Ambassador Andrew Saltzman was an older man with a headful of thick white hair. He looked like a Wall Street banker—soft around the middle, self-confident, meticulously groomed and dressed. The office was cool and dark, with dark blue curtains covering the windows. Crocker stared down at the Great Seal of the United States—an eagle clutching a scroll in its mouth—and waited for the ambassador’s response.
He took his time, grunting and pulling at his bottom lip. When he answered, he seemed equally upset by what the SEALs had seen at the refugee camp and by the discovery of the aging chemical weapons. Then he asked, “What provoked you to enter the camp in the first place?”
“We were at the naval base, sir. We heard gunfire and people screaming. I decided we should take a look.”
“Understandable. Commendable, too.”
“After receiving some resistance, we ended up arresting the three men who were ordering the torture and executions.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re behind bars at NATO headquarters.”
“Good work. I’m going to call the NATO commanders tonight. First I want to make sure those prisoners are turned over to the NTC and made an example of. Then I’m going to demand that NATO inspect every single one of these so-called refugee camps. If Amnesty International ever gets wind of what’s going on, we’re in serious hot water.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks again.”
Crocker started to get up. But since the ambassador sounded sympathetic, he decided to ask him a question. “Sir, I mean no disrespect to anyone, but I’m unclear about who the enemy is here.”
“The enemy is anyone who is trying to destabilize the NTC.”
“Thank you, sir.” He got up.
Hardly a satisfactory answer. Weren’t the militiamen running the so-called refugee camp members of the NTC? But he didn’t say anything. He figured it would take him and his men another six days max to inspect the remaining weapons sites before they could return to Virginia. Until then they’d move carefully and keep a low profile.
Despite the fact that his stomach was growling, he stopped in to see Leo Debray before he left. Debray was sitting in his office with his assistant, Kat. As soon as they saw Crocker, their expressions grew graver.
“What’s wrong?” Crocker asked. “You don’t look glad to see me.”
Debray rose from his chair and draped an arm across Crocker’s shoulder. At six feet five he towered over him.
“Not at all. I spoke to your wife about an hour ago. Seems like the plane they were flying on experienced some mechanical problems. So they’re spending the night in Sirte.”
“Where’s that?”
“About three hundred miles east of here. Site of big oil fields, great beaches. They’re planning to catch another flight in the morning.”
“She’ll be in Tripoli tomorrow, then.”
“That’s correct.”
A doubt popped into Crocker’s head. He asked, “Is that normal? I mean, are local flights routinely canceled?”
“Since the war, airplane service has been extremely erratic.”
“Thanks.”
Chapter Eight
Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.
—Albert Einstein
The next morning Crocker rose early, drove to the beach, and ran ten miles in the sand. Reminded him of BUD/S and of being back home in eastern Virginia. He passed men standing in the surf fishing, a family walking their dog, women covered from head to toe collecting shells. Despite what Volman had said about Libyans being the friendliest people in the world, the ones he saw seemed frightened and on edge.
Maybe on Saturday he’d take Holly to the Roman ruins at Leptis Magna, two hours east. According to Mancini it was a UNESCO World Heritage Site and remained one of the best-preserved Roman cities in the world, with a triumphal arch in honor of Emperor Septimius Severus, a theater built in the second century BC, a forum, baths, a basilica, and more. The city had been founded by the Phoenicians and became a prosperous Roman commercial center until it was sacked by a Berber tribe in AD 523.
They could pack a picnic lunch and spend the day exploring the ruins by themselves. Maybe stop for a swim afterward. Make love on the beach.
Back at the guesthouse he sat with his men in the living room listening to a briefing by Jaime Remington and an officer from the BND (Bundesnachrichtendienst, the German equivalent of the CIA)—a tall, fit woman named Sandra Lundquist. She reminded him of a taller, slimmer, slightly older Scarlett Johansson, which explained why Ritchie and Akil were staring at her like she was lunch.
Crocker listened as Lundquist spoke in a dry, almost monotone voice, a stark contrast to her ripe sexuality. He knew they would be leaving in an hour to inspect a chemical plant near the border with Niger, 450 miles south. She explained that the BND had already inspected the facility, which was a few kilometers north of the town of Toummo. Built in the 1980s with the help of a dozen German, Italian, Soviet, and French companies—including Pen Tsao, Ihsan Barbouti, and Imhausen-Chemie—the plant almost immediately raised international suspicion. The Libyan government claimed it was being used to manufacture medicine and other consumer products, but soon it was discovered that the German company Imhausen-Chemie had been shipping chemical weapons equipment to Libya, using Hong Kong as a cover.