SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Fox (9 page)

“Yes, we do.”

Crocker liked to maintain as much operational silence as possible. The more people who knew about a mission, the greater the possibility word would leak out. Barging into the middle of a civil war to steal WMDs from an unfriendly army was risky enough. He didn’t want combatants waiting for him and his men when they got there.

“You know this Zeid guy personally?” Crocker asked.

“No, but I know his reputation, which is good.”

They found him in the conference room with his military boots propped on a chair, leaning back and smoking a Camel. Seeing Oz and Crocker, he clenched the cigarette in his teeth and slowly rose to his feet. He wore a clean camouflage uniform with a Syrian flag FSA patch on the shoulder and stood about five ten. A good-looking guy with an ugly scar over his right eye and well built. His casual manner threw Crocker off at first. Given the ferocity of the war across the border, he had expected someone more battle weary and intense.

His companion, a large, pot-bellied man introduced as Babas, didn’t have the bearing of a military man, either. He looked like a guy you’d find in the back of a restaurant kitchen scraping plates.

“I thought there were going to be three of you,” Crocker said.

“My other man, Marai, he is excused to go to a wedding. His sister.”

“I see you speak English.”

“A little, yes.”

“That’s good, because my Arabic sucks.”

“Maybe no good. I don’t know.”

He turned to Babas, who laughed and said, “He like America woman. He want to marry…Scarlo Johasten.” He formed an hourglass shape with his hands for emphasis.

“You mean Scarlett Johansson. I think she’s taken.”

“Taken? Who take her?”

Crocker looked at Oz and said, “We should get moving. Are these guys ready to roll?”

Oz muttered something to Zeid, and the two men started to argue in Arabic.

Crocker nudged Oz’s arm and asked, “What’s going on?”

“He says they can get you as far as Idlib, but after that you’re on your own.”

“What about getting out?”

“He says they’ll wait for you in Idlib.”

“Idlib, yes,” Zeid interjected. “But after that…is very bad.”

“Why?”

“Not bad…dangerous. Why you go?” Zeid asked. “You bring medicine? Medicine better for Idlib. Much better.”

Before Crocker had a chance to answer, Oz pulled him into the hallway.

“What’s the problem?” Crocker asked.

Oz rubbed his head. “He wants money.”

“Of course he does. But he doesn’t know the real purpose of our mission, does he?”

“No, but I’m sure he’s suspicious.”

They found Janice and Logan eating lamb stew in the cafeteria.

“Where’s Anders?” Crocker asked.

“He had to leave. Why, is there a problem?”

“Zeid is here, and he wants to get paid.”

Janice answered coolly, “We were prepared for that. How much?”

“Twenty thousand,” replied Oz.

“Dollars?” Crocker asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell him we’re offering ten.”

Oz nodded and did an about-face. Crocker followed, asking, “Do we really need Zeid and his friend?”

“If you want to get past the roadblocks, yes.”

“What about Hassan?”

“I don’t know anything about him, but Zeid knows his way around.”

Soon after they returned to the conference room, Zeid casually agreed to the adjusted sum of ten thousand. He stubbed out his cigarette and offered his hand. “We do this together, my Canada friend.”

“Yes. Be ready to leave in two hours.” Crocker pointed to the ten o’clock mark on his watch. He was hoping they’d receive the necessary approvals by then.

“I think eleven is better.”

“Why?”

Zeid smiled. “So my friend Babas can enjoy his dinner.”

Babas made a silly face and nodded.

“Eleven, then, but this isn’t a joke.”

Zeid changed his expression from smiling to serious. “No joke.”

The revised PLO (platoon leader’s order) called for them to assemble in the yard at 2215 hours, depart at 2300, reach the air base by 0100, recover the canisters, and return to Yaylada
ğ
i before sunrise. It was 2015 now, so Crocker gave his men an hour or so to rest, check their gear, and attend to any personal business before they met to go over the PLO again.

He stood in the officer’s room he had been given stripped to the waist, checking the list of first-, second-, and third-line gear each man would be carrying, when he heard a knock on the door. He set the yellow legal pad down on the desk and said, “Come in.”

He was hoping it was Janice telling him that the go order had come from the White House. Instead, Fatima pushed open the door partially, stood in the opening, and asked, “Do you mind if I interrupt you for a minute, Mr. Wallace?”

Her hair was pulled back and the top button of her uniform was open, revealing the tops of her breasts. Seeing the various scars across his stomach and chest, she gasped. He grabbed a black tee from the chair and pulled it over his head.

“Mr. Wallace…”

“Just Wallace. What’s up?”

Somewhat awkwardly, she thrust forward a sealed bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label scotch she had tucked under her arm and offered it to him. “Mr. Talab sends his apologies for not being here to see you off, and asked me to give you this,” she said rapidly in thickly accented English.

Partially concealed under her top, just behind the curve of her left hip, he made out the outline of a pistol.

“Thanks,” he said, noticing that the bottle had been warmed by the heat from her body. “It’s nice and warm.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, you have warm hands. Sit down. Tell me about yourself.”

She sat on a metal chair and crossed her legs, but didn’t seem to know where to put her hands. She folded them in her lap, looked at them, then lifted her head and said, “Mr. Talab asked me to thank you ahead of time for the brave service you’re about to do for the people of Syria.”

“Tell him he’s welcome.”

Her eyes were beguiling and dark, set above high cheekbones and framed by manicured arched eyebrows. He wondered why she was really there and what she was thinking.

“What brings you to Yaylada
ğ
i?” he asked.

“Oh, Mr. Talab sent me.”

In the corner by the sink he found two plastic cups, rinsed both, and dried one with the hem of his shirt. Then he cracked open the bottle, filled one of the cups with two inches of scotch, and offered it to Fatima. “Let’s drink a toast.”

“Oh….Yes.”

“To a free Syria.”

“Yes.”

She took a long sip, noticed that his cup was filled with water, and stopped. “But…”

“I can’t,” he explained. “I’m leaving on a mission.”

“Yes, but.…”

He pointed to her cup. “And you’re not a strict Muslim.”

She shook her head and looked embarrassed. “No. Yes. I was born Muslim, but I’m more…liberal.”

“You were raised here in Turkey?”

“No. No, I grew up in Damascus. You know the city?”

He had been there once on a reconnaissance mission but didn’t want to talk about that. “So you probably haven’t had much contact with Americans.”

She bristled slightly. “We were taught in school to hate Americans. But I never felt that way myself.”

“I’m glad. We’re nice.”

His smile seemed to calm her. She grinned back. On a strictly physical level, they were attracted to each other, but he had a feeling that wasn’t what this was about.

“Before the fighting, I had a very good life, you see. Friends, parties, school. I went to the beach in the bathing suit I wanted. I could drink. I could go to school, drive a car, walk the streets by myself. If the Islamists take over, all that is finished, and it will be impossible for me to live in my own country.”

“I understand,” he said, gazing into her sad but defiant eyes.

“Freedom is like ice cream, Mr. Talab says. You taste a little, and you want more.”

“What do you think will happen?”

“In Syria? I don’t know. Assad is not going to live forever.”

Crocker wasn’t sure what she meant by that. Was she opposed to the armed effort to depose him? Was she saying that Assad was better than the possible Islamic alternative? It seemed so.

Seeing his confusion, she added quickly, “I hate the regime, of course, because of what they have done. But now we Syrians have to protect ourselves, because everyone wants a piece of that cake that is our country.”

“You mean the Iranians?” he asked, leaning forward. He was referring to the aggressive role of the Iranians and their Hezbollah proxies who were defending Assad.

“The Iranians, the Lebanese, the Israelis, the Kurds, the Turks. Maybe even the United States.”

Crocker shook his head. “The U.S.? I don’t think so.”

“No?”

He finished the water and set the cup on the floor. When he looked up, he saw her rising to her feet and reaching for her left hip. Instinctively, he lunged at her and went for the pistol. As he grabbed her right wrist and pulled it down, he realized that she wasn’t reaching for the pistol but merely adjusting it. But it was too late.

Holding her right hand with his left, he reached under her uniform tunic and removed the weapon—a hot-pink Beretta Nano 9mm—from its nylon holster.

“What’s this for?” It looked silly in his hand.

She pulled her wrist free and contorted her mouth. She also tried to twist away, which only added to the friction between their bodies. “What are you doing? You hurt my wrist.”

He could feel her heart beating in her chest. “Why are you carrying a loaded pistol?”

“Do you like to hurt women?”

“No. I don’t like it when someone I don’t know walks into my room carrying a concealed weapon.”

Their eyes met, a mere six inches apart. In close proximity he could smell the tahini on her breath and feel her full breasts against his chest.

“Maybe I carry it because I’m in a war zone where we have many enemies.”

Good answer.

“What do you really want?” A moment after he said it, he realized that his question was loaded with all kinds of innuendo, which she seemed to be considering now in a private corner of her mind.

“I want lots of things. Things you can’t give me, Mr. Wallace.”

Said like a woman
.

“But there is something…”

Of course there is.
“What?”

She bit her bottom lip and said softly, “Look after Hassan.”

“Hassan? The student?”

“Yes. He’s my half brother,” she said gently. “Very intelligent, but naive about people and politics. Someone who studies diagrams and numbers. I don’t think he understands the risks out there. The darkness in the human soul.”

It was a mouthful, said with a seductive sincerity. He let it sink in and settle.

“You want me to protect him?”

“Please.”

Someone tapped on the door. Seconds later he heard Davis’s voice.

“Boss?”

“Just a minute.”

His eyes never left hers. Hers were filled with yearning, and fire.

“You think we can trust him?” Crocker asked.

“Yes. He’s a good person.”

He nodded. “Then I’ll make sure he gets back safely.”

She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t a quick thank-you, more a long, full kiss that offered promise. Promise perhaps of more, if he brought Hassan back safely.

Wow
.

She pulled back a little and waited to see if he understood, which he did, and to measure the effect she had on him, which was considerable.

“You’d better go now,” he said in a deep voice.

“Yes.” She stepped back, adjusted her tunic, and smiled warmly. “I hope we meet again.”

“Me, too. And don’t forget this.”

He handed back the pink Beretta.

“You can take it if you want,” she said.

“A pink Beretta? No thanks.”

They assembled near the Ford F-250 and the Mercedes Sprinter van—both beige with blue crosses painted on the hoods, front doors, and sides. The pickup bed wore an aluminum cover, and the Sprinter featured a twenty-three-foot-long cargo bay.

Hassan, Crocker, and Akil stood alongside the F-250; Mancini, Davis, and Suarez waited beside the Mercedes. Captain Zeid and Babas leaned on a green Mitsubishi jeep fifteen feet in front of them, smoking cigarettes and trading jokes with Colonel Oz.

Crocker pulled himself away from the story Akil was telling about his childhood in Cairo to check with the colonel.

“Any word from the truck with the medical supplies?”

Oz waved toward him. “It’s coming. Five minutes. No worries. You worry too much.”

He held his tongue and looked at his watch: 2319. They’d be lucky to leave before midnight. Janice sat inside, in an office near the sat-phone, waiting for the approvals from Washington.

Zeid muttered something in Turkish, and Oz threw back his head and laughed. Crocker thought it might have been a sarcastic comment about him and his men but didn’t really care. He was more concerned about the okay from D.C., and wondered if it would ever come. There was nothing he hated more than getting geared up for an op and waiting while the suits at Langley and the White House made up their minds.

“You spoke to the driver?” he asked Oz, unleashing some of his annoyance on him.

“What driver?”

“The driver of the truck with the medical supplies.”

Oz pointed the radio clutched in his hand toward the gate and the town in the distance. “See, here. It’s coming, my friend. Relax.”

Easy for you to say.

All Crocker saw were low clouds and the murky lights of houses. He was about to say something about trust and accuracy when an old Mercedes 2.5-ton roared through the gate, made a half circle in front of them, and stopped.

Two men hopped out, waving their arms and shouting in Turkish. Oz met them halfway and yelled back.

“What’s the problem?” asked Crocker.

“There is no problem, except that this fucking goat herder is late because he ran out of fuel.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Crocker said, checking his watch again. “Did he bring the supplies?”