Connect the Dots

by Denise Robbins

  “It’s my job,” she told him over her shoulder. “For now.”

  She muttered the last words under her breath as she let the screen door shut behind her, but he heard.

  TWENTY-NINE

  This time her long flight to wherever was on a luxury jet, not a no-frills military plane. The jet was spacious with leather seats and even a sleep compartment. No way did the military or the CIA have something that luxurious sitting around, probably provided by a NGO, non-governmental organization like Blackwater International, a subcontractor. Charley was grateful for the comfort because already four hours into the flight and she hurt.

  When she arrived at her final destination some eight hours later she went straight to a debriefing room to meet Ocalan Abdullah, suspected second in command of PKK, a terrorist organization based in Turkey.

  “Hello, I’m Charley Duston, US Intelligence Officer.” She offered a hand for a shake but Ocalan ignored it.

  “Where am I? No one will tell me where I am.”

  When she sat, Charley noticed the scraped and nicked knuckles of the detainee and wondered what caused them. More abuse at the hands of interrogators? Or an injury during his capture?

  “You are in a detention center for enemies to the United States.”

  “I did nothing to or against the United States.” Indignant, Ocalan crossed his arms over his orange jumpsuit covered chest.

  “Why are you here?”

  He shrugged.

  “Let’s start with your name. “I’m Charley. Your name is?”

  “Make him leave.” The detainee hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicated the Army guard standing post on the wall behind him.

  “I don’t think I can do that.” The fact that the guy requested the guard be removed made Charley’s antenna rise to alert status. Not to mention the last thing she wanted was more grief from Big Dick if he was anywhere near.

  “I refuse to talk unless he is gone.”

  Ocalan’s disobliging reaction made her job more difficult. Cooperative detainees were debriefed. Uncooperative detainees were interrogated. If left up to Dick Grande, he would interrogate via torture. Charley still never went that route, instead, she chose to change the tactics of her questions or end a session. Ending an interview meant the detainee went back to his quarters where he had little human interaction until mealtime, exercise, or medical exam.

  “Then you can go back to your cell.”

  Charley gathered her papers and stood. Ocalan reached out and grabbed her hand. The guard who had stood ramrod straight, back against the wall, leaped forward, shoved the detainee down in his chair, and held his weapon aimed at his head.

  She cringed when the weapon hit the man’s temple. “Stop,” she ordered the guard.

  Ocalan held up his arms in surrender and lowered his head. “I no hurt the woman. I no hurt.”

  “Ma’am?” The Army guard looked at her quizzically.

  She inclined her head and the guard removed his pistol from Ocalan’s temple and stepped back but did not return to his post against the wall.

  “What did you want, Ocalan?”

  “I will talk with you, please. I do not wish to be tortured again. Please.”

  “What do you mean tortured?”

  “I was forced to stand handcuffed with my arms held over my head and feet shackled to an eye bolt in the floor for hours and hours.”

  Long time standing was a well-known and used form of torture because it left very little marks, although Charley guessed that was how Ocalan received the cuts on the tops of his fingers and hands. Many people thought wrongly that exhaustion and sleep deprivation were effective in yielding confessions. Although a detainee would confess, it would not necessarily be of value.

  “Where did this take place?”

  “Here and in the prison before the Americans brought me here.”

  Other prison? “Where was this other prison?”

  “I do not know. Turkey, I believe. An air base. Then I was transported here.”

  “Who tortured you?” she asked as she pulled out the metal chair and seated herself.

  “Guards.”

  “What guards?”

  “I do not know their names. They wear black hoods all the time and do not speak.”

  Black hoods on a guard? That made no sense. Maybe Ocalan confused the guards with other prisoners being tortured. Placing dark hoods or sacks over a detainee’s head or even duct tape was another form of deprivation and torture. One she deplored.

  “Can you recognize their faces?”

  Ocalan shook his head. “No. They wear hoods, black hoods over their faces.”

  “Are you certain the guards wore hoods?”

  He nodded.

  Part of Charley believed his claim but part of her doubted it. She had never heard of guards wearing hoods. “I cannot help you if you cannot identify the person who hurt you.”

  “Not person, persons. His hand lifted from his lap and started toward the table but then he obviously thought better and dropped it back to his lap. “American men.”

  “How do you know they were Americans?”

  “The accent.”

  Charley almost smiled at that. “But you said they don’t speak.”

  “Except when they torture me.”

  “Why would any American want to beat you?”

  He hesitated, sat back then leaned forward. “Because of PKK.”

  “What is PKK?”

  One of Ocalan’s eyebrows rose. “PKK is the Kurdistan Worker’s Party.”

  “What did you have to do with the PKK?”

  “I am second in command”

  “Who is first in command?”

  Ocalan smiled and his grin bared yellowish teeth. He shook his head.

  Oh, well, she almost had him. “What did you do that the Americans would be mad at you?”

  “Not me. PKK.”

  “What did the PKK do to upset the Americans?”

  “Blew up oil pipeline. Boom.” He clapped his hands, mimicking the explosion and waved his fingers. “Lots of orange flames and black smoke.”

  She would have to ask Ocalan about Onder. “Which pipeline did PKK blow up?”

  “BTC.”

  “Where along the pipeline did this take place?”

  “East Turkey, Refahiye.” Turkey was the terminating end of the oil pipeline that ran from Baku, Azerbaijan to Tbilisi, Georgia, and finally to Ceyhan, Turkey. She knew this information not just from her own research but also from Kyle. Her heart pinched at the thought of him. He had been a CIA Specialist stationed in Tbilisi to work on efforts related to the “Silk Road” energy corridor geopolitical analysis and administration. The pipeline was the heart of his efforts.

  “What weapons were used to blow up the pipeline?”

  Ocalan shrugged inside his orange jumpsuit. “SAMs and hand grenades.”

  Surface to air missiles. “Where did you get the weapons?”

  “Ari.”

  “Who is Ari?”

  “A friend.”

  “This friend gave you the weapons to blow up the pipeline?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ari gave me the weapons but he got them from someone else.”

  “Who did Ari get the weapons from?”

  “The same man who paid him.”

  “Someone paid Ari?”

  “Yes. A man paid Ari and gave him weapons.”

  “Why did this man pay Ari and give him weapons?”

  “To blow up the BTC pipeline.”

  “A man paid Ari money and weapons?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Ari then gave you the money and weapons?”

  “No. Ari only gave me a little money and the weapons.”

  “The man paid Ari with money and weapons in exchange for Ari to blow up the BTC pipeline?”

  “For PKK to blow up pipeline.”

  “How could Ari get the PKK to blow up the pipeline?”
>
  “He is head…”

  Ah-ha. She knew Ari Petrolz was the reported head of the PKK.

  “What man paid Ari?”

  Ocalan’s eyes shifted left then right and he leaned even farther over the table. “A Georgian official.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

  Georgian official. “What Georgian?”

  “Head Georgian.”

  “Ocalan, you have to be more specific.”

  “Big man.”

  “What big man?”

  “Big man in Georgia.”

  “What is his name?”

  “You know his name.”

  Time to end this session. “Let’s take a break.”

  Ocalan reached out his hand, and immediately yanked it back.

  “We will talk again shortly, after you eat and exercise.” Charley held out her hand for him to shake. “Thank you, Ocalan.”

  He eyed her hand then the guard and back. His lids drooped over deep brown eyes and his fingers grasped hers. “Thank you.”

  During the meal break, she ate an MRE and documented Ocalan Abdullah’s detainee log, ISN# 139, and prepared her list of questions for the next debriefing session.

  * * * *

  Taking a deep breath, Charley entered the small interview room and Ocalan sat straight up in his chair, his hands grasped in his lap. When his gaze met hers, she saw a black and blue ring against his dark skin, around his right eye. She stepped forward, dropping the contents she carried onto the table.

  “What happened?” she demanded.

  “It is fine.”

  Fine? Just a little while ago, he had not wanted her to leave him for fear of further abuse and now here he sat telling her it was okay. It was not.

  Looking up, her eyes bore into the young guard’s face. “I want to know what happened.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Please, Miss Charley, do not cause any problem.”

  The pained plea she saw on Ocalan’s face and heard in his voice tugged at her. She did not want to cause him any problem or more pain so she relented and took a seat, opening the box she brought in with her, and slid it across the table to Ocalan.

  “I brought you dessert.”

  Ocalan peered down then looked back at her, his teeth glowing yellow against the fluorescent overhead lights. “For me?” he asked, his brown eyes sparkling in surprise and pleasure. “Thank you.” He reached in and took one of her cookies.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Charley let Ocalan eat two more cookies before she started her questioning. “Let’s begin with where we ended, okay?”

  He nodded his consent.

  “You said the big man in Georgia paid Ari money and weapons to blow up the BTC pipeline?”

  “Yes,” he answered and took another cookie.

  “How do you know the man was a big man in Georgia?”

  “I was there.” He puffed out his chest with pride.

  “You were where?”

  “At the meeting between Ari, the man, and me.”

  “And this Georgian did not introduce himself so you could get his name?”

  “He did not have to. We all see his picture, hear him talk on television.” Damn. She needed Ocalan to give him a name.

  “Did the Georgian say why he wanted the pipeline blown up?”

  Ocalan shook his head. “No. He gave Ari the envelope with money and keys to truck that held weapons.”

  “How did you know the Georgian wanted you to blow up the BTC pipeline?”

  “He told Ari and me. He wrote on the envelope the instructions.”

  “It would be best if Ari confirmed what you have told me. Do you know where Ari is?”

  Again, Ocalan flashed his yellowed teeth.

  “What is Ari’s last name?”

  He shook his head.

  “Ocalan, you have to be honest with me, tell everything. I need specifics.”

  “How long did you plan the attack on the BTC pipeline?”

  “Four weeks.”

  “Who helped you blow up the pipeline?”

  “The PKK.”

  “Who in the PKK?”

  “Approximately twenty people.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Do not ask me. I cannot answer.”

  “Onder Gozcu?”

  “How do you…”

  “We have spoken.”

  Ocalan nodded. “Drunkard.” Pretty much, she thought, but he managed to hold his tongue pretty well. When the military police found and captured Onder, he had been drunker than a skunk and smelled as bad too.

  “Did Onder or any of the others meet the Georgian official?”

  “Only Ari Petrolz and me.” Ocalan took another cookie. “Very good.”

  Gotcha! “Thank you.”

  “How did you decide which section of the pipeline to blow up?”

  “The man told us.”

  “The man? Who is the man?”

  “You know, big Georgia official.” Ocalan grinned at her and took a bite of a cookie.

  Charley returned his smile. “Thank you, Ocalan.”

  THIRTY

  He decided to wait until dark to do his reconnaissance. Unsure of when Charley might return, he chose to search the barn under cover of night. Dressed in head-to-toe black, Jake started out the back door then halted when he noticed flashlight beams bobbing up and down in Charley’s yard.

  Plastered against the wall outside his screen door, he watched. Two lights bounced around the barn. Hunched low and on soundless feet, Jake moved across his property, closer to Charley’s. Hidden behind the old apple tree, he heard someone yank at the door.

  “Bitch has a cipher lock.” Jake smiled to himself. He had the code.

  “Shit! We can’t even break in without setting off an alarm,” the guy at the door yelled to his accomplice.

  “Let’s try the house,” the partner hollered back.

  As the two headed in the direction of Charley’s house, Jake took the opportunity to move even closer. Maybe he could scare them off or get a good look at the two. He wanted to know why they were snooping. What did Charley have that made her worth shooting at, not to mention breaking and entering? Did she even know what she had? Or was she just an innocent mule to be used and discarded? His gut clenched at the idea of anyone using or hurting Charley.

  A bright flash from Charley’s second floor drew Jake’s attention. What the hell was that? The next thing he knew the two guys came barreling out of the house, rounded the corner, and ran toward the front. The sound of an engine revving followed their quick exit.

  Jake bolted for the driveway but by the time he got there, the black car was too far away to get the license plate number. “Damn!”

  What did he do now? Check the house to see what the bright flash was or search the barn?

  He began with the barn. Unlike the idiots, he had the cipher key. Holding his flashlight with one hand, he punched in the code with the other. The whir of the lock releasing told him it worked. The next instant, he twisted the knob and walked into Charley’s barn.

  “Holy moly.”

  The sight that greeted him was electronic ecstasy.

  Three laptops of various sizes sat on a long table that appeared to be made from an old door and a sheet of glass. On a similar table sat three printers and a scanner. Tucked underneath were several uninterruptible power supply backups and a server. In a corner, he saw a wireless access point. His friend and computer geek, Ruby, would be in hog heaven.

  Stepping up to the nearest laptop, Jake tapped the keyboard and the computer came to life. Unfortunately, the first thing he saw when the monitor lit up was the username and password screen.

  “Well, shit.”

  Undeterred, he tried the other machines and received the same result. His hands raked through his hair and he paced between the computers. He figured the username was something simple and straight forward like her first initial and last name. The password gave him pause. With Charley so se
curity conscious about her barn, he doubted she would use the same code for the cipher on her computer network, but he had to try. On the first laptop, he typed in the assumed username and password.

  “Of course,” he muttered to himself. He hadn’t honestly expected it to work. That was okay. He had an ace in the hole.

  From the pocket of his black jeans, Jake retrieved his cell phone and dialed Ruby.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  He chuckled at the groggy sound of her voice. “What, Mickey isn’t keeping you awake?”

  “Let’s just say he wore me out.” Jake heard the sheets rustle.

  “Thanks for that image.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, I know you didn’t call me to discuss my sex life.”

  “Right, some other time.” Ruby giggled. “How do I get into someone’s computer?”

  “Did you get in to her place?” Excitement bubbled up in Ruby’s voice and Jake could not help the grin that crossed his face. She loved this stuff.

  “Yup. But she didn’t use the same password as the cipher lock.”

  “Smart woman.”

  “Are you going to tell me there is no way to get in?”

  “No, you big dope. She may be smart but I bet she left the same back door a lot of people do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Most people add a secondary administrator account and leave the original in place, ergo the back door.” He heard Ruby switch the phone to her other ear. “Are you in front of the computer now?”

  “Computers. Three of them. Yes.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “Stop drooling. That’s just the tip of this little place. You should see it.”

  “Tease.” Ruby groaned. “Try admin as the username and password with a capital P as the password.”

  “You’re kidding right?”

  Following Ruby’s instructions, he typed what she suggested and hit enter. “I’ll be damned.” The computer let him in. “I’m on. Now do I need to do that to all the computers to access them?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a flippin’ Goddess.”

  “I know.” Her modesty cracked him up.

  “Thanks, Sweetcheeks.”

  “Aw. You’re not going to tell me what you find?”