“What about you?” he asked.
“Eight years in.”
“Overseas?”
“No, mostly at HQ.”
“Nice.”
He imagined a town house in Reston where she lived alone. Probably dated within the Agency. Looked like she ran and worked out.
“We have a friend in common,” she announced. “John J. Smith.”
Crocker smiled. John Smith was the alias of a CIA officer who ran Shkin Firebase on the Afghan-Pakistani border. Crocker remembered him as a tireless worker with a positive, can-do attitude. He had heard that Smith had gotten into trouble with management for running unauthorized ops into the Pakistani tribal areas.
“What happened to John?” he asked.
“Last I heard he’s living near Tampa, running a private executive protection and recovery outfit.”
From the wistful expression on her face, he concluded that they had either dated or had had a thing.
“Married?”
“Yeah, to some Colombian girl. They have a baby.”
“Good for him,” Crocker said, thinking he should call him when he got back to the States.
So many of the guys he had served with as SEALs or with the Agency overseas resurfaced in private security and military companies (PMCs) like Academi (formerly Xe, and before that, Blackwater), L-3 (formerly Titan Corp), Aegis Defense Services, and others. Ten years ago his former SEAL teammate and workout buddy Scott Helvenston was in Iraq as an employee of Blackwater. He and three colleagues were escorting trucks from a food catering company over a bridge near Fallujah when insurgents attacked their vehicle with rocket-propelled grenades. The four men were killed, their bodies burned and mutilated, and two were strung up on a bridge over the Euphrates.
All these years later, Crocker was unable to get the image of the crowd celebrating over the charred bodies out of his head.
There was a lot of ugly shit in there that he’d like to expunge.
They had turned off the freeway and were entering an industrial area. The Scorpion at the wheel guided the vehicle into a gated compound with two tall smokestacks, turned to Janice, sitting beside him, and said, “This is the place.”
Judging by the railroad cars loaded with rock, it looked like a metal smelting operation of some kind. Behind one of the large buildings stood a streamlined office structure with cars outside. Three local men wearing street clothes and wielding automatic weapons indicated that they should stop. After Janice addressed them in Turkish through the open window and showed them an ID, they pointed to a place to park.
The long, low-ceilinged room was crowded with people and smoke. Groups of Turkish officials stood conferring and puffing on cigarettes. Through the haze and to his right, Crocker saw Anders standing next to a tall, bald man with a walrus mustache.
What are all these people doing here? Typical second-world shit. Invite everybody and their cousin.
Anders appeared to be the only other American. He waved at Crocker and said something to the bald man, who slapped the table and blurted out something in Turkish.
Three of the Turks put out their cigarettes and took places at the table. The other dozen or so nodded in the direction of their leader and left. The lone female among them paused near the door and looked back at Crocker. He thought for a second that it was Fatima wearing an olive pantsuit and a black headscarf. But this woman had a nose that stuck out like Gibraltar.
Mr. Talab wasn’t present.
“All these people work for MiT?” Crocker whispered to Janice, feeling somewhat awkward. He was in the country clandestinely as John Wallace, a security consultant, and didn’t like being seen in the company of a known CIA employee, especially by so many people.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The bald man at the head of the table barked something in Turkish, then shifted quickly to English. As he did, his tone softened.
“Welcome, to you all. Particularly you, Mr. Wallace, and your associates. My name is Colonel Ozgun Ozmert. Call me Colonel Oz. Everybody does.” He spoke with a slight British accent and smiled a lot. Reminded him of the actor Yul Brynner.
“Thank you, Colonel. It’s good to be here.”
“You’re very welcome. My good friend Mr. Anders has asked me to answer your questions and to assist you in any way I can.”
“I appreciate that.”
Colonel Oz held out his hand to a thin man in a dark suit and white shirt to his right.
“First, one of my assistants, Inspector Evren, would like to ask you one or two questions about the unfortunate incident this morning, if that’s permittable.”
“Go ahead.” Again he felt exposed and uncomfortable.
What’s the purpose of this meeting?
Oz continued, “Let me say, first, that political violence of that kind has been rare in Istanbul. We’ve made sure of that. But with the war in Syria and all the problems that has caused us, these unfortunate incidents have become more frequent.”
“Understood.” Crocker reminded himself that the Turks were U.S. allies. He had worked with them before and found them cooperative and helpful. He attributed his acute sensitivity to the incident that morning near the Blue Mosque.
Inspector Evren rubbed his hands together and in a pinched voice asked, “You sure you don’t mind if I ask you these questions?”
Crocker, who hadn’t expected this, looked at Anders, who nodded.
“No. Not at all,” he said, feeling strange talking about something he hadn’t had time to process fully in front of a group of strangers.
“First, all of us express our deep condolences about Mr. Munoz,” Evren said. “Many of us here worked with him and considered him a friend.”
Crocker assumed he was talking about Jared. “Thank you.”
“The initial attack took place on Torun Sokak?”
“Just around the corner from the bazaar. That’s correct.”
“How many individuals were involved?”
“I saw four men altogether. Two in a van and two on a motorcycle. I noticed the two motorcycle men on the sidewalk first. I observed that they were following Jared. I was behind him. When I turned onto Torun Sokak, I saw that Jared had been pushed into a van. I rushed to his aid. He was killed while trying to get away. I encountered the two motorcycle men again when they attacked me in a shop on Kabasakal.”
By the time he had finished, Crocker noticed that his heart rate was elevated and he had started to perspire.
“Thank you, Mr. Wallace. We’re very sorry for your trouble. You might want to know that we were able to capture one of the wounded men from the van.”
“Oh. I’m glad to hear that.”
“I can also tell you that one of the men you fought off in the shop on Kabasakal is dead from a wound to his head.”
“Good.”
“We interrogated the wounded man and believe he is a member of Shabiha. These men are paid assassins working for President Assad in Syria.”
Crocker wasn’t surprised. “I’ve heard about them, yes.”
It made sense. Jared had been in Syria helping the FSA rebels who were trying to destroy the Assad government.
“We are very sorry for your trouble, and apologize deeply.”
“If you need me to identify anyone, or to provide you with further details, I’m happy to comply.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wallace,” said Colonel Oz. “Now, please, so we don’t waste your time, let’s talk about the situation inside Syria and answer your questions.”
“Yes.”
He pointed to another man at the table. “Mr. Asani here is our director of intelligence for Idlib province. His English isn’t very good, so he submitted this report.”
Colonel Oz proceeded to read it, and Crocker took notes.
Three hours later, when Crocker returned to the hotel, his brain was so fried he couldn’t think. He passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow and woke up two hours later. Although his body begged for more rest, his mind had rebooted and was eager to process the information it had received.