Bluegrass and Crimson

by Jeff Siebold

  The Turkish border is a sieve, thought Gabby, with no real barrier to entry, no patrol or law in that desert place. It was too dangerous and unpredictable; and no one was who they seemed to be. This was outlaw territory, like the old west. And Kobane was the Fort Smith of the Syria-Turkish border. There was a cold and hostile peace, mostly based on self-serving motivations, and there was a constant awareness that imbalance might occur at any time and for any small, subtle reason. The border was a dangerous place.

  In the mid-1800s, Fort Smith, Arkansas was on the eastern edge of the wilderness. The land west of the Oklahoma border acted as a magnet to outlaws, claim jumpers, escapees, AWOL soldiers, cattle rustlers and runaway slaves. There was little law there, and no one to enforce what little there was.

  Fast forward 150 years to a desert populated by Sunni Muslims, Basque people, Turkish criminals and others who preferred, even thrived on disorder and instability. Many of those staying in the border houses were waiting to be approved, to be accepted by the Islamic State (IS), waiting to be called to cross the border and join the rebels occupying the region and fighting against the Syrian government.

  Some were idealists. You could see in their eyes the almost fanatical passion for the cause. Many of these were students from Europe, or even the United States, who idealized the fight and left their comfort to involve themselves. Some were seeking love, brides pledged to IS soldiers, crossing to start their life anew. One thing was certain, Gabby knew. The lives of every one of those who crossed that border for whatever reason would change forever.

  But now, they were sitting around a low table in the living room of a duplex house rented by Asad. The house they referred to as “The Secret.” It served as a meeting place for the group, as well as a safe place to plan their activities. There were five people around the table: Gabby; the boy named Fakhir who was enrolled as a sophomore at the University; Asad, the tallest man who was a graduate student; Sammy Patel, a sophomore; and Muhammad, who was leaving for Europe, and then Turkey, and then Syria, the next morning. Muhammad’s two suitcases were standing against the far wall by the door to the apartment. His passport was lying on top of the larger suitcase.

  * * *

  Gabby, whose real name was A’isha, named after the prophet Muhammad’s third wife in whose arms he had died, had been born in Yemen. She had grown up in the fight. Her immediate family had moved to London years ago. Her father was a wealthy doctor, and she had been educated in a proper British style. They’d made the move to protect the family and avoid the strife as it neared their city. But Gabby still had relatives in Yemen and Syria, including cousins, uncles, second cousins, nieces and nephews, and also friends.

  So, when the opportunity arose, Gabby enrolled in a University in the United States and took up the study of Political and Social Thought, a rare offering. The specialized coursework gave her a perfect excuse to locate there and to become a part of the conduit moving sympathizers of all kinds across Turkey and into the fray.

  Her own beliefs were influenced by a Sunni Muslim named Amad Muhammad. When she moved to the United States, Amad had remained behind to actively help bring new followers into Syria. Amad personified the fight for Gabby, with his passionate and uncompromising beliefs in independence, his love of his country and his strong, handsome presence. He was truly a warrior, a symbol of the resistance.

  This place, this duplex was usually occupied by a handful of the group members. Occasionally, they would hold a meeting and discuss events going on in Syria or Turkey or Iraq, but most of the time young people came and went and occasionally fell asleep on the couch or on one of the beds in the bedrooms.

  * * *

  Wheels down, Zeke thought, as the Boeing 767-400ER touched the surface of the runway, bounced once and settled into its deceleration pattern. Ten minutes later, he was walking through the concourse, his only luggage a carry-on roller bag. Although the trip to Miami seemed unlikely to turn up a solid lead, Zeke knew there was no substitute for face to face interviews.

  Zeke had worked with MICECP, the Military Intelligence Civilian Excepted Career Program, for five years, from its inception in 2008 through most of 2013. As was true with most government agencies, they ultimately expanded to control as much as possible. When MIC began requiring actions that Zeke didn’t agree with, he left their employ.

  That move, though, had worked out well for him. Clive Greene, who had been on loan to MICECP from the British Secret Service—MI-6 actually—had hung a shingle out in Washington, DC when his contract was up and had attracted a number of former FBI and CIA agents, as well as a number of MIC operatives, to work in his agency. The Agency had a very narrow scope, specializing in contracting with Federal Government agencies to perform services that were outside of the norm. Often, these services were undertaken with a level of deniability on the part of the employing government entity. Clive hired Zeke as a contractor occasionally, for some of the more complex and intricate assignments.

  Zeke hailed a cab just outside the Miami Airport’s “Arrival” door.

  “Where to?” asked the driver in a sing-song voice that had probably originated somewhere on the subcontinent of India.

  “The Port of Miami,” said Zeke. “Venture of the Seas,” he added.

  “OK,” said the driver, and turned up the political talk radio he’d been listening to. They tuned in to the show in the middle of the host’s tirade against immigrants and immigration laws, along with his concern that the country was going to hell very quickly. The driver seemed to agree.

  The nine-mile cab ride from the Miami International Airport to the Port of Miami took 20 minutes in what Zeke judged to be moderate traffic. They arrived at 11:20 AM. Zeke paid the cabbie and entered the cruise ship terminal building. The Venture of the Seas, a Voyager Class cruise ship, was in port and docked behind the terminal. The ship was just over 1,000 feet long and weighed about 137,000 pounds. Like most cruise ships of that class, it had a maximum speed of 22 knots. Long lines of cruise passengers were waiting to check in and board the ship early. In addition to English, Zeke heard conversations in a half-dozen different languages and dialects, which he mentally categorized geographically from South America to eastern Europe.

  He found the Administration Offices on the second floor of the cruise terminal and made his way to the office of the Chief Purser, Carmela Wright. On a brief phone conversation before Zeke left Austin, Carmela had agreed to meet with him about the death of Roger Taylor twelve days earlier aboard the Venture of the Seas. She emphasized that the window of opportunity was brief, as the ship was scheduled to depart at 5:00 PM. She agreed that an 11:30 morning meeting would give Zeke enough time to inspect the room (which had not been used since Roger’s death) and interview the crew members who discovered the body.

  * * *

  “Indonesia,” said the cabin steward. “I am from Jakarta, Indonesia. I’ve been working aboard this ship for about six months, and I have three more months to go on my contract.”

  “Your name is Arif?” asked Zeke, looking at the steward’s nametag.

  “Yes, Arif Alatas,” he said.

  Standing next to him, Chief Purser, Carmela Wright, nodded.

  “I’m here to investigate the death last week,” said Zeke.

  “Yes, I know,” said Arif. “I told the police everything I saw when we were here in port last weekend.”

  “I’m sure you did,” said Zeke. “But let’s talk through it one more time. Has anything in the room been changed since the police took the body away?”

  “No, I wanted to clean the room, but I was told to leave it as it was,” said Arif. He looked at Carmela, who nodded to Zeke.

  Carmela had dark hair, pulled into a tight braid, and a round face. She wore black-rimmed round glasses and a white purser’s uniform with short sleeves that subtly complimented the cruise ship’s eastern Caribbean route. She appeared to be in her mid- thirties and, although she was accompanying Zeke, she seemed distracted.

  “Let�
�s start at the beginning,” said Zeke. “Just take me through what happened.”

  “Well, I was scheduled to clean this room, and I knew the family had gone on a shore excursion in Freeport, so I was confused when there was a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door… Well, actually, our sign says, ‘Snoozin’. I figured they had left it there by mistake, you know. People often do that,” said Arif. He had an English accent and a pleasant lilt to his speech.

  “OK, and…” said Zeke.

  “Well, I waited and cleaned all of my other rooms first,” he said, “and then I came back here and knocked on the door. There was no response, so I opened the door and saw Mr. Taylor lying on the bed. I thought that he was sleeping, so I closed the door again.”

  “Did you go in the room?” asked Zeke.

  “No, I didn’t at that point,” said Arif. “I figured that he was possibly sick, or maybe he skipped the shore excursion and was catching up on his sleep. So I decided I’d come back later.”

  “Did you?” asked Zeke.

  “Well, yes, but it was after his family came back aboard and discovered that he was dead. There was much confusion and screaming and crying. I heard it and came running from the service area. I thought that someone had been hurt…you know, fallen down the stairs or tripped on the doorjamb. It happens frequently after an afternoon at Senior Frog’s.”

  “Is Senior Frog’s the bar in Freeport near the docks?” asked Zeke, although he already knew the answer.

  “Yes, the same. They are loose with the libations.”

  “OK, so you heard the screams…”

  “Yes, and I came to the door and looked in. It was the woman and the girl, and they were standing in the room, by the bed, and they were hugging each other and crying,” said Arif.

  “Did you go into the room at that point?” asked Zeke.

  “No, I asked what was wrong, and they both looked at me and said, ‘He’s dead!’ So I said, ‘I’ll get the doctor,’ and I went back to the station and called the medical team and they came right up here. The doctor and a nurse.”

  “So, at that point the doctor and nurse, the wife and daughter and the dead man were all in the room?”

  “Well, no,” said Arif. “When the doctor arrived, I took the wife and daughter to a sitting area by the elevators. They were very upset.”

  “I can imagine,” said Zeke. “It sounds like you did well with the situation.”

  Chapter 16

  “Yes, I am the Chief of Security for the Venture,” said Robert Hartanto. “I was there, outside the room, when they took the body ashore.”

  “Who took the body away?” asked Zeke.

  Carmela was standing near them as they spoke.

  “The ship’s doctor and the paramedics from on shore, from Freeport,” said Robert. “They wheeled the body out in a narrow gurney, covered and through the freight doors, of course.”

  “Did you talk with the doctor about cause of death?” asked Zeke.

  “Yes, and I told him we would need to know if there was anything irregular going on.”

  “And?” asked Zeke.

  “The doctor said that it looked like the dead man, Mr. Taylor, had a heart attack. He also said that Taylor might have choked. What he actually said was, ‘Asphyxiation is a possibility,’ but it wasn’t conclusive. And with the position that the body was in, the doctor said that it was most likely a heart attack.”

  “Were there petechiae? Red spots on the skin? Ruptured capillaries? “ asked Zeke.

  “I don’t know,” said Robert. “They took him off rather quickly, but I didn’t hear anything about that. Honestly, we were just trying to clear this area of the ship before we sailed. But, from what I could see, if there was something…petechiae on his skin, it was very light.”

  “Do you know if they did an autopsy?” asked Zeke.

  “I don’t. We sailed that evening, and I haven’t heard anything more from the paramedics or the authorities,” said Robert.

  Carmela nodded at Zeke, sort of an underlining of Robert’s words.

  “OK, let’s change the focus for a minute,” said Zeke. His MIECEP training in counterterrorism included the use of differing questioning patterns to bring new information to light. Some of the techniques had to do with putting the questioned party in a position where they wanted to help you, and some of the techniques had to do with testing the consistency of an interview by quickly changing the timing of the questioned party’s thoughts and answers. Jumping back and forth in time or asking the interviewee to relate events “out of order” was second nature to Zeke.

  “All right,” said Robert.

  “What did you do after you settled Mr. Taylor’s wife and daughter?”

  “I left them with one of our security officers and I went to the security office,” said Robert.

  “Who else was there?” asked Zeke, in cadence.

  “Two of my guys were there, and Carmela, Mrs. Wright was there, also.”

  “Why was Mrs. Wright there?” asked Zeke.

  “It was a different matter,” said Robert. “We had left a passenger in Freeport, and we had to be certain that we made the right notifications.”

  “You left a passenger?” Zeke repeated.

  “Yes, when we prepared to cast off, we realized that we were short one passenger. A Mr. Hansen, Titus Hansen. He had an outside room and was sailing alone.”

  “Have you heard anything from him?” asked Zeke.

  “No, I don’t think we have,” said Robert, and he looked at Carmela Wright. She shook her head. “With Mr. Taylor’s death, I guess Mr. Hansen went on the back burner.”

  “What typically happens when a guest is left on shore?” asked Zeke, still maintaining a rhythm with the questions.

  “Usually, we hear from the local authorities. They call and tell us that they’ve found our passenger, and we make arrangements to pick them up at the next port. They fly ahead. When it happens, it’s usually because someone drinks too much…”

  “In this case?” asked Zeke.

  “No, we never heard from anyone about Mr. Hansen.”

  “I’d like to see Mr. Titus Hansen’s information,” said Zeke.

  “I can arrange for that,” said Carmela. “We have copies of his passport and the forms he filled out prior to embarking. We also have his reservation information, method of payment, and whatever personal information he shared on his reservation, plus we retain the identification photos we took when he boarded the ship. We keep extensive records of our passengers and their preferences.”

  “OK, please have that sent to me as soon as possible,” said Zeke. He gave them an e-mail address.

  “Yes, of course,” said Carmela.

  * * *

  “I may have found something,” Zeke said to Clive. They were talking on a secure cell phone connection, Clive in his Washington, DC offices and Zeke in a room on the second floor of a boutique hotel on South Beach. Across Ocean Drive from the hotel, Zeke could see the wide sandy beach and further away, the deep blue ocean. The area was busy with tourists. There were three young girls, college aged, in thong bikini’s rollerblading north in a single-file line on the sidewalk on the far side of the street. Zeke admired them from his window for a moment.

  “Zeke?” asked Clive. “Are you still there?”

  “Sorry, local color,” he said. “Apparently, a guest on the Venture, the cruise ship that Roger Taylor died on, disappeared that same day. I had the cruise line send me the information on the disappearing guest. His name was Titus Hansen.”

  “Is there a connection?” asked Clive.

  “Seems like there must be,” said Zeke. “This guy was traveling alone and had an outside cabin. He charged no drinks, bought nothing, did no shore excursions, he just boarded the ship, and on the third day, he disappeared.”

  “How did that happen?” asked Clive.

  “They have a record of Titus Hansen debarking the ship in Freeport before noon that day. At 10:27 AM exactly. That was the last an
yone from the ship saw of him. He was first noticed missing that afternoon around 4, when the ship was preparing to sail.”

  “I imagine they track that pretty carefully,” said Clive.

  “They do. They searched the port area, but when he wasn’t found, the ship’s crew made the decision to sail without him. That’s standard operating procedure when a passenger doesn’t make it back to the ship on time. They expected him to rejoin the cruise at the next port,” said Zeke. “It happens more than you’d think, according to the crew.”

  “Did they have complete information on this Mr. Hansen?” asked Clive.

  “I copied you on what they sent me. Sally has it,” said Zeke. She was Zeke’s primary research assistant within The Agency. “But I’m not sure that Mr. Hansen actually existed before the cruise started. We have passport information, and a security photo they take at embarkation and use throughout the ship, as well as at the debarkation points. We have his credit card data and his reservation data.”

  “Did he leave anything? Any trace?” asked Clive.

  “Nothing but a suitcase. His stateroom has been turned over several times since then, of course. There was nothing left in the cabin, no personal effects. The cabin steward said that he had little contact with Hanson, and that there was nothing left in the room after the cruise except a suitcase.”

  “And once Roger’s death was discovered, I’m sure the attention shifted away from Mr. Hansen. What about the photo?” asked Clive.

  “He has a large moustache, but other than that, he’s actually pretty ordinary looking. Brown hair and brown eyes, although it’s hard to tell. It doesn’t look like the flash worked when the cruise line took his security photo. It’s rather shadowy,” said Zeke. “According to the Chief Purser, it’s very rare to have a single passenger who doesn’t spend any money and doesn’t participate in shore excursions and such.”

  “I imagine that most single passengers are there to meet someone, or to party and have a knees up,” said Clive.