“What about inviting Mehmetoğlu?”
“It was a mistake,” says Penny hoarsely. “Zach asked me to add Mehmetoğlu’s name to the guest list. That’s it. That’s all I did. I typed one name. I didn’t know who he was.” Her voice cracks. “If I did anything wrong, I’m sorry. I’m not a terrorist. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I just want to go home.” She’s full on crying now. She’s got no energy to fight it down or care what Connor thinks. “I just want to go home.”
Faruk turns around again, obviously concerned. “Okay?”
“Okay!” snaps Connor.
“Çikolata?” Faruk holds a half-eaten candy bar toward Penny.
The BMW has veered into the neighboring lane; a chorus of horns sounds.
“Just drive, Faruk!” snaps Connor, gesturing at the road. “Okay?”
“Okay.” Faruk squares his padded shoulders. He’s clearly placed Connor in the mental file marked “Assholes.”
Penny feels a surge of fellow feeling for the driver. She breaks a square off the chocolate bar. It’s salty-sweet, studded with pistachios. She’s startled to realize that she’s ravenous. How long has it been since that ice cream in the Embassy garden? She scrapes the last traces off the wrapper. “You really don’t believe me,” she says quietly.
Connor stares straight ahead.
Her mind is racing. “If I were a terrorist and I escaped, why the hell would I get into the car with you? It doesn’t make any sense!”
She can see the words hit home.
Connor hesitates. She senses his doubt. His kindness from the hospital almost resurges; she can see it in his face. But no. It’s not enough. He stares ahead. “I have nothing further to say to you, Miss Kessler.”
Penny’s heart is hammering. “I want to get out of the car.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Am I under arrest?” The words taste funny in her mouth. Dad used to accuse her of being an approval junkie; she always tried to follow the rules. She remembers last semester, when an unexpected B- on her statistics midterm reduced her to ugly tears in the Michigan Union ladies’ room. It seems very far away.
Connor replies stiffly, “I’m not a police officer.”
“Then why can’t I leave?”
“We’re going fifty miles an hour.”
“Where’s Brenda?” demands Penny in a low voice. “I want to talk to Brenda Pelecchia.” He doesn’t answer. “What about the media? What about the people at the Presidential Palace? Don’t you think they’ll all be wondering where I’ve gone?”
“I’m taking you to the safe house.”
“I promised I’d help you find Zach,” says Penny furiously. “If the Hashashin have got him, every hour we wait is going to put him in more danger. He’s one of your people, isn’t he? Are you going to let me help him or not?”
“Miss Kessler, right now my orders are to take you to the safe house. Nothing else.”
They sit in furious silence as the gray BMW weaves down the D200 highway, past the ANKAmall, out toward Middle East Technical University, on the low-rise western fringe of the city.
Penny’s evil eye bracelet glints in the golden light. Some good luck charm. She leans her throbbing, exhausted head on her dusty knees. She badly needs the rest—and this way, she doesn’t have to see Connor’s snub-nosed, self-righteous face, his perfectly side-parted baby-blond hair.
For his part, Connor sits rigidly upright, arms crossed over his spotless suit jacket, eyes suspiciously on Penny. He takes a swig of blue Gatorade. “You want some? It’s got lots of electrolytes.”
Penny glowers at him. “Would that be their new knockout-drops flavor?”
Connor rolls his eyes. “That was to stop you from being tortured. You could try a little gratitude. You thirsty or not?”
Penny’s lips are cracking, but she shakes her sore head. “No thank you.”
Connor shrugs. “It’s your funeral.”
Penny swallows hard. That’s just an expression, isn’t it? A CIA “safe house” could mean almost anything, especially if they think she’s a terrorist. Why won’t they let her talk to Brenda? Is she really any safer than she was in Palamut’s palace?
What would Zach do? Penny bites the inside of her cheek, willing her mind to focus. For the second time in an hour, she’s got to find some way to escape.
This time from a moving car, with an angry (and presumably armed) spy sitting next to her.
She watches Connor drain his Gatorade and fiddle with the lid.
Why should he be nervous? Because of what is waiting at the “safe house”? Penny’s mouth is painfully dry. She’s got to find some way out of here.
Obeying the canned voice of the GPS, Faruk exits the D200 onto Mevlana Boulevard, heading south toward the Middle East Technical University’s man-made forest: hundreds of thousands of scrubby trees in tidy rows, used mostly by students for picnics and privacy. There’s hardly another car on the road, except for the enormous Eti biscuit truck lumbering in front of them.
Penny slides her fingers over her seat-belt buckle. She presses it slowly, to muffle the click. The forest—rows of skinny evergreens—runs all along the right side of the car. She’ll only have to make it about ten feet to gain the cover of the trees. She just needs the car to slow down.
They’re coming up to a traffic light. Green. Dammit.
The Eti truck rolls through, and the light turns yellow. Faruk hits the breaks.
“It’s just a yellow light,” grouses Connor. “It’s not like there’s anybody on the road.”
The light turns red.
Shielded by the bulk of her red bathrobe, Penny grips the door handle. If she waits till the red light is almost up, there’s a chance Faruk will already be accelerating as she jumps, making it harder for Connor to follow. It might buy her a few extra seconds.
Three, two, go.
Penny flings open the door and hurls herself onto the asphalt, just as Faruk accelerates. The bitter smell of sun-melted tar stings in her nostrils. The black goo burns as it gloms on to her bare feet. Her knees threaten to buckle as she staggers toward the forest.
This was a stupid, stupid idea.
Faruk hits the breaks and turns around, confused. “Mr. Connor—”
“Jesus!” Connor may be stunned, but he’s well trained—and wearing shoes. He clicks off his seat belt and lunges after her.
Penny struggles onto the spiky, desiccated grass off the shoulder. Only two feet to the shelter of the trees.
“Stop!” Connor has drawn a small black gun. He’s only ten feet away now, on the edge of the road. “Stop now!” His voice is shaking, but his hand is steady. “I’ll shoot you if I have to!”
Penny turns around. “Please, I—”
The force of the explosion knocks them both to the earth.
13
* * *
THE QUICK AND THE DEAD
Penny never thought she’d have to feel it again. That boom, like a punch to the chest. That singe of heat. That tingling roar in her ears.
Time stretches.
The flaming shell of the BMW has blown itself upward, almost fifteen feet in the air.
Beneath it, Connor’s lanky form sprawls on the edge of the road.
The car, thinks Penny numbly.
And then, Connor.
She realizes she’s screaming his name, almost ripping his suit jacket as she drags him onto the grass, out of danger. The flaming BMW crunches back down on the road in a spray of glass, upside down, crackling like an acrid bonfire.
“Run,” gasps Connor. He tugs her toward the trees.
“Faruk—”
“Gas tank!”
Penny fights him. “But—”
Hell heat. A riptide of sound.
A twenty-foot inferno engulfs the BMW as the gas tank explodes. The fat column of black smoke soars into the clouds.
Penny is shaking uncontrollably.
“Come on!” Connor has her by the wrist. His gun is back in its hol
ster, and the chill is gone from his voice. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
“But Faruk—” She stops herself. She knows there’s no way he survived.
Connor shakes his head. “Come on.”
“We need to call an ambulance!”
“Hell no, we don’t.” Now that he’s agitated, his Southern accent is a lot more noticeable. “Move it, before somebody sees us!”
Over her shoulder, as Connor pulls her into the woods, Penny sees a battered blue Peugeot pull up. The driver jumps out and runs toward the wreck.
Connor yanks her arm. “Hurry!”
Penny limps barefoot through the undergrowth of coarse grass, struggling to keep pace.
When they’re a few hundred yards into the forest, Connor stops and raises a finger to his lips. Penny sits down heavily, gasping. She leans against one of the narrow trunks.
Connor leans over her, panting. “You okay?”
She nods.
There’s no sound but the slight creaking of the branches in the warm breeze. It must be around six; the golden sun is sinking toward the horizon.
“I’m going to make a call,” Connor says. “You try to run away, I swear I’ll shoot you. Got that?”
Penny nods again, still trying to catch her breath.
Connor reaches in the pocket of his suit, and his face falls. He pats his trouser pockets. He pulls his jacket off and shakes it upside down.
“It’s in your briefcase,” says Penny. “In the car.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Connor glowers.
“Don’t you have a secret radio in your shoe, or something?”
Connor rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ’cause that wouldn’t look suspicious coming through airport security.”
“Haven’t you got anything?”
He feels his belt. “My Swiss Army knife.”
Penny’s hands are still shaking. “Did you bring marshmallows for the campfire, too?”
“My equipment was in my briefcase,” says Connor through his teeth.
Penny looks up at him. “So what now? You going to march me to your safe house at gunpoint?”
“Can’t.” Connor rubs the back of his neck. “My boss sent the directions directly to Faruk.”
“You mean you don’t even know where you were taking me?”
“It doesn’t matter!” snaps Connor, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Don’t you get it? The explosion came from inside the car. That means one of three things. Option one, someone put a bomb in the car before Faruk got into it. Which means the safe house may be compromised. Option two, Faruk was some kind of suicide bomber—which I seriously doubt, seeing as he works for the Agency—”
“And seeing as he just gave me his candy bar.” Penny’s breathing raggedly. Her ears are still ringing. “What’s option three? Are you going to blame me for this one, too?”
“Physically impossible for you to have done it.” Connor crouches down next to her and meets her eyes. “Besides. Your first instinct was to drag me away from the wreck.”
Penny swallows. “So what’s option three?”
Connor looks embarrassed. “I had an ECRP in my briefcase.”
“A what?”
“A kind of emergency kit.”
“Like matches and a whistle?”
He won’t meet her eyes. “And a certain quantity of plastic explosives.”
“Hang on.” Penny’s voice is hoarse. “You were walking around with a bomb?”
“Not a bomb,” Connor objects. “More like a code-activated grenade.”
“You accused me of blowing up the Embassy.” Tears sting Penny’s eyes. “You accused me of murdering my friends. But you’re the one with the bomb and the knife and the gun! How do I know you didn’t blow up the car?”
“Are you insane?” Connor stares at her. “Look, I’m sorry. Maybe my boss was wrong about you. Bad intel happens—”
“Is that supposed to make it okay that you drugged me and called me a terrorist?”
“I don’t know what you are,” says Connor flatly. “And until I get in touch with my boss, unless you try to run away or kill me, I don’t care. The point is, there’s a chance the bad guys may have hacked and remotely detonated my equipment. It’s not supposed to be possible. . . .”
“None of this is supposed to be possible.” Penny hears sirens in the far distance, from the direction of the wreck.
“There’s a thermal sensor in my phone. My supervisor will know it’s been destroyed. I’ve got to contact Langley ASAP.”
“Langley.” Penny looks at him. “You really are a spy.”
Connor gives her a funny look and starts to untie his shoelaces. “You’re pretty new to this, aren’t you?”
Penny crosses her arms. “I’m a fast learner.”
“Here.” Connor slides his shoes back on and hands Penny his socks. “They’ll be big on you, but you can’t walk barefoot on pine needles.”
“Thick wool socks in Turkey in July?” She pulls them on.
Something almost like a smile flickers on his face. “Maybe my last posting was in Siberia, hunting down corrupt oligarchs and caviar smugglers in big furry hats.”
“For real?”
“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Okay, now you’re just trolling.”
He reaches out a hand to help her up.
She hesitates a moment, then takes it.
“Right,” he says. “The last buildings we passed were to the west. We haven’t got a compass, but my dad used to take me hunting, and he taught me a little trick for this.” Connor snaps a small twig off the nearest tree. “We’re in the northern hemisphere, so if I align the shadow of the twig on my watch halfway between the hour hand and twelve, we see that west is—”
“That way.” Penny points up toward the narrow trunks of the pines.
Connor lowers his watch, frowning. “How do you know?”
Penny gestures at the sinking sun.
“Just as well.” Connor shakes his watch. “It’s stopped.”
* * *
ANKARA, TURKEY
18:20 LOCAL TIME
Frank Lerman steps out of the revolving door of the Rixos Grand Ankara into the red twilight. “Where is she?”
The dark-suited bodyguard gestures him across the driveway. Dust spatters the armored black SUV, half obscuring the telltale green-and-white diplomatic plates.
Frank climbs into the SUV and grins. “Ms. Pelecchia. We meet again.”
Brenda peers behind him. “Where’s your assistant? We could use another hand on deck.”
“C-3PO had to step out. It’s just me.”
Brenda doesn’t return his smile. “Close the door.” She calls up to the driver, “Please go as fast as you safely can.”
The SUV pulls out onto Atatürk Boulevard.
“I gather congratulations are in order,” says Frank, angling to get a better look at her. “Chargé d’Affaires, huh? Our acting Ambassador. That’s a big step up for you. I guess the mushroom cloud has a silver lining.”
Brenda eyes him with obvious distaste. “Mr. Lerman, almost two hundred of my colleagues—our colleagues—have just been murdered. Secretary Winthrop seems to feel I’m the only senior diplomat with sufficient area knowledge to take charge in this time of crisis. Congratulations are the last thing I want from you. What I need is complete cooperation, and an open line of communication to Secretary Winthrop.”
“Call me Frank. You’re sixth-floor level now.”
“Well, Frank, non-emergency personnel and families are obviously being evacuated to Oakwood. Except for a skeleton staff to keep an eye on the wounded and the Embassy building, everyone else is being transferred to the Consulate General in Istanbul.”
“I know.” Frank nods. “Secretary Winthrop has directed me to come along as special adviser.”
Brenda’s lips press to a thin line. “So I hear.”
Frank raises his eyebrows significantly. “The NATO Summit will be the
defining moment of Secretary Winthrop’s legacy. You’re going to need someone experienced helping you out.”
Brenda’s expression is tight.
“So.” Frank puts his feet up on the opposite seat. “Straight to the airport?”
“We need to make a stop at the hospital. I just got a call from a Mr. Ünal Kuyu, President Palamut’s Chief of Staff. He said Penny Kessler told them she was feeling dizzy. Their doctor was worried about some kind of internal bleeding and sent her back to the hospital for tests, just to be sure. Mr. Kuyu seemed to think it was my fault that Penny wasn’t all bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to tap-dance.” Brenda makes a face. “He accused us of trying to make President Palamut look bad.”
“Weird to let her go so fast, when they fought so hard to get her. Didn’t want her dying on their watch, I guess.”
Frank Lerman may be an asshole, but that has the ring of truth. “Penny seemed perfectly lucid.” Brenda grimaces. “I don’t like the smell of this.”
* * *
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
11:23 LOCAL TIME
It’s a shame, thinks Christina Ekdahl, that security banned CIA’s private branch of Starbucks from giving out loyalty cards. She’d be due a bathtubful of skinny double-shot lattes by now. She steps up to the high Formica counter. “Grande vanilla Frappuccino and a peanut-butter-cup cookie.”
The barista grins. “Going straight for the hard stuff?”
Christina drums her fingers. No need to slap him down; he doesn’t count. “It’s one of those days.”
“You’re telling me, ma’am. We ran out of cheesecake by eleven.”
Christina watches the barista clip the beans into the coffee grinder. After a couple decades, the Threat and Allegiance Assessment is so automatic she can’t turn it off. This guy’s less an open book than a giant flashing billboard. Corpse-white upper arms and an unironic necklace of cuboid white plastic beads that spell out J-E-S-U-S-I-S-M-Y-W-I-N-G-M-A-N. He’s even got the strip-mall crew cut to match. Prospectless loser, clinging to God and country as his last lifeline. If he worked for an enemy, she’d have him geysering intel in two days. Maybe she should talk to HR.
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