The light hurt his eyes.
“Are you ready to fly, sir?” It was the Pakistani lieutenant colonel, all polished and eager to go, standing in the entrance of the green tent, reminding him of Luke Skywalker. Like he was offering to fly him to another galaxy.
“Where are my men?”
“This way, sir.”
Crocker was escorted to a larger, rectangular tent where, still groggy and weak, he joined Davis and Akil at a fold-up table to eat bowls of yogurt with honey and drink hot tea.
Then all three of them were in the air. The Pak lieutenant colonel informed him that Mancini’s leg had healed.
“Who?” Crocker shouted over the din of the helicopter engine.
“Your man. Warrant Officer Michael Mancini. Waiting in Islamabad, sir,” the mustached officer answered.
“My man?”
Crocker had forgotten about Mancini. It seemed like months ago that they had left him at a camp above the Baltoro Glacier.
“Oh, yeah. What about Ritchie?” he shouted above the engine.
“I’m not familiar with that gentleman, sir.”
“Chief Petty Officer Richard Maguire. The fifth member of my team.”
“I have no information regarding that individual.”
Crocker looked at Akil and Davis seated on the bench along the opposite side of the Mi-17 and thought they both seemed gaunt and years older. Akil wore the expression of a kid who’d lost his dog.
“Cheer up, Akil!” Crocker shouted. He wanted to go over and tell him again that Edyta had lived a full life and understood the risks. But the helicopter was banking right, pushing him hard against the side of the fuselage, so he shut his eyes and slept.
Two hours later, the lieutenant colonel stood over him, smiling. “Sir? Mr. Crocker?”
Sun spilled in the side door and warmed his feet. The thick air wafting in from outside felt luxurious in his lungs.
“We’ve arrived at PAF Base Chaklala. I have instructions to take you to the U.S. coordinator’s office. Your military officials will meet you there.”
“Military officials?” Crocker was confused. Did that mean that his CO had flown in from Virginia?
“Military officials. Yes, sir.”
A long hot shower and shave later, Crocker was starting to feel like himself. Wearing a borrowed pair of khakis and a blue U.S. Navy polo, he tried to keep pace with the U.S. Air Force major who was leading him down a dark hall. Nothing he saw helped him identify the place.
He was hoping to see Mancini and Ritchie, or one of the two. Instead he entered a conference room where the shades were half drawn and an air conditioner groaned in the window.
Two tall men stood at the opposite side of the rectangular glass table, both clutching water bottles, conferring. Crocker recognized the taller of the two as their CIA liaison Lou Donaldson. The second man wore a navy uniform festooned with epaulets showing three full gold bars and a star, which meant he held the rank of full commander (O-5).
But when the man turned, Crocker didn’t recognize him.
“What took you so long?” Donaldson asked, setting his plastic bottle on the table and taking a seat. Rude as always.
“I was climbing a mountain. What do you want?”
“What do we want?” Donaldson asked back, raising a pale eyebrow to the man in navy uniform beside him. “When did you become friendly with the king of Norway?”
“I’m not friendly with the king of Norway,” Crocker explained. “I met an associate of his in a camp on the way to the Concordia. He said you gave him my location.”
“That’s correct,” Donaldson said, cutting him off. “Mikael Klausen. The king’s special advisor. Who’s the girl?”
“What girl?”
“Malie Tingvoll.”
Crocker had forgotten her name. He’d been focused on returning to Holly and Jenny and his warm home in Virginia.
“Why is she important?” the commander asked aggressively.
“She’s a Norwegian girl who disappeared. That’s all I know.”
“People disappear every day,” Donaldson growled. “Regrettable, but not our business.”
“I never said—”
“Look, Crocker—”
Crocker didn’t like raising his voice in anger but made an exception this time. “Are you going to let me speak?”
“Go ahead. Explain yourself.”
After his irritation had abated slightly, Crocker said, “Mikael Klausen told me that the Norwegians have experienced a number of cases like hers, of young people disappearing without a trace.”
“Last I heard, we don’t operate a people-finding service.”
“I expressed my sympathy, and told him the only way I could help is if I got authorization.”