Crocker was confused. “Given the stakes, my men and I have been treating this as a ‘go’ mission.”
“Nothing is a ‘go,’ ” Grissom answered, “until we’ve worked out the logistics and it’s approved by the White House.”
Annoyed that this trip might become nothing more than a long, nightmarish fishing expedition, he followed the two Agency officers but paused before entering the elevator. “What should I tell the rest of my team?” he asked, glimpsing the Yale University graduation ring on Grissom’s index finger.
“Tell them to wait here for the time being. We’ll have them deploy directly to the border if and when necessary.”
Crocker had been to Ankara only once before, and that had been in the dead of night. What he saw of it now was more modern and a lot less charming than Istanbul. Take away the domes and minarets, and they could be somewhere in Germany.
Anders leaned into Crocker to show him iPhone footage of his fourteen-year-old son striking out the side in a Little League game as the bombproof SUV they rode in entered a heavily fortified compound off one of the major thoroughfares, Atatürk Boulevard.
“His coach has clocked his fastball in the high seventies.”
“Impressive,” Crocker said. What he was thinking was that Anders should really be more concerned about what all that strain was doing to the kid’s developing elbow and shoulder. He tried to be positive. There were two sides to everything. It was good that Anders was proud of his son, and impressive that the kid had developed strong pitching skills at an early age.
He kept his thoughts to himself in the elevator that took them up to the fourth floor of the reinforced concrete vault that housed the CIA station. It smelled of lime disinfectant. The office Grissom led him to was windowless, with a large computer Smart Board filling one wall. Standing beside it stood an Asian woman wearing thick glasses, a plaid skirt, white blouse, and a lopsided grin. A vase of yellow tulips and a picture of her crouched beside a golden retriever rested on her desk. She seemed shy and eager to please her boss.
Grissom, who was reading a message on his phone, asked, “What have you got for us, Katie?” without looking up.
She punched a key on her laptop, which caused a large map of Idlib and the surrounding area to appear on the Smart Board. “I’ve been talking to various people, including assets on the border and inside the country,” she said with a smile. “What they’re seeing the last couple of nights is a great deal of rebel activity to the north, east, and west of the city and in the suburbs. That activity corresponds to the state of the weather. Clear skies mean light rebel activity. Cloudy, and they most likely attack with fervor.”
“Fervor, is that a technical term?”
She grinned. “Sort of, sir. I use it a lot.”
Without looking up from his cell, Grissom asked, “What kind of activity are you talking about?”
“Anti-Assad militia units have engaged the Syrian military defenders with rockets and artillery. The fighting is intense and the militias are making steady progress forward.”
She seemed like a typical analyst-smart, articulate, but removed from the fray. She also remained perky in spite of her boss’s gruff demeanor, which Crocker admired.
“What about the air force?” Grissom asked as a rail-thin young African American man entered and stood against the wall.
“That’s the interesting part. In the past, in a situation like this, we’d see Syrian fighter jets, attack helicopters, and tanks counterattacking. But they’re staying away this time. Why? Because the rebels are armed with Croatian-made antitank weapons and Chinese-made MANPADS.”
Anders turned to Crocker as if to say, This is a friggin’ mess.
Katie pressed a key on her laptop and a video played on the Smart Board of a bearded rebel firing a shoulder-held antiaircraft missile and downing an Mi 8/17 helicopter.
“You recognize that weapon, Crocker?” Grissom asked.
“Yes, sir. That’s a Chinese-made FN-6.”
“You ever fire one?”
“Yes, I have.”
“How would you describe it?”
“Powerful, deadly, reliable, and user-friendly.”
Grissom turned to Katie and growled, “Who’d you say is providing them?”
“The Saudis, sir.”
“Let’s just hope to God those damn things don’t fall into the wrong hands, and we don’t see them taking down commercial airliners,” offered Grissom.
“The FN-6 is only accurate to about five thousand feet,” Crocker added. “So jetliners would only be vulnerable if they were taking off or landing.”
“So?”
Crocker wanted to reach past Anders and slap him.
Katie cleared her throat and adjusted her glasses. Before she had a chance to speak, Grissom cut in. “With regard to the sarin canisters, which is our concern now, based on what you’ve told us, what’s likely to happen is that the Syrian Army forces will withdraw east or south, taking the sarin with them and making the mission unnecessary. Isn’t that a correct assessment?”
“Well…not really, sir,” Katie answered.
“Think about it,” Grissom barked back.
“I have.”
“Think hard.”
The thin African American man leaning against the wall behind them spoke for the first time. “What Katie hasn’t told you yet is that ISIS units under command of Mohammad al-Kazaz have taken advantage of the FSA-Syrian Army engagement to make a sudden push for the air base.”
Crocker later learned he was dealing with the Station’s liaison with NSA. That organization was using high-tech cell-phone scanners to track the movements of the various rebel commanders and try to fix the position of their forces-a tricky practice that Katie and others didn’t think they should depend on. The problem remained, as always, no reliable sources on the ground.
“So? Doesn’t that make my argument even stronger, that the army will withdraw and take the sarin with them?” asked Grissom.
“I believe that’s unlikely, sir,” Katie responded.
“Why is it unlikely?”
“Because Assad’s forces are surrounded.”
Crocker looked at Anders, who shook his head as if to say The situation is even more dangerous than I thought.
“What air base are you talking about?” Grissom asked, as he scratched his scalp.
The male NSA officer stepped forward, pointed to the map on the Smart Board, and said, “That red marker is just outside Abu al-Duhur military air base, and shows the approximate location of the sarin storage tunnel. There are FSA and ISIS units positioned here, here, here, and here.”
The places he pointed to formed a virtual circle around the airport.
“Shit,” Grissom blurted. “How close are they?”
“According to the latest intel, approximately a half mile east. The fighting is heavy along these roads.” Katie pointed to several arteries on the map. “We’re hearing reports of rockets, mortars, house-to-house fighting. And as always, more civilian casualties.”
“Are there still civilians in Idlib?”
“It’s hard to imagine,” Katie answered. “But civilians continue to live in Idlib and the little town of Abu al-Duhur, which is closer to the airport. We believe that both towns are controlled partly by the FSA.”
Grissom stood with his hands on his hips and thrust his chin out to study the Smart Board.
“You think Assad would rather see their troops get captured or slaughtered than risk a few helicopters to pull them out?”
“That’s my opinion, yes,” said Katie.
Grissom’s face was turning red. “I don’t want to rely on your opinion. I need facts.”
“According to intel we got through FSA sources, the majority of the aircraft at the base, including all helicopters, have already been moved. So it appears that unless Assad orders the helicopters back, the troops there are trapped in a situation where they’re either going to have to defend the base or surrender.”