—Rudyard Kipling
Twenty minutes later they touched down smoothly on runway 1B at Tripoli International Airport and were immediately surrounded by three pickups filled with NTC soldiers. Crocker refused to let them board the plane. He borrowed a cell phone from a Belgian soldier and called Jaime Remington, who showed up twenty minutes later with an NTC deputy foreign minister in tow.
A tense hour of back-and-forthing later, the deputy minister still wanted the plane’s cargo turned over to him.
Crocker was willing to let them have the bodies, but as for the six shipping containers, he said, “No way that’s ever going to happen.”
Remington: “Be reasonable. These people are extremely sensitive when it comes to issues of national sovereignty.”
“We’re talking about nuclear material that was being smuggled out of the country.”
“The trouble is that technically it belongs to the Libyans.”
“I don’t care who it belongs to. We’ll fly this motherfucker back to the States if we have to. Under no condition am I turning it over to them.”
The American ambassador, the NATO commander, and the head of the Libyan interim government got involved. Frantic calls were made to the White House, IAEA, and NATO headquarters in Brussels.
At 2 a.m. the Libyans agreed to release the six containers to the temporary custody of the NATO commander until IAEA inspectors could arrive and identify their contents.
Ambassador Saltzman asked, “You happy now, Crocker?”
“I’m a little less annoyed. Any news about Holly?”
“No news is good news.”
“Is it, sir? Are you sure about that?”
“I suggest you and your colleague go to the hospital to have your injuries looked after.”
Crocker: “Thanks for your concern.”
It was half past seven in the morning when he and Mancini dragged themselves through the front gate of the guesthouse. Akil and Davis greeted them at the door, both wearing gym shorts and worried expressions.
“Boss, can I talk to you alone?” Akil asked, the rising sun gilding his face.
Crocker felt too numb to think. He’d been shot up with painkillers, the back of his head had been bandaged, and his wrist had been placed in a hard cast.
Akil: “Brian Shaw’s body was dumped in front of the embassy about an hour ago.”
The name jolted him out of his stupor. “What’d you say?”
“Brian Shaw’s body was found in front of the U.S. embassy.”
“Shit…” A sick feeling gathered at the pit of his stomach, then morphed into white-hot rage.
“Attached to his body was a note from the kidnappers.”
“What did it say?”
“They’re giving the U.S. government twenty-four hours to meet their demands before they execute Holly, too.”
With the taste of bile in his mouth, Crocker swallowed hard. “Fuck! I need to find her. Now!”
Akil: “All of us are ready to help, boss. We’ll do anything.”
Davis: “We’re ready to kick ass, but we don’t know where to look.”
Crocker: “We’ve got to find out more.”
Akil: “How?”
Davis: “When Volman called with the news, I asked him the same questions: Who are the kidnappers? Where are they hiding? He says he doesn’t know.”
Mancini: “Who do you think does?”
Crocker looked at his boots and the bottom of his pants, still splattered with blood. “Where’s Ritchie?” he asked.
Davis: “He went with Volman to some of the militia camps, searching for intel.”
Crocker glanced at his watch, then at a big red spider crawling up the front of the house. They had approximately seventeen hours to find Holly. He said, “The two of you throw on some clothes and grab some weapons. I need you to drive me somewhere. But first, call the embassy and find out if Remington’s in yet.”
“Yes, sir.”
He heard the morning call for prayer drift over the wall; heard the children laughing next door. Thought: Normal life goes on for some people.
He stepped inside the guesthouse. Splashed water on his face and appraised his ghastly-looking face in the bathroom mirror—his right ear blood encrusted and swollen, lacerations running from his cheekbone to his mouth. He found a bottle of disinfectant in his emergency medical kit, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and sprayed it on his face.
He looked older, gaunter, his skin gray and tired. But his blue eyes still burned with intensity.
He grabbed two energy bars and a bottle of water off the kitchen counter, realizing he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a meal. Hurrying to the front door, he shouted, “Let’s go!”