“Let’s talk about what we’re doing tonight.”
They were passing the harbor, with the Marina Club (filled with luxurious yachts) and the Bahrain National Museum on their right. The lights of modern office towers sparkled in the clear night. Even though the city was relatively small, with a population of less than two hundred thousand, the skyline was impressive and featured two of the tallest buildings in the world—the Bahrain Financial Harbour at 853 feet and the Bahrain World Trade Center at 787.
“We might want to explore the city,” Mancini said. “It’s active and lively. All kinds of restaurants and nightclubs. Last time I was here I went to a place called BJs that had a killer DJ and loads of beautiful young women.”
Akil: “Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Foreign workers mostly, looking for a good time.”
“You hook up?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“You tell Carmen about that?” Davis asked.
“Do I look stupid?”
“Now that I think about it…” but Akil stopped. Nobody really wanted to piss Mancini off. He was a teddy-bear-type guy with a keen sense of justice who didn’t react well when certain boundaries were crossed.
Crocker had read that during demonstrations in February 2011 in support of the Arab Spring, five people had been killed by Manama police. This sparked further protests by the Shia majority, which were eventually quelled with the help of troops from Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates.
There were no signs of unrest now as they crossed the island and jogged down Al Shabab Avenue in the suburb of Juffair, which featured local franchises of McDonald’s, Dairy Queen, and Chili’s.
“I know a great Indian restaurant we can go to,” Mancini said. “Best chicken masala and spinach bindi I’ve ever tasted.”
Crocker was less interested in which restaurant they ate at than in getting his team ready for the grueling Marathon des Sables next week. As the team’s lead trainer, it was his job to keep them in shape and prepare them to deal with any contingency—arctic mountains, rough seas, jungles. He was concerned because, compared to their competition, he figured they were behind in training, mileage, and long-distance desert runs.
He had led his team on climbs in the Rockies, on Mount Washington, the Devil’s Tower, Grand Teton, the Himalayas, K2. They had done parachute drops from thirty thousand feet in Germany, winter training outside Juneau, jungle training in the Philippines and Borneo.
Now it was time to beat them to shit in the desert. His motto was “Blood from any orifice,” and he lived it over and over.
When they returned to the barracks, a civilian aide stood waiting beside a black SUV.
“Chief Warrant Officer Crocker?”
“Who wants to know?”
“The embassy political counselor. He wants to see you.”
That likely meant CIA.
Ten minutes later, showered and dressed in black cotton pants and a black polo, he entered an air-conditioned room in a utilitarian four-story building. The local CIA chief, Ed Wolfson, a medium-height, sandy-haired man with gray eyes, rose to greet him. Judging by his paunch and stooped shoulders, Crocker pegged him as an analyst type.
Sitting at the table behind him was Crocker’s old nemesis, Lou Donaldson.
The last time he’d seen Donaldson, he was serving as the CIA deputy in Pakistan. He had since been promoted to an important job with CTC, the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center.
“Congratulations, Lou,” Crocker said, extending a hand. “I heard you were promoted. What brings you to Bahrain?”
Donaldson ignored his hand and responded with a curt “Sit down.”
His manner hadn’t changed. Still an asshole.
They were joined by Donaldson’s broad-shouldered deputy, Jim Anders, carrying plastic-wrapped sandwiches and Diet Cokes. Anders explained that they’d driven five hours from Saudi Arabia and were delayed because of repairs to the sixteen-mile King Fahd Causeway, which
They were passing the harbor, with the Marina Club (filled with luxurious yachts) and the Bahrain National Museum on their right. The lights of modern office towers sparkled in the clear night. Even though the city was relatively small, with a population of less than two hundred thousand, the skyline was impressive and featured two of the tallest buildings in the world—the Bahrain Financial Harbour at 853 feet and the Bahrain World Trade Center at 787.
“We might want to explore the city,” Mancini said. “It’s active and lively. All kinds of restaurants and nightclubs. Last time I was here I went to a place called BJs that had a killer DJ and loads of beautiful young women.”
Akil: “Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Foreign workers mostly, looking for a good time.”
“You hook up?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“You tell Carmen about that?” Davis asked.
“Do I look stupid?”
“Now that I think about it…” but Akil stopped. Nobody really wanted to piss Mancini off. He was a teddy-bear-type guy with a keen sense of justice who didn’t react well when certain boundaries were crossed.
Crocker had read that during demonstrations in February 2011 in support of the Arab Spring, five people had been killed by Manama police. This sparked further protests by the Shia majority, which were eventually quelled with the help of troops from Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates.
There were no signs of unrest now as they crossed the island and jogged down Al Shabab Avenue in the suburb of Juffair, which featured local franchises of McDonald’s, Dairy Queen, and Chili’s.
“I know a great Indian restaurant we can go to,” Mancini said. “Best chicken masala and spinach bindi I’ve ever tasted.”
Crocker was less interested in which restaurant they ate at than in getting his team ready for the grueling Marathon des Sables next week. As the team’s lead trainer, it was his job to keep them in shape and prepare them to deal with any contingency—arctic mountains, rough seas, jungles. He was concerned because, compared to their competition, he figured they were behind in training, mileage, and long-distance desert runs.
He had led his team on climbs in the Rockies, on Mount Washington, the Devil’s Tower, Grand Teton, the Himalayas, K2. They had done parachute drops from thirty thousand feet in Germany, winter training outside Juneau, jungle training in the Philippines and Borneo.
Now it was time to beat them to shit in the desert. His motto was “Blood from any orifice,” and he lived it over and over.
When they returned to the barracks, a civilian aide stood waiting beside a black SUV.
“Chief Warrant Officer Crocker?”
“Who wants to know?”
“The embassy political counselor. He wants to see you.”
That likely meant CIA.
Ten minutes later, showered and dressed in black cotton pants and a black polo, he entered an air-conditioned room in a utilitarian four-story building. The local CIA chief, Ed Wolfson, a medium-height, sandy-haired man with gray eyes, rose to greet him. Judging by his paunch and stooped shoulders, Crocker pegged him as an analyst type.
Sitting at the table behind him was Crocker’s old nemesis, Lou Donaldson.
The last time he’d seen Donaldson, he was serving as the CIA deputy in Pakistan. He had since been promoted to an important job with CTC, the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center.
“Congratulations, Lou,” Crocker said, extending a hand. “I heard you were promoted. What brings you to Bahrain?”
Donaldson ignored his hand and responded with a curt “Sit down.”
His manner hadn’t changed. Still an asshole.
They were joined by Donaldson’s broad-shouldered deputy, Jim Anders, carrying plastic-wrapped sandwiches and Diet Cokes. Anders explained that they’d driven five hours from Saudi Arabia and were delayed because of repairs to the sixteen-mile King Fahd Causeway, which
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