“Just a second,” Crocker said. “You basing that on anything-that part about Hassan being a victim?”
“Yes.” Anders whispered something to someone on the other end before continuing. “NSA has picked up something online from some ISIS AQ-affiliated jihadist who calls himself the Fox.”
Anders and Janice had mentioned him before, during the first meeting at the Sultanhan Hotel. “This Fox guy mention Hassan specifically?” asked Crocker.
“No, no. Everything he says is in code, very difficult to decipher. But he does talk about an upcoming big strike and kidnapping the enemy.”
“Anything else?”
“Maybe you should let us do the analysis and targeting, and focus on working with Colonel Oz to recover the sarin.”
Crocker couldn’t hold back this time. “Fuck you, Anders.”
“Crocker, look…I didn’t mean to insult you. We’re all stretched to the max. I’m glad you’re still here. We might need your services. Stay ready and alert.”
“I will.”
A swath of deep magenta leaked across the darkening sky as the black Range Rover passed between the faux-marble columns that marked the entrance to the port of Kuşadası, Turkey, and stopped. Two multitiered cruise ships rose ahead on the right, both impressively lit with hundreds of deck lights that gave the impression they were massive wedding cakes.
The female passenger on the Rover’s backseat said a quick prayer and waited for the door to open. She was dressed to attract attention and ready to play her part. She adjusted her wide-brimmed white hat, clutched her light-green Bottega Veneta crocodile shoulder bag, and stepped out.
The warm evening air rushed to greet her, ruffling her long dark hair and passing through the thin silk suit and blouse to caress her skin. Behind her two men unloaded two large trunks and several suitcases. Local porters rushed forward with metal carts and offered their assistance.
The tourist city of Kuşadası hummed behind her, a maze of tourist stalls, cafés, air-conditioned malls, and sleek high-rise hotels. Most people staying there were drawn by the ruins of the once-powerful Greek and later Roman city of Ephesus, nine miles away. But none of that seemed to interest her, neither the history, nor the commerce, nor the delicious local Muscat wine served chilled in the cafés.
Steely-eyed and sober, she strode toward the modest modern glass terminal with a Welcome to Turkey banner across the front. Slightly behind her followed her dashing associate, Stavros Petras, in a white shirt and expensive-looking black suit.
Before they reached the terminal door a uniformed concierge emerged and greeted her with a toothy smile. He wore a light-blue vest with a Disney insignia on the pocket and spoke with a slight Spanish accent. His words were tightly scripted. “Good evening, Mrs. Girard. My name is Marco. It’s my pleasure to serve as your concierge and welcome you to your Disney cruise. That’s our ship, the Disney Magic, straight ahead.” He pointed over his shoulder to the closest and largest of the two ships. Handsome, and a massive 984 feet long, with eleven passenger decks and a capacity of 950 crew members and 2,713 passengers.
She quickly took in the details-the Mickey Mouse-ear logos on the twin black-and-red funnels, the bright-yellow lifeboats, and the figure of Goofy wearing overalls and hanging from his suspenders at the stern. The sight gave her an impression of fun, wealth, and class.
“I’m here to make everything as enjoyable for you as possible. Check-in will take a few minutes,” Marco said. “Please follow me.”
She smiled. “You’re so kind.”
They entered a relatively empty high-ceilinged space, her white patent-leather Louboutin heels clicking against the tile floor. In the corner a uniformed Turkish customs official sat up, his German shepherd held by a metal leash. Two other bored-looking customs agents stood behind a long counter. One of them, an older man with short gray hair, extinguished the cigarette he was smoking as Mrs. Girard, Petras, and Marco approached.
Since they were the only two passengers joining the Mediterranean cruise at Kuşadası, security was light.
Marco stopped at the counter, turned to her, and smiled. “I’m going to need to show them your passports and tickets. I believe your destination is Barcelona. Is that correct, Mrs. Girard?”
“Yes, Barcelona. I’m staying there two nights, then taking the train to Paris for the fall fashion shows.”
“You’ll be traveling alone?”
“No. It’s myself and my assistant, Mr. Petras. We’re booked in separate cabins.”
“Of course.”
She handed over the tickets and her stolen French passport with the photo expertly attached and appropriate entry and exit stamps. Petras’s passport, also stolen, was Greek.
“Thank you, Mrs. Girard. You’re in one of our deluxe oceanview staterooms, which features a bedroom with a queen-sized bed, a living room, two bathrooms, a wet bar, and a private veranda.”
“Excellent.”
“Your associate, Mr. Petras, has one of our junior staterooms on the deck below. We arrive in Barcelona next Saturday morning, so you’ll be with us for eight wonder-filled nights. I’ll stop by your cabin and fill you in on all the ship’s services and amenities after you get settled.”
Local porters arrived pushing two carts loaded with her trunks and other luggage, which meant the moment of truth was near. She felt sweat trickling between her breasts and running down her upper thighs, but she managed to appear perfectly composed and calm.
She had been told that luggage moving through the port wasn’t X-rayed, nor was the port equipped with visual scanners or chemical sniffers. All the officials there used were low-frequency handheld metal wands. As a precaution, the trunks were made of a metal fabric that would shield their interiors from electromagnetic signals in the 800 megahertz to 2.4 gigahertz range. They were also padlocked. Should the officials demand to inspect them she would say she had no keys because the trunks contained valuable jewelry. They had been sealed and locked by a French bonding agency, which would open them only when they arrived in Paris. However, the inspector seemed more interested in the presence of narcotics, pulling the dog closer to the trunks and suitcases.
She removed her suit jacket and draped it over her left arm. The thin silk tank top underneath clung to her bare breasts. The eyes of the luggage inspector and two Turkish customs agents standing behind the counter were drawn to them as if by some secret force.
“Beautiful dog,” she said to the inspector. “What’s his name?”
“Rocky.”
“Hi, Rocky.”
As the officers behind the counter examined her passport, Marco nodded toward the luggage and said, “I assume you want those taken directly to your suite.”
“Yes,” she answered. “Please handle them carefully.”
“Of course.”
“Any additional fees, please charge them to my husband’s credit card. Mr. Girard-you should have it on record.”
“Yes,” he said, adjusting his shirt collar and trying not to stare at her chest.
Before handing back her passport, the gray-haired customs agent spoke. “I’m required to ask you this question, Mrs. Girard. Are you…are you carrying illegal narcotics? Hashish, heroin, opium?”
“No, I am not.”
He looked at the officer with the dog, who nodded, then said, “You’re cleared to board. The last thing we ask is that you remove any metal items in your purse, including your cell phone, and step through the metal detector.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll give you these Spanish customs declarations now, Mrs. Girard, and wish you an enjoyable trip. Everything will have to be declared and inspected when you reach Barcelona.”
“I’m aware of that. Thank you.”
She and Petras passed through the metal detector without incident and followed Marco down the corridor that led to a covered walkway and into the main atrium of the ship. Standing near a life-sized statue of Mickey Mouse, she removed the iPhone from her purse-a phone recently lifted from an Aussie tourist-and texted “Tout bien. A bord.” (All’s well. On board.)