Hunt the Scorpion
Page 10
“Your men are being moved to a guesthouse near the embassy. You’ll meet them there later.”
“What about Davis?”
“Who’s he?”
“A member of my team. He was with me at the Sheraton last night, in the brasserie.”
“What about him?”
“He was hurt. I want to know if he’s alright.”
“I’ll ask. What’s his last name?”
“Davis. John Davis. I left two more people in an SUV out front. Doug Volman and a driver named Mustafa.”
“Volman’s resting. The embassy doctor said he’ll be fine. Mustafa is back at work.”
“What’s wrong with Volman?”
“High blood pressure and heart palpitations. Look, I’m about to leave for NATO headquarters. I’d like you to come with me, if you feel up to it.”
“I’m fine.”
“Finish your breakfast.”
“No appetite. Let’s go.”
A weird calm hung over the city. Crocker had no idea in which direction they were headed. All he was aware of was movement, the sunlight, and the automatic pistol Remington held in his hand as they sat in the backseat. A bodyguard with an Uzi and sunglasses sat in the passenger seat. A backup car behind them held more armed guards.
They were speeding; tires screeched around turns. Everyone seemed tense. The muscles around Remington’s mouth twitched.
A thousand thoughts were flying through Crocker’s head—Davis, Al Cowens, the attackers, the kid who had helped him, the helicopter that blew up in the sky.
He noticed that the safety on Remington’s pistol was off. He was about to say something but stopped.
He tried to think clearly. First I have to find out if Davis is alright. Then I have to ascertain if what happened last night affects our mission.
His head felt thick and heavy on his shoulders.
“How many casualties?” he asked.
“We counted twenty, but more bodies are still being recovered. Another fifty-seven spent the night in various local hospitals. We’ve got doctors and nurses out checking on them now.”
“How many Americans?”
“Five, including Cowens.”
They were speeding east along the coast, which was mostly barren. It reminded him of the desert. The majority of the nearby buildings were ravaged—bombed out, burned, pockmarked with bullets. Arabic graffiti scrawled over everything. More black flags.
They turned and stopped at a heavily fortified gate. The blue-and-white NATO flag flew at half mast. Soldiers in battle fatigues and blue helmets leaned into the windows of the SUV, anxiously scanned their faces, checked a clipboard, then waved them in.
Through the waves of heat rising from the sand he saw a runway, a control tower, and several badly damaged buildings. Tall palm trees in the distance. They stopped at a long three-story building that was under repair. Men on scaffolds were painting it a funny mustard color that seemed to clash with the vivid blue sky.
Crocker wondered if the local construction workers could be trusted, which reminded him a little of Iraq, where you couldn’t distinguish your enemies from your friends.
That sense of uncertainty put him on edge.
“This is it,” Remington announced, stashing his pistol in the SUV door’s pocket and grabbing his briefcase.
“This is what?”
Remington was already bounding ahead, sunglasses reflecting the strong sun. Crocker had to move fast to catch up.
Tall, good-looking African soldiers in dark green uniforms stood at attention and saluted as they entered. Asian soldiers on duty inside wore odd-colored camouflage and maroon berets. On the chest of one, Crocker read MONGOLIA.
“What are we doing here?” Crocker asked. “What’s the agenda?”
“The absolute disaster last night,” Remington said out of the side of his mouth.
He had the long legs and stride of a runner. Crocker followed him up a flight of stairs and into a crowded conference room. The table was covered with papers, cups, half-empty water bottles. A mélange of nationalities and uniforms.
Three dozen weary-looking men and one woman were focused on a tall man at the head of the table. His face was grim and creased with concern. He wore frameless oval glasses and an ironed khaki shirt with red bars on the collar. On his epaulets shone three gold stars.
“Communication,” he said in a British accent as he kneaded his hands. “The lack of it, primarily. That’s what we’re dealing with here. We’ve spoken about this problem week after week for months. Now we’re faced with a tragedy. A terrible tragedy. Is this what had to happen before we learn this basic lesson?”
His tone and words didn’t seem to fit the situation. Way too scholarly and intellectual, Crocker thought.
One of the men at the table said, with tears in his eyes, “We had no warning, general. None at all.”
Then several of them starting speaking at once. They were all excited, emotional, and stressed. A stocky Italian officer with close-cropped gray hair stood and tried to shout down the others.
“It’s an insult to all of us! A kick in the nuts!”
Someone else shouted, “We can’t operate like this…like stupid sitting ducks! What’s our role here, general? Define the mission.”
The British general clapped his hands and said, “First, we need to cooperate. Communication works for those who work at it. This isn’t communication. It’s shouting.”
“And accusations!” the Italian added.
“What happened to the Italians who were supposed to establish an outer perimeter around the hotel?” the only woman in the room asked.
The Italian waved a sheet of paper and threw it on the table. “Read the order! We were scheduled to relieve the Dutch at 2200 hours. The outer perimeter was the responsibility of the French.”
A French officer stood up. “That’s false! The order says, and I quote, ‘Platoon Henri IV will be deployed at the discretion of the watch commander.’ We never received a call from the commander.”
“Untrue.”
“Gentlemen, please!” the general said, trying to establish order.
Crocker had a hard time keeping the faces straight.
“Clearly, we have considerable work to do,” the general added.
“That’s an understatement.”
Someone disagreed. “The problem’s not communication, it’s cooperation. And how can we cooperate if members of the alliance have different goals?”
It was a good question, but Crocker didn’t know enough about the situation there to know what the speaker meant.
The British general cleared his throat. “Let’s talk for a minute about the specifics of what happened last night. My executive officer, Colonel Anthony Hollins, has drafted a damage and assessment report. Listen carefully.”
He nodded to a thin, sandy-haired man with a pinched face, who pushed his hair off his forehead and spoke in a high, officious voice. “Last night we experienced a massive breakdown in security.”
No shit.
“Instead of six squadrons of soldiers patrolling the streets around the hotel, we had two on duty. The Dutch who were there fought like heroes.”
The men at the table turned to a tall Dutch lieutenant colonel and nodded.
The British general said, “Thank you, colonel, and my condolences to your fallen and their families.”
Hollins continued, “The Dutch suffered the greatest number of casualties. Ten dead, four others severely wounded.”
The general cut in. “I want to say that the men who were there fought valiantly. We should all be extremely proud of them.”
Men slapped the table and exclaimed, “Hear! Hear!”
The British general lowered his head in silent prayer. When he was finished, the people around the table started murmuring again all at once.
Hollins raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, if it weren’t for the swift action of our soldiers on the scene, the results could have been much worse. Let’s keep that in mind
as we look at how this tragedy unfolded.”
A diagram of the streets in front of the Sheraton appeared on the wall behind Hollins. With the aid of a laser pointer, he explained how at approximately 2015 hours the previous night a truck carrying explosives had tried to back up to the front entrance of the hotel.
Crocker knew that once a suicide bomber got into proximity to a target there wasn’t much you could do but pray.
Hollins described how a NATO jeep with two Dutch soldiers inside had quickly moved behind the truck to block its access. That’s when the driver of the truck ignited the thousand pounds of ANFO, ammonium nitrate/fuel oil, he was carrying.
Crocker found it painful to sit and listen. He’d attended hundreds of such meetings following terrorist bombings, raids, and other operations—in SPECWAR (Naval Special Warfare) they called them hot washes. But this one was particularly difficult as he kept flashing back to the carnage from the night before.
He had no appetite for the grilled chicken and hummus sandwiches that were served. Nor was he interested in the bottles of wine the Italian passed around.
After lunch Jaime Remington spoke. According to the CIA’s analysis, terrorists had attacked in four directions. Forty to fifty men took part, armed with AK-47s, RPGs, explosives, and grenades. They had escaped in two directions, east and west, and left behind seven dead. None of the dead men were carrying personal items or wallets. No group had so far issued a statement taking credit.
Several of the dead attackers had the features of Tuareg tribesmen.
“Can you describe those features specifically?” the British general asked.
“They’re generally taller, solidly built, copper complexions, large black eyes, finely shaped noses.”
No mention of Anaruz Mohammed, the Chinese, Iranians, or al-Qaeda.
“You know what Tuareg means?” the Italian asked.
“People of the blue veil?”
“Abandoned by God.”
“You’d feel abandoned by God, too, if you lived in that bloody desert.”
Crocker sat with his hands folded on the table in front of him, wondering when this meeting was going to end. The most important thing he learned was that the terrorists had fled approximately fifteen kilometers east of the city, near the site of a major refugee camp.
As the hours dragged by he realized that although he was the only one in the room who had actually been at the hotel, no one was going to bother to ask him anything. He left confused and pissed off.
The sky to their right was turning bright red by the time they arrived at the U.S. embassy compound, which looked more like a house than an office building. Remington explained that these were temporary quarters. The original embassy had been ransacked by pro-Gaddafi mobs on May 2, 2011 (the same day Bin Laden was taken out in Pakistan), after the strongman’s son Saif al-Arab and three of his grandchildren were killed in a NATO air strike. Remington described how the embassy had been completely totaled—balustrades ripped off, photocopiers and air-conditioning units smashed to smithereens, cabinets wrenched open and overturned. Whole floors were doused in gasoline and burned.
The temporary compound was crammed with armed men wearing body armor. As he stepped out of the SUV, Crocker glimpsed a sign that listed all the items visitors were prohibited from carrying onto the property, including lighters, matches, radios, mobile phones, laptop computers, MP3 players, and flash drives.
They sat in a small first-floor conference room—Crocker, Remington, and a dozen other men. The air was thick with humidity. Crocker reached for the bottle of water in front of him, then saw a short man with red hair lean toward Remington and whisper into his ear. Remington turned to Crocker and nodded.
“What’s up?”
Remington said, “I need to talk to you outside.”
“Sure.”
Remington pointed to the man who had followed them into the corridor and said, “This is John Lasher. He works for us and has compiled a list of former Gaddafi bases and chemical plants that Cowens wanted you to survey.”
Lasher had piercing blue eyes.
“I thought maybe our priorities had shifted,” Crocker said.
Remington nodded. “You mean in terms of what happened last night?”
“My men and I would be more than happy to go after the attackers and nail their asses.”
“You mean bring them to justice, right?”
“Bring them to justice, or shoot them in the head. Same thing.”
It was the first time he’d seen Remington smile. He said, “I like your attitude, Crocker. But NATO’s going to want to handle that.”
Based on what he’d just seen and heard, he figured it would take the NATO command weeks to get their act together. By that time the perpetrators would have vanished—or, worse, carried out other attacks.
Remington said, “Given your experience as a SPECWAR WMD officer, I want you to work with John here and check the list. But you need to do it discreetly. The ambassador is wary of doing anything that makes it seem that we don’t trust or might be usurping authority from the interim government.”
“Of course.”
Back in the meeting room, Crocker listened to more distressed reports from frustrated, embarrassed, angry men. The only difference this time was that all of them were Americans—CIA case officers, military attachés, members of the embassy political section. He spotted Doug Volman in the corner, looking pale and worried.
Still no mention of Anaruz Mohammed.
The men described again how security at the Sheraton was lax. How reports about the effectiveness of the NTC were overblown. Its weak and disorganized central security apparatus still wasn’t willing or able to stop reprisals against former Gaddafi loyalists. Looting continued throughout the country. Cars were robbed; houses were broken into; women raped. Rival militias controlled different sectors of the city. All of them were basically looking after their own interests—namely, money and power in the new government.
The embassy was reluctant to put pressure on the NTC because they were competing with the French for influence with the new Libyan government. Their primary focus seemed to be the political maneuvering going on behind the scenes. The prize: the lucrative contracts that would be handed out to service and maintain Libya’s substantial oil industry.
Internal security, though troublesome, was less of a concern. Nobody wanted to alienate the leaders of the NTC.
Crocker left two hours later, angry, tired, and depressed. Doug Volman, smelling like he needed a shower and a change of clothes, joined him in the hall.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Volman asked.
“You did.”
“Nobody wants to talk about the political vacuum that was created when we helped force out Gaddafi. Or the opportunity we’ve created for al-Qaeda, or other Islamic fundamentalists, or countries like Iran and China.”
“What about Anaruz Mohammed?” Crocker asked. “Would you include him, too?”
Volman, seeing John Lasher approaching, lowered his voice to a whisper. “Anaruz is a simple kid who’s garnered a lot of media attention because of his background. He hasn’t proved that he can generate much of anything on his own.”
“Take everything he tells you with a big grain of salt,” Lasher muttered after Volman left. Then he informed Crocker that Remington was going to take him to meet the ambassador. Crocker said he wanted to meet the embassy security chief first.
“Make it quick,” Lasher answered. “I’ll be waiting outside the ambassador’s office on the second floor.”
The head of security was Leo Debray, a huge man with a smashed-in nose and a big, sunburned face. He had a marine flag on the wall of his little office and pictures of himself as a fighter standing in various boxing rings and gyms.
“What can I do you for?” he asked with a crooked smile. Although friendly, he radiated violence.
“I’m trying to connect with my wife, Holly Crocker. I heard she’s in Cairo conducting a security survey.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, ain’t that something. Great gal. She’s been a big help. You’re one of the civil engineers, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“She know you’re here?”
“As a matter of fact, she doesn’t.”
“Holy shit! You undercover?” He lowered his voice. “Is she not supposed to know?”
Crocker: “I didn’t plan to be here, and didn’t have a chance to inform her. Can you tell me where she’s located now?”
“Holly, let’s see…” He leaned back again. “Well, I assume you know she was staying at the Sheraton the night before last.”
Crocker’s blood turned cold. “No!”
“Jesus, man, I’m sorry. I should have told you first, she’s fine! She wasn’t even there at the time of the attack.”
“Thank God.”
“She and her colleague finished up early in Cairo and stopped here on their way to Tunisia. They’re due back in Libya to eyeball our consulate in Benghazi any day now. That puppy’s in pretty ragged shape.”
Crocker felt relieved. “The consulate in Benghazi?”
“Yup. Whole town had the shit kicked out of it by the colonel’s hooligans and mercenaries. The uprising started there, so when the colonel’s forces retook the city, they punished the joint. Sacked our consulate in the process. Nice touch, huh?”
Crocker had had his fill of Libyan history for one day. “When is she expected back?”
“Holly and Brian? I thought they were coming back today. Wait here. I’ll check.”
Debray returned a few minutes later with a short woman in her thirties. Dirty blond hair cut short, blue slacks, blue oxford shirt, a tattoo of a rose covering the back of her hand.
“Kat Hamilton.”
“Hi, Kat. Tom Crocker.”
She bounced from one side to another, and spoke with a Pittsburgh accent, turning “ows” into “ahs.” “Yeah, Holly’s great,” she said. “Flew to Tunisia yesterday morning. With Brian. You know Brian?”