SEAL Team Six Hunt the Scorpion(75)
As they sped down the causeway, Crocker dialed Remington’s number and caught the CIA station chief in a meeting with members of his staff.
“Crocker, my whole team is working around the clock. We’re studying every little shred of evidence we’ve got. I understand your concern. I promise to call you the minute I know more.”
Crocker said, “Sir, I’m on my way to the airport. I’m going to need your assistance. Looks like I might have to stop a flight and detain a foreign national.”
“What does this have to do with Holly and Brian?”
“Nothing, as far as I know.”
“Then what in God’s name are you talking about?”
“I suggest you get out here a-s-a-p. I’m gonna need your help.”
“Why, Crocker?”
“No time to explain, sir. It’s highly important. Involves the possible exchange of nuclear material. You’re going to have to trust me on this.” Crocker enjoyed being the one to say that for a change.
“Where are you now?”
“Turning in to the international terminal. Gotta go.”
The Mercedes burned rubber as it circled past the largely empty parking area, turned sharply right, and came to a screeching stop at a checkpoint reinforced with sandbags. One of the soldiers on duty waved it through. Between some one-story buildings Crocker caught a glimpse of the Mercedes as it sped down the tarmac.
“What now?” Mancini asked.
“I’ll think of something.”
“We can tell them we’re IAEA inspectors.”
Crocker pointed to the curb. “Park here. Make sure you bring your phone.”
They climbed over a low fence to the tarmac and turned left. Past the low buildings, Crocker saw the main terminal ahead, a strangely shaped structure with high V-shaped arches in front.
He pulled Mancini behind a baggage cart as he watched the Mercedes stop. The Iranian got out and was greeted by another man who looked like a Libyan airport official. The two of them walked to the terminal as the Mercedes sped off past some parked passenger jets to a row of hangars.
“What now?” Mancini asked.
“You follow the Iranian. I want to see where the Mercedes is going.”
“Okay.”
In the several seconds it had taken to address Mancini, he’d lost sight of the car.
Must have turned in to one of the hangars.
That seemed the only reasonable explanation. He walked briskly past men cleaning and fueling various aircraft, trying to look as if he belonged there. There was a technique to not being noticed—act normal, keep as small as you can, avoid eye contact, look at the ground, be the gray man, no superfluous thoughts. He allowed himself one: Thank God the security at this airport sucks.
One more: God, please lead me to Holly and Brian.
Past the terminal, a gust of wind smacked his face. To his right, a United Emirates DC-10 was landing. He heard screeching rubber, the jet engines whining as they reversed. They were sounds he’d heard thousands of times, but tonight they seemed more vivid and important. Passing the first hangar, he squinted into the dark open space. Saw the hulk of a passenger jet. No cars. No people.
The next three hangars were empty except for miscellaneous airplane parts.
Where the fuck did it go?
A series of smaller hangars ahead. Some had what looked to be disabled planes in front of them. He was hurrying toward them when he heard a vehicle behind him and to his left. It sounded like a forklift in high gear.
Pausing, he heard scraping metal, men’s voices.
Reversing course, he turned into the space between hangars 3 and 4. Behind them he saw a Boeing 727—white, no passenger windows, a small green-white-and-red Iranian flag painted on the tail.
What’s this?
Seeing the parked Mercedes, he knelt beside the hangar and watched. The front cargo bay of the jet was wide open. The lights inside the fuselage were on. He heard the forklift again, then saw it swing into view carrying a large metal container that looked rust colored in the artificial light.
The forklift operator raised the container and fitted it into the cargo door. Men inside the aircraft pulled it farther inside.
Crocker waited until two more containers had been loaded, then texted Mancini his location and added: “Seen or heard from Rem?”
An answer rebounded quickly. “No.”
Where the fuck is he? What’s taking him so long?
Pushing aside his frustration, he willed himself to focus and tried to dispel doubts that what he was doing made sense.
LOW BATTERY flashed on his cell phone. He placed it in his back pocket.
Three men were walking toward the front of the jet. Casually dressed, they were drinking coffee or tea from cardboard cups and speaking in Farsi.
The first man climbed the stairs to the cockpit, which soon lit up. The other two joined him.