell in the lobby was the same—cherry-scented disinfectant mixed with nicotine and mildew. They found Mancini seated on a bench facing the elevators, leafing through an old issue of Newsweek with Sarah Palin on the cover.

  “Where’s Salehi?” Crocker asked.

  Mancini set the magazine aside. “Still upstairs attending to his business.”

  Crocker abruptly shifted gears: “You talk to Davis recently?”

  Mancini: “Texted him five minutes ago. Still no news.”

  Crocker returned to the business at hand. “Salehi went up alone?” he asked.

  “That’s correct.”

  Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly, but it was the only lead he had. “How long?”

  “You mean how long has he been up there?” Mancini looked at his watch.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sixteen and a half minutes.”

  Akil: “Ten to one he’s meeting a woman.”

  Crocker: “Maybe not.”

  “If it’s a babe, he could be up there all night.”

  Mancini: “The guy might have other motives. Try not to think with your dick.”

  Crocker: “I’m gonna go up and try to listen.”

  Akil: “Perv.”

  Mancini: “Room eight twenty-two.”

  Crocker: “You guys wait here.”

  Crocker rode up alone, trying to manage the flow of thoughts through his head—Holly, the suitcases and boxes, the receipt for the money transfer to Switzerland. Searching for a reasonable explanation for the last three, he got out on eight and saw a short man in a dark suit jacket exit a room down the hall.

  He ducked into an intersecting corridor and caught a glimpse of the man passing as he walked to the elevator.

  His face looked familiar. Very familiar. Short black hair and a close-cropped black beard, a big broken nose that veered sharply to one side. It was the cruel line of his mouth that struck him, and the fact that his black eyes were so deeply set.

  Colonel Farhed Alizadeh of the Qods Force?

  Then: What the fuck is he doing here?

  As the elevator descended, Crocker was trying to figure out what to do next when he heard footsteps approaching. Seeing Salehi, he ducked farther down the corridor, found an emergency exit, and pushed through. In the stairway he tapped in Mancini’s number and texted, “A Persian-look man will soon get off elev. Try not 2 let him see u, but keep an i on him. Follow him if he leaves.”

  Mancini texted back, “You want me to wait for u?”

  “No worry about me. Don’t lose him.”

  “10-4.”

  “I’m on my way down. Salehi is, 2.”

  Crocker ran down the stairs and found Mancini and Akil standing at the end of the check-in desk, looking at some faded tourist brochures.

  “Where’d he go?” Crocker asked.

  Mancini pointed his chin at the front window. “He’s standing over there, smoking a cigarette.”

  Akil: “Looks like he’s waiting for someone.”

  “Who is he?”

  Crocker: “I’m not sure.”

  Akil: “Then what the hell are we doing?”

  Crocker: “I’m not sure about that, either.”

  “Boss—”

  “Ssh!”

  The elevator door opened behind them. They turned to watch Salehi exit and walk briskly to the lounge.

  Crocker whispered to Akil, “Go see where he’s going.”

  Akil texted back a minute later, “He sat down at table alone and is looking at menu.”

  Crocker: “Stick with him. M and I are gonna tail the other guy.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it!”

  “What do we do now, boss?” Mancini asked, bouncing on his toes, looking anxious.

  “I’ll keep an eye on the man at the window. You get the SUV, bring it around front.”

  “Okay.”

  “Exit out the side door to the patio, then through the gate to the parking lot so he can’t see you. If my hunch is right, he’s Farhed Alizadeh.”

  “Colonel D?”

  “Yeah, the same individual who was trying to steal the high-speed triggers off the Contessa.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Good question. Go!”

  An even better question: Why was he meeting with Salehi?

  Crocker was left in the uncomfortable position of trying to satisfy conflicting tasks—looking inconspicuous so he wouldn’t be discovered, and at the same time trying to confirm the man’s identity. The latter was impossible, because the man faced away from him, looking out the window.

  Meanwhile, Mancini drove the Suburban around front and parked it at the curb.

  Crocker watched the dark-haired man put on a pair of sunglasses even though it was night, step outside, look around to see if anyone was watching, then climb into the backseat of a black Mercedes sedan with darkened windows. It took off at high speed.

  Crocker waited a beat, then ran out and jumped into the Suburban.

  “Follow him. Fast! Don’t lose him!”

  “Got it, boss.”

  They sped west along the coast, then turned right onto the causeway that ran south. Crocker’s mind worked hard the whole time, calculating the Iranian’s next probable move and how to counter it, calling on his training, experience, the little he understood about the current situation, and his intuition.

  He asked Mancini, “Where do you think he’s going?”

  “My money says he’s headed to the airport.”

  “I agree.”

  If the man really was Farhed Alizadeh, it sort of made sense. Horrible sense. Iran had been striving to build a nuclear weapon in order to make it the preeminent military power in the Middle East. But a combination of UN sanctions, international pressure, and IAEA inspections had so far thwarted their efforts to enrich uranium beyond the 20 percent needed to fuel a nuclear reactor for peaceful purposes. Enriching uranium beyond that was an extremely time-consuming and difficult process.

  As they sped down the causeway, Crocker dialed Remington’s number and caught the CIA station chief in a meeting with members
of his staff.

  “Crocker, my whole team is working around the clock. We’re studying every little shred of evidence we’ve got. I understand your concern. I promise to call you the minute I know more.”

  Crocker said, “Sir, I’m on my way to the airport. I’m going to need your assistance. Looks like I might have to stop a flight and detain a foreign national.”

  “What does this have to do with Holly and Brian?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know.”

  “Then what in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “I suggest you get out here a-s-a-p. I’m gonna need your help.”

  “Why, Crocker?”

  “No time to explain, sir. It’s highly important. Involves the possible exchange of nuclear material. You’re going to have to trust me on this.” Crocker enjoyed being the one to say that for a change.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Turning in to the international terminal. Gotta go.”

  The Mercedes burned rubber as it circled past the largely empty parking area, turned sharply right, and came to a screeching stop at a checkpoint reinforced with sandbags. One of the soldiers on duty waved it through. Between some one-story buildings Crocker caught a glimpse of the Mercedes as it sped down the tarmac.

  “What now?” Mancini asked.

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “We can tell them we’re IAEA inspectors.”

  Crocker pointed to the curb. “Park here. Make sure you bring your phone.”

  They climbed over a low fence to the tarmac and turned left. Past the low buildings, Crocker saw the main terminal ahead, a strangely shaped structure with high V-shaped arches in front.

  He pulled Mancini behind a baggage cart as he watched the Mercedes stop. The Iranian got out and was greeted by another man who looked like a Libyan airport official. The two of them walked to the terminal as the Mercedes sped off past some parked passenger jets to a row of hangars.

  “What now?” Mancini asked.

  “You follow the Iranian. I want to see where the Mercedes is going.”

  “Okay.”

  In the several seconds it had taken to address Mancini, he’d lost sight of the car.

  Must have turned in to one of the hangars.