Crocker found the rep standing in the entrance under a flickering fluorescent light in his olive-green uniform, a Canadian major with a gleaming shaved head. Behind him local men were sweeping the floor and collecting trash. The airport was closed for the night.
Major Cummings said, “Your wife and Mr. Shaw were booked to fly on a Libyan Airlines flight at nine this morning. Service at this airport has been spotty because several members of the control tower staff disappeared during the recent fighting. The upshot is, the flight didn’t take off until eleven. Your wife and Mr. Shaw weren’t on it. It was the only flight that left this airport bound for Tripoli today.”
“So they couldn’t have caught a later flight?”
“No. That was the only one.”
“Did they call and change their reservation?”
“Apparently not.”
“You checked?”
“Yes, sir. And I checked the passenger list for the flight that left at eleven. Your wife and Mr. Shaw’s names aren’t on it.”
“How accurate are those lists?”
“I wouldn’t bet the farm on them.”
“What about a military flight or a private plane?”
“Chances are they would have left from this airport, and there’s no record of any flight bound for Tripoli this afternoon.”
The fact remained that Holly hadn’t been heard from. Calls to her cell phone went unanswered. Nobody had seen or heard from her since yesterday.
Crocker ran through other possibilities as he followed the Canadian up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. The odds that they had decided to drive to Tripoli were remote. One, the road was dangerous and passed through numerous checkpoints. Two, Holly and Brian didn’t have a car, which meant they would have had to hire one.
Still, he held out hope. Holly was resourceful and generally lucky. She knew how to handle herself.
The airport manager was a little man, coffee-skinned with a wispy gray beard and hair. A framed photograph of President Barack Obama hung behind his desk. It turned out he had spent a year at Baylor University and spoke decent English. “The last time anyone saw your wife was yesterday afternoon,” he said. “She missed her flight today. That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.”
Crocker asked, “Do you have any idea where she stayed last night?”
The airport manager rubbed his head. “Nobody comes here anymore, so the hotels are all closed. You’re sure they stayed the night?”
“Yes. That’s what they told the embassy.”
The manager nodded and left.
Through the open window Crocker heard a woman’s wailing voice. He couldn’t understand the words she was singing but was moved by the sadness behind them.
Was it possible that Holly had decided to stay another night? Why?
He hated the thought, but a hookup wasn’t out of the question. Holly was an attractive woman, Brian a good-looking younger man who had recently left his wife. Crocker hadn’t seen Holly for almost a month. He hadn’t spoken to her in weeks.
The station manager returned with a smile. Holding up a finger, he said, “I have the answer. How? Because I found the man who drove your wife and her friend to the house where they’re staying. This man is downstairs now, in front of the terminal.”
Outside, bullet holes and craters from rocket attacks marked every building. Many of the streetlights were damaged; burnt-out hulks of cars lined the street.
To their right, three men sat on the curb sipping coffee out of glass cups. One of them, an older man with badly bowed legs, rose and approached cautiously. He pointed to a black-and-white Datsun cab and nodded. Crocker and the Canadian opened the back door and got in.
It felt like a fever dream—the destruction everywhere, the savagery he’d witnessed here and throughout the Middle East, the empty streets, stars sparkling in the sky above, fresh air blowing in from the sea, the moon a crescent resembling an off-kilter smile.
The driver hummed to himself as he drove. Displayed on the dashboard was a laminated photograph of his family framed in black cloth, with a bouquet of dried flowers clipped to the top.
The city seemed abandoned. Crocker looked for lights in the houses they passed, like signs of hope.
After about ten miles the driver stopped at a one-story house set back from the beach. It sat on an incline and was topped by a white wall that almost reached the roof. Because of the angle, Crocker was able to see lights on inside.
“Give me a minute,” he said, turning to the Canadian major. “I’ll be right back.”
“Call me if you need me.”
No buzzer at the front door, so he tried knocking.
Once, twice, a third time so hard the door shook.