Covert Evidence

by Rachel Grant

  “Yep.”

  “What makes you think there’s something like that here?”

  Cressida leaned back. No one knew the complete answer to that question. Most of her fellow students were good people. Friends. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t try to beat her to making such a significant discovery by submitting grant proposals of their own. She took a sip of wine. Tonight it would remain her secret. “Tell me about your work, John. What are you doing in Van?”

  He laughed. “Touché.” He lifted his glass in a toast to her and took a drink. “As for what I’m doing in Van, right now, I’m having dinner with a beautiful woman.”

  Heat pooled low in her belly. This first date was going awfully well. But numbering it implied there could be more. And there couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She was here to work.

  What made this date special was its singularity. This was a one-time fantasy come to life. A no-strings, one-night-only, once-in-a-lifetime fling with a hot man in Turkey.

  Anything more than that was just asking for trouble.

  Ian almost wished the date were real. If it were, he wouldn’t hesitate to act on the ready invitation in her eyes. Lulled by the food, dim lighting, and fine wine, she had transformed from the timid American he’d met on the plane into a sultry siren.

  Her reluctance to reveal too much about herself had faded as she warmed to her subject, but what surprised him even more was how much he—Ian, not the prick John he pretended to be—was turned on by her.

  But he couldn’t let his dick do the thinking, especially since she hinted she had a lead on ancient tunnels in the Kurdish region of Turkey. If such tunnels existed, the information would be valuable.

  Turkey had many security issues, the least of which were bordering unstable regimes like Syria, Iraq, and Iran. The real concern for the government was the country’s Kurdish population. Years of government-sanctioned second-class treatment of Turkish Kurds, whose very language was forbidden, had created a large discontent population. The recent alliance between the Turkish government and the local Kurdish population due to the threat from ISIS in Syria and Iraq wasn’t enough to make up for decades of repression. The Kurds remained uneasy, untrusting, and not all factions were on board with the alliance.

  The restaurant they were eating in was owned by a local Kurd who’d once whispered—in Kurdish—his frustration with the ongoing harassment by Turkish military officers who acted as the governing authority in the region. The very fact that Ian was fluent in the forbidden language made finding Kurdish allies in this part of the country easy. The hard part was letting them know he spoke their language when everyone was a potential informant.

  Smugglers’ tunnels in the region could be a game changer. The Partiya Karkerên Kurdistan, or PKK, was only the largest and most well-known rebel group. Hejan’s group was smaller, was not allied with the Turkish government, had designs on becoming the leading separatist group in the region, and had a history of using terrorist tactics to make it happen.

  After learning the focus of her study, one thing was clear to Ian. It was no fluke that Cressida had been selected as courier. She might be unwitting, but somehow, her research had nabbed the attention of Hejan’s group. Given that, as tempting as Cressida was, sex with her could screw up the mission. For starters, if she was in bed with him, she could hardly be out passing off the microchip.

  After dinner, Ian placed a hand on the small of her back as they strolled down the narrow street. If this were a real date, he wouldn’t hesitate to duck into a covered doorway with her so he could slide his hand lower, pull her against him, and taste her.

  Damn, she smells good.

  But this was a date between Crista Portman and John Baker. John couldn’t get laid when Ian had work to do.

  The street was quiet as they walked the blocks to the hotel. Neither Ian nor John entwined fingers with hers, no matter how natural such an action might have felt. John wouldn’t start something he couldn’t finish, and Ian wasn’t invited to play at all.

  Inside the hotel, they crossed the lobby to the lift. She paused and met his gaze before hitting the button for her floor. He smiled as he again inhaled her sexy scent. From her pause, he figured she’d hoped he’d invite her to his room, but with his silence, she’d caved and would lead him to hers.

  She’d left the cautious woman on the airplane, apparently.

  They reached her floor, and he followed without a word. At her door, she paused and met his gaze, one eyebrow raised in question.

  This was the moment when John, if he existed, would pull her close and taste that mouth. He’d run his tongue along the full upper lip that had fascinated him from the first time he saw her—right before she decked a man.

  He was hard and ready. Ian would have trouble walking away if John kissed her. “I’m afraid the evening ends here, Crista.”

  Her brows flattened in confusion, not anger, but with the right pressure, he could push her in that direction and debated which reaction would suit his needs.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a soft voice, “did I misread you all evening?”

  He let out a sigh. “You didn’t misread, I miscalculated. Tomorrow will be a busy day, and I need to be sharp. I’m still adjusting to the time zone—I flew into Antalya from DC yesterday morning. Much as I would love to continue this evening, I need to sleep. Alone.”

  A nice guy would ask if he could see her again. John was a nice guy, but Ian, not so much. And right now, Ian was calling the shots, because Ian was the one with a job to do. He leaned in and kissed her forehead, a brotherly peck. Insulting, really, after how much John had hit on her. “Have a good night,” he said and headed to the elevator. He turned and met her gaze, then stepped into the lift.

  Chapter Seven

  What the hell just happened?

  Cressida stood outside her door in stunned silence as John stepped into the elevator. The door slid closed behind him, and still she stood there. She breathed into her hand. Her breath might be a bit garlicky, but he’d eaten the same damn food. Shock dissipated as she remembered the avuncular kiss. Anger surged past confusion. What an ass.

  She’d made such a fool of herself. She unlocked her room with quick, angry movements, jerked the handle down, and shoved open the door. What was wrong with her? How the hell did she meet these guys?

  Tired and has a long day tomorrow, my ass.

  She was baffled as to why he’d bolt after the blatant signals he’d sent all evening. She hadn’t misread him, dammit.

  Had he been telling the truth? Was she just being petulant because she was hot and bothered and unsatisfied? He’d given her his card. She could call and ask him point-blank what his deal was.

  She dug around for the card in her purse and found her phone instead. A glance at the screen, and she groaned. The voice mail messages she’d ignored when she sent Berzan a text with the name of her hotel earlier had since doubled in number. She scanned the list of missed calls. None were from Berzan’s number. Odds were the messages were either from or about Todd. She didn’t want to deal with Todd right now.

  Why the hell not? She was already in a bad mood. May as well get it over with.

  But the first message wasn’t from Todd. Nor were the next several. They were all from Suzanne, who sounded upset but wouldn’t say why.

  Dr. Hill had probably had sex with her and scrammed. And while she wanted to judge Dr. Hill badly for it, she was feeling a little perturbed that at least Suzanne had gotten laid. She couldn’t deal with Suzanne’s post-hookup emotional trauma on top of her lack of hookup trauma.

  Of course, she’d have to care to feel trauma, and she definitely didn’t care about John Baker and his lame-ass excuse for bolting.

  The next message was from Trina, who was concerned after receiving Cressida’s text about Todd. As she’d expected, there was no message from Berzan.

  She frowned at the phone. Call Trina or leave the line open in case Berzan called? As she stared at the smooth face, the phone vib
rated with an incoming text. Relief flooded her. It was from Berzan.

  Sorry for the delay. Hejan said he explained. We can set out tomorrow morning. If you meet me at the ferry dock at the end of my shift at 2100, we can discuss our itinerary. I have already arranged lodging in some of the smaller villages.

  She glanced at her watch. It was only eight thirty—or twenty thirty—more proof her date had ended pathetically early. Just enough time to meet Berzan. She replied to his text that she’d be at the dock then tucked the phone into her purse. She’d call Trina later.

  It was for the best that things hadn’t worked out with John. She was here to work, and meeting Berzan was a thousand times more important than getting laid.

  Ian’s hotel room was one floor up, directly above Cressida’s. He entered his room and nodded to Zack, who lounged in the corner chair with a tumbler half-filled with an amber liquid cradled in his hand. “Interesting shit, that stuff she told you about tunnels in Kurdistan,” he said.

  Ian nodded and approached the dresser where Zack had left the bottle of scotch. Glenlivet. A brand to make a good Scot proud. Not that he knew where in Scotland his ancestors were from, or if he had any kin there now, but he liked to think he did, liked to believe he had greater familial connections on this earth than the woman who’d birthed and named him.

  A drink would dampen his reflexes, and he needed to stay on guard. He poured a splash of scotch into a glass. A taste. That was all he could have. He tossed it back, and his belly warmed instantly. The placebo effect eased knots in his shoulders he hadn’t even felt until that moment.

  He itched for another splash. Another burn. The bottle called to him. But the small taste was all he could have.

  Story of his life.

  He could view, and at times even sample, the pleasures other men took for granted, but the comforts of American life weren’t for him. He’d given his life over to his country, and lived—and deep down believed he’d someday die—for that service. When he finished a job, he moved to the next one, never pausing to enjoy the very liberty he sacrificed for.

  He replaced the stopper and turned to face the balcony, avoiding Zack’s interested gaze for the moment. Ian had known Zack was listening to every moment of his “date” with Cressida. It was necessary and expedient that his backup on this op be fully informed. But that didn’t mean he liked it. The idea of Cressida’s vulnerable flirtation being witnessed, even mocked, by another agent left a bitter taste in his mouth that even the scotch couldn’t burn away.

  Lake Van glistened in the darkness beyond the window. Something about this sleepy, underdeveloped part of Turkey called to him, but was another pleasure he could sample but never fully enjoy.

  As was the woman he would tail for the next few days.

  If he were Hindu, he’d wonder who he’d pissed off in a previous life to find himself in this situation. But he wasn’t Hindu. He wasn’t Muslim. He was a secular warrior in the midst of a holy war, and his primary goal was to protect his country from being targeted or drawn into the battle.

  “So, what’s the deal? You think she’s part of Hejan’s cell, or is she being used?”

  Ian kept his back toward Zack. “I think she’s being used.” But his opinion changed nothing. Not when there was no way to be certain.

  A soft buzz sounded. He turned to see Zack’s feet hit the floor with a thump as he pulled out his cell phone. The screen flashed. “Looks like it’s time to find out. Cressida is on the move.”

  “Where is Sabal?”

  “On the street, ready to follow her on foot or in a car,” Zack said.

  “Good. I’ll lag behind him. Finish searching her room while she’s out.”

  “I should follow and let you conduct the search. She’s never seen me. If she spots you, she’ll spook.”

  While Zack’s argument was logical, there was no way in hell Ian would let him take over. It was Ian’s job to follow the microchip and identify the courier. No one else’s.

  The man at the front desk only spoke a few words of English. Cressida smiled and pulled out the digital recorder Hejan had given her. Folder one held all the basic phrases. She looked up the file number on the crib sheet and played words that translated to “how do I get to,” then said “ferry dock” in English. She added, “boat” in Turkish, because that word—thanks to weeks of living on an island and riding a water taxi into Antalya on a regular basis—she knew.

  The man’s face lit up. He pulled out a street map and circled the hotel location and pointed to the long spit, then inked in a thick line for the route she should follow. It wasn’t far from the hotel at all, just in the opposite direction from the restaurant she’d walked to with John.

  She said thank you in Turkish and stepped outside. The night had cooled somewhat, and she took a deep breath of the fresh air that wafted from the vast lake. A brisk walk was definitely better than stewing in her hotel room.

  She walked along the water, finally reaching the spit. The area was wide and open, making her feel safe in spite of being a stranger in a strange land.

  Her mother’s crap taste in men had resulted in a childhood of feeling unsafe in her own home. At the age of thirteen, Cressida had gone to her local community center and taken every self-defense course they offered. Over the years, she’d taken classes in a half-dozen different martial arts—she and her mother had never lived in one neighborhood long enough for her to move up in belts—but she’d achieved enough proficiency to kick a guy in the balls without hesitation. Well, kicking in the balls was the one thing her various sensei and sifus had discouraged, but she’d never been interested in winning tournaments.

  Those years of lessons gave her the courage to walk boldly down the pier in spite of the gathering darkness and her unfamiliarity with the area, but deep down she wondered if she’d used poor judgment in walking alone at night. But surely Berzan wouldn’t have asked her to meet him if it were a problem?

  A few men loitered on the long pier, but they paid no attention to her as she passed. There wasn’t a ferry at the end, but the boat was probably running late, meaning she was in no hurry to reach the dock.

  Two-thirds of the distance down the brick walkway, she stopped at an empty bench and sat. A glance at her watch said it was one minute after nine. If the boat didn’t turn up soon, she’d ask one of the men she’d passed about the schedule, but for now she was content to sit and enjoy the quiet night in a part of the world she’d dreamed of visiting ever since she deciphered the map key.

  Water lapped against the lakeshore, a soft rippling sound that soothed nerves still raw from rejection. How stupid was she to go out on a date with a stranger when she should have been working?

  Nothing good ever came from getting involved. It only brought heartache. And sometimes felony charges.

  Ian followed Cressida at a distance, cursing the quiet night that forced him to hang back so far. The hound, Sabal, was in front of him, keeping a closer tab on her. He was local and blended better than Ian could, especially now that Ian had lost the beard.

  Cressida parked herself on a bench as Ian’s phone vibrated. He took the call from Zack.

  “She brought a lot of papers,” Zack said. “Photocopies, mostly, but some are maps and scholarly looking reports. A few satellite photos—really nice definition—with different lines drawn on the image. As expected, the reports are all about shipping and land routes from the Middle East into Asia.”

  “Photograph the maps and satellite pictures,” Ian said as he watched her rise from the bench and move closer to the train platform at the end of the pier.

  “Doing what I can. But there are a lot. It’d be easier to just take them.”

  “No. We aren’t done with her, and that would tip her off. Leave no trace.”

  “Shit! Someone’s at the door.”

  Alarm shot through him. “Get the hell out. The balcony. Now.” The call cut off. Ian cursed. What the fuck was going on?

  Behind him, the ground rumbled. A
moment later, a whistle sounded. The train from Iran was arriving.

  Shit.

  The courier had to be on the train. How the fuck did he not realize that when he saw where Cressida was headed?

  Because she’d asked the clerk about the ferry, not the train.

  The ferry was just visible in the distance on the lake. Between the noise and hubbub of passengers transferring from train to ferry, there would be plenty of opportunity for chaos.

  Cressida walked along the edge of the grassy median that separated the brick walkway from the train tracks until she reached the break in the fence where the train passengers would disembark. She leaned a hip against the back of the last bench on the spit, her gaze fixed on the incoming train.

  After the abrupt end to his call with Zack, he had a bad feeling about this drop. It didn’t matter that the port was well lit with vapor lamps glowing brightly every few hundred feet. It didn’t matter that she was in a public place that would soon be filled with people.

  In his line of work, crowds could be more dangerous than deserted alleys.

  He reminded himself Cressida Porter was a means to an end. He’d been working toward this moment for months, and nothing less than capturing a terrorist leader hung in the balance.

  He nodded to the hound, signaling that he should move in, and Ian wished he had a dozen more hounds on this rabbit, but for this op, he only had Sabal, who would follow Cressida after she made the drop.

  Ian would follow the microchip.

  A man approached her from behind, blocking Ian’s view. He stiffened, until it was clear the man was just curious about the out-of-place Western woman.

  Ian met Sabal’s gaze. He rubbed a hand across his beard, the signal a brush drop had not occurred.

  Slowly, the smelly diesel train rolled down the long spit and came to a halt with a piercing squeal, capturing Cressida’s attention as she cringed and covered her ears.

  Masked by the noise of the train, a man darted out from the tracks in front of the train and made a beeline for Cressida. He yanked her purse from her hip, but she wore it over her shoulder and across her chest, and her neck caught in the strap. The wail of the brakes ended after Cressida’s shrieks began.