The Unknown Element

by Vince Milam

  Chapter 28

  Nadine’s name flashed on Wilczek’s encrypted cell phone. He answered after two rings.

  “Check, it’s me.”

  “You got in the middle of the blind school murders,” he said as way of greeting. The usual pleasantries had long ago left his repertoire.

  “Yes. And I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “Moloch had involvement, too.”

  Wilczek emitted a low whistle and shook his head. She had no business being associated with ground work in Wales. He’d run a trapline behind the scenes to find any knowledge of her involvement. The traps returned a mention in the Welsh secret internal police report of her and her two companions. He told her of this, and made a suggestion she do some cleaning.

  “Thanks, Check,” she said. “I forgot to dig there. It’s been, well, crazy. But I’ll go wipe the reference clean before we leave.”

  “Back to Texas?” he asked.

  “Nope. Headed your way,” she said.

  The pause extended so long Nadine offered a “hello” to confirm they remained connected.

  “Vacation?” asked Wilczek. “Because if it’s anything other than a vacation, don’t do it. You’ll get your ass killed.”

  Wilczek bear-walked to the apartment’s bar and poured a stiff drink. He kept the sliding doors open to the Mediterranean breeze, the ceiling fan on high, and the AC on. This resulted in a constant background noise of wind and mechanical hums. He also had the place swept for bugs every week by one of his geeks.

  “We don’t have a good plan, I admit,” she said. “But we’re all hell-bent on going to Damascus. I’m just looking for some informational help, Check. Drinking the DP on ice now?”

  Nadine had evidently discerned the clink of ice in his glass. She was referring to his Diet Dr. Pepper addiction, served warm. Wilczek held the cold glass to his forehead, rolled it back and forth, and let the icy condensation collect in his furrowed brow.

  “No. I prefer my whiskey cold,” said Wilczek. “Okay. Informational help. Make sure your will is in order. How’s that?”

  Nadine remained silent, clearly deciding to let the storm play out.

  “Syria isn’t amateur hour,” he continued. “Well, at least not your type of amateur. Lots of amateur armies, amateur killers, and amateur genocidal maniacs. Which isn’t much of a recommendation for three supersleuths such as yourselves.”

  He let that sink in for a moment. She needed to understand the seriousness of the situation. “So let’s review. A systems hotshot who just left her bits and bytes world, some redneck sheriff, and a French priest. Shithouse mouse, Nadine. It doesn’t get more amateur. What the hell are you people thinking?”

  There was another pause with a Nadine-interjected “hold on,” followed by, “I’m thinking I need new nail polish. I used to balance better than this. I’m pulling up a foot for inspection in a weird kind of yoga pose and keeping the phone hitched in my neck. There. I know it’s nuts, Check. No argument here. What do Western women wear in Damascus this time of year?”

  He had worked with her enough to recognize the conversational tone she now delivered, a tone renowned among the intelligence community. This presented a fait accompli, a la Nadine May. He could talk until he was blue in the face, but it wouldn’t change her chosen course of action. That didn’t mean an ass-chewing wasn’t due.

  “This is a helluva lot different than you figuring how to connect data tendrils in multiple rabbit holes. This is field ops. It’s different. Do you get that?”

  “Should I get sunscreen?” she asked.

  He stared out the open sliding glass door. The Mediterranean reflected azure blue from the late day sun. “I’ve heard of and dealt with a lot of dumbass things in my time. This sits near the top. Dumb. Ass. Could you run it through one of your software programs so we—you and I—can identify what type of person would do such a dumbass thing?”

  Wilczek paused to take a large gulp of the liquor. Nadine remained silent, probably lifting her other bare foot for a nail inspection.

  “Oh, wait. Never mind. I just figured it out. Dumbasses do such dumbass things. Yeah, that’s it! Which means you and the other two bozos you’re with must swallow dumbass pills by the handful.”

  “Any hotel suggestions in Damascus?” she asked. “TripAdvisor suggests I haul butt to some other destination. Which tells me I’m liable to get some pretty steep discounts on rooms.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine why, you dumbass,” said Wilczek.

  “The weather looks hot according to AccuWeather. Kinda like Texas. Should I get a special shot of some kind? Tetanus? Influenza?”

  He had to accept the inevitable, knowing she owned some unique place in the world where mental wiring looked like a rat’s nest. He sat on the couch, put his sandaled feet on the coffee table, and leaned back to stare at the ceiling fan.

  “Shithouse mouse, Nadine. Shithouse mouse.”

  “Yeah, I know, Check,” she said in a voice not entirely unsympathetic.

  If it was a done deal for her to come to this neck of the woods he’d do what he could, keeping any assistance buried deep. Langley would go ballistic if they got wind of it. But Langley, by and large, left him alone because he got results. He had a great deal of free reign and could pull from a variety of tools and assets with few if any questions. These included the usual informants, operatives, and paid killers. Counterparts from Russia, China, Iran, Israel, and all the rest had the same. None of them, however, had the special assets that flew, unmanned, over much of Syria 24-7.

  “Come to Turkey,” he said.

  “Really? That doesn’t appear a direct route to Damascus,” said Nadine. The intelligence-gathering dance had begun.

  “Your guy operates in northern Syria. I’m in Turkey. Not far from the border. Don’t go to Damascus,” said Wilczek.

  “Okeydokey,” she said. “And you have him somewhat pinpointed in northern Syria?”

  Wilczek far exceeded Nadine at the interpersonal intel game. “It depends. It’s a large area and makes the Wild West look like Sesame Street. It would help if I knew a bit more about your Mr. Moloch.”

  “Well, he’s different, Check. In oh so many ways.”

  “Such as?”

  Nadine stalled, and he appreciated the maneuver from a professional perspective. He would probe on the phone, but since the door had been opened to come to Turkey she’d push for a face-to-face, all the while positioning herself, and the two bozos with her, as close to this Moloch guy as possible. Then she’d get captured or killed, but prior to that he could get in front of her and assess the situation, and maybe provide some assistance that would increase her odds of survival. The “why” of chasing that guy remained a wide-open door and direct interaction with this group of amateurs would be the only way to get those answers.

  “Can we talk about it in person?” asked Nadine. “We’ll come to your city. In Turkey. If that’s okay. I know it’s your turf, Check. It’s an imposition and I get it. I’ll owe you, big time. But at least let us get within spitting distance of the border, and we’ll take it from there. It’s a big favor, I know. So I’m asking a big please. And you have my word there is a quid pro quo attached.”

  He noticed that Nadine kept geography discussions at the fifty-thousand-foot level. Of course she knew where he lived, including his apartment location. It was a nice gambit for an amateur, and again, a hat tip to Nadine for keeping that information in the hole.

  He weighed the options. Nadine had dangled an appealing asset—her and her abilities. To have Nadine May as a personal intelligence concierge for a short time was value beyond measure. On the other hand, you could lay smart money on her getting killed before he could ever collect the debt. He also didn’t appreciate these amateurs in his city, his base of operations, although any involvement could be kept deep among the shadows and if—or when—she got killed, no strings would tie him to her or her two companions.

  The potential upside of Nadine nestled somewhere
in Houston as she rooted behind electronic firewalls and encrypted security, for him and him alone, constituted the brass ring. “You’ll land in Istanbul. You’ve got several options from there. If you don’t want to do a lot of driving, catch a flight to a city called Iskenderun.” Wilczek continued the game and spelled it for her. Responding to the game, she asked for a second or two to get a pen and paper. She was probably standing there digging in her ear or scratching her ass to let some time pass.

  “Get a bus at the airport to the town of Kirikhan. It’s a large town.” He spelled it for her. His gut told him Kirikhan wasn’t on her radar—yet. “Make reservations at the Parlak Hotel. Get a suite. Do not get three separate rooms. That’s important. A suite. Brush up on your Turkish; no one will speak English except maybe the guy who takes reservations. Email me your itinerary. Got it?”

  This kept the three stooges from polluting his base of operations and sequestered them in a nondescript town in the boonies of Turkey. The lone Kirikhan hotel had one suite, never rented unless he placed someone there. Wilczek kept it bugged with audio feeds. Its close proximity to the Syrian border made a good launch point.

  “Got it. Thanks so much, Check. You know I’ll return the favor,” said Nadine, and ended the call.

  She’d be online, immersed in her world, checking out Kirikhan in three, two, one …

  ***

  Jeeter Johnson received the expected phone call from Cole. “I got a voice mail from those Welsh folks,” said Johnson. “Said you were a tough hombre during the massacre at the blind school.”

  “Luck and circumstance. That’s a fact. And there’s no media about us, Captain. Not one of the three of us has any association as far as the public is concerned. I’ve kept it tight.”

  Johnson shook his head and looked through the window. The steaming Austin air draped over everyone as they went about their day, keeping their movement desultory. Folks didn’t want to move too fast and risk the sheen of sweat turning into a torrent.

  “Well, at least that’s something,” said Johnson. Having the Sheriff of Aransas County gallivanting around a foreign country under the tenuous auspices of the head Ranger was bad enough, but any association with the world-news event of a blind school slaughterhouse might cause a man to drink early in the day or, God forbid, take up golf. The shitstorm would come from all angles—the governor, the State Department, and perhaps the Vatican.

  “Headin’ home?” asked Johnson, with hope. Cole on a plane back to Texas made for the best possible outcome at this point. The priest could head back to Rome. Nadine, well, she would do whatever the hell she wanted.

  “Soon,” said Cole.

  That wasn’t a good answer. Johnson’s radar went on high alert.

  “Tell me,” said Johnson. “Without the bullshit. Just tell me.”

  Cole explained the situation. He focused on Moloch’s whereabouts and what had to be his involvement with the Cardiff murders. Tenuous ties, but ties nonetheless. Johnson didn’t argue. The fact this suspect had appeared in Rockport and Cardiff just in time for two mass murders eliminated coincidence in his book. But Syria took the adventure to a whole new level.

  “How dead set are you on going?” Johnson asked. If Cole and the priest had committed to such a hellhole of a place, they might as well put it on the table and chew on it.

  “We’re all going, sir,” said Cole. “Including Nadine.”

  Johnson stretched his neck, heard vertebrae pop, and put boots on the desk. He’d sent men into danger before, but nothing similar to this. He’d been shot three different times during the course of his Ranger duties and understood dangerous situations. But this was far removed from his experiences. He knew enough about Syria since he worked a border state and had helped Homeland Security with possible terrorist suspects from that part of the world. He’d read the CIA briefs.

  Johnson sank into the chair. It looked possible this would mark the last time he’d talk with the Sheriff of Aransas County. He could handle the fallout, if any occurred. But he didn’t like the potential loss of a good lawman.

  “Son, what can I do to talk you out of this?” he asked. “You’ll be traipsing around an Arab shithole where everyone’s killin’ everyone. You, a French priest, and a good-looking gal. Y’all ain’t exactly going to blend in.”

  “You think she’s good-looking?”

  Johnson dropped boots to the ground and dragged the phone over to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself two fingers of bourbon, which disappeared in one gulp. Cole waited for a response.

  “Good-looking? Is that what you pulled from that statement? Good Lord, son. I might as well be talkin’ to a mesquite stump.”

  He had a point, and Cole told him so. They talked further, Cole mentioned Nadine’s “friend” in that part of the world, and the conversation wound down.

  “Keep your ass low, son,” said Johnson. “And get some firepower of the automatic kind. I mean it. I would bet you can pick up some damn potent weaponry at the corner grocery store over there.”

  “I’ll do my best, Captain.”

  Mercy, this was it. Cole Garza would go into the abyss—directly into the current anus of the earth called Syria. “My friends call me Jeeter. I wish you would.”

  “Alright, sir. Jeeter. I’ll let you know what’s going on when I get the chance,” said Cole.

  “You do that, Cole. You do that. I’m afraid the Rangers can’t saddle up and provide any help. I wish to hell we could, but you’re on your own. Remember to keep your ass down. Utilize Nadine—she’s going to be damn handy in this situation. Don’t tell her I said that.”

  “I’ll keep low, Jeeter. I fully intend to get back to Texas.”

  Johnson would have another drink as soon as he hung up with this dead man. “I’ll say a prayer for you, son.”

  “You do that, sir. It could be big medicine right now.”

  Chapter 29

  The flight to Istanbul and on to Iskenderun proved uneventful, although the last leg had no first-class seating, and the two men squeezed Nadine in the middle seat. Francois planted his elbow on the divider, apparently unaware—or maybe fully aware—that such an action cut her space considerably. Cole didn’t want to chat with her at length and mentally holed-up. She empathized with his conversational reticence, given this whole thing had moved from adventure to very thin ice. Seat of the pants stuff, all this, and he clearly wasn’t comfortable. Francois, on the other hand, remained sanguine. She sat, emotionally and physically, somewhere in the middle.

  They waited around the open-air airport for their scheduled bus while they drank tea and snacked on börek, a savory rolled dough that wasn’t bad, although it was made worse by Francois’s smacking. The weather warmed her bones and she did what she could do to ease Cole’s anxiety. He had explained that he knew Turkey was a safe, modern country with marvelous food and attractions, but it still represented a kissing cousin to the Middle East, and as such carried flavors and nuances signaling they had arrived on the border of the Western world.

  Francois let it be known he took comfort from the permission to smoke everywhere and the possibilities of a vibrant and spice-driven cuisine. He also explained that Turkey encompassed Corinth, Tarsus, Ephesus, Smyrna, and many others—all integral to the New Testament. He told them he felt a spiritual connectivity.

  Nadine relaxed, knowing they’d arrived in Check’s domain. He was a pro’s pro, and she had little doubt his people were watching them right now.

  They chatted on mundane subjects and gained their sea legs in this foreign land. Nadine reviewed again, without too many details, their as-yet-to-be-established association with Wilczek and his well-established abilities in this part of the world. She crafted her portable office and moved between the two laptops, tablet, and smartphone. She read up on the northern Syrian conflicts and players and sent electronic sniffers to collect data and help verify assumptions. Francois spent time perusing the lone small shop at the airport. Cole paced.

  The bus arrive
d for the forty-minute trip to Kirikhan. Francois and Nadine sat together at an open window and talked while they both smoked. Francois explained the importance of their current geography within a biblical context. Two-thirds of the books of the New Testament originated from the early Turkish churches. She loved to learn, and with Francois she had a knowledgeable and enlightened teacher.

  At the Parlak Hotel, the desk clerk spoke no English, but Francois conversed with him in rudimentary French. Francois explained to the other two France’s centuries-long influence in the area and how it had been codified after World War I when France acquired domain over Syria.

  The two-bedroom suite had a large common area. At Cole’s insistence, Nadine took one room and Francois the other. Cole explained he could sleep anywhere, a trait he’d developed in the Marine Corps. The couch would suit him just fine.

  ***

  As they unpacked, Wilczek strode in. He assessed the two men with an up-and-down look, and grabbed Nadine in a big bear hug. They had never physically met before, although hours had passed on video calls, either one-on-one or within a team setting. He’d wink at her in those calls after he’d pissed off other participants and she’d laugh. It was hard for him not to like her.

  “You’re a lot prettier in person, dumbass. Are you sleeping with this guy?” he asked as he threw a thumb toward Cole.

  “Oh mercy, he’s wearing me out,” she said. “The man is a sexual marvel.”

  Wilczek cast a quizzical look that said, “Really?” while Cole turned beet red.

  Francois strode toward the man with the crew cut, hand extended. “Francois Domaine, at your service.”

  “Call me Check, Father Domaine.”

  “Francois, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Done and done,” said Wilczek. He turned to Cole. “And you’re the cowboy.”

  Cole extended a hand. “Cole Garza. Not much of a cowboy. Not a bad sheriff.”

  Wilczek shook his hand and set a canvas bag on the central large table. He rummaged a bit and removed a can of Diet Dr. Pepper. “Got a glass?” he asked.