The man consulted a computer hidden in the counter and asked in English, “Mr. Wallace, do you have an appointment? Because I don’t see your name here.”
“The sheik is expecting me.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll have to check. Please have a seat.”
Does that mean he’s here? Crocker asked himself excitedly, as he led Jakob over to a fountain where they couldn’t be overheard.
“Go outside and tell Davis and Akil to watch the garage. They might try to run.”
“What about you?” the former Trojan shotputter asked.
“I can handle myself.”
Crocker studied the Islamic pattern of the floor tiles, trying to appear inconspicuous and stay calm.
Hearing footsteps approach, he looked up into a face that caused him to stop midbreath. Big, with a large forehead and bulging eyes, a nasty sneer on his thick lips. Both eyes drooped, and one was set lower than the other. A long, deep scar ran from the lower eye to the side of his mouth. He was a thick, muscular man with very short black hair, dressed all in black.
“Mr. Wallace?” he asked in rough American English.
“Yes. Is Cyrus here?”
Malice poured from his eyes. “Follow me.”
Crocker did, to an elevator, thinking that the man moved like a wrestler. It was a private lift around the corner from the public ones, which the big man opened with a key.
“How long have you worked for Cyrus?” the American asked.
The big, swarthy man said nothing. Stared ahead.
They stopped at the sixth floor. Two other large Middle Eastern men in white shirts stood waiting in the teak-paneled hallway.
Not a good sign.
One wore tailored gray pants, the other, jeans. They positioned themselves on either side of Crocker and grabbed him by the arms.
“I can walk by myself, thanks.”
When the American tried to pull away, the one in the tailored pants with the pockmarked face pointed a Makarov pistol at his head.
They guided unarmed Crocker eight paces down a hallway, then pushed him into a private bathroom, crowded in, and locked the door.
This is trouble.
Four big bodies filled the tight space Resplendent gold-colored glass tiles covered the walls. The dual-sink counter, fixtures, and floor were all black. Elaborately etched glass doors hid the toilet, urinal, and shower.
Strange place to hold a meeting.
Trying to push back the fear that was pressing in on all sides.
The wrestler put the full weight of his body behind his forearm, which he smashed into Crocker’s chest. The American fell back and hit the tile wall.
Fuck…
He saw stars spinning; fought to catch his breath.
The pockmarked guy pushed the muzzle of the weapon into his face.
“Who are you?”
“A Canadian business—”
Smacked him hard in the face.
“What do you want?”
“Cyrus…” Crocker tried to answer, gasping for breath.
“How do you know Cyrus?”
The third guy in jeans was rifling through his pockets. Crocker was glad he’d left his wallet and ID in the SUV.
“Answer! How do you know Cyrus?” the pockmarked dude asked again, grabbing the collar of Crocker’s polo and twisting it until he started to choke.
“I met him at a farm…outside Toulon.”
Crocker managed to remain calm, in part because his brain was releasing a higher level of a neurotransmitter called neuropeptide Y than was normal with most people. The neuropeptide Y worked as a natural tranquilizer to control his anxiety. He’d also developed his mental toughness over years of vigorous training and experience.
The guy going through his pockets was slick and handsome in a predatory way. The kind of man, Crocker thought, who could easily charm a naïve eighteen-year-old girl.
“Cyrus?” he asked him.
The wrestler reared back and clocked him in the mouth.
Christ!
He tasted blood.
“How do you know Cyrus?”
He tried to pull free, only to get kicked in the nuts. All the air went of him, and he struggled to stay on his feet.
Crocker wanted to say something clever, but his mind wasn’t working. He heard the man he thought was Cyrus mumble in Arabic, and tried his best to translate. It went something like this: “Take him away from here. Into the mountains. Shoot him in the head. Dump his body somewhere where the vultures will get to him.” Then he started to leave.
“It’s over, Cyrus. You’re fucked,” Crocker said to his back.
The fists came at him rapidly from two directions. He tried to defend himself and fight back, but there was very little room to move.
The wrestler grabbed the front of Crocker’s shirt, spun him, and threw him through the shower door, which shattered loudly.
The SEAL chief warrant officer lay half-conscious on the tile floor, hurting, his mind wobbling.