by Lisa Harris
As if to lend credence to her lie, she leaned over and laid her head on my shoulder. I patted her on the head and said, “Yes, but absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Kamila said. “I believe that’s a line from a Charlie Brown cartoon, isn’t it? Didn’t Lucy say that to Schroeder?”
“No, it’s from a poem by Thomas Bayly,” I said, adjusting the glasses on my nose. “It’s called Isle of Beauty.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him, Kamila,” Ben said. “He’s always coming up with weird stuff. Personally, I think you’re right.”
Kamila smiled. “You know, Titus, you sound like a man of varied interests. You and my father should get along very well tonight.”
I was counting on it.
The Imam’s residence looked even more imposing than when I’d seen it on the surveillance cameras at the Bureau’s safe house or from the wooden hillside behind Old Post Road years ago.
As Ben pulled up in the circle drive, I commented on what a nice place it was, but Kamila shook her head and said, “I’ve suggested my father have the outside remodeled so it doesn’t look so much like a lodge, but as with most things I suggest, he refuses to listen to me.”
“You’ve got to admit it’s impressive, though.”
“Impressive, but not beautiful,” Kamila said. “The backyard is a different story. It’s beautiful back there. My father has a green thumb when it comes to flowers.”
“I love flowers,” Jennifer said. “I hope we get to see the backyard.”
“Oh, you will. We’ll go out there later to view the fireworks.”
“The fireworks will be in the backyard?” I asked.
“Well, not exactly. I’ve arranged for them to be set off down at the tennis court, but we’ll be able to see them from the backyard.”
When I got out of the vehicle, I stood in front of the Imam’s residence and slowly turned in every direction, pretending to admire the view of the entire area.
In reality, I was giving the Ops Center a panoramic video of the property through my WAV device.
Meanwhile, everyone else was standing on the front porch. When I stepped on the porch a few seconds later, a woman opened the door.
Since Kamila didn’t bother introducing her, I figured she was one of the household staff, and my assumption was confirmed a few minutes later when she took us into the living room and announced dinner would be served in twenty minutes.
When we arrived in the living room—an enormous space with a bunch of small seating areas—we found the place buzzing with activity.
Small children were running around the furniture, adults were clustered together in groups of three or four, and at the far end of the room, near the fireplace, was a Victorian-era couch upholstered in gold fabric where Imam Faraji Hanim and his wife were seated.
They were surrounded by a handful of people.
It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say the scene resembled a king on his throne in the great hall receiving adulation from his subjects while his queen sat next to him.
Kamila didn’t immediately make her way over to her parents to greet them. Instead, she paused along the way and introduced us to her siblings, their spouses, and other invited guests.
After we met Kamila’s older sisters, Esel and Ceylan, and their husbands, Yavuz and Tekin, she introduced us to Omer and his wife, Nehir.
Omer scowled at me the moment he saw me. “Is this man a friend of yours, Kamila? He almost ran me over with his car the other day.”
She gave him a disapproving look. “This is Titus Ray. He’s a friend of Ben’s, and I expect you to be polite to him, Omer.”
After Kamila introduced Jennifer to Omer and his wife, she said, “Let’s go meet my parents.”
I was anxious to meet the Imam, especially since I noticed he’d been watching us from the moment we entered the living room.
However, I couldn’t figure out which one of us had drawn his attention. I suspected it might be Ben, since the Imam was now aware his daughter was dating Senator Mitchell’s son.
On the other hand, it could be Kamila.
Was it possible the Imam was aware of her contacts with Barat Mustafa? Did he have sources inside President Evren’s administration who knew about Nazim’s plans to kidnap him?
I thought that was entirely possible.
But, I didn’t think the Imam was interested in me or Jennifer.
That didn’t seem likely.
Not likely, but I didn’t rule it out.
Chapter Twenty-One
Imam Faraji Hanim was dressed in an ill-fitting black suit with an open-collar white shirt. He was wearing a kufi, a type of white skullcap, and the tufts of his gray hair sticking out from underneath the kufi made it look like his skullcap had fringe around the bottom.
Although the Imam was in his early seventies, he appeared to be in good health and extremely fit. His wife, Miray, who was wearing a dark maroon embroidered Turkish kaftan, looked several years younger than him.
Kamila leaned over and embraced her mother warmly, whispering something in her ear. After greeting her father in Turkish, Kamila switched to English and introduced Jennifer and me.
As she was making the introductions, I noticed she gave the Imam more details about Titus Ray, a Senior Fellow at CIS, than I imagined Ben would have told her about me, which led me to believe Kamila had done some research on Titus Ray on the CIS website.
I gave the Imam a slight head bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Imam Hanim.”
Turning to his wife, I said, “And, Mrs. Hanim, thank you for allowing us to celebrate this special day with you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” she said, with a pronounced Turkish accent. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
After the Imam invited us to be seated, he gestured at Ben and said, “Omer tells me you weren’t completely honest with me the other night. I had no idea you were Senator Elijah Mitchell’s son.”
Kamila started to defend him. “It’s not Ben’s fault. I told him—”
When she noticed the Imam wagging his finger at her, she stopped in midsentence. “No, Kamila,” he said, “I’m not blaming Ben. I’m sure you told him not to mention it.”
“I believe she didn’t want us talking politics all evening,” Ben said with a smile. “I apologize if you felt I was being dishonest with you.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” he said, shaking his head. “I know Kamila. She likes to keep secrets from me.”
If this was a veiled reference to Kamila’s plot to force him to return to Turkey, I was surprised at his nonchalant attitude. He seemed more amused by Kamila’s behavior than worried about it.
Perhaps the Imam wasn’t aware of how far she’d gone in her plans to return him to Turkey. Perhaps he had no idea it was supposed to happen tonight.
Ben said, “All children like to keep secrets from their parents. Usually, they’re not very successful. When I was growing up, I swore my dad knew everything I was thinking.”
The Imam nodded. “Your father is a formidable man. I’m in negotiations with his staff to appear before his Senate Intelligence Committee next week. Right now, he’s refusing to make any exceptions to the questions his committee can ask me.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Ben said. “My father and I don’t talk to each other that often.”
“Are you estranged from him?”
“No,” Ben said, looking away for a moment, “it’s just a matter of us being too busy to talk to each other.”
The Imam waved his arm around the room.
“Look around you. Perhaps your father should consider having his family live under one roof. That way, finding time to talk to each other won’t be a problem.”
Before Ben had a chance to respond, Miray Hanim said, “Even though Kamila no longer lives with us, I talk to her every day. If I didn’t, she might forget how to speak Turkish.”
“No, that will never happen
,” Kamila replied. “I won’t ever forget my roots. I may be an American citizen, but Turkey is my home.”
“Of course, it is,” her mother replied.
As the women smiled at each other, it was hard to miss the look that passed between them. They obviously shared a strong bond.
Observing their close relationship made me wonder how much influence Miray Hanim had over her daughter.
Was she as obsessed about the PLP as Kamila was?
Could Miray Hanim be the person responsible for putting Kamila in touch with Barat Mustafa?
Unknown factors.
When the Imam tried to engage Ben in a discussion about his father and the Senate hearings on Turkey a second time, Ben put him off once again, and Faraji Hanim turned his attention to me.
“And what about you, Mr. Ray? I understand your area of expertise is the Middle East. Where do you stand on the attempted coup against President Evren? Do you believe the PLP is responsible?”
“From what I’m hearing from my sources in Turkey, it certainly looks that way, but I’m wary when all the arrows are pointing in one direction. I tend to be a skeptic when that happens.”
He nodded. “Ah, yes, a skeptic. But are you the kind of skeptic who’s looking for reasons to believe?”
When I asked the Imam to clarify if he meant reasons to believe the PLP was responsible for the coup against President Evren, he went off on a rabbit trail about philosophical skepticism.
Thankfully, a few minutes later, Kamila’s sister, Ceylan, came over and told the Imam dinner was ready.
Everyone waited for Imam Hanim and Miray to lead the way to the dining room, located on the opposite side of the house and down a long hallway.
As family members and guests fell into step behind the couple, Jennifer and I ended up walking behind Ben and Kamila in what turned out to be a long, slow processional.
When the processional reached the foyer, I saw Kamila glance over at a large grandfather clock and then look down at her watch, almost as if she were synchronizing the time.
I tried not to read too much into her gesture.
But, if she were expecting Nazim and his men to show up at a particular time, glancing at the clock would be a natural thing to do.
On the other hand, if the fireworks were supposed to go off at a certain time, looking at the clock would also be a natural thing to do.
When that thought flitted across my brain, I felt the neural pathways in my cerebral cortex start to tingle, and seconds later, the neurons fired across the plasma membrane, sparking a random notion which I almost discarded, but instead grabbed hold of before it disappeared into the craggy folds of my gray matter.
After looking at it from all angles, I whispered to Jennifer, “I need to make a phone call. It shouldn’t take me more than five minutes.”
“Go ahead. I’ll cover for you.”
I stopped in the empty foyer while the processional continued on toward the dining room.
Then, I entered Carlton’s number on my cell phone.
I knew exactly where he was. Carlton was at the center console in the control room of RTM Center D watching the feed from our WAV devices on the monitors mounted on the walls, while keeping an eye on the video from the surveillance cameras surrounding Camp Tamal.
He didn’t sound surprised to hear my voice, but I figured he must have heard me telling Jennifer I needed to make a call.
“I don’t suppose you could have just texted me?” he asked.
I walked over and looked down the hallway, doublechecking to make sure I was alone.
“No, I couldn’t text you. I needed to bounce an idea off you, and that’s hard to do in a text.”
“I’m listening.”
“First, were you surprised to hear Kamila tell the guard about the fireworks she’s planning for this evening’s entertainment?”
“Yes, Frank and I talked about it as soon as we heard, and he alerted his surveillance teams to keep an eye out for possible vehicles that could be making a fireworks delivery to the compound.”
“Having a fireworks display is something that needs to be set up ahead of time, and Kamila said they’d be shooting them off down at the tennis court.”
“Yes, I heard her say that.”
“Do you know if Frank has any surveillance cameras pointed at the tennis court? Has he mentioned seeing any activity or vehicles down there in the last few days?”
“I don’t know the answers to your questions, but I’ll ask Frank about them. He’s probably listening to us right now.”
“I’m not sure what the fireworks display has to do with Nazim’s plans, but it’s something that keeps coming up on my radar.”
“Well, then, I’ll also give it some thought. Is that the idea you wanted to bounce off me? You’re wondering if the fireworks are connected to the Imam’s kidnapping?”
“That’s right. It occurred to me shooting off the fireworks might be a diversion to create a smokescreen—and I mean that literally—for Nazim’s men to grab the Imam. I’m sure you heard Kamila tell the guard to keep the dogs penned up tonight, which could mean Nazim’s men don’t plan to enter the compound through the gated entrance but hike through the woods and enter the compound at the back of the property. If the dogs are penned up, they won’t be able to alert anyone to the men’s presence.”
“I know Frank has the perimeter covered, but as I’m sure you know, there’s a residential neighborhood that backs up to Camp Tamal’s property line, so there’s some vulnerability there.”
“That’s all I have. I’ll text you if I think of anything else.”
“You should go join the party now. From what I’m hearing on the monitors, Kamila is asking Jennifer about you.”
I ended the call and hurried down the hallway, entering the dining room with my cell phone still in my hand.
When I walked up to Jennifer, she was standing next to Ben and Kamila. “I’m so sorry, Kamila. I just got an international call from a friend in Beirut, and I had to take it.”
“I completely understand,” Kamila said. “The time difference is a big problem when you’re trying to stay connected to your contacts overseas.”
She gestured toward the dining table. “Shall we go find our seats? It looks like everyone’s here now.”
According to Frank, the dining hall in the lodge had undergone a major remodel in order to turn what had once been an institutional dining hall into a smaller family dining room.
However, the room was still large enough to have a dining table that accommodated twenty-four adults, with a smaller table off to the side for the children.
Additional furnishings included a china cabinet that covered one entire wall and a sideboard buffet on the opposite wall.
When Jennifer and I walked over to the dining table, we found our names on decorative place cards next to each other at the end of the table nearest the Imam and his wife. The place cards were displayed in beautiful ceramic holders in the shape of Camp Tamal’s logo, a green crescent moon above a grove of trees.
As we took our seats across from Ben and Kamila, I looked down at the place card and realized what I thought was a decorative green border around the place card was actually an outline of Camp Tamal.
Seeing the diagram of the property, after just talking with Carlton about what methods Hasan Nazim might use to kidnap the Imam, caused me to consider yet another possibility of how Nazim might enter the property, and as I began working out the details, I suddenly realized the Imam was standing at the head of the table, clinking on his glass to get everyone’s attention.
“I’m very pleased all of you could join us tonight to celebrate Miray’s seventieth birthday. My daughters, Esel and Ceylan, are responsible for planning the menu, and my daughter, Kamila, is responsible for planning our entertainment this evening. As far as I know, Omer hasn’t done a thing.”
After everyone laughed, the Imam gestured toward Kamila. “Would you like to tell us what you have planned for the entert
ainment tonight?”
“No, I want it to be a surprise.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Turkish dinner for Miray’s birthday turned out to be a feast. There were two different lamb dishes, kuzu tandir, a combination of lamb and rice mixed with currants, and kabap, grilled lamb served on a skewer with vegetables.
Other vegetables were karniyarik, eggplant filled with minced meat, börek, a thin dough covered with spinach and potatoes, and yaprak sarma, cabbage leaves filled with rice.
While the meal was going on, I was responding to random questions from the Imam. Questions like, what did America’s founding fathers mean in the Declaration of Independence when they said one of the unalienable rights of all men was the pursuit of happiness?
“This is selfish, is it not?” the Imam asked. “To say a man has the right to think only of himself?”
“Well, to the extent a man can find happiness in being selfish, I suppose that’s true,” I replied, “but what if a man’s idea of happiness is seeking the welfare of others? I would say in that particular case, his pursuit of happiness isn’t selfish.”
Apparently, the Imam’s wife was listening to our conversation, and when her husband disagreed with me, she said, “I believe the pursuit of happiness has to do with seeking peace and harmony in the world. Whatever a person has to do to bring people together will ultimately result in that person’s happiness.”
“Interfering in someone else’s life for your own happiness is not my idea of finding happiness,” the Imam replied.
A few moments of embarrassed silence followed this exchange, but then Miray turned her attention to Ben—who was seated on her right—and the Imam resumed his conversation with me, asking yet another question, this one having to do with religion.
“Are you a man of faith, Titus?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“And what religion do you follow?”
“I’m a man of faith, and I follow Jesus Christ, not a religion.”
