SEAL Team Six Hunt the Scorpion(72)
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.