She'd been honest with Garrison. Partly.
Terry had asked for an interview with the general earlier that morning. He'd also been shot down. Though at the time, neither of them had known on whose authority the firm no had come. But Terry—loyal soldier though he was—was also very much a rabid reporter. The no had burned.
Hence, as she finished typing her final text, his response—Understood. You owe me another bottle of vodka, but yeah, got your back—wasn't surprising. Nor was his conclusion—Now GET me that interview!
Easier said than done. The door was still closed.
Regan stared at the walls of the tiny storage closet, its floor-to-ceiling shelves burdened with an assortment of audio-visual equipment, most high tech, but a surprising amount not. Silence resonated from beyond. Though she was tempted to slip into the lobby, she didn't. The captain had told her to wait here, so here she would wait. She wasn't opposed to following orders—even his—so long as they dovetailed into her real ones.
And if they didn't…
As the minutes began to multiply, she began to wonder—had Garrison gotten so tied up with his regular and newly added collateral duties that he'd forgotten about her? She caught the sound of steady boot falls in the lobby and tensed, not wanting to be caught by yet another Special Forces soldier, who would also be well within his rights to demand an explanation for her presence—or worse.
What if LaCroix had returned?
As the door opened and she spotted that leading enormous forearm, biceps and shoulder, she relaxed. The captain hadn't forgotten.
But had he managed the rest?
The door swung wide.
Garrison tipped his head toward the lobby. "Come."
That was all he said as he forged a determined path across the tiled expanse toward another, heavier door. This one led to a corridor with multiple wooden portals leading off the right. He stopped at the third one and opened it, tipping his head once more to let her know she should precede him inside.
She did. She found the general at the far end of a modest conference room, standing in front of its sole window and staring out between the open slats in the blinds, seemingly absorbed. With what, she had no idea.
Ertonç was oblivious to Garrison's "She's here, sir," as well as the subdued swish of the door that followed as the captain departed.
Once again, she was kept waiting.
A solid minute passed, during which she considered coughing to sever the man's attention from—what was he staring at so pensively?
She risked finding out.
Regan stepped around the wood-grained conference table and padded chairs taking up most of the room to join the general at the window. She immediately felt the intrusion. Hers. Evidently, she wasn't the only one suffering the jagged edges of memory and regret today. Thanks to the hours she'd spent last night researching this man, she even understood the ones rasping into him, as well as the cause of that telling sheen to his faded brown stare.
A male ACU-clad soldier stood in the grass roughly twenty yards away, scooping up a chortling boy of perhaps two or three. A young woman looked on, smiling, as the soldier swung the tot around and around before settling the boy jiggling belly down over his right shoulder. The soldier began laughing as well, causing the dampness in the general's eyes to finally well up and spill over.
She was about to step back and leave the general to his grief, when he stiffened.
"I'm sorry; I did not realize—"
"No, sir. It's my fault. I shouldn't have intruded. I'll wait outside."
"Nonsense. I invited you." He took a deep, cleansing breath as he scrubbed a leathery hand through short, steel-gray hair. "I was just—" He broke off as the hoarseness returned.
When he couldn't seem to gather the words to finish, Regan offered hers. "Remembering. I know. I understand you lost both your sons recently." In the same horrific car bombing outside Inçirlik, no less. She'd seen the photos. "I'm truly sorry for your loss, General." She wasn't sure if she'd gotten caught in the tangle of her own ancient memories—the ones that somehow managed to knot up her gut on this very day, year after year—or if it was the added knowledge of his, but she reached out and briefly pressed her hand to his forearm.
She wished she could offer more, but feigned Public Affairs or not, she dare not let on that she also knew that his wife had died from cancer two years before his sons were murdered. Or that his only daughter, an asthmatic, had had an attack and drowned in the ocean years before that while on break from her studies at a British university. Like her, this man had no one left on the planet.
Life just seemed to crap on certain people, didn't it?
Over and over again.
The general's sigh was heavy, resigned. "Yes, it has been a trying time. But I must move forward. Allah wills it."
She wasn't so certain of Allah's will, but she did subscribe to the gospel of pushing forward, and zealously. There were days, weeks even, when that dogged, forward momentum was all that got her through. That, and the Army.
"So, Lieutenant Pace—" He stretched his hand toward the conference table. "Shall we have a seat and begin?"
Regan ignored the unexpected twinge of guilt as she tacitly affirmed the phony name and rank with a nod. "Absolutely."
Military etiquette dictated she wait for the general to select his seat, which she did. She took the chair catty-cornered to the one he chose at the head of the table, retrieving her phone and turning on the microphone app before setting it down between them. She waited until he'd also settled his phone on the table beside him before she began.
"First, General, allow me to congratulate you on your recent promotion. I understand it's well deserved. I'm not sure you know, but my boss, Captain Vaughn, had hoped to interview you regarding the circumstances leading up to it, namely your role in Operation Peace Spring in northeastern Syria last year. You—"
"I am sorry, Lieutenant. You may ask me anything else you like. But that topic is…how do you Americans say it? Ah, off the table." He softened the rejection with a smooth smile.
Clearly, he'd been prepared for the question. As he should've been.
But she'd had to try.
Regan mirrored his smile. "Of course. I apologize."
He inclined his silvery head.
"Moving on, then. Perhaps you could—" She broke off as his phone began to vibrate against the surface of the conference table.
His smile vanished as he looked down. Stared. Once again the man appeared to be transfixed, this time on the number currently displayed on his phone. An odd, almost cornered expression gripped his features as it vibrated a second time. He snatched up the phone—but not before she'd had a chance to scan the number herself and tuck it into memory.
"Excuse me a moment." He glanced pointedly at her own phone as he stood, tacitly ordering her to turn off her microphone. The moment she complied, Ertonç opened the connection on his and began speaking as he headed for the window. Quietly. In Turkish.
Interesting.
The country code fronting that call had been German.
He turned slightly, offering her an even more tantalizing view of his profile. The man couldn't seem to cease worrying his thick mustache with his fingertips as he spoke.
Who was on the other end of that conversation?
The general wrapped up the call all too quickly and headed back to the table, this time slipping his phone into one of the pockets on his camouflaged blouse as he sat. "I apologize for the interruption."
"No need, sir." She clicked the microphone back on, taking advantage of his lingering distraction as she opened with her most pressing question. "I understand you were originally slated to visit Hohenfels five weeks from now. Is there a reason why you've arrived so early?"
This smile was significantly less smooth than his earlier one. Because the question—or, more importantly, its answer—had unsettled him? Or because of that call and the distress still pinching his oddly blanched features?
Either way, he recovered quickly—and shrugged. "It was necessary."
"Necessary?"
He nodded. "There are many pressing matters to which I must soon attend in my country. Your post commander was gracious enough to accommodate my schedule by allowing me to move my visit and my speech forward."
It was a lie.
Even without Mira's insider knowledge, she'd have known that. The latest instinctive tug he gave his mustache proved it. Unfortunately, this was supposed to be a friendly interview, not an interrogation. She couldn't afford to press it.
"Why come to Hohenfels at all?"
"It was unavoidable."
"Unavoidable?"
"Yes. As you alluded to earlier, certain events have taken place in the world. Events that have…affected the way your army and mine relate to each other." Syria. The safe zone. Though he hadn't voiced the words, he did confirm them with a nod. "These events must not be allowed to tarnish our relationship. We are, after all, all soldiers. Subject to the policies of our respective governments. As you are no doubt aware, politicians come and go. Soldiers remain. Soldiers who must be able to truly and fundamentally trust one another, and be willing and able to work together again when called upon to do so, especially upon the battlefield. I am here to promote this."
Another tug on that mustache and another whopper. Worse, several of those lines had been lifted directly from the speech he'd just given.
Talk about recycling content.
Regan leaned forward to confront that faded stare head-on. "Working together? As in Kabul—where you and Captain Garrison first met?"
Score one for the captain's man Friday skills. Garrison had obviously briefed the general on the conversation they'd shared in that storage closet because Ertonç was ready for that one, too.
The general even managed a slight, almost genuine smile. "Yes, like Kabul. But that must be a story for another day." He stood. "I am sorry, Lieutenant. This is all the time I have for questions. I have a pressing meeting to attend shortly, and I must prepare. Would you like me to call you an escort?"
Foreign brass or not, she knew when she'd been deftly deflected—and decidedly dismissed.
With no choice but to obey, Regan scooped her phone off the table, ending the recording as she too came to her feet. "Thank you, sir, but I know the way. I appreciate your time and your patience with my questions. I hope you enjoy your stay at Hohenfels."
From the diffuse nod Ertonç offered, his mind was already elsewhere. As he retrieved his phone from his pocket before heading toward the window, she knew where his mind was focused, too—or, rather, upon whom.
Or she would know. Just as soon as she got out of there.
Ertonç had pulled up his calls log and hit redial on his most recently received one just before he'd turned.
Regan abandoned the man who'd already abandoned her, departing the conference room and heading down the hall to the lobby as quickly as she dared. Now was not the time to attract attention. Especially Garrison's.
Not with that number blistering through her brain.
The moment she cleared the main outer doors to the building, she punched in her fellow CID agent's number.
Jelling answered on the first ring.
"How's your son?"
"Fantastic. Appreciate your text earlier. I was so caught up, I forgot to answer. Sorry. But, yeah, they got his fever down, and we were able to bring him home a couple hours ago. He and Ava have been sleeping since. I was just getting ready to head into the office."
"That's a relief." And it was. But— "I need a favor, Jelly." One she actually preferred he do from the privacy of his home. "Don't leave for work just yet. You still tight with Mikel Gruber?"
"Yeah, why?"
She popped a salute as she approached a colonel on the sidewalk, then kept walking for several yards before shooting a quick glance behind her to ensure her six was clear of potential observers before she risked answering. "I need a local number traced, and I don't want the fact that I did it getting back to the post commander." Much less Garrison. At least, not yet. "The general took a call about fifteen minutes ago. One that's had him visibly on edge since. He's returning it now." Instead of preparing for his so-called pressing meeting. "It may be nothing. But my gut says otherwise. I think that call may be key to why he's really in Hohenfels." And that may impact LaCroix plans.
Which definitely impacted their case.
"Your gut's good 'nuff for me, Prez. Zap it to me."
Regan rechecked her six before quietly rattling off the digits she'd memorized at the start of the interview, then waited dutifully as Jelly repeated the string of numbers back. "Yeah, that's it."
"And I'm on it. But it may take a day or so before we get the information. I don't know if Mikel's workin' today."
"If not, step into him." With everything she'd learned during that speech and after, with both Garrison and the general, not to mention that blistering stare down, her gut was also telling her they didn't have days. Nor did Ertonç.
And where would their US-Turkish army-to-army cooperation be then?
Where would NATO's?
5
Regan brought the Tiguan she'd rented in Rachel Pace's name to a halt in front of Garrison and LaCroix's two-story picturesque timber and whitewashed stucco. Since the home's cobblestone drive afforded space for a mere two cars, and the captain's silver Wrangler was already parked on the right, she could only assume the slot on the left belonged to the pickup truck registered in LaCroix's name.
Which was missing.
Regan weighed her options for all of two seconds before pulling the Tiguan into the empty slot instead of parking politely behind the Wrangler. If she was lucky, the sergeant just might be annoyed enough to interrupt his housemate's date before she departed. And if he didn't?
Tonight might well be for naught.
That she couldn't afford. There was too much at stake. Namely, the general's life.
Meeting Ertonç and empathizing with his own shitstorm of a life, however unexpectedly, had made the coming hour and a half all the more urgent, even without NATO in the mix.
Regan killed the VW's engine and retrieved her phone from the passenger seat to text Mira. okay, here. 90 min—not one second more.
If she decided she was making worthwhile progress at that point, she could always signal to Mira that she needed to stay longer.
Her phone pinged with the woman's thumbs up emoji, followed by a smirking smiley face and a pithy u can do this.
Right.
She could. She had. This was standard op, nothing more.
So, go in there and make nice. Eat. Connect. Get what the Army needed—what her country needed—and then get the hell out.
Only that was the problem. There was nothing standard about tonight. As far as she'd been able to determine, the man she was about to dine with wasn't guilty of anything other than protecting a fellow—if foreign—officer. Worse, the captain was looking forward to their dinner. For added professional reasons, yes. But for him, tonight was extremely personal. He was a decent guy, too. Someone she might have eventually accepted a real date with had the circumstances been different.
But they weren't different.
Garrison was her only viable conduit to LaCroix.
The reminder didn't help. In fact, she'd never felt more like her father than she did right then. The irony twisted in as she tucked her phone in her back pocket before grabbing her trusty leather bag with its trustier, concealed metallic contents. She checked her watch as she bailed out of the Tiguan.
Eighty-eight minutes left.
Move out, soldier.
She ignored the stiff evening breeze cutting through her cable-knit sweater and jeans as she pointed her boots toward the cobblestone walk. Though the sun had set, there was enough lingering light for her to follow the path around the house to the main entrance.
The door opened before she could knock. Her date's daunting proportions crowded the frame.
&nb
sp; Like her, Garrison had exchanged his uniform for a several shades darker, oatmeal-tinted sweater and jeans. Unlike her, the man had a checkered dish towel slung over his right shoulder—and a wide smile that was doing its damnedest to showcase that deep, dimpled fold.
"Hey, Rachel." He motioned her inside as he stepped back to allow her to enter. "Good timing. I'm almost done. "
She closed the door and followed him through the modest living room with its overstuffed couch and matching navy chairs. The archway near the end opened into a slightly larger and more modern kitchenette with an eat-in area on the near side of a stainless steel, granite-topped cooking island. "That smells fantastic. What is it?"
It wasn't an exaggeration. Her stomach actually growled at the pungent aroma.
"Sesame ginger beef." He rounded the island and began scraping a bamboo spatula in and around the interior of a large blackened wok as she stopped at the square table to hang her bag on one of the dark-red chairs. "I hope you weren't being polite when I texted about allergies and preferences."
"I wasn't. I'll eat pretty much anything I don't have to cook. And thanks for the GPS pin." Not that she'd needed it. She'd driven by the house after she'd rented the Tiguan that morning. After discovering he'd moved from the apartment complex still listed on his record, how could she not?
"No problem." The captain launched another open grin over the island. "I had a vested interest in getting you here."
That was what worried her. At least his mood was light. Whatever General Ertonç had reported back about their meeting, it couldn't have bothered Garrison. She'd take the win. Especially since she was still waiting—and none too patiently—on Jelling's back-door connection with the German phone company.
As for the address, "I'm surprised though." She tipped her head toward the living room. "I figured you for a studio bachelor pad. This is a lot of space."
"Yeah, it is—and I did have an apartment. But when my lease came up a few months ago, a local I'd met talked me into staying here and watching the place while he and his wife traveled." He shrugged as he refocused on the wok. "It's worked out okay."
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