by Don Mann
The text from Anders read “Meet at the gym in 30?” According to their prearranged code, the thirty minutes had to be halved, and “the gym” meant Anders’s room at the Sultanhan Hotel.
He pecked back “OK,” and decided not to tell him about the surveillance. He and his men were totally capable of dealing with that.
“What’s up?” Mancini asked, continuing to watch the people coming and going.
“Anders wants to see me. I’m taking Akil. You’re gonna have to eat without us.”
“I think I lost my appetite. Two guys in jumpsuits, eleven o’clock.”
Crocker quickly checked them out. The jumpsuits were too stylish and colorful. Seemed like two dudes going out for an evening run.
“Doubt that,” he countered as the men exited through the revolving door.
Mancini grinned. “You’re right. My appetite for food is hard to kill. You want me to order you some kabobs and bring ’em back to the room?”
“Unnecessary. But first you’ve got to shake whoever is following.”
“Of course. You, too.”
Crocker nodded and consulted his Suunto watch. “Be alert. If they’re the same guys I tangled with this morning, they’re deadly fuckers.”
“Got it. Suarez and I will go first. We’re gonna exit out the back.”
“Cool.”
Crocker consulted the tourist map he carried in his back pocket, then called Akil and told him to meet him on the corner of Divan Yolu and Bab-I Ali. He took an elevator up to the roof, lingered there for five minutes listening to two British women discuss who they considered sexier, Jon Hamm or Daniel Craig, then descended the stairs and exited out the back.
It was a beautiful, warm night with a sweet breeze. He found Akil standing in a tourist shop called Hookah John that sold rugs and knickknacks.
“What’d you see?” Crocker asked.
“Two guys riding in a dark-green Renault 19.”
“What’s that?”
“A boxy looking hatchback similar to a VW Passat.”
“What did they look like?”
“Young, clean-cut. One wore a black leather jacket. They both had short black hair. No facial hair.”
“You see them now?”
Akil shook his head.
“Follow me.”
They entered the heavy foot traffic on Divan Yolu, then hurried to catch the tram at Çemberlitaş, near the Grand Bazaar. They rode it in the direction they’d come from and got off at the Sultanahmet, checking around them. No dark-green Renault in the vicinity. No one who looked suspicious.
“I’ll go first,” Crocker said. “You follow on the other side of the street.”
“Roger.”
Ten minutes later they entered the Sultanhan Hotel lobby. Janice stood near the elevator wearing a black jacket and black pants, with her hair pinned back.
“We were followed,” Crocker said.
“I know. Those are Colonel Oz’s men. They were sent to provide security.”
“Two clean-cut guys in a Renault 19 wearing civilian clothes, black jackets?”
“Sounds right.”
“Who is Colonel Oz?”
“He’s a section leader with MiT. You’re about to meet him. I’ve got a vehicle waiting.”
She led the way through a narrow hallway that exited into an alley. Akil elbowed Crocker, thrust his chin toward the rear of her tight pants, and smiled.
Crocker leaned into him and whispered, “Grow up.”
Two beefy guys in black suits waited by the black Suburban. They had buds in their ears and looked like Scorpions—CIA private security personnel. Probably ex-military. Both of them appeared to have been bench-pressing serious weight and doing ’roids. Veins stood out on their necks.
Janice climbed into the front with the driver—bull-necked, shaved head, with a tattoo of an inverted cross behind his ear. Crocker and Akil slid into the back with the second Scorpion. Crocker sat wondering whether the inverted cross stood for atheism, humanism, the occult, or devotion to Satan as expressed by one of his favorite bands, Black Sabbath. Depended on the context, he supposed.
As they left the alley, Janice turned to face them. “Anders set up a meet with a couple of guys from MiT. They’ll brief you.”
“When are we gonna see the guy who shot the video we watched earlier?” Crocker asked.
“The engineering student? We’re arranging that now.”
“I want to talk to him.”
They left the historical/tourist area and turned onto a well-lit freeway that cut through the northern hills and suburbs. Akil’s eyes closed, and he seemed to be taking a power nap.
Crocker glanced out the darkened windows and followed the full moon in the cloudy sky. “Nobody told us about the security,” he said. “We thought we were being followed.”
“Our oversight,” Janice answered. “After what happened this morning, we’re not taking any chances.”
He phoned Mancini to update him. He and the rest of the team were already at the Amedros Café. Crocker heard singing and rhythmic slapping in the background. His teammates hadn’t forgotten how to have a good time.
As he put the cell away, Janice asked, “You been doing this long?”
“Three years in the navy; sixteen on the teams.”
“I admire you guys a lot.”
“Thanks.”
He knew her type—dedicated, serious, probably a screwed-up personal life. Sometimes young women like her overdid the tough act as they tried to fit into a field dominated by men.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Eight years in.”
“Overseas?”
“No, mostly at HQ.”
“Nice.”
He imagined a town house in Reston where she lived alone. Probably dated within the Agency. Looked like she ran and worked out.
“We have a friend in common,” she announced. “John J. Smith.”
Crocker smiled. John Smith was the alias of a CIA officer who ran Shkin Firebase on the Afghan-Pakistani border. Crocker remembered him as a tireless worker with a positive, can-do attitude. He had heard that Smith had gotten into trouble with management for running unauthorized ops into the Pakistani tribal areas.
“What happened to John?” he asked.
“Last I heard he’s living near Tampa, running a private executive protection and recovery outfit.”
From the wistful expression on her face, he concluded that they had either dated or had had a thing.
“Married?”
“Yeah, to some Colombian girl. They have a baby.”
“Good for him,” Crocker said, thinking he should call him when he got back to the States.
So many of the guys he had served with as SEALs or with the Agency overseas resurfaced in private security and military companies (PMCs) like Academi (formerly Xe, and before that, Blackwater), L-3 (formerly Titan Corp), Aegis Defense Services, and others. Ten years ago his former SEAL teammate and workout buddy Scott Helvenston was in Iraq as an employee of Blackwater. He and three colleagues were escorting trucks from a food catering company over a bridge near Fallujah when insurgents attacked their vehicle with rocket-propelled grenades. The four men were killed, their bodies burned and mutilated, and two were strung up on a bridge over the Euphrates.
All these years later, Crocker was unable to get the image of the crowd celebrating over the charred bodies out of his head.
There was a lot of ugly shit in there that he’d like to expunge.
They had turned off the freeway and were entering an industrial area. The Scorpion at the wheel guided the vehicle into a gated compound with two tall smokestacks, turned to Janice, sitting beside him, and said, “This is the place.”
Judging by the railroad cars loaded with rock, it looked like a metal smelting operation of some kind. Behind one of the large buildings stood a streamlined office structure with cars outside. Three local men wearing street clothes and wielding automatic weapons indicated that they sh
ould stop. After Janice addressed them in Turkish through the open window and showed them an ID, they pointed to a place to park.
The long, low-ceilinged room was crowded with people and smoke. Groups of Turkish officials stood conferring and puffing on cigarettes. Through the haze and to his right, Crocker saw Anders standing next to a tall, bald man with a walrus mustache.
What are all these people doing here? Typical second-world shit. Invite everybody and their cousin.
Anders appeared to be the only other American. He waved at Crocker and said something to the bald man, who slapped the table and blurted out something in Turkish.
Three of the Turks put out their cigarettes and took places at the table. The other dozen or so nodded in the direction of their leader and left. The lone female among them paused near the door and looked back at Crocker. He thought for a second that it was Fatima wearing an olive pantsuit and a black headscarf. But this woman had a nose that stuck out like Gibraltar.
Mr. Talab wasn’t present.
“All these people work for MiT?” Crocker whispered to Janice, feeling somewhat awkward. He was in the country clandestinely as John Wallace, a security consultant, and didn’t like being seen in the company of a known CIA employee, especially by so many people.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The bald man at the head of the table barked something in Turkish, then shifted quickly to English. As he did, his tone softened.
“Welcome, to you all. Particularly you, Mr. Wallace, and your associates. My name is Colonel Ozgun Ozmert. Call me Colonel Oz. Everybody does.” He spoke with a slight British accent and smiled a lot. Reminded him of the actor Yul Brynner.
“Thank you, Colonel. It’s good to be here.”
“You’re very welcome. My good friend Mr. Anders has asked me to answer your questions and to assist you in any way I can.”
“I appreciate that.”
Colonel Oz held out his hand to a thin man in a dark suit and white shirt to his right.
“First, one of my assistants, Inspector Evren, would like to ask you one or two questions about the unfortunate incident this morning, if that’s permittable.”
“Go ahead.” Again he felt exposed and uncomfortable.
What’s the purpose of this meeting?
Oz continued, “Let me say, first, that political violence of that kind has been rare in Istanbul. We’ve made sure of that. But with the war in Syria and all the problems that has caused us, these unfortunate incidents have become more frequent.”
“Understood.” Crocker reminded himself that the Turks were U.S. allies. He had worked with them before and found them cooperative and helpful. He attributed his acute sensitivity to the incident that morning near the Blue Mosque.
Inspector Evren rubbed his hands together and in a pinched voice asked, “You sure you don’t mind if I ask you these questions?”
Crocker, who hadn’t expected this, looked at Anders, who nodded.
“No. Not at all,” he said, feeling strange talking about something he hadn’t had time to process fully in front of a group of strangers.
“First, all of us express our deep condolences about Mr. Munoz,” Evren said. “Many of us here worked with him and considered him a friend.”
Crocker assumed he was talking about Jared. “Thank you.”
“The initial attack took place on Torun Sokak?”
“Just around the corner from the bazaar. That’s correct.”
“How many individuals were involved?”
“I saw four men altogether. Two in a van and two on a motorcycle. I noticed the two motorcycle men on the sidewalk first. I observed that they were following Jared. I was behind him. When I turned onto Torun Sokak, I saw that Jared had been pushed into a van. I rushed to his aid. He was killed while trying to get away. I encountered the two motorcycle men again when they attacked me in a shop on Kabasakal.”
By the time he had finished, Crocker noticed that his heart rate was elevated and he had started to perspire.
“Thank you, Mr. Wallace. We’re very sorry for your trouble. You might want to know that we were able to capture one of the wounded men from the van.”
“Oh. I’m glad to hear that.”
“I can also tell you that one of the men you fought off in the shop on Kabasakal is dead from a wound to his head.”
“Good.”
“We interrogated the wounded man and believe he is a member of Shabiha. These men are paid assassins working for President Assad in Syria.”
Crocker wasn’t surprised. “I’ve heard about them, yes.”
It made sense. Jared had been in Syria helping the FSA rebels who were trying to destroy the Assad government.
“We are very sorry for your trouble, and apologize deeply.”
“If you need me to identify anyone, or to provide you with further details, I’m happy to comply.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wallace,” said Colonel Oz. “Now, please, so we don’t waste your time, let’s talk about the situation inside Syria and answer your questions.”
“Yes.”
He pointed to another man at the table. “Mr. Asani here is our director of intelligence for Idlib province. His English isn’t very good, so he submitted this report.”
Colonel Oz proceeded to read it, and Crocker took notes.
Three hours later, when Crocker returned to the hotel, his brain was so fried he couldn’t think. He passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow and woke up two hours later. Although his body begged for more rest, his mind had rebooted and was eager to process the information it had received.
With shadows dancing across the ceiling and rain splattering against the windows, he reviewed what he had learned from MiT officials. The battle of Idlib had started in March 2010, when elements of the FSA—mostly Sunni defectors from the Syrian Army—seized control of the city. Several weeks later, the Syrian Army fought back, launching a ferocious artillery and air assault that dislodged the rebels from some neighborhoods and sent civilians fleeing toward the Turkish border.
The city had been a military battlefield since, with the Syrian Army controlling the center and east of the city, and periodic attacks, counterattacks, and street-to-street fighting by the rebels who occupied the north and west. While rebel groups also held most of the territory and towns around the city, their ability to retake all of Idlib was severely compromised by the infighting among them.
Mr. Asani likened the current situation to gang warfare. “Alliances shift almost daily. The different militias squabble like teenage girls but mainly disagree about two things: the presence of foreign fighters or jihadists, and the future of Syria.”
The Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS) were the most militant Islamists, dedicated to imposing a medieval-style Islamic caliphate, run under a strict interpretation of Sharia law, in any territory under their control. They were known to assassinate rival rebel commanders they suspected of conspiring against them, including a popular doctor and rebel brigade commander who had been tortured and killed in December.
Other al-Qaeda–affiliated groups such as the al-Nusra Front were more moderate and willing to compromise. On the other side of the political spectrum sat the FSA, whose objective was the overthrow of the Assad regime and the establishment of some form of representative government.
In late 2013, ISIS and FSA had fought pitched battles north and west of Idlib that had resulted in as many as a thousand casualties. In December ISIS seized an FSA weapons warehouse along the Turkish border.
Alarmed by the infighting, nations supporting the rebels gathered in Ankara in late December. Attending this meeting were representatives of Turkey, the United States, Saudi Arabia, Oman, and Qatar, and more than a dozen other rebel groups. These countries promised additional support if the groups they supported pledged to work together. The FSA (backed by Turkey), SRF (Syrian Revolutionary Front, backed by Saudi Arabia), the Army of Islam (backed by Qatar), the Syrian Martyrs’ Brigade, and ten other grou
ps signed an agreement to cooperate under the banner of the Syrian Revolutionary Front to push back ISIS and liberate Syria.
Bolstered by new equipment, money, and a renewed sense of purpose, Syrian Revolutionary Front units had made major inroads in the past several weeks, pushing ISIS back to an area northwest of Aleppo.
Crocker realized that the ever-shifting rebel alliances only complicated Black Cell’s mission. Because Assad’s army still controlled parts of the city and various rebel militias continued to fight for control for the area around Idlib, infil and exfil would be problematic. Entering via helicopter or parachute was probably out of the question. Even more difficult was the challenge of removing the canisters. Since Idlib was far from the coast, they would have to enter and leave by truck.
Mr. Asani explained that the road from the Turkish border town of Reyhanli was considered safer, but it was at least twice as long as the route from Yayladaği, farther west. Both roads presented multiple challenges, including mines, IEDs, and roadblocks. Also, there was a danger that the Syrian air force could mistake vehicles as belonging to the rebels or rebel sympathizers, perhaps ferrying arms or other supplies, which meant that they could travel only at night.
As the minutes passed and Crocker’s body begged for more rest, he considered two other problems. The first had to do with the number of individuals (particularly the ones in MiT) who were now aware of his and his team’s presence. Given the religious nature of the conflict in Syria and the political/religious struggle currently raging in Turkey, it was impossible to know these individuals’ loyalties.
Second, because of the sketchy nature of the information about the situation on the ground, there was no way to know what they might encounter once they entered Syria. And there would be no one to call for help.
Chapter Five
My mama always said you’ve got to put the past behind you before you can move on.
—Forrest Gump
Early the next morning he was driven to the American consulate, which involved crossing the Galata Bridge and following a highway that snaked alongside the Bosphorus north toward the Black Sea. Last night’s storm had cleared the air, leaving deep-blue skies and puffy cumulus clouds on the horizon.
