Hunt the Wolf (15 page)

Minutes after Klausen left, Crocker was in the bedroom talking to his wife. He was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Davis, reporting that Lou Donaldson wanted him to attend a meeting at the U.S. consulate in half an hour.

“Why?”

Davis handed the phone over. According to Anders, who was still on the line, the meeting concerned Abu Rasul Zaman.

“I’ll have a car waiting for you downstairs in ten minutes,” Anders said.

Crocker told Holly he’d call back, then reminded Anders that he was staying in the Sheraton, which was only a few hundred yards from the consulate.

“It’s almost impossible to enter the diplomatic enclave if you’re not in an official vehicle,” Anders explained. “Security here is very tight.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Dammit, Crocker.”

“See you in ten.”

Nine minutes later, a perplexed Tom Crocker was ushered into a video conference room and shown to a large leather chair in front of a crescent-shaped table that faced a wall displaying a series of TV monitors. At the opposite end of the walnut crescent sat Lou Donaldson talking to Jim Anders, who was beside him. Another gray suit stood behind them, leaning on the back of Anders’s chair.

A big woman with a pile of brown hair occupied the middle seat and spooned yogurt into her mouth when she wasn’t speaking into a cell phone. Next to her was a quiet, almost invisible Asian man in a shirt and tie, sparse black mustache, and black-framed glasses.

Donaldson frowned at Crocker and growled to the assembled, “All right, he’s here. Let’s get started.”

Anders picked up a phone from the console in front of him, and soon the lights dimmed and the monitors lit up. Serious-looking men and women appeared on five of the ten screens. They introduced themselves as the director and deputy director of the Al-Qaeda Working Group from CIA headquarters; the deputy director of the Counterterrorism Center (CTC), also at Langley; the CIA station chiefs in Kabul and Oman.

They were all business.

Crocker learned right away that the officials at Langley were taking the
Syrena
more seriously than he’d thought. The station chief in Oman reported that the Omanis were prepared to board and search the vessel as soon as it docked at Salalah.

Donaldson seemed pleased.

The woman to Crocker’s right asked about the latest intel on Zaman. She pointed out that Crocker was the last American to see him in person.

The two representatives of the Al-Qaeda Working Group did most of the talking. They cited reports that tracked Zaman’s recent movements into north Waziristan, then into Khost, in eastern Afghanistan, where he was believed to have attended a meeting of local tribal leaders.

“There’s no question that he’s the operational leader now,” a bearded male analyst said from Langley. “We hear through our assets that he’s planning something big. You know, to make a statement that al-Qaeda is back.”

“He needs to,” the woman next to Crocker said. “Lately, Lashkar-e-Taiba has stolen their thunder.” She was referring to the Pakistani terrorist organization that had carried out the bloody attack on Mumbai, India, in November 2008, which resulted in the death of 175 people, including dozens of Westerners. Crocker had passed through Mumbai only a week before the attacks and had eaten dinner at the Leopold Café, where the terrorists later sprayed the crowd with automatic-weapon fire, killing ten tourists.

The CTC woman on the monitor drew Crocker’s attention back to the conference with her shrill, loud voice. “If we got that intel regarding Zaman and his current location from the ISI, I wouldn’t give it a whole lot of credence,” she said through the speaker.

He agreed. He knew that a large portion of the Pakistan intelligence outfit known as the ISI (Inter-Services Intelligence) secretly supported the Taliban and al-Qaeda, and had for years. The Pakistani government steadfastly refused to acknowledge the ISI’s duplicity. And many U.S. officials didn’t want to believe it.

But the Pakistanis were playing a double game—officially expressing their opposition to al-Qaeda and other Islamic terrorist organizations, but secretly colluding with them through the ISI. The reasons for this were complex, and reflected the treacherous nature of Pakistani politics and the country’s obsession with India.

But that’s not what they were there to discuss. The CIA analysts turned their attention to an official al-Qaeda proclamation that had come out of Peshawar the week before.

A man with a salt-and-pepper beard who was identified as the head of CIA’s Al-Qaeda Working Group explained that the statement was mainly a reiteration of al-Qaeda’s longtime goals: one, to involve the United States and its proxies in a war of attrition in the Middle East; two, to drive the Jews out of Jerusalem and Palestine and return these areas to the Palestinians; and three, to overthrow the Saudi monarchy and establish a caliphate to rule the Arabian Peninsula. What stood out, he said, was a paragraph at the end that vowed “to soon unite the trinity of objectives in one important event.”

None of the CIA analysts seemed to know what that meant.

The Asian man with the mustache read from a chart of NSA statistics and algorithms that measured the frequency with which “attacks against the West” had been mentioned on jihadist websites and monitored phone calls. They had spiked in recent weeks. “The confluence of Muslim holidays and the recently stepped-up Israeli-Palestinian peace talks could explain what we’re seeing,” he cautioned.

The head of CTC disagreed. He felt that some sort of attack was imminent. So did the woman to Crocker’s right.

As they debated, the SEAL team leader looked down at his watch. The meeting had already lasted an hour and fifteen minutes. From his perspective, it hadn’t accomplished anything. Mikael Klausen and his men were waiting. He had nothing more to add to the discussion.

In his mind’s eye he saw the girls’ pale, bruised faces. The faraway looks in their eyes.

The anger he felt brought clarity and purpose.

He rose and walked quickly to the elevator, ignoring the footsteps that hurried after him.

“We’re not finished, Crocker,” Anders called, out of breath.

“I am.”

“Where the hell are you going?”

“There are things I need to accomplish.”

“What things? What are you referring to?”

He stepped into the elevator and watched the doors close and shut out Anders’s troubled face.

Outside the consulate, Crocker moved purposefully.

Action, not talk.

Passing the waiting limo, he walked briskly through the iron gate, through ranks of heavily armed soldiers guarding the perimeter of concrete barriers stacked high with sandbags, and continued down Abdullah Haroon Road.

Although the sultry air caused his shirt to stick to his skin and sweat to run down his pant legs, he felt better. Almost exhilarated.

Crocker was at his best when in motion. When the fear or danger grew so intense that he acted without thinking. When he did what he knew he had to do.

H
e 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.