by Don Mann
“Any clue about our destination?” whispered Mancini.
“South Beach, I hope, for a couple cold Coronas at the Love Hate Lounge.”
“Any idea what this is about?”
“I thought you liked surprises.”
“Not when the guys taking me there are wearing face masks and armed with M5s.”
Crocker grinned. He was trying to remain calm and centered. One way or another he and his men were going to recover the sarin.
“The next surprise can’t be any bigger than the last one,” Mancini muttered.
“Yeah.”
His brain was burning. Had elements of ISIS or AQ followed them from Syria? Did they radio ahead to their colleagues in Turkey, who then raided the camp? Did they kill Hassan and dump his body? Did Hassan play some part in the plot? This seemed like a stretch, given how studious and physically cowardly he had appeared to be, but anything was possible.
The Cobras were hauling ass now, climbing into mountains. Feeling tired and empty, and somewhat discouraged, he fought the negative thoughts that floated into his head. Shit happens. I’ve dealt with it before. Even major fuckups.
He remembered one of his first missions with ST-6, when they had gone into Croatia in search of an HVT, a high-value target, during the Bosnian War. They were looking for a Serbian financier, drug and arms trafficker, and human rights abuser—a nasty guy who was said to keep a collection of human thumbs. They received intel that he was living in a villa on the island of Lokrum in the Adriatic Sea, just off the coast near Dubrovnik. Picturesque as hell.
Crocker and three other SEALs had swum in and raided the place at night, literally separating the guy from his girlfriend and carting him off. When they got back to the navy frigate they had launched from, they found out they’d nabbed the guy’s brother, a former professional tennis player and restaurateur. The government had had to pay him major bucks to keep his mouth shut.
He drifted off and woke to the sound of urgent Turkish voices over the radio. The Cobra slowed down. According to his Suunto, almost an hour had passed. Mancini sat holding his arms across his chest, eyes shut.
He shook his buddy awake as the commandos across from them lowered the visors on their helmets and readied their weapons.
“Something’s about to go down,” Crocker whispered.
“Yeah? What?”
Mancini sat up, blinked, and looked around. Immediately alert, he reached for his weapon only to realize he was unarmed. They both were.
The vehicle had stopped on an inclined gravel road. Not much to see out the side window except for a huge mound of gray gravel mixed with dirt. The back door flew open and the commandos hustled out. The ninja who had escorted them in indicated to Mancini and Crocker to stay inside.
The big doors shut behind them and they waited. They didn’t hear gunfire and couldn’t see the Turk commandos until two of them opened the back and waved them out.
“Now what?” Mancini asked.
“Showtime.”
The commandos pushed the SEALs up the incline and followed. Boots crunched against gravel. They passed the lead Cobra with one soldier inside talking excitedly on the radio, his boots up on the dash. Climbed another ten feet and smelled the sea in the distance.
From the summit Crocker spotted a large gravel quarry to their right, partially filled with still blue water. Reflected clouds floated across the surface, dreamlike.
He didn’t see the commandos at first, then heard Oz’s voice, rough and urgent. The Turks were standing on the continuation of the gravel road that curled along the other side of the gravel-and-dirt mound and wound downward. They had surrounded a parked Mercedes 2.5-ton truck—a deuce and a half. Dark blue, maybe ten years old, with a worn canvas cover over the back.
Oz saw Crocker and waved him forward. Other soldiers wearing light-blue plastic gloves were examining the inside of the cab and cargo area.
“This is the truck they used,” Oz pronounced. “It was abandoned here.”
“You sure?” Crocker asked, looking around and seeing not a house or a structure. It was a good place to hide a truck or do an exchange.
“Yes. This is it.”
“You find anything inside?”
“Not yet, but we’re looking.”
“How did you locate it?” Crocker asked, calculating that it had probably taken the hijackers about an hour to get here. That meant they had at least an hour and a half lead on them. Maybe more.
Oz pointed proudly to the sky. “Air surveillance.” The engine of the small spotter aircraft buzzed in the distance.
“Clever, Colonel. I assume they’re looking for the next one now? The second vehicle?”
“Or the third. Yes.”
Mancini whispered into Crocker’s ear, “Boss, this is a damn mess from a forensics perspective. Look.” He pointed to the soldiers inside the trucks who were touching every surface, smudging possible fingerprints, dragging their boots over the seats and across the cargo bed.
“You absolutely certain this is the truck?” Crocker asked.
“Yes,” Oz answered, puffing out his chest. “Why else would it sit here abandoned, with the keys still in the ignition?” He reached into his pocket and proudly held up a single key in a plastic bag.
“You find any witnesses? Anyone who saw anything?”
“No. No one. They’re too smart.”
“Who?”
“ISIS.”
“How do you know that?”
Oz grinned and pointed to his head. “We have information.”
“What information?”
One of the commandos handed Oz a Motorola radio, and he started speaking into it excitedly.
From the bluff where they stood, the SEALs could see the coast about a half mile away through the mist, which was starting to burn off. Mancini pointed to a relatively busy four-lane highway that snaked along the rocky shore.
The sarin was probably far away by now, hidden somewhere or on its way to its destination. Crocker felt the same way he did when he saw the World Trade Center towers tumble to the ground—devastated and filled with rage.
Oz continued barking into a handheld radio. A half minute later, when he pulled it away from his ear, Crocker pointed to the highway and asked, “What’s that?”
“The O-52 motorway. Of course, we’ve blocked it and are in the process of blocking all other roads. We’re inspecting everything. We’ll have the sarin back soon.”
Crocker wished he felt as confident, but “in process” didn’t sound good. “What about the coast?” Crocker asked.
Oz frowned before he answered. “It’s very rocky here. Very difficult currents. I don’t think so, because it would be hard to load anything there. But I’ll send up some helicopters to look.”
It wasn’t the answer Crocker wanted to hear. “Good idea,” he responded. “Maybe you should deploy some launches, too.”
“We’re taking care of everything.” Oz seemed to be getting annoyed.
“And check all local airports.”
He could tell by Oz’s expression that he hadn’t thought of that. In drastic, chaotic situations like these it was hard to stay sober and think straight.
Chapter Seventeen
You don’t have to be naked to be sexy.
—Nicole Kidman
Ninety minutes later Crocker stood beside Oz as his men inspected a long line of trucks at a roadblock outside the city of İskenderun on the Mediterranean coast, thinking that this was necessary but probably wouldn’t yield squat. Whoever had stolen the sarin was too smart to transport it in a truck on a major highway. The hijackers had probably moved fast, via local roads, and had most likely passed the WMDs to the next stage, or end user, hours ago. Oz had assured him that every avenue east, north, and south, and all local airports, were now being carefully monitored.
Mancini remained as anxious as Crocker, constantly offering suggestions and warnings. Now he was telling Crocker about the ancient cave city of Cappadocio, no
rth of where they stood now, and explaining that it was a perfect place to hide the canisters.
“Mention it to Oz,” Crocker said, nodding toward the Turkish colonel, who stood ten feet away talking into a cell phone and looking overwhelmed and angry.
Crocker kept eyeing the coast. Helicopters and surveillance aircraft were up and boat crews were on their way, according to the colonel, but he saw no sign of them.
Almost four hours after the sarin was taken, all they had found so far was a 2.5-ton Mercedes truck stolen the night before from a construction company in Adana, farther west and north. There was no evidence that linked it to the sarin except for descriptions from the guards at the AFAD camp of a similar-looking truck driving away.
Crocker was growing increasingly anxious. Hoping for some good news, he called Davis on his burner cell.
“Anything new there?”
“Not really, no. According to Captain Nasar everyone in the camp has been accounted for. So the only one missing is Hassan.”
“Any word from or about him?”
“No.”
“You talk to Jamila?”
“Yeah. She was nice, but kind of evasive.”
“In what way?” Crocker asked.
“When I asked her about the argument she and Hassan had as they were getting out of the van, the one Mancini overheard, she denied it. Said maybe she was complaining about her back, which has been sore since the birth of the baby.”
Whether they were arguing or not didn’t seem like a big deal to Crocker. “Anything more from Ankara?”
“No.”
“Any word from the hijackers?”
“Not according to Nasar. He’s been real helpful. Has a brother who works with the police department in Seattle.”
“Good,” Crocker said. He had something else on his mind. “I want you to call Captain Sutter back at HQ. Tell him that with Suarez in the hospital and Akil nicked up, we might need more men. Tell him we can use Cal and Tré if they can get out here quickly.”
Cal was the sniper assigned to Black Cell who had been injured in the helo crash that had killed Ritchie four and a half months ago. Dante Tremaine was an African American former marine, University of Nevada basketball player, and explosives expert who had worked with Black Cell a year ago in Venezuela. Everyone on the teams called him Tré, as in the three-point shot in basketball, which had been his specialty. He was a tough young operator and a fun guy to be around.
“Will do,” replied Davis.
“Tell Sutter my gut tells me that whoever took the sarin is going to use it quickly. These guys, whoever they are, seem smart and well organized. I sense that they have a plan and specific target in mind.” In the past Sutter hadn’t put a lot of stock in Crocker’s instincts, but they were all he had so far.
“We should make sure we have air, sea, and land assets on alert,” Crocker added.
“I’ll tell him.”
“When you’re done with Sutter, ask Nasar if you can borrow a vehicle so you and Akil can drive here and meet us. Bring our weapons and gear with you. Do you know what happened to them?” Crocker asked.
“The Turkish guards confiscated everything after the theft.”
“Tell Nasar we need them back. Explain that we’re working with Oz and trying to recover the sarin.”
“Nasar’s cool. I don’t think he’ll be a problem.”
“Good.”
“Hey, one more thing, boss. When I was talking to Jamila, I mentioned that Hassan had been introduced to you by his uncle, Mr. Talab, and his half sister, Fatima.”
“That’s correct.”
“She claimed she knows all of Hassan’s extended family and has never heard of an uncle Talab, and she was, like, totally adamant that Hassan doesn’t have a half sister.”
“No, half sister, stepsister, or adopted sister named Fatima?”
“No, none of the above.”
“Interesting,” said Crocker.
“I thought so, too.”
The longer they waited, the more the consequences of the situation beat down on him, until his head, neck, shoulders, back, and legs hurt. It was impossible to stand and watch the black-uniformed Turkish commandos running back and forth at the roadblock, barking orders as they choked on diesel exhaust from the dozens of backed-up trucks while he knew some dastardly plan was unfolding somewhere else.
Mancini, who had pitched in to help with the inspections, looked equally impatient and grim. He stood beside Colonel Oz, who was now screaming at some young officer about the kebab sandwiches he had ordered for his men and looking as if he was about to wring the young man’s neck. They’d been here three hours now, and all the while the hijackers were probably gaining ground. The only good news was that Akil, Davis, and Janice were on their way.
Feeling that he had to do something, Crocker excused himself and called Anders in Ankara on one of his burner cell phones. The CIA officer sounded harried and exhausted.
“Crocker, you’re still in-country? Where are you now?”
“With Oz, inspecting trucks on the O-52 motorway a few klicks north of İskenderun.”
“Where’s that?” Anders asked.
“Hatay province. East and south of you.”
“I’m up to my frigging eyeballs here. How can I help you?”
“How well do you know Mr. Talab?” Crocker asked.
“What kind of question is that?”
“How well do you know him?”
“Talab? Personally, not well. But he’s been a trusted Agency source for years. Why?”
“What about that Fatima chick? His aide.”
“The very fine looking woman he had with him? All I know is what I saw. Why?”
“They both claimed to be related to Hassan, right?”
“Did they?” asked Anders. “Why’s that important?”
“When we met Talab at the hotel, he said Hassan was his nephew. And while we were waiting for the order to launch in Yayladaği, Fatima told me she was his half sister.”
“So?”
“So Hassan’s girlfriend, Jamila, just told Davis that she knows all the members of his family and that Hassan isn’t related to either of them.”
“The girlfriend, the one who just had the baby?” asked Anders.
“Yeah.”
“You believe her?”
“No reason not to.”
“Maybe Talab and Fatima were speaking loosely,” Anders offered. “You know, ‘family’ can be a loose term here. Maybe they were trying to impress on us how close they are to Hassan so we’d trust him.”
“Yeah, they wanted us to trust him. You have any idea where Talab and Fatima are now?” Crocker asked.
“Last I heard, Talab was in Damascus taking care of family business. Fatima, I don’t know. Maybe she went with him. I’d take her with me, wouldn’t you?”
“Probably. But that’s irrelevant.”
“What are you trying to say, Crocker?” Anders asked. “Seems to me you’re reaching for something. It’s very likely that Hassan is a victim here. Anyway, I’ve got to go.”
“Just a second,” Crocker said. “You basing that on anything—that part about Hassan being a victim?”
“Yes.” Anders whispered something to someone on the other end before continuing. “NSA has picked up something online from some ISIS AQ-affiliated jihadist who calls himself the Fox.”
Anders and Janice had mentioned him before, during the first meeting at the Sultanhan Hotel. “This Fox guy mention Hassan specifically?” asked Crocker.
“No, no. Everything he says is in code, very difficult to decipher. But he does talk about an upcoming big strike and kidnapping the enemy.”
“Anything else?”
“Maybe you should let us do the analysis and targeting, and focus on working with Colonel Oz to recover the sarin.”
Crocker couldn’t hold back this time. “Fuck you, Anders.”
“Crocker, look…I didn’t mean to insult you. We’re all stretched to th
e max. I’m glad you’re still here. We might need your services. Stay ready and alert.”
“I will.”
A swath of deep magenta leaked across the darkening sky as the black Range Rover passed between the faux-marble columns that marked the entrance to the port of Kuşadası, Turkey, and stopped. Two multitiered cruise ships rose ahead on the right, both impressively lit with hundreds of deck lights that gave the impression they were massive wedding cakes.
The female passenger on the Rover’s backseat said a quick prayer and waited for the door to open. She was dressed to attract attention and ready to play her part. She adjusted her wide-brimmed white hat, clutched her light-green Bottega Veneta crocodile shoulder bag, and stepped out.
The warm evening air rushed to greet her, ruffling her long dark hair and passing through the thin silk suit and blouse to caress her skin. Behind her two men unloaded two large trunks and several suitcases. Local porters rushed forward with metal carts and offered their assistance.
The tourist city of Kuşadası hummed behind her, a maze of tourist stalls, cafés, air-conditioned malls, and sleek high-rise hotels. Most people staying there were drawn by the ruins of the once-powerful Greek and later Roman city of Ephesus, nine miles away. But none of that seemed to interest her, neither the history, nor the commerce, nor the delicious local Muscat wine served chilled in the cafés.
Steely-eyed and sober, she strode toward the modest modern glass terminal with a Welcome to Turkey banner across the front. Slightly behind her followed her dashing associate, Stavros Petras, in a white shirt and expensive-looking black suit.
Before they reached the terminal door a uniformed concierge emerged and greeted her with a toothy smile. He wore a light-blue vest with a Disney insignia on the pocket and spoke with a slight Spanish accent. His words were tightly scripted. “Good evening, Mrs. Girard. My name is Marco. It’s my pleasure to serve as your concierge and welcome you to your Disney cruise. That’s our ship, the Disney Magic, straight ahead.” He pointed over his shoulder to the closest and largest of the two ships. Handsome, and a massive 984 feet long, with eleven passenger decks and a capacity of 950 crew members and 2,713 passengers.
