The long hours in the thin air were known to play tricks on people’s brains.
“Breathe deeply, stay hydrated, and don’t lose focus,” Crocker warned his men.
When word reached the Americans that members of a Norwegian team had invited them to drinks and dinner in a nearby tent, Mancini and his battered body chose to stay behind.
Crocker, wrapped in his parka, stepped past a group of porters who were roasting a goat on a spit and bent over to fit through the opening in the Norwegians’ North Face tent. Davis and Akil entered behind him.
Fluorescent camping lanterns lit the tight, warm space. Half a dozen fit, scruffy men sat around a portable table, drinking, eating, smoking cigars. The air was thick with smells.
All eyes ogled the plates of mashed aloo—potatoes and chili peppers fried with onions and spices—daal, and chawal.
A tall man with a full face covered with reddish brown stubble saluted them with a tin cup of brandy.
“Are you the Americans?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Here’s to cowboys, apple pie, and cheerleaders,” he said.
A man wearing a black ski cap turned to face them. “Would any of you happen to know Chief Warrant Officer Tom Crocker of the U.S. Navy?”
Crocker did a double take. “Why?”
“I heard from my embassy that he was climbing in the area and would like to speak to him.”
“Crocker. That’s me. Who are you?”
“Mikael Klausen,” the Norwegian said, extending his hand and clearing a place beside him. “I work in my country’s foreign office.”
“Nice to meet you, Mikael.”
He probably was the foreign national Donaldson had told him about. But Crocker wanted to make sure.
“Who told you I was here?” he asked.
“A man from your embassy named Mr. Lou Donaldson.”
“How do you know Donaldson?”
“I was introduced to him through Ambassador Connelly. Your ambassador and my ambassador to Pakistan play poker together.”
“And you trekked all the way up to look for me?”
“I have a proposition for you from my king.”
Chapter Six
There’s no school like old school, and I’m the fucking headmaster.
—RocknRolla
WIND SMACKED the side of the oval tent, sounding like a machine gun, as Mikael refilled Crocker’s mug with Teerenpeli single malt whisky poured from a tin flask. Then the Norwegian slipped the flask into his sleeping bag next to his iPod, water bottles, and other items he wanted to keep from freezing.
The Teerenpeli went down smoothly. Rich and old, its distilled essence of earth warmed Crocker’s body.
Several other Norwegian climbers slept in sleeping bags behind them, snoring and occasionally passing gas—which became more of a problem the higher one climbed, according to Boyle’s law (pV = K). Mancini had explained earlier that for a fixed amount of a gas kept at a fixed temperature, pressure and volume are inversely proportional. In other words, once you lower the atmospheric pressure the gas will escape.
One of the sleeping Norwegians called out the name Berit. Whoever she was.
The rest of Crocker’s team had returned to their tent, where their team leader hoped they were resting for the climb ahead.
He and the Norwegian spent hours comparing backgrounds and sharing stories about their children, tastes in food, music, and women, the economic states of their respective countries. All prelude.
“Last one for me,” Crocker announced.
They agreed on lots of things—including love, loyalty, and the need to protect their citizenry from the savagery of certain people.
Mikael frowned and cleared his throat. “For the better part of a year I’ve been on a fact-finding mission regarding a problem that plagues our country.”
“What problem is that?”
“Normal crimes of passion, drugs, prostitution, these aren’t things that I like, but as a realist I understand that they’re acceptable to a certain extent,” Mikael continued. “They don’t involve so many innocent victims.”
Crocker thought he knew what the Norwegian meant. He said, “That’s another way of saying that people get caught up in nasty shit because they’re weak for one reason or another. They do, or maybe they don’t, see what’s coming as a result.”
Mikael lowered his voice to a whisper. “What I’m going to discuss with you now is just between the two of us.”
“Understood.”
“My leader and dear friend the king of Norway, Harald V, has asked me to take this up as his personal mission. It’s something that offends him deeply as the leader of our country, and as a husband, father, and grandfather to five young children.”