“Do you have appointment?” a Turkish police officer asked. Another cop stood next to him. Both were dressed in black, wearing Turkish police insignia on their ball caps and shirts. Each wore a utility belt with pistol, ammo, radio, and other items. Just outside embassies around the world, the host nation was responsible for protecting the premises.
“Yes, we’re here to meet with the ambassador,” Hannah said.
“Do you have copy of appointment?” the officer asked.
“No,” Hannah said.
“What time is appointment?”
“Five minutes ago. We’re already late, so if you don’t mind…”
He looked at his clipboard and shuffled through papers. “What is your name?”
“Hannah Smith.”
The officer glanced through his papers before pointing to his clipboard. “I sorry, I don’t have appointment here.”
“There must be some mistake,” Hannah said. “Call him, please.”
“May I see passport, please?”
Hannah handed it to him.
“You, too.” He pointed at Chris.
Grudgingly, Chris handed over his passport.
The officer studied both documents. Then he made a call in Turkish on his radio. He had an earphone in his ear connected to the radio.
Chris and Hannah waited.
Finally, the officer returned their passports, and the gate opened.
Hannah drove through, only to be stopped by a second black gate. The first closed behind them. With a concrete wall to their immediate left and a small concrete security building to their immediate right, the only conventional way out was through the security building door.
Chris remained patient for the first fifteen minutes, but each subsequent passing minute made him feel like a caged animal. He stepped out of the SUV and knocked on the security building door, but no reply came.
“In case you forgot about us, we’re still here!” Chris called. No one responded, so he returned to the SUV. “If they don’t hurry, I’m going to climb on top of our SUV, jump onto the building, and lower myself into the embassy.”
“Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet,” Hannah said.
He imagined someone dropping a lever and closing the walls on them. “I feel like they’re about to squash us like two halves of an orange. Make orange juice,” he said.
Another fifteen minutes later, voices and shuffling feet emanated from the security building. The door flew open, and a young armed Marine and three armed Americans wearing civilian clothes and flak jackets surrounded Chris and Hannah. The leader was the oldest of the three men in civilian clothes. He appeared to be in his early fifties, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. “Put your hands up where we can see them!”
Chris and Hannah raised their hands. Then the front doors of their SUV opened, and M4 barrels were pointed at the pair. “Step out of the vehicle slowly!” Salt-and-Pepper commanded. It wasn’t clear who the men in civilian clothes were, but Chris guessed they were diplomatic security, tasked with protecting the embassy and its people.
As Chris and Hannah eased out of their vehicle, Chris contemplated making a break for it. As if Hannah could read his mind, she shook her head. On the roof of the security building stood another armed American in civilian clothes. Chris recognized him as a guy nicknamed Two-Face. During Army Ranger training, he’d cracked his temporal bone, which paralyzed one side of his mouth and left him with a permanent snarl. When he’d earned a spot in Delta Force, a.k.a. the Unit, the guys gave him his nickname. There were three main squadrons in the Unit: Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. Two-Face was from Bravo Squadron. Later, in Iraq, Two-Face and his mates had operated alongside Chris and his Team as members of Task Force 88.
Two-Face was the only one kind enough not to aim his rifle at Chris. “Evening, Reverend.” He remembered Chris’s call sign.
“Evening, Two-Face,” Chris replied.
“Some nasty rumors floating around that you murdered some Agency boys in Syria, mate. Went out in a flash message to numerous embassies, in case you showed up.”
“Murdered?” Chris swallowed hard, feeling the gravity of the charge and wondering how word traveled so fast.
“I don’t believe any of it, but as you can see, some people in the embassy are pissing themselves.”
“So that’s what this welcome party is about?” Chris asked.
Two-Face nodded. “Afraid so.”
“Hannah wasn’t involved, so you can release her.”
“I don’t know all the details,” Two-Face said. “I just think you two should let these gents do their job—clear up this misunderstanding. If you choose to escape, I can’t vouch for the others here, but I won’t try to stop you.”
Salt-and-Pepper seemed upset that Two-Face wasn’t going to stop Chris from escaping. “Put your hands behind your back!” he ordered.
Hannah shrugged her shoulders and put her hands behind her back. The Marine, sweat beading on his brow, snapped a pair of handcuffs on her.
No SEAL had ever been held prisoner of war, and Chris wasn’t about to break that tradition, but the embassy was not the enemy. “What exactly are we being arrested for?” he asked.
Nobody answered.
“Just humor them,” Hannah said. “The faster you let them put the handcuffs on, the faster we can sort this out.”
Chris sighed and put his hands behind his back. The handcuffs trembled as the young Marine put them on Chris. He removed Chris’s Glock from its holster and took his pocket-knife from his pants. Chris was feeling more and more like a trapped tiger, and more and more, he wanted to lash out at his nearest aggressor.
Salt-and-Pepper and his posse escorted Chris and Hannah through the small security building and out the back door. They walked outside along a road and into the back of the embassy, where they entered a brightly lit hallway.
Now what?
16
_______
Salt-and-Pepper sat across a table from them with his back to the door. Except for the table and chairs, the small, cold room was empty. The mirror on the wall was probably one-way so the interrogation could be videotaped and observed from outside the room.
“You seem to know who we are, but we don’t know who you are,” Hannah said.
“I’m Tristan Nichols, Deputy Ambassador,” Salt-and-Pepper said.
Tristan was impressive—a leader who wasn’t afraid to step out of the office and dirty his hands. Even so, Chris had to know: “Why are we being held here?”
Tristan leaned forward. “I want to ask you and your accomplice some questions about the deaths of two Agency men in Syria.”
Chris’s brow furrowed. “Accomplice?”
“You shot Maximilian Wolfeschlegelaltona and Victor Shivlin before shooting Jim Bob Louve in the face. Late-night revelers on a nearby yacht heard the gunshots and called the police and an ambulance. Maximilian’s corpse was discovered in the waters of Latakia Marina, and Victor’s was located on a yacht in Ras al-Basit, but Jim Bob survived. The bullet broke his nose before glancing off and entering below his eye, where it stuck in his upper jaw. He is still in a lot of pain, but he says you and Hannah stole the Switchblade Whisper and sold it to the Chinese. The Agency sent out a flash message to bring the two of you in, dead or alive.”
Chris couldn’t believe his ears. He explained what had really happened.
After patiently listening, Tristan asked, “Then where is the Switchblade Whisper?”
“In the back of the SUV under a blanket,” Hannah said. “Unless you left it in a no-parking zone.”
Tristan frowned. “I didn’t leave it in a no-parking zone. It’s safe here inside the embassy parking lot.”
“You don’t seem to understand the gravity of holding us and the Switchblade Whisper here,” Chris said. “The Switchblade Whisper already had a GPS tracking device imbedded in its black box. Hannah affixed her own tracking device to the drone. The Chinese probably did the same.”
“I’v
e heard a lot of bullshitters in my career, but you are one of a kind,” Tristan said.
“You don’t have to believe me,” Chris said. “But you do need to search the Switchblade Whisper for any tracking devices and take them far away from here.”
Hannah cut in. “A terrorist named Professor Mordet is trying to get his hands on the technology in the Switchblade Whisper. If he succeeds, he’ll hack into the United States’ critical infrastructures and cause as much damage and loss of human life as possible.”
Tristan stood and looked down his nose at them. “Both of you are truly special. I hope they send you to some deserving place like Leavenworth. Nobody is going to break into the embassy parking lot. There are three concentric circles of protection around this facility, starting with the outer fence and the vehicular barricades. The latest technology monitors this place twenty-four seven. And there are two Turkish policemen out front, a Marine, three diplomatic security officers on duty, and me.”
“Hell is made up of concentric circles,” Chris said under his breath.
Tristan stood. “I think we’re finished here.” He walked out the door, slammed it shut behind him, and locked it from the outside.
“You think the deputy ambassador will figure out trouble is coming before it arrives?” Hannah asked. “If Mordet doesn’t lose all his men fighting the Chinese, he will have enough to storm this embassy.”
Chris tried to wiggle his hands out of the handcuffs, but they were too tight. “I’m afraid the deputy ambassador has too much faith in Jim Bob’s version of events and concentric circles.”
“Sorry.”
“For what?” He stood, walked over to the wall, put his back to it and knocked. He moved over and knocked again, repeating the process.
“For dragging you into this.”
“I’m a big boy.” He knocked on the door and other walls.
Hannah stood and strolled up to him.
He put his lips close to her ear and whispered, “Metal door can’t be broken. Opens inward, so we can’t kick out the lock. And the walls seem solid.”
“How are we going to get out of here?” She spoke softly, her breath heating his skin.
“Ceiling seems weak, from the looks of it. If we stand on that table, we can probably break a hole through it, climb up, cross over to the next room, and bust down. Hopefully it’s not locked from the outside, too.”
“Break out of here while they’re videotaping us through a one-way mirror?”
Fatigue was catching up to him. “Maybe they’ll get bored and stop watching us?”
“Maybe Mordet and his men will give us a diversion,” she said.
“Hope it doesn’t come to that.” He eyed a chair to sit in, but his butt was sore from sitting in vehicles since Syria, so he lay down on the floor on his stomach to rest for a moment.
They’d been waiting for what seemed like hours. Hannah seemed bored and took the same position lying down. After a few minutes, she smiled. His body warmed at the sight, even in the chilly interrogation room.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“I just remembered something.”
“What?”
“When you and I were first stationed together in Syria,” she said, “you and that Syrian gal seemed pretty serious. Caused a bit of a stink on base—people worried that she was a spy. What happened to her?”
“Her parents were opposed,” Chris explained. “Eventually, she sided with them. It upset me at the time, but it was for the best. Our line of work isn’t the greatest support for maintaining romantic relationships—you know, keeping secrets, frequent overseas deployments, and when we’re home, we’re not home—individual schools, platoon work-ups. Few women can accept that lifestyle, let alone live it.”
“After you got out of the Teams, didn’t you meet anyone at college?”
Chris grinned. “Yeah. One of the kindest I’d ever dated. I was interested in finding a spouse, but she wasn’t ready.”
“No one in your church?” she asked.
“There’s a buttercup in Dallas.”
“Well?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and the grin left his face. “She’s married.”
Hannah smiled. “I guess I have you all to myself.”
He chuckled, not knowing how seriously to take her. “How about you?”
She beamed. “Okay, there was the torero from Spain.”
“What’s a torero?”
“He was a matador—his tight little butt fit nicely in those tight pants. In Spanish, their costumes are called traje de luces, the suit of lights.”
“So what happened with you two?” Chris asked.
“His family is all Catholic, and he wanted to marry me, but I don’t believe in marriage. Haven’t seen him in about a year. Lives in Madrid. We’re just friends.”
“Are you seeing anyone now?”
She shook her head.
His calling as a minister didn’t prevent him from marrying, but since Hannah wasn’t the marrying type and he couldn’t cohabitate, a relationship with her seemed to be a dead-end road. Even so, he couldn’t help wanting to spend more time with her, and a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if, in time, she might change her mind.
Her chocolate-brown eyes glistened, giving him enough bliss to forget about the mission and remember how tired he was.
She seemed to read his mind: “Just close your eyes for a moment; recharge your batteries.”
He did, just for a moment…
17
_______
He was thirteen years old in Syria.
It was an afternoon just days after he’d been rescued, and he stood behind a wall near a doorway to the living room, eavesdropping on his parents.
“We can’t wait forever,” his father said.
“It’s too soon,” his mother said.
“If you won’t tell him, I will. It’s better he hear it from us than from someone else.”
“He needs more time,” she said.
“You mean, you need more time.”
“Give it a rest.” She seemed to notice something in the window and turned to examine it—Chris’s reflection.
He’d gotten in trouble for listening in on a private conversation once before. He wanted to walk away and act like he hadn’t heard anything, but it was too late for that. He trudged into the living room.
Instead of being angry, his mother’s shoulders drooped. He waited for her to scold him, but she didn’t, so he turned to walk away, but she said, weakly, “Chris.”
He turned and faced her. Her eyes glistened. “The day you were kidnapped,” she said, “the same terrorists kidnapped your friend, Nikkia, too.” She took a deep breath—then another.
“They rescued her, didn’t they?”
She shook her head. “Nikkia didn’t survive, honey.”
Chris stood there stunned. After what felt like minutes, he forced himself to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Tears rolled steadily down his face as if they would never stop.
His mother swallowed hard. “I wanted to, honey. I really did. I just didn’t know when to tell you. Or how.”
“I wish I could see her,” he cried.
His mother stood up from the couch, walked over to him, and hugged him. “I wish I could see her, too.” Her voice lost its steadiness. “I wish I could see her, too.”
The news of Nikkia’s death had hit him like a bomb, shaking the earth beneath his feet, pulling at his limbs, sucking the oxygen out of the room, and paralyzing him. He closed his eyes again, wanting to shut out everything—wanting to know why he’d never see her again. When his eyes opened, he was looking into a pair of startled chocolate-brown eyes, and the ground was still shaking. He’d fallen asleep, but he didn’t know for how long. All he knew was that the air was full of smoke and debris. He coughed.
Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. His ears rang like they’d been boxed, and he couldn’t hear anything more than the ringing. His hear
t pounded; fear struck. He scanned the room to find the door. Blackened, it hung by a hinge.
There must’ve been an explosion. It’s the only explanation.
He tugged at his handcuffs, trying to free himself before an assault team could enter the room and start shooting, but no one came. Not yet. He could see the room across the hallway, flayed open as though a mortar round had hit it.
His frogman training kicked in, and without thought, he struggled up to his knees and helped her to her feet. Still suffering the aftershock of the blast, he lost his balance but managed to remain upright. “Nikkia, we’ve got to get out of here.”
“What?” she asked groggily.
“Trouble is here!”
As he started to comprehend what was happening, the ringing in his ears lessened slightly. AK fire chattered from outside the embassy, answered by Turkish shouts and a scream. The sounds of gunfire came more frequently now—and louder. Mordet’s men must’ve entered the gate and were shooting their way to the building.
Chris peeked out of their room and down the hall toward the front of the building.
The racket of combat continued to increase. His pulse picked up speed, so he sucked in a deep shot of oxygen and calmed himself until an armed man appeared, shooting at Chris before he could react. He ducked back inside the room. “Come out with your hands where I can see them!” the terrorist yelled in Arabic.
Another AK shot rang out in the hall. Now it sounded like there were two tangos. In the back of his mind, he knew he might not survive, but he clung to hope, anyway. He looked at Hannah, who flashed him a brittle smile.
An AK poked into the room then. Chris prepared to head-butt the terrorist in the face. But when the tango entered, Chris realized the tango wasn’t a tango at all. He was Sonny.
Sonny saw Chris’s fighting eyes and body stance. “Don’t Taze me, bro,” he said in his pained nasal New York accent.
Hannah stared at Sonny. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Super Jew,” Sonny replied, sticking his chest out.
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