Seal Team Six Hunt the Wolf(60)
Mohammed had a few missing teeth. His longish hair was greased back. He projected goodwill and sincerity. “I don’t have that information.”
“Can you find out?”
Fifteen minutes later he returned with the answer. “One of the fuel men saw some people get off. He thinks there were four of them, but isn’t certain.”
“Four men?”
“Three Arabic-looking men and at least one woman.”
Crocker’s eyes lit up. “Was she blond?”
“He couldn’t tell. She was wearing a chador.”
“Can you find out their names?”
“We don’t have that information,” Mohammed said. “You will have to check with immigration.”
That was a risky proposition, since Crocker and his men had entered Oman illegally. Jakob volunteered and ran off.
“Does this fuel man have any idea where those four individuals who got off the ship went?” Crocker asked the port manager, praying that he had an answer.
“No. I’m sorry. He said they were met by two men in a black Mercedes. A large one. One man never got out. He saw the four passengers get into the Mercedes limo and drive off very fast.”
“Thanks.”
Very fast. Like they were running away from something, which apparently they were. Because Jakob came back to report that the port immigration official said that no passengers had disembarked from the Syrena.
“Impossible,” Crocker remarked.
“He was probably paid to look the other way. That happens here.”
No shit.
Crocker’s stomach growled as he sorted through this new set of challenges.
Their minds sharpened by chai tea and grilled sardine sandwiches purchased from a canteen nearby, the five Americans and two Norwegians put their heads together. Time was critical. They decided they needed to fan out in order to be most efficient.
Hal would call his Omani friend General al-Maskari and see what he could pry out of immigration. Mancini would use the satellite phone to communicate with Mikael Klausen, Lou Donaldson, and others to try to ascertain the current location of the Syrena. Reiersen and Ritchie would eyeball outgoing flights at Muscat International Airport. Crocker and Davis would go with Jakob to check the registers at the major hotels.
Crocker’s thinking went like this: A transfer seemed to have taken place. In other words, Cyrus delivered Malie to “Sheik Rastani.” Assuming that his supposition was correct, Crocker doubted that a sheik would risk doing something so potentially embarrassing on his own turf. Likely he’d flown to Muscat from a neighboring Arab country—Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait.
If Rastani could afford to spend a million dollars on a girl, he’d probably be staying at a local luxury hotel, where he could examine the goods—i.e., Malie—before a deal was concluded and money exchanged.
The city, which was just coming to life, boasted a handful of five-star hotels—the Al Bustan Palace, Shangri-La’s Barr Al Jissah, the Chedi Muscat, the Grand Hyatt, and the InterContinental. They were located downtown, in the upscale government and residential district along the beach.
Jakob drove the SUV past the recently constructed and very majestic Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, which, he said, “Cost a couple billion dollars. Contains the world’s second-largest woven carpet, which weighs twenty-one tons.”
“That’s a lot of bald sheep,” Crocker remarked.
“Where’s the world’s largest carpet?” Davis asked.
“Tehran,” Akil answered weakly. He was running a fever and drifting in and out of sleep.
The InterContinental wasn’t nearly as impressive as the mosque, but it was still elegant and large, even by Western standards. Crocker and Jakob entered the tall white lobby and strode to the front desk. The big American said he was there for a breakfast business meeting with Sheik Rastani, who might have checked in as Mr. Rastani.
The polite young clerk reported that there was no one by the name of Rastani registered at the hotel.
Crocker told him that Mr. Rastani would have checked in sometime the previous afternoon or evening with an associate or two and his daughter.
“No, sir. I’m sorry.”
They followed the same routine at the Chedi and Grand Hyatt and were met with the same response.
The Al Bustan Palace was the most luxurious by far, an impressive Indian sandstone hexagon surrounded by a lagoon and lush gardens against a backdrop of rugged charcoal gray mountains. It faced the deep blue Gulf of Oman.
The lobby, lined with white marble, reminded Crocker of the inside of a mosque.
“My name is Mr. Wallace,” he said to the clerk in the immaculate white robe and red-and-black Omani cap. “My associate and I are here for a lunch meeting with Sheik Rastani.”