“You think I let terrorists on my bus?”
“I have to ask, abi,” protests the young officer. “Have you seen anything suspicious?”
“Trust me, son. If anyone tries something suspicious on my bus, they’d be dead before the police got them!”
The young officer chuckles and waves him on. “Sağol, abi!”
The lights switch off overhead. The darkened bus accelerates eastward along the headlight-spangled highway.
24
* * *
THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF
ISTANBUL ATATÜRK AIRPORT
21:15 LOCAL TIME
A black, armored SUV with green diplomatic plates is waiting for Brenda and Frank at Istanbul Atatürk Airport. Four new bodyguards hastily stub out their cigarettes and climb into the follow car.
As the seagull flies, it’s only fifteen miles through central Istanbul from the airport to the residence of the U.S. Consul General in a waterside neighborhood on the European shore. But it’s a clear night in July, and the traffic hardly budges. Buckled into the cavernous, bulletproof backseat, Brenda chews up half a pack of gum. The gum’s a common Turkish brand, Falım—“my fate”—left in her pocket from before the Fourth. Each minty stick comes wrapped in a fortune-cookie-like prediction. Brenda crumples one after the other.
You will meet a tall dark stranger.
No, thanks.
True love and passion await you.
Steve is already on the plane back to DC with the kids, thank God. She barely had time to hug them. At least they’re out of here.
There’s no gum prediction that says, You will lose every friend you’ve made in the last two years, every colleague who’s ever gotten on your nerves and sourced limes for Margarita Night and made Ankara bearable. And then you’ll have to clean up the mess.
Candy doesn’t tend to tell you stuff like that.
The black SUV inches along the coastal road, past the immense parade ground for political rallies that Palamut dumped thousands of tons of concrete on a Byzantine harbor to build. Beyond the road, oil tankers lurk in the dark waters, waiting for permission to churn up the Bosphorus Strait to the Black Sea.
Brenda scrolls through the latest press summaries on her BlackBerry. A shrill op-ed in Slate wants to know why the death of Flag Girl is getting so much more coverage across the international press than the deaths of dozens of Turks, or the other bombings this week in Mogadishu, Basra, Karachi: “Why do people only care when the person who dies is a photogenic white American?” #NotOnlyFlagGirl is inching up alongside #PrayforAnkara and #StandStrongUSA in global trends. The trolls from 55 Savushkina Street are blasting every comments section with Russian-accented conspiracy theories. The Democrats are blaming the Republicans, the Republicans are blaming the Muslims, and the rest of the world is blaming American foreign policy—except for the Brits, who are blaming each other.
Brenda clicks the little screen black. No point giving herself an aneurysm. Flag Girl. Two days ago, Penny was just the summer intern who jammed the photocopier twice a week and got in much too early every morning, trying so hard to do the right thing. Now that she’s lying in a Turkish military morgue, the whole world acts like she was Joan of Arc. At least Joan of Arc chose her battle. Penny wasn’t even in Turkey to fight. When Brenda was picking up her luggage at the baggage carousel, she got a text message from Greg, the FSO liaising with the hospital. The death count is up to 294.
Frank Lerman is clipping his fingernails over the SUV’s carpeted floor. Brenda tries to pretend she hasn’t noticed.
They round the beaked nose of Sarayburnu point and the faintly silhouetted chimneys of Topkapı Palace. Slowly, they roll up to the mouth of the moonlit, ferry-studded Golden Horn. The familiar postcard skyline of slim, balconied minarets and apple domes appears through the back window as the car crawls across the Galata Bridge. They move slower than the boys selling cups of milk-sweet boiled corn, but faster than the handful of photo-snapping tourists from the Gulf, obvious outsiders in their robes amid the blue-jeaned Istanbullus, who don’t look much different from the nighttime crowd in any Mediterranean port. There never used to be so many beggars on the bridge. The ones Brenda can see look like dolls left at the mercy of a vicious child, with limp heads and missing limbs.
The SUV quickens to a walking pace as they head north up the European bank of the Bosphorus, under victory arches of traffic lights and Palamut’s electoral slogans. Brenda is wound too tight to feel exhausted.
Danger feels surreally far away tonight, as the car climbs past the intricate wooden Ottoman façades of the old waterfront neighborhood, a stronghold of the beleaguered secular elite that, once upon a time, was Turkey’s ruling class. Up the car spirals, to the high steel gates of the Consul General’s residence on its rocky outcropping.
The CG, Moe Sokolof, is waiting in the doorway, a mountain of a man in a black T-shirt and khaki shorts, his graying beard only half-masking a double chin. He’s a career Foreign Service officer like Brenda, and a gifted amateur chef. He used to fry up goat tacos when they served their first tours of duty together in Almaty, fresh out of A-100. Rachel from the ECON Section used to make “crack rice” (butter and oil) as a side. Brenda had to identify her body this morning. There were no legs below the hem of her twinset.
Moe folds Brenda into a bear hug. “We’ll get them, Bren. We’ll goddamn bring them down.”
When he releases her, Brenda asks, “Where’s Carolyn?”
“Triaging new arrivals at the Consulate—she might have to stay till late. She sends her love.”
Frank sticks out his hand. “Mr. Sokolof? I’m Frank Lerman.”
Moe clasps his arm. “Thanks for being here. Let me get you guys a drink.”
Brenda and Frank settle in cream-colored Drexel couches, a familiar sight in pretty much any Foreign Service home at any post in the world. The familiarity just makes it worse. French windows face onto the dark waters of the Bosphorus, a wide panorama of the fifteenth-century Rumelihisar fortress and the great steel transcontinental bridge, stretching across to the twinkling Asian shore. “So,” Frank says, “Secretary Winthrop arrives at seven a.m. How’s the prep going?”
“My team is taking care of everything,” says Moe. “We’ve got extra security coming up from Adana. I spoke to CIA—the threat level is holding stable. The NATO Summit is going forward.”
“Any updates on Zach Robson and Mehmetoğlu?” asks Brenda.
“That’s not the priority here,” says Frank. “Let’s try to focus, huh?”
Moe gives him a stern look. “I’m sorry, Bren. I haven’t heard anything.”
“Something just feels wrong,” says Brenda. “I know Zach Robson. He’s been here three years—he knows the ropes. He’d never invite someone like Mehmetoğlu into the Embassy without checking him. He must’ve known the guy was shady. So why sneak him in?”
“What are you implying?” says Frank. “Zach Robson’s an intelligence officer. One of our own.”
“Since when has that ever meant we shouldn’t play it safe?” says Moe. “I’m not accusing Mr. Robson. I don’t even know the guy. But if Brenda thinks we should check—”
“I’m telling you, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” says Frank.
“You seem mighty sure,” says Brenda.
“I have my reasons.”
Brenda’s hand tightens around her phone. “Mr. Lerman, I know when I’m being lied to. I can tell you’re hiding something. So give me one good reason why I shouldn’t go straight over your head with this.”
“Maybe we should take a selfie,” Frank says, smirking. “You’re going to want to remember this. Because this is the moment when Frank Lerman saved your fucking careers.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his BlackBerry. He pulls up a scan of a passport photo page.
Zach Robson must’ve been a few years younger when the photo was snapped, but he’s instantly recognizable. Brenda’s eyes skim across.
Surname/Nom/pellidos
CABOT
Given names/Prénoms/Nombres
JOHN WINTHROP
“Oh, Christ.”
“Jack is the Secretary’s first cousin,” says Frank. “We know everything about him back to the day he was born.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” demands Brenda. “This is a huge security issue!”
“We believe the Hashashin targeted Jack because of his work for CIA. If they find out they’ve got hold of the Secretary of State’s cousin . . .” Frank shakes his head.
“And we really have no idea what’s happened to him?” says Moe. “No idea where he is?”
“Secretary Winthrop spoke to Christina Ekdahl,” says Frank. “He assures me she’s doing everything in her power to find him.”
Brenda shakes her head. “I hope to God she’s in time.”
25
* * *
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
19:59 LOCAL TIME
It’s late enough that no one but Christina and the night teams are left in the Original Headquarters Building.
It’s been too long.
Much too long.
Connor’s signal showed up at the meeting point on schedule. Soldier boys like him don’t disobey commands.
The signal terminated quickly. That was good.
But still no word from Liza.
Did they kill each other? That would spare her the inconvenience of camouflaging Liza’s contractor’s fee in the maintenance budget.
Except that would mean three bodies waiting to be found. Connor and Liza could be explained away. But Flag Girl, bleeding out on the floor of some foreclosed Turkish wedding salon, hours after she was supposed to have died in the hospital?
There’s no avoiding it.
Christina reaches for the phone.
* * *
ANKARA, TURKEY
03:05 LOCAL TIME
Melek is already in her morning yoga clothes, no makeup, hair pulled up in a soft ponytail. She looks without seeing at her untouched breakfast: tiny ceramic pots of perfectly sliced cucumbers and tomatoes, black and green olives sparkling with oil, sesame-studded simit rolls, nutty kaşar cheese in every shade of yellow, a reddish-dark rainbow of syrupy fruit reçel. A peacetime breakfast. But Melek doesn’t feel at peace. She can smell the acid sweetness of the tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Melek doesn’t care much for it, but it’s always there and always has been. Back when he had nothing going for him but ambition, guts, and gravity-strength charisma, her father got his start selling little plastic cups of orange juice outside the mosque in Bayburt, squeezing a few drops from the rotten fruit the local greengrocer couldn’t sell.
Her father. That strong, magnificent, blinkered man.
Her father, so messianically certain of his righteousness that he divided his people into acolytes and apostates and wouldn’t acknowledge any middle ground. He refused to see the Americans subtly realigning their support to the milder one, that tame monkey, the grinning Prime Minister.
Her father, who played secret games with Daesh and didn’t seem to notice his black dogs were losing ground to the Hashashin by the minute.
Her father, who raised her incompetent brother to be his heir.
Her father, who told Melek to stay out of it.
The phone rings.
Christina doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “They got away. I need the CCTV since eight p.m. from every camera in the Emek neighborhood. And the central bus station, too.”
“Emek.” Melek’s voice is dry. “You know, we had the strangest report from Emek. A very muscular, unconscious female burglar. American clothes. Absolutely nothing in her pockets. In a foreclosed wedding salon, of all places. The local police were very puzzled.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Is this your idea of ‘making it all go away’?”
“Melek, I don’t have time to waste. Send me the footage. Now.”
“What are you so afraid of? So what if Penny Kessler escapes? You’ll deny everything. We’ll deny everything. Who will believe the little intern with a concussion? Yet you’re so terrified of what this girl might know, you’re prepared to blow up two of your own citizens, and one of ours? Just what does Zachary Robson have on you?”
“That is not your concern.”
“If you will tell me nothing, I have nothing further to say to you.”
“Melek, I urge you to reconsider.”
“No. Not until you tell me what is going on.”
A pause.
“Have it your way.” Christina’s voice is eerily calm. “I have a feeling you may change your mind.”
26
* * *
PATRON SAINTS
HIGHWAY D-52, OUTSIDE OSMANIYE, TURKEY
03:08 LOCAL TIME
As the bus jostles along the lonely eastbound highway, Penny’s thoughts slide into dreams.
A sunlit memory.
The day Brenda chewed her out in front of everyone. Penny was still hiding at her desk when Zach found her.
“She won’t let me wear braids, either,” he said. “It’s tyranny, I tell you.”
She looked up to find him in shirtsleeves, grinning.
“I enjoyed your op-ed gists,” he added, perching on her desk. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on the youth groups data. Have lunch with me?”
They bought shiny poğaça rolls from a little red cart, the salty feta-stuffed kind that crunch with nigella seeds, and strolled to Kuğulu Park to watch the swans. Neither mentioned the youth groups data.
Zach was charming, but it never felt like an act; he was comfortable, and disarmingly quiet. He joked about his failed attempt to start a ski club in Ankara (“some weird guy from the German Embassy, bored expat wives, and me”) and about his photography.
“Portraits. It’s a rush—the moment when you really see someone for the first time.” Zach leaned close. “I’ve got this one pet project. Promise you won’t laugh?”
Penny smiled. “Not if it’s not funny.”
“Shake on that?” His hand was surprisingly calloused. “Okay. Eskiciler.”
“Eskiciler?”
“You know, those guys who sell old junk on street corners? I bought so much crap from them, trying to win them over to pose for me. You ever want a broken toaster, hit me up.”
“Waste not, want not.”
“Said no twenty-one-year-old ever.”
“I can’t help it.” Penny smiled. “I grew up with my grandparents.” She shifted on the grass. “I was the only kid in school who’d seen every Ginger Rogers musical.”
His eyes were intent. “How’d that happen?”
“Grandma had a thing for Fred Astaire.”
“Okay.” Zach screwed the top back on his water. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“No, it’s just—” She shook her head. “I just don’t usually talk about it.”
“I’m good at keeping secrets, Penny.”
“It’s not a secret. No sob story. My parents are both fine. My dad’s a sculptor. My mom used to pose for him. That’s how they met.” Penny crumbled the last of her poğaça. “She’s really beautiful.”
“That’s easy to believe.”
“I look like my dad.” Penny looked down at the grass. “Anyway. She dropped out of college and had me, and they ended up back in Michigan. She felt trapped. They split. Dad traveled. She left.” Penny tossed a fistful of crumbs into the water. “I stayed.”
The next day, after work, Penny and Zach climbed up to the citadel with spicy dürüm wraps. He told her about Mia for the first time. They dangled their legs over the edge of the medieval fortress walls and looked down at the red rooftops of the old city, almost pretty from up here. “You can see the little town Ankara used to be, before Atatürk made it his new capital,” says Zach. “You been to his mausoleum?”
“Not yet.”
“We should go sometime.” He gave her a warm smile. “It’s amazing. No wonder Pa
lamut’s so jealous of the guy. Dead more than eighty years, and people still revere him. Can you imagine?”
“My landlady talks about him as if he were a saint.”
“Patron saint of Scotch and cigs.” Zach clasps his chest with mock sincerity. “Man after my own heart.” He dug a pack of cheap Turkish cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up. He held the pack out to Penny. “You smoke?”
She shook her head.
“Course you don’t.” He sounded sardonic. “Don’t you ever break the rules?”
“When I was ten, my dad had me try one of his joints. I got so sick, Grandma almost had to take me to the hospital.” Penny kicks her heels against the wall. “It kind of put me off smoking.”
Zach stubbed out his cigarette.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes. I do.”
As the sun sank lower, he started to open up. He told her about how his family never let him live down “only” getting into UVA, when every other lacrosse captain in Groton’s history went to Yale.
“Are they insane?” said Penny.
“They practically disowned me when Jess got pregnant—she wasn’t their kind. And even after Jess died, they acted like Mia was second-class. Not really a member of the family.”
“That’s horrible.”
“I learned to be my own man.” Zach shrugged. “They wrote me off as a failure a long time ago.”
“Why?” Penny protested. “You’re providing for your daughter, aren’t you? You’re serving your country!”
“Serving my country.” Zach shook his head. “My family’s been in public service a long time. Senators. Generals.” She could hear his pain, his bitterness. “I’m almost thirty. Information officer in Ankara isn’t going to impress anybody. My cousin—he’s their golden boy. You’d know his name, if I told you. But he doesn’t know squat. He just coasts along his golden-brick road. And it’s all built on a lie.” There was a hoarseness in his voice, a vulnerability she didn’t expect. He squared his shoulders. “Sorry. I shouldn’t . . .”
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