“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.