The military haircut makes her think of Connor.
Official confirmation should come through any minute now.
Tension twinges between Christina’s shoulder blades. Annoying, distracting. Maybe she should go to the yoga classes at the Y that her PTA-and-polyester sister-in-law Alice keeps proselytizing about. But when the hell is she ever out of the office before eight p.m.? Anyway, Alice keeps passive-aggressively forwarding her articles about work/life balance and the greatest regrets of the dying. Screw her. Christina does what she has to. Period.
There must be something from Ankara by now.
It reminds Christina of the bad old days, when she ran surveillance ops and had to wait for hours in that loaner station wagon that smelled like egg salad, just watching. Even then, the waiting drove her nuts. You can’t listen to the news or an audiobook on surveillance—too engaging. Christina used to sing along to Dolly Parton. To this day, “Jolene” still makes her think of the KGB.
She scans Starbucks for an empty table. No hope—the place is jammed. But instead of the usual buzzy busyness and ambitious, nerdy maneuvering, there’s something else. Guilt. Terrorists blowing up a U.S. Embassy on the Fourth of July? How did we fuck up this big?
Good. Let them feel it, too, for once.
Christina can sense something else as well. A new electric charge of energy, crackling like lightning in a puddle. The good old tragedy boost. Nice while it lasts.
Why the hell hasn’t she heard from Ankara?
She spots a junior weapons analyst from the “Women in the Intelligence Community” panel she finally browbeat HR into organizing last week.
The young analyst lurches to her sensible pumps. “I was just leaving, ma’am.” She adds, with audible pride, “Got to go drill down on the Ankara situation.”
“Deepika, right? How’re you liking the manatees?” Joe Weinberger, chief of MENATI (the Middle East Nonstate Actors, Terrorism, and Insurgency group at the Mission Center for Weapons and Counterproliferation), hates the nickname. Christina uses it every chance she gets. Weinberger is a sanctimonious bleeding heart; Stare Kiejkuty could’ve been a gold mine, if he hadn’t started squealing about enhanced interrogation.
Deepika glows. “It’s an amazing opportunity, ma’am. Thanks again for recommending me.”
“We can’t have our best young analysts on Serbian junkyard patrol. Weinberger’s a slave driver, but you’ll learn fast.”
“He’s got me writing up the Hashashin weapons holdings for the PDB.” Deepika speaks in the hushed, portentous voice of someone fresh enough that putting words in the President’s daily briefing feels like a thrilling brush with power, rather than an exercise in futility worthy of a sandcastle zoning board. “They need the highest possible granularity.”
“Anything interesting?”
Deepika looks embarrassed, but Christina’s a mentor she can trust. “It’s bizarre, ma’am. There are so many gaps. Almost nothing on Hashashin weapons acquisition from before this year. Like we were barely even monitoring them. SIGINT really fell down on the job.”
“Here you go, ma’am.” The slug-chinned barista hands Christina a plastic cup, fogged slick with icy condensation. No name on it, of course.
Christina slides into Deepika’s abandoned chair, breaks the cookie in half. No snap; like most things at CIA, it’s gone flabby. “Here. Got to keep up your strength.”
The young analyst cradles the broken cookie like a trophy.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Deepika glances slightly behind her, toward a group of hawk-eyed, pasty-faced young men—the rest of the MENATI weapons analysis group, who greedily observe the mark of favor.
Christina’s no D/CIA—give it another few years—but she knows the rep she’s built: Christina Ekdahl makes things happen. She can make you happen, if she wants. Plenty of new hires, especially the ex-lawyers and consultants, try to schmooze her. Connor never had, though she could tell he yearned to prove himself. The trick to recruiting case officers is to find the bowling balls: hard, smooth, almost flawless, but with enough holes in their shell for one person to grip tight and control.
“Ma’am!” Taylor’s tight ponytail wags as she clatters toward Christina’s table.
“It’s about time—”
Taylor’s too-high voice is quivering. “It’s an emergency.”
No heads turn. No eyes flicker. But the attention amps up. Everyone here is a professional watcher. Except the Christ-piloted barista.
“Not here.” Christina clamps onto her PA’s arm and steers her out the door. “Taylor,” she begins in a strained voice, “we have procedures for a reason. You do not go clomping across Starbucks—”
“It’s Connor.” Taylor looks shell-shocked. “The signal from his phone and his laptop just terminated.” She swallows. “The sensor data suggests sudden, extreme heat, consistent with an explosion.”
Christina quickens her pace. “What about his tracker watch?”
“That’s gone dead, too.” Taylor looks stricken. “All within the same three-second interval.”
Christina keeps her voice level. “Location?”
Taylor brandishes her tablet. “The last tracking data has him on a highway on the outskirts of Ankara.”
“A highway? He’s supposed to be gofering for Frank Lerman. What’s he doing on a highway?”
“Audrey is liaising with State now. Ma’am, should I instruct Istanbul or Adana Station to dispatch someone to the accident? If Connor’s wounded . . .”
Christina bypasses the crowded elevator and runs up the stairs. “The site isn’t secure. We’re down too many officers already.”
“Turkish Intelligence?”
“As far as the Turks know, Connor’s just another diplomat. This has to come through State.”
“But, ma’am . . .” Taylor falters, her voice shrill with a fear she can’t hide. “Connor—what if he . . . he’s . . .”
“Connor knew the risks. This isn’t UNICEF, Taylor. And if he strayed off target . . .”
Christina can see her assistant fighting back tears. “It’s just—” Taylor swallows. “I got the Save the Date. Connor’s supposed to get married in April.”
Christina puts a steadying hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “Emergencies are when we need our routines the most. The best thing we can do for him is to follow protocol. Get me Secretary Winthrop on the phone. And mark Connor as gray.”
14
* * *
FOREST FOR THE TREES
ANKARA, TURKEY
18:48 LOCAL TIME
Dry undergrowth crunches under every step. With each sharp breath, Penny tastes pine in the air. And salt.
Blood in her mouth. Dizziness surges around the curve of her skull. She’s getting really sick of this confusion.
Conclusion.
Concussion.
That’s it. One more step. One step closer to finding Zach.
Connor must be tired, too, he must. His white shirt back is splotchy-clear with sweat, but he never stops to catch his breath, and she’s not about to ask him to slow down. He plows uphill between the narrow trunks, aerodynamic and relentless as a drone, eyes straight ahead, jacket over his arm, his silence like a wall.
Penny’s feet slip in Connor’s woolen socks. Hot blisters bubble across her soles. The temperature is dropping with the sun, but sweat glues the heavy bathrobe to her back. Thank God for the exhaustion. It crowds out most everything else.
Connor’s voice startles her.
She licks her lips. “What?”
“I said, it all comes down to one question.” He sounds like he’s in a seminar.
Her voice comes out raspy. “You’ve only got one?”
Connor doesn’t break stride. “Which of us were they trying to kill?”
“That’s your question?” Penny laughs. “How about, where on earth are we going, once we get out of the woods? ’Cause I’ve been thinking.” She ticks off on her fingers. “We don’t have an Embassy to go to. We can’t go to
your CIA safe house. We can’t go anywhere Palamut’s people can find me—so no hospitals or police stations or friendly embassies. I’m sure they’re watching my landlady’s apartment. Hotels and planes need passports, which we don’t have. Neither of us has a phone, and between your tux and my bathrobe, we’re not exactly inconspicuous. So what are we supposed to do?”
“It’s a suit.” Connor glances back at her. “Zach didn’t teach you much about intelligence, did he? First you have to know your enemy’s rationale. His goals.”
Penny pushes up the bathrobe sleeves. “Right now I’d settle for a name, an address, and a grenade launcher.”
He chuckles. “Have you ever even seen a grenade launcher?”
“Have you?”
“That’s beside the point,” he says stiffly. “If we know our enemy’s motivation, we can infer what he’ll do next.”
“What do you mean, next?”
“Someone set off that bomb. What’s he going to do when he finds out there was only one body in that car?”
Penny shoves past a dried-out patch of scrub.
“So the question remains,” says Connor. “Was the bomb meant primarily for you, or for me?”
Penny shakes her head, which makes it hurt more. “It was in your briefcase. It must’ve been meant for you. How could anyone possibly have known that you were going to find me at the construction yard? Speaking of which”—her eyes narrow—“just how did you find me?”
Connor ignores this. “If my phone was compromised . . .” He frowns. “It’s possible they knew I was coming to get you. And frankly, between the two of us, you’re a much more plausible target.”
“Why?” Penny catches up with him. Frustration catalyzes pain into emotional rocket fuel. “You’re the spy, not me!” A blister on her right heel pops, and she staggers, cursing.
Connor glances back. “You need a hand?”
She grits her teeth and limps uphill. “First I get kidnapped. Now someone’s trying to kill me? Tell. Me. Why.”
“Zach Robson is missing. He may be dead. He was buying secret information from Mehmetoğlu—information important enough to kill for. You’re our only link to what he found.”
“I don’t even know what Zach was looking for!”
“Obviously, Palamut’s people think you do. So does Frank Lerman. So does my boss.”
“What is it then?”
“You tell me.”
“Hang on,” says Penny. “Are you saying the CIA doesn’t know what Zach was doing with Mehmetoğlu?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did. You said I was the only link.”
Connor scowls. “You’re so sharp, you’ll cut yourself.”
“How can the CIA not know what Zach was doing with Mehmetoğlu?” demands Penny. “At the Embassy, there’s paperwork for everything. Are you telling me there isn’t some kind of form that Zach filled out for his new”—she waves her hands—“I don’t know, secret terrorist spy contact?”
“Sure. There are forms, safeguards, cross-checks, you name it. We’ve got a whole procedure. Your boyfriend is—pardon my saying so—an entitled jerk who thinks he’s Jason freaking Bourne and the rules don’t apply to him. Sure, he filled out lots of forms. But he never mentioned Mehmetoğlu on any of them.”
“Zach Robson is my friend.” Penny hoists herself uphill, grabbing narrow trunks like monkey bars. “And since when is not doing paperwork a crime?”
“In Zach’s job? It’s a fricking felony. He used you to circumvent procedure to get Davut Mehmetoğlu into the Embassy party the very night it was bombed. If you look up suspicious in the dictionary, that’s pretty much the definition.”
“What makes you think Mehmetoğlu even had anything to do with the bomb?”
“He wasn’t just some Kurdish politician. He was a Kurdish independence activist.” Connor raises his eyebrows. “There’s a reason he was on the terror watchlist.”
“Kurdish terrorists don’t target Americans! America is the Kurds’ best ally. It’s the Turkish government they hate. They go after Turkish army barracks, police stations—stuff like that.”
“Maybe the Kurds aren’t huge fans of our new NATO peace deal that’s going to give away half of their territory in northern Syria, huh?”
Penny protests, “Even Palamut’s people said they thought the Hashashin were involved.”
“So do we. But how many other terrorists do you think were at that party?”
“So maybe Zach was trying to catch Mehmetoğlu!” Penny leans against a stump, trying to catch her breath.
“Zach bought a burner phone two weeks ago. He’s been using a second laptop we can’t trace. We know Zach was hiding something. We just don’t know what.”
“If Zach was hiding something from the CIA, I’m sure he had a good reason,” says Penny fiercely. “For all you know, he could be a whistle-blower!”
Connor sighs. “You know, I honestly believe that you believe that.”
Penny sticks out her chin. “I believe in Zach.”
Connor turns to look at her. “Sometimes people we care about aren’t who we think they are.”
“That’s rich, coming from the guy who thought I was a terrorist.”
They emerge from between the thin, scrubby evergreens onto the edge of a small valley, carpeted with knee-high dry grass.
“Okay.” Connor slows down until she can keep pace. “So you know the real Zach Robson, huh?”
“I know I can trust him.”
“Really. Did he tell you he was about to lose his job?”
“What?”
Connor lopes down the hill. “Zach was supposed to transfer to Geneva last January. Huge promotion. Ridiculously plushy gig—unofficial cover as some banker playboy who could pal around with Qatari princes. Now, that’s not normal—Zach hasn’t earned that. Never even served a hardship tour. Somebody in Washington must think he walks on water.”
“Zach’s special.”
“Well, anyway, he got promoted. Right over his Chief of Station’s head.” Connor sounds grim. “Except a month before Prince Charming was supposed to leave for Geneva, you know what he did? He screwed his Chief of Station’s wife. At CIA’s Ankara Station St. Patrick’s Day party. In the Chief of Station’s house. On the breakfast banquette.”
Penny struggles back uphill through the tall dry grass, suddenly nauseated. “What?”
“Oh, my boss told me all about it. Zach almost lost his clearance—“recklessness and poor judgment.” They took the Geneva post away. By the rulebook, Zach should’ve been fired immediately. But his language skills are hard to replace, so they’re letting him stay here through the summer, on probation. Under the direct command of the guy whose wife he screwed.”
“I don’t believe it.” Penny’s cheeks are burning. She follows Connor back into the shadow of the woods.
“Why would my boss lie about that?”
“Yeah,” says Penny drily. “Why would the CIA try to smear a whistle-blower?”
“Zach’s not a whistle-blower.”
“What makes you so sure? If Zach did uncover something, isn’t this just the kind of mud they’d try to sling? What kind of proof do you have?”
“For God’s sake.” Connor stops and looks her full in the face. “Don’t you understand what’s at stake here? Our alliance with Turkey is so frayed, it’s about to snap. Now, because of the Embassy bombing, the Syria peace deal is on the line as well. If anything else happens before the NATO Summit, the whole region could implode, and we all get dragged into a war. Penny, I’m asking you. If you know anything at all about what Zach was looking for, you’ve got to tell me now.”
Penny hits her limit. “I told Melek Palamut, and I’ll tell you. I don’t know what Zach was doing!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Connor comes to a sharp halt, tense as a terrier. He looks more shocked than he did after the car exploded. “You told Melek Palamut?”
15
* * *
PIGS
, DOGS, AND RATS
Penny sinks gratefully onto the prickly carpeting of dry pine needles. “Melek showed me a text Mehmetoğlu sent to his Hashashin contact that said, ‘Good luck to the girl with the flag.’ And then a text the contact sent back that said, ‘Delivered.’ ”
“ ‘Delivered’? What was delivered?”
“I don’t know!”
“What did you tell Melek?”
“The truth. She didn’t believe me.”
Connor’s voice is grim. “Our records say Melek met Zach once in passing. She shouldn’t even remember he exists.”
“She acted like they were really close. But I’m sure she was lying.”
“Why exactly?” Connor crouches down beside her.
“She kept calling him Zachary, and he hates that.”
“What else did she say? Penny, this is extremely important.”
Penny closes her eyes. Her head is swimming. In the branches overhead, a red squirrel begins to chatter. “She knew I’d been talking to Zach and Mehmetoğlu just before the bomb. But she can’t have seen me—she and her guards left like fifteen minutes before that. So how did she know?”
Connor looks grim. “Melek Palamut was at the party, and she conveniently left right before the bomb went off?”
Penny takes a deep breath of piney air. “Do you think she knew?”
“The only way she’d know is if she’s implicated.”
“The Turkish President’s daughter blowing up the U.S. Embassy?” Penny shakes her head. “Bullshit.”
“She wouldn’t have had to organize it—she could have just known and let it happen.”
“No. Melek didn’t seem evil.”
“Oh, well, in that case . . .”
“Well, she didn’t. Not even angry. She was like a—a fancy lawyer or a fashion executive or something. But something was really wrong. She was—desperate. Like she was protecting someone.”
“Her father?”
Penny meets his eyes. “I know Palamut’s crazy, but . . .”
“Plenty of people think he tangoed with ISIS when he wanted the oil revenues. Maybe he got involved with the Hashashin as well.”
Liar's Candle Page 11
