The clanking grew louder, closer, until the open hatch filled with a female ensign standing beside the other new-comer, who was not in uniform.
A gray-haired man who looked to be local and about sixty years old waited in the opening. His dark clothing appeared to be some kind of groundskeeper’s garb, complete with dirt staining the cuffs of his loose-fitting pants.
The ensign swept a hand into the room. “Here we are, Agent Nunez.”
Agent? Jimmy straightened in his chair, his eyes following the old Turkish man while the ensign continued talking.
“We’ve set up the video equipment you requested. I’ll be right outside in the hall if you need anything else.”
“Thank you, Ensign,” a distinctly American accent came from the guy’s mouth. He walked into the room confidently, briskly, carrying a laptop computer under his arm.
The ensign stepped out and closed the hatch behind her, sealing them in with the “gardener,” who was apparently Agent Nunez.
“Pardon my appearance, gentlemen, I came in straight out of the field.” He cocked a silver brow. “Literally and figuratively. I’ve been collecting data in and around Incirlik, where three of the soldiers disappeared.”
The more the man spoke, the more the years peeled away from his appearance. Wrinkles relaxed from his face, and his movements were quick and efficient as he connected his laptop to the projector. Nunez had either gone prematurely gray or dyed his hair, because the man before them now couldn’t be older than forty.
This guy was good.
Nunez fired up the screen with a blazing white light, the slide changer gripped in his dirt-stained fist. “As you know, service members in the Middle East and Eastern Europe have been going missing, eleven to date.” Slides clicked with official military photos, somber faces from different services. All in uniform with an American flag in the background. “Seven bodies were recovered, and four were listed as still MIA or AWOL.”
No way in hell was Chuck AWOL. Even the suggestion made Jimmy fighting mad. He forced his hands to stay loose while he listened to the agent.
“Those numbers have changed.”
Oh shit.
A new slide came onto the screen of a Turkish side street. “We found a dead army sergeant an hour ago in an alley, made to appear like a bar hookup with a prostitute gone wrong.”
Not Chuck. Thank God. But still someone’s friend or son.
“The other three are still missing. We don’t believe these are random terrorist kidnappings but rather an organized network attempting to gain top secret operational and technological information. There is also a chance that they are attempting to turn some of those captured into spies for their side.”
Nunez clicked a button, and Chuck Tanaka’s photo filled the screen. “Lucky for us, Captain Tanaka is assigned to your dark ops test squadron.”
Jimmy forced his eyes to stay front, even as his fists went numb from clenching.
“Thanks to the nanosensor your unit implanted under his skin for testing, we’ve been able to narrow the search to this region and begin gathering preliminary data. The sensor monitoring his biometrics shows he’s still alive.” The agent paused long enough for a collective exhalation of relief.
“Thanks to the information periodically transmitted via low-power signal to cell phone towers, to satellites, and finally to a control center, we’ve been able to discern the captain has been drugged, and we know what those drugs are. Sadly, the low power of the nanosensor and the experimental nature leaves our information far from perfect.”
A few more weeks, and they could have had that tracking device perfected, damn it.
Nunez clicked the PowerPoint slide to a small grid on a map. “We have his location narrowed down to a five-mile area. Contact with the sensor is spotty without a GPS-quality position indicator. Are there any questions thus far?”
Lieutenant Colonel Scanlon stroked a thumb over his BlackBerry. “We’re with you so far. Please continue.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” Nunez answered, appropriately dropping the lieutenant part of the commander’s rank in conversation, a protocol quirk of military lingo.
Nunez pushed a button on the podium, and the slide changed to an expanded map of Turkey. “With CIA paramilitary operatives already in place and your newly acquired CV-22 tilt-rotor, we plan to combine your latest aerial surveillance technology and the ground intelligence. We’re confident we can trace the enemy’s chain of command and launch a rescue mission.”
Scanlon slid aside his BlackBerry with the barest hint of impatience. “With all due respect, you’re not telling us anything we don’t already know. I sense you’ve got another shoe to drop in your presentation, Agent Nunez.”
“Right you are, Colonel.” The image on the screen shifted to an image of the USO boarding a C-17 back in the States. “The explosion today threw a monkey wrench in our plans. The troupe was supposed to make a one-show stop at Incirlik Air Base before heading on to Iraq and Afghanistan. Now, however, due to raised security concerns, they will be staying at Incirlik until authorities can trace the source of the explosion.”
He clicked to the next slide, a promotional photo featuring a lineup of females performing. Chloe Nelson’s blond mess of curls shone like a beacon from the back row. “Waiting for the USO group to leave Turkey risks too much time for Captain Tanaka, and as of now, no one is willing to cancel the tour altogether.”
Jimmy could see what was coming like an unavoidable crash before Nunez even continued.
“I propose your crew continues to act as their official escort to Turkey, to provide protection for them on that newly extended leg of their trip.” The crash landing just kept powering closer and closer. “This also offers an even more plausible cover story for your stay in Turkey.”
Impact.
The music swelled overhead as if to taunt him.
So much for adios to the Little Mermaid.
Four hours later, Agent Mike Nunez sat strapped in the back of the CV-22 with the USO troupe, the plane bound for Turkey. His groundskeeper persona was now dead to him.
No grieving necessary, though. He’d died more times than he could count. That was his job.
He changed names and identities for undercover ops so often, his body had become a hull to be retooled for each assignment. A hull with one helluva brain packed with intelligence and the skills to keep himself alive for the next rebirth.
Right now, he only needed the brain. The body could hang out in the camo they’d loaned him after he took a quick shower to get rid of the gray coloring sprayed on his hair.
He wasn’t overly enthused about his exposure to the USO troupe as he sat with them in the aircraft’s cargo hold, but ultimately he had confidence in his ability to change his appearance enough that anyone in this cavernous hold could walk past his next persona—Miguel Carvalho—and not recognize him as the dude sitting here now.
But he wasn’t depending only on his own skills.
The four aviators he’d met today could make or break his mission: an air force team from a small dark ops test squadron only a select few even knew existed. The shit these avionics pioneers created and flew was so damn spooky, even their own wives didn’t know where they went or what they did with aircraft, weaponry, defense, surveillance, and sensors that blew even his mind. They tried it all. Most of the technology they used would never be known to the world.
They reported only to the air force chief of staff.
But for the next week, at least, they would be reporting to him. He needed their “toys.” He just hoped they weren’t so accustomed to running rogue they couldn’t pull with the rest of the team in a crunch. Another reason he preferred to depend only on himself.
Savoring this rare solitary moment, Nunez pulled out his secure reading tablet and inserted his ID CAC—common access card—into a slot on the top and tapped in his code. The screen lit up secure green while the CV-22 engines droned. He began reviewing reports and intelligence assessments he wo
uld need before stepping on the streets of Turkey as Miguel Carvalho, a bored banking heir from Spain. He had three bars on his target list near the NATO base. All three had been the last known site for soldiers who’d later disappeared.
Chatter from the crew over his headset distantly registered in his brain as he worked. Jimmy Gage’s flat midwestern accent growled low.
“If it was a bomb on the boat, who was the target? I find that so much more pertinent than who did it.”
Vapor’s clipped Chicago tones interrupted. “And why would that be more interesting, my friend? Is there something on that boat that intrigues you, the busty cage dancer, perhaps?”
“Backup singer,” Gage snapped.
Half smiling, Nunez scrolled through the latest update on his data, searching for . . . he wasn’t sure what. But he would feel it when he saw it. He needed to study every aspect of the three locales, because life threw enough surprises his way on its own.
Smooth strode past him in the cargo hold, pressing a hand to his headset. “I hope no one associated with the USO group is involved.”
Vapor keyed up the mic. “I say there is no way the USO babes are involved in anything. Where would they hide weapons in those skimpy outfits? Although, once they get wet, those costumes are as dangerous as a stun gun. Wouldn’t you say, Jimmy?”
The squadron commander cleared his throat. “I have a better question. How about we pay attention to flying this airplane? What do you think about that?”
Nunez shot a quick look at the women working to repair their hair and makeup while dealing with the constraints of their seats. At least they couldn’t hear what was being said. He tuned out the voices and focused on work.
He thumbed the track ball down, down, down through the maze of data. Paused. Scrolled back up a couple of pages and stopped. Went back and read the list of employees on that fourth bar again.
Anya Surac.
He knew he hadn’t seen it before. Still, something about it niggled at him. He scanned through the list of all the bars again, even ones farther up in northern Turkey, looking for . . .
Then he saw it. Marta A. Surac. She was on their persons of interest list, given that she owned establishments in two of the areas where American service members had gone missing. But so did a lot of other investors.
The bar where this Anya worked was a couple of kilometers farther away from the NATO air base than some others on his list but still within his radius of interest. He stared at the display so long his labyrinth screen saver popped up. An image of a tile meditation path on a cathedral floor bounced around the monitor in time with his ping-ponging thoughts.
The common last name could be coincidental. One woman owned a bar, another with the same surname worked as a waitress in another bar, both in Turkey. It was possible in a country that large, but it was still worth investigating more on this Anya Surac.
Could be a relative. Could be no connection at all.
Or it could be the same person.
Regardless, as Miguel Carvalho he would be meeting this Marta-Anya Surac—whoever she really was—very soon.
The speakers in the back of the plane hummed to life with instructions to prepare for landing. Nunez powered down his computer and stowed it away. Eyes closing, he rested his back, thunking against metal vibrating from the engine drone.
In the time it took the plane to touch down, Mike Nunez disappeared and became Miguel Carvalho.
FOUR
INCIRLIK AIR BASE, TURKEY
Chloe mentally prepped for her next show backstage while the moon outside the open hangar door competed with the dome of runway lights. She held her arms up while a costume mistress repaired a loose string of sequins.
They’d spent most of the day sleeping in their new quarters at the NATO base in southern Turkey, east of Adana, in the middle of farmland, farmland, and more farmland that they’d flown over in Jimmy Gage’s airplane. She still couldn’t believe the luck. Or bad luck rather.
After the performance on the aircraft carrier, she’d found someone else to locate the ship’s doctor and felt quite proud of herself for avoiding more conflict with Jimmy. Then she’d been escorted back to Jimmy Gage’s plane, which made total sense now that she thought about it, since their boat had blown up. Still, she’d managed to avoid seeing him for the whole flight.
Or had he been avoiding her?
And why was she still ruminating over one bristly exchange? Starting now, she was done thinking about Jimmy Gage and instead focusing on the scheduling changes.
The USO cast and crew wouldn’t be staying in the historic accommodations in nearby Adana after all. They would be lodging on base where their security could be better monitored. After all, they’d been reassured, the Turkish Armed Forces were the second largest in NATO, after the U.S.
In all likelihood, the boat had simply suffered a regrettable malfunction. However, extra precautions needed to be made, including delaying their departure to Iraq.
Huge—freaking huge—military planes roared overhead, almost drowning out the comedian onstage. Her info packet told her that C-17s transported cargo in and out of Iraq. One of the crews originally from South Carolina would be taking the USO troupe the rest of the way, once they received the security thumbs-up. A seven-day tour now stretched to at least ten days. One television comic had already begged off the remainder of the tour, citing scheduling conflicts.
A double fence surrounded the base with American guards on the inside and Turkish guards on the outside. Even this far from an obvious threat, they prepared for anything. Normal? Or had the boat incident propelled the military to beef up the security force? And if so, that made Jimmy’s words about the danger in this area sting all the more.
Livia Cicero hooked arms with her just offstage while the comic finished up his routine. “Mia cara, you need to relax. We are all okay. Threats on our lives are part of show business. I’m actually more concerned about the acoustical nightmare of performing in that metal warehouse.”
“It’s called a hangar. And thanks, but you’re not helping.” Chloe inched closer to accommodate the lighting guys hoisting heavy equipment to make way for the next act while the stage manager, Greg, called directions into his headset.
“I had this stalker once who was obsessed with collecting my leftover latte cups and matching my lipstick shades.” She shuddered, gathering her sleek black hair into a barrette. “I don’t even want to think about what he did with all those tubes of Pouty Pink the police found on him.”
Chloe admired the woman’s gutsy ability to shrug off something so scary. “Definitely creepy. But honestly, I’m over what happened earlier.” Mostly, anyway. It was probably just mechanical failure, but she still wouldn’t be opening any unmarked packages. “It’s the performing part. It wasn’t as easy as I expected on the aircraft carrier. I have a performance background from childhood, so it should have been a cakewalk.”
“It is . . . how do you say it?” She gestured with long fingers tipped by a French manicure that had somehow survived their impromptu swim yesterday. “Apples and pears.”
“Apples and oranges.”
“Right. Different fruits, whatever.” She tapped her Roman nose. “My point is that this is a different arena, and you are a bit more out there physically than when it is just your music. Loosen up. You will find the audience feeds you.”
“I understand that in theory, but I have always lost myself in my music. It became more of a trancelike experience.” She didn’t want to mention that, yes, she thought there was a world of difference between conducting a symphony and strutting her badonkadonk.
“Ah, you had your back to the audience or your face buried in sheet music while you immersed yourself in the sounds, whereas this type of performing requires eye contact.” Livia fluttered her lashes at a passing security guard wearing camo and carrying a big-butt gun slung over his shoulder.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Apparently her badonkadonk had been on display after a
ll. “You could have a point. I tried to look at the horizon, and it didn’t work for me.”
“Because you were not connecting with people and their emotions. Listen to that.” She tipped her face, her lashes fluttering closed as the crowd applauded for the comedian bowing his way offstage. Her eyes slowly opened. “For now, choose one person. That will feel less overwhelming until you are more comfortable scanning the crowd.”
Winking as she passed, Livia sprinted onstage to her applause and whistles.
This show versus her musical world? Definitely apples and pears. Because best she could recall, performances of Beethoven’s greatest hits usually didn’t receive catcalls.
Her cue came from the stage manager she’d only met the day before on the aircraft carrier. Chloe strode out with the other two backup singers and a line of dancers, waving and smiling until she felt creases forming in the caked makeup. Every swish of her costume around her upper thighs reminded her of how much she had on display.
She jogged to her microphone, scanning the crowd, searching the faces for one to lock onto that would help her zone out the rest. A nice, pimply faced eighteen-year-old seaman would remind her of the patriotic service she offered here. After all, she had a debt to repay.
Her gaze gravitated toward the front and a small patch of uniforms that differed from the rest. The cluster of solid tan took shape into aviators in desert flight suits. His crew.
They hadn’t left.
The music swelled around her with a comforting familiarity. Stage lights bathed her in soothing heat.
Brown eyes hit her with something hotter.
Now that that the sun had set, Jimmy Gage kept his sunglasses hooked in the neck of his flight suit. She could have sworn he seemed to be watching her intently from three rows back with his applauding buddies. Or maybe she’d indulged in some subconscious wishful thinking, because she was still pissed off at him and liked the idea that she hadn’t been so easily dismissed after all.
Of course now that she thought about it, pissed off could be channeled into fired up, which would infuse energy into her performance. Yep, she’d found her face. Definitely not pimply or eighteen, but at least she didn’t have to worry about him getting the wrong idea and asking for her phone number.
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