“We’re taking care of everything.” Oz seemed to be getting annoyed.
“And check all local airports.”
He could tell by Oz’s expression that he hadn’t thought of that. In drastic, chaotic situations like these it was hard to stay sober and think straight.
Chapter Seventeen
You don’t have to be naked to be sexy.
– Nicole Kidman
Ninety minutes later Crocker stood beside Oz as his men inspected a long line of trucks at a roadblock outside the city of İskenderun on the Mediterranean coast, thinking that this was necessary but probably wouldn’t yield squat. Whoever had stolen the sarin was too smart to transport it in a truck on a major highway. The hijackers had probably moved fast, via local roads, and had most likely passed the WMDs to the next stage, or end user, hours ago. Oz had assured him that every avenue east, north, and south, and all local airports, were now being carefully monitored.
Mancini remained as anxious as Crocker, constantly offering suggestions and warnings. Now he was telling Crocker about the ancient cave city of Cappadocio, north of where they stood now, and explaining that it was a perfect place to hide the canisters.
“Mention it to Oz,” Crocker said, nodding toward the Turkish colonel, who stood ten feet away talking into a cell phone and looking overwhelmed and angry.
Crocker kept eyeing the coast. Helicopters and surveillance aircraft were up and boat crews were on their way, according to the colonel, but he saw no sign of them.
Almost four hours after the sarin was taken, all they had found so far was a 2.5-ton Mercedes truck stolen the night before from a construction company in Adana, farther west and north. There was no evidence that linked it to the sarin except for descriptions from the guards at the AFAD camp of a similar-looking truck driving away.
Crocker was growing increasingly anxious. Hoping for some good news, he called Davis on his burner cell.
“Anything new there?”
“Not really, no. According to Captain Nasar everyone in the camp has been accounted for. So the only one missing is Hassan.”
“Any word from or about him?”
“No.”
“You talk to Jamila?”
“Yeah. She was nice, but kind of evasive.”
“In what way?” Crocker asked.
“When I asked her about the argument she and Hassan had as they were getting out of the van, the one Mancini overheard, she denied it. Said maybe she was complaining about her back, which has been sore since the birth of the baby.”
Whether they were arguing or not didn’t seem like a big deal to Crocker. “Anything more from Ankara?”
“No.”
“Any word from the hijackers?”
“Not according to Nasar. He’s been real helpful. Has a brother who works with the police department in Seattle.”
“Good,” Crocker said. He had something else on his mind. “I want you to call Captain Sutter back at HQ. Tell him that with Suarez in the hospital and Akil nicked up, we might need more men. Tell him we can use Cal and Tré if they can get out here quickly.”
Cal was the sniper assigned to Black Cell who had been injured in the helo crash that had killed Ritchie four and a half months ago. Dante Tremaine was an African American former marine, University of Nevada basketball player, and explosives expert who had worked with Black Cell a year ago in Venezuela. Everyone on the teams called him Tré, as in the three-point shot in basketball, which had been his specialty. He was a tough young operator and a fun guy to be around.
“Will do,” replied Davis.
“Tell Sutter my gut tells me that whoever took the sarin is going to use it quickly. These guys, whoever they are, seem smart and well organized. I sense that they have a plan and specific target in mind.” In the past Sutter hadn’t put a lot of stock in Crocker’s instincts, but they were all he had so far.
“We should make sure we have air, sea, and land assets on alert,” Crocker added.
“I’ll tell him.”
“When you’re done with Sutter, ask Nasar if you can borrow a vehicle so you and Akil can drive here and meet us. Bring our weapons and gear with you. Do you know what happened to them?” Crocker asked.
“The Turkish guards confiscated everything after the theft.”
“Tell Nasar we need them back. Explain that we’re working with Oz and trying to recover the sarin.”
“Nasar’s cool. I don’t think he’ll be a problem.”
“Good.”
“Hey, one more thing, boss. When I was talking to Jamila, I mentioned that Hassan had been introduced to you by his uncle, Mr. Talab, and his half sister, Fatima.”
“That’s correct.”
“She claimed she knows all of Hassan’s extended family and has never heard of an uncle Talab, and she was, like, totally adamant that Hassan doesn’t have a half sister.”
“No, half sister, stepsister, or adopted sister named Fatima?”
“No, none of the above.”
“Interesting,” said Crocker.
“I thought so, too.”
The longer they waited, the more the consequences of the situation beat down on him, until his head, neck, shoulders, back, and legs hurt. It was impossible to stand and watch the black-uniformed Turkish commandos running back and forth at the roadblock, barking orders as they choked on diesel exhaust from the dozens of backed-up trucks while he knew some dastardly plan was unfolding somewhere else.
Mancini, who had pitched in to help with the inspections, looked equally impatient and grim. He stood beside Colonel Oz, who was now screaming at some young officer about the kebab sandwiches he had ordered for his men and looking as if he was about to wring the young man’s neck. They’d been here three hours now, and all the while the hijackers were probably gaining ground. The only good news was that Akil, Davis, and Janice were on their way.
Feeling that he had to do something, Crocker excused himself and called Anders in Ankara on one of his burner cell phones. The CIA officer sounded harried and exhausted.
“Crocker, you’re still in-country? Where are you now?”
“With Oz, inspecting trucks on the O-52 motorway a few klicks north of İskenderun.”
“Where’s that?” Anders asked.
“Hatay province. East and south of you.”
“I’m up to my frigging eyeballs here. How can I help you?”
“How well do you know Mr. Talab?” Crocker asked.
“What kind of question is that?”
“How well do you know him?”
“Talab? Personally, not well. But he’s been a trusted Agency source for years. Why?”
“What about that Fatima chick? His aide.”
“The very fine looking woman he had with him? All I know is what I saw. Why?”
“They both claimed to be related to Hassan, right?”
“Did they?” asked Anders. “Why’s that important?”
“When we met Talab at the hotel, he said Hassan was his nephew. And while we were waiting for the order to launch in Yayladaği, Fatima told me she was his half sister.”
“So?”
“So Hassan’s girlfriend, Jamila, just told Davis that she knows all the members of his family and that Hassan isn’t related to either of them.”
“The girlfriend, the one who just had the baby?” asked Anders.
“Yeah.”
“You believe her?”
“No reason not to.”
“Maybe Talab and Fatima were speaking loosely,” Anders offered. “You know, ‘family’ can be a loose term here. Maybe they were trying to impress on us how close they are to Hassan so we’d trust him.”
“Yeah, they wanted us to trust him. You have any idea where Talab and Fatima are now?” Crocker asked.
“Last I heard, Talab was in Damascus taking care of family business. Fatima, I don’t know. Maybe she went with him. I’d take her with me, wouldn’t you?”
“Probably. But that’s irrelevant.”
“What are you trying to say, Crocker?” Anders asked. “Seems to me you’re reaching for something. It’s very likely that Hassan is a victim here. Anyway, I’ve got to go.”