Five minutes later, a one-page printout was passed through the crack.
“You understand, of course, you cannot tell anyone that you got this from me.”
“I won’t.”
On the sheet about a dozen names were printed in type so faint it was hard to read. Akil ran up the stairs and handed it to Crocker, who had been considering checking into a nearby hotel.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the list of vessels that left the port over the past six days, including yesterday, the twenty-fifth.”
The team leader’s eyes burned. The names meant nothing to him as he read them out loud: “Lucky Arrow, Northern Valour, Ginga Panther, Eastern Highway, Bunga Raya Tujuh, Rolldock Sun, Syrena, Aristea M—”
“Wait a minute,” Ritchie said. “What’s the next-to-last one you mentioned?”
“The Rolldock Sun?”
“No, the one after that.”
“Syrena?”
“Yes, Syrena. Didn’t we see that name on an invoice we found at the house?”
“What house?”
“AZ’s safe house, the one we raided a couple of clicks from here.”
Crocker looked at the printout again and read the name—Syrena. “You’re right,” he said, trying to fight through the dull fog of exhaustion and recall what else he knew about the Syrena.
“It might mean something, boss.”
“An interesting coincidence, at least.”
Crocker straightened his back and turned to Akil, who was biting his nails. “Take the finger out of your mouth and go see the night traffic manager again. Ask him to tell you where the Syrena is headed. What time, exactly, did it leave? When is it scheduled to dock again, and where?”
Akil said, “It’s gonna require cash.”
Crocker reached into his wallet and handed him three twenties. “Bargain with the bastard. If that doesn’t work, beat it out of him.”
“Yes, sir.”
His mind picked up speed. Carpets, S. Rastani, the port in KP, the Syrena…the shards of info were starting to fit together. Now they had something that linked Zaman to the kidnapping operation and Cyrus.
“We’re gonna need a helicopter and equipment,” he said to Ritchie. “Get Donaldson on the phone.”
“Aye-aye.”
“Davis, call Klausen in Norway.”
“What time’s it there?”
“Doesn’t matter. This is important. Tell him we’ve gotta stop that ship!”
Chapter Fourteen
Never, never, never,…never give in.
—Winston Churchill
HE COULDN’T tell if it was the thick midmorning heat, his fitful, truncated sleep, or the fact that he was bracing himself for another meeting with CIA officer Lou Donaldson. Likely it was combination of the three that fouled Tom Crocker’s mood and set his mind whirring and turning in on itself like a rabid dog. Fueling his anger was intense frustration—the kind he felt squeezing his bones.
The sky beyond the wisps of white clouds and gray-orange patina of pollution was vast and infinite blue. He hated waiting.
Something important was happening while Crocker and his men napped, played video games on the hotel computer, and talked to their families. Maybe it involved an attack Zaman was planning, since the name of the ship Syrena had been found on an invoice in his hideaway. Maybe it held a clue to the location of Malie Tingvoll.
Why were they cooling their heels in the Karachi hotel room? Why?
In practical terms, he knew the answer. One, their evidence was slight—a coded e-mail about a “delivery” that could be the kidnapped Norwegian girl had led them to the port of Karachi, through which a ship mentioned in papers found in Zaman’s hideout had passed.
Two, they needed money and equipment to move forward and intercept the ship. That required authorization from the CIA as well as his CO back in Virginia. Now, because of the girl’s nationality, the Norwegian government was involved, too.
Lou Donaldson was on his way from Islamabad. Mikael Klausen had changed planes in Oman and was scheduled to arrive within the hour.
But couldn’t something be done sooner? Like…now!
All that was really required was a couple of phone calls to the right people, and Crocker and his team could be on their way.
He blamed the culture of Washington and the millions of bureaucrats and officials who were like a layer of fat covering the muscle of the rich men and politicians who made decisions and set policy.
The bureaucratic mind-set put a premium on climbing the ladder, which meant serving superiors and avoiding risk. Agency officers were particularly risk averse. They cloaked their cowardice and self-interest with words like “policy,” “options,” “strategic goals,” and so on.