by Lisa Harris
When I ran through the possibilities of why Ben would be going to the Imam’s residence, I decided he might be meeting Kamila there, or perhaps he was planning to talk to Faraji Hanim about Omer’s threatening behavior, or maybe he just wanted to speak to Omer and clear the air.
Those scenarios were the most logical possibilities, although I was a little surprised Ben hadn’t mentioned anything to me about driving up to Great Falls.
A few seconds later, I realized none of those scenarios was viable, because Ben was driving his own car.
At his townhouse yesterday, Ben told me he’d rented a car last Saturday night because he knew Camp Tamal was under surveillance, and he was taking precautions in case someone decided to run his plates and question why Senator Mitchell’s son was visiting the Imam’s residence.
Didn’t the same thing apply today?
If not, why not?
About the time I started having doubts about where Ben was going, he signaled he was getting off at Springvale Road a mile outside the city limits of Great Falls.
The car in front of me was also getting off, and since I didn’t want to be in Ben’s sightline when he stopped at the red light after exiting the highway, I slowed down to a crawl.
After he made a right turn at the light on Springvale Road, I allowed several cars to get in front of me before I also turned right.
However, I was no longer worried about losing him.
I knew exactly where he was going.
The turnoff for Camp Tamal was just ahead.
Signage on Springvale Road indicated Falls Point Drive, a busy four-lane highway with commercial businesses on both sides of the road, was coming up at the next intersection.
Pictured below the road sign was the logo for Camp Tamal—a green crescent moon above a grove of trees. However, Camp Tamal wasn’t on Falls Point Drive, only the gated entrance to the private road leading up to Camp Tamal was located on the highway.
The private road—appropriately named Sunset Lane—was on the left side of Falls Point Drive.
As I followed Ben’s vehicle, I fully expected to see him pull up to the camp’s gated entrance on Sunset Lane.
However, he drove past the turnoff and headed up to Old Post Road, the next intersection.
I was somewhat familiar with Old Post Road.
Some twenty years ago, I’d been a trainee at the CIA’s training facility in Williamsburg, Virginia—better known as The Farm—when Faraji Hanim had taken up residence at Camp Tamal, and four weeks into my training, I’d been assigned to participate in a training exercise, which entailed doing surveillance on Camp Tamal.
There were five of us on my team, and we set up a base camp in a wooded area off Old Post Road. The undeveloped land backed up to Camp Tamal, so it was the perfect location for the training exercise.
By using the woods as our cover, my team was able to hike over to the east side of Camp Tamal’s property and observe what was going on at the main residence.
Legally, we couldn’t set foot on the property, but by means of field glasses and some parabolic listening equipment, we were able to write up a surveillance report on everyone who showed up at the Imam’s residence during a forty-eight-hour period.
That surveillance report meant nothing, of course.
It was a training exercise, pure and simple.
Although it was a useless exercise, I did learn something.
I learned I’d rather be doing surveillance while sitting in a parked car on a sunny day, instead of hunkering down on a soggy hillside during a wet foggy morning.
Now, as I followed Ben’s BMW, I was on the lookout for surveillance vehicles whose occupants were keeping an eye on Camp Tamal for legitimate purposes.
That is, I was trying to spot observers who were there to make sure Faraji Hanim wouldn’t be kidnapped by Turkish agents and spirited away to Ankara, so the Turkish president could have him executed.
I figured the FBI was somewhere in the area, but I thought Imam Hanim might have his own people keeping an eye on the compound as well.
Then, there was the possibility there were some bad actors in the vicinity who were also watching the compound.
Perhaps Ben was thinking the same thing, because after he drove past the gated entrance to Camp Tamal, he continued driving east until he came to Old Post Road, where he made a left-hand turn.
I wasn’t about to follow him—doing so would have put me directly behind him—so I pulled into the parking lot of Ricky’s Rib Palace instead.
The restaurant’s parking lot gave me a clear view of Old Post Road for perhaps three-quarters of a mile, or at least until it curved west and disappeared from view.
I couldn’t help but notice the area looked different than it had twenty years ago. Now, there weren’t any vacant wooded lots. Instead, there were residences along both sides of the road.
When I saw Ben turn left and stop in the driveway of the second residence just past the intersection, I assumed he was about to back out of the driveway and return to Falls Point Drive.
Although I was still mystified as to what he was planning to do at Camp Tamal, I figured he was just running surveillance in the area before he entered the gated compound on Sunset Lane.
However, Ben didn’t put his car in reverse.
Instead, he put the BMW in park and got out of his vehicle.
As he walked up to the red brick house, he did it as casually as if he were walking up to the house of his best friend.
Granted, as he stood there on the front porch, I noticed he was glancing around at the other houses and scanning the vehicles driving by, but I figured such actions were more or less instinctive with him.
What seemed strange was that Ben looked as if he might have done all this before, like maybe he was familiar with the surroundings.
The front door opened within thirty seconds of his arrival, but it was impossible for me to see the features of the person standing in the doorway. I couldn’t even tell if the person was male or female.
I sat there in the parking lot of Ricky’s Rib Palace trying to decide what to do for perhaps five minutes.
Finally, after I took out my cell phone and took a few pictures of the red brick house with the white shutters and Ben’s car sitting in the driveway, I decided to stay put and wait for him to come out.
The smell of barbeque ribs kept reminding me I hadn’t eaten lunch, and I was sorely tempted to go inside the restaurant and grab a bite to eat. But, a few minutes later, when a black GMC Yukon turned left onto Old Post Road and pulled up beside Ben’s car in the driveway, I was glad I hadn’t yielded to that temptation.
However, my confusion about what Ben was doing only intensified when I recognized the man who emerged from the vehicle.
His name was Frank Benson.
He was the head of the FBI’s counterterrorism division.
Chapter Nine
Frank Benson and I had a history together. He was a former CIA operative who had been in charge of a botched mission to rescue some hostages in Yemen several years ago.
I had been on the rescue team with him.
I admit when the DDO terminated Frank’s employment following the operation, I applauded that decision.
However, Frank wasn’t incompetent.
He was just indecisive.
During the operation, he came up with two different plans to carry out the rescue mission, and he gathered all the necessary data to implement the plans, but in the end, he couldn’t decide which plan to use.
Even though I did my best to convince him either plan would work, he refused to listen to me, and that’s when I realized Frank was someone who tended to focus more on the minutiae of the mission than the mission itself, a disposition not compatible with the Agency’s action-driven agenda.
In the end, an Agency investigative committee concluded the reason all the hostages were killed was primarily due to the delay in implementing a rescue plan, and Frank was terminated.
A few month
s later, Frank went to work for the FBI in their counterterrorism division. Personally, I thought the Bureau was a perfect fit for Frank. He was excellent at ferreting out information and analyzing data—necessary qualifications for working at the Bureau.
Besides that, Frank enjoyed wearing a suit to work every day.
For several years after the debacle in Yemen, I hadn’t been able to hear Frank’s name without getting angry at him all over again.
Last year, I finally let go of my bitterness toward Frank when the two of us were assigned to a joint operation between the CIA and the FBI, an operation which prevented a terrorist attack on the nation’s capital but almost cost Frank his life.
That didn’t mean we were best friends now—far from it—but at least Frank and I were able to treat each other with respect if we were assigned to work on something together.
Now, as I watched Frank enter the house on Old Post Road, I wondered if he and Ben were working on something together.
I figured since the wooded area behind the house backed up to the Imam’s property, they might be doing surveillance on Camp Tamal.
But, if that were true, why didn’t Ben tell me he was working with the FBI when I questioned him about Omer?
Or, for that matter, why didn’t Carlton mention it when we talked about Ben before the debriefing?
I suddenly remembered Carlton’s cryptic answer when I asked him about Ben’s relationship with Kamila Hanim: When it comes to issues of the heart, we’re often blinded by our own misconceptions.
Was Carlton trying to tell me I wasn’t seeing the true picture of what was going on with Ben?
Was I so worried about Ben’s romantic interest in Kamila I’d drawn the wrong conclusion about his interest in her?
As I sat in the parking lot of Ricky’s Rib Palace trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, I noticed a florist van driving slowly by the red brick/white-shuttered house.
It got my attention because it was the second time I’d seen it on Old Post Road since I pulled into the parking lot.
The van continued driving north and disappeared around the curve, but a few minutes later, when it reappeared over the horizon, I decided it was time to act.
The moment the van made a right turn onto Falls Point Drive and began driving west, I pulled out of the parking lot of Ricky’s Rib Palace and headed over to the red brick/white-shuttered house.
What happened next, happened quickly. I parked in the driveway behind Frank’s car, walked up to the front door, and pounded on it three times with my closed fist.
The door opened seconds later.
I didn’t recognize the man who opened it.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
I pushed the door aside and stepped inside the living room. “No, I’m here to help you. Where’s Frank?”
When the man started reaching for his sidearm, I put my hands in the air and raised my voice.
“I’m a friend of Frank Benson’s. Tell him Titus Ray’s here.”
“What makes you think we’re friends?” Frank asked, suddenly appearing from around the corner.
When Frank smiled, the guy stopped reaching for his weapon, and I lowered my hands. “I guess that’s always up for debate, Frank.”
At that moment, Ben walked up.
“What are you doing here, Titus? No, let me guess. You followed me, didn’t you?”
“Of course, he followed you,” Frank said. “If you were acting suspiciously, Titus followed you.”
Unlike most guys nearing fifty, Frank still had a full head of hair, although his thick brown mop was definitely turning gray.
When Frank had been employed at the Agency, I’d overheard a female operative telling another female she thought Frank was the most handsome man she’d ever met.
I thought his facial features were much too chiseled to be considered handsome, although I did envy him his square jaw.
Even though Nikki agreed with me when she met Frank at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, she hadn’t sounded very convincing.
Ben shook his head. “I wasn’t acting suspiciously.”
“You turned down an invitation to have lunch with Jennifer,” I said. “That was pretty suspicious to me.”
Frank gestured at the guy who met me at the front door. “Everything’s okay, Dwight. I’ll take it from here.”
When Dwight walked out of the room, I said, “I’m not sure everything’s okay, Frank. I spotted a florist van cruising by the house fifteen minutes ago. I’m sure he was doing a slow roll through the neighborhood. He made a second pass a few minutes later.”
Frank nodded. “He’s one of ours. He’s just keeping an eye on the perimeter.”
“I thought he was about to blow the lid off whatever you’re doing here.”
Ben said, “Or maybe that was just an excuse for you to come barging in here so you could find out what was going on.”
“Why would I—”
Ben shook his head. “Don’t tell me you’re not curious.”
“Of course, I’m curious.” I walked over and plopped down on the couch. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Ben looked over at Frank as if he were taking his cues from him—which I figured he probably was—and a few seconds later, Frank sat down in an armchair across from me.
After staring at me for a few seconds, he said, “Ben told me you witnessed the incident with Omer at his townhouse yesterday, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here.”
“You know me, Frank. When things don’t add up, I don’t blame the numbers; I start looking at the person who gave me the numbers.”
Ben gestured at me. “Believe me, Titus, I told you everything I could tell you yesterday. If there was anyone who should appreciate that, I figured it would be you.”
When I saw the look on Ben’s face, I couldn’t decide if he was worried about what I thought about him, or if he was angry he hadn’t been able to keep his secrets from me.
I decided it was the former.
“You’re right, Ben,” I said. “I admire someone who keeps his mouth shut when he’s supposed to, and you certainly did that. Now, I just want to know why you felt you had to do it.”
When Ben sat down on the opposite end of the couch from me, I thought for sure he was about to answer my question, but then Frank stopped him and said, “Let me be the one to explain things, Ben. That way, you can tell Douglas you never told Titus a thing.”
“I don’t care who tells me. I just want to know what’s going on and if it has anything to do with your relationship with Kamila Hanim.”
“Are you kidding?” Ben said. “Of course, it has something to do with Kamila. Don’t tell me you believed me when I said I was falling in love with her.”
“To be truthful, Ben, you did an excellent job of convincing me you were madly in love with the woman.”
Ben didn’t look as if he believed me, which caused Frank to say, “That sounded like a compliment, Ben. I know for a fact Titus doesn’t give out compliments very often.”
Ben nodded. “Yeah, like never.”
“I always give out compliments when they’re deserved.”
“So I really had you fooled?”
“Completely.”
Frank said, “I don’t suppose you’d be satisfied just knowing Ben’s relationship with Kamila Hanim is part of a joint operation between the CIA and FBI, would you?”
“You know me better than that, Frank. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Yeah, I know you better than that.”
Naturally, Frank started off his explanation by giving me a bunch of background material instead of getting right to the point of what Ben was doing in an FBI safe house.
He said, “After the Bureau received credible information from a foreign intelligence source warning us someone close to Imam Faraji Hanim was in communication with the PLP, we formed a task force to begin monitoring the activities of everyone in the Imam’s inner circle.”
The PLP or
People’s Liberation Party was a Turkish terrorist organization whose main goal was to overthrow the present Turkish government by any means, from creating social unrest to targeting officials for assassination.
According to news reports, President Evren was accusing the PLP of being responsible for the recent coup attempt against him, and he had named Imam Faraji Hanim as the person who’d orchestrated it.
Frank said, “We formed the task force after President Evren began demanding the United States extradite Faraji Hanim to Turkey to stand trial for his terrorist activities. Of course, the Imam has disavowed the PLP, but there are still those who—”
“Excuse me, Frank, but I’m more than aware of what’s going on in Turkey today. What I want to know is what’s going on right here in what I’m guessing is one of the Bureau’s safe houses.”
Frank shook his head. “What’s going on in Turkey is tied to what’s going on here.”
“So are you saying you discovered someone in the Imam’s inner circle is in contact with the PLP?”
“No, we didn’t discover anyone close to Faraji Hanim is in contact with the PLP, but we did discover someone close to him is in contact with the Turkish president.”
“Someone close to the Imam is communicating with President Evren?”
“No, not with President Evren himself, but there’s communication going on with his chief of staff, Barat Mustafa.”
“Are you saying while President Evren is accusing the Imam of trying to overthrow his government, the president’s chief of staff is communicating with someone living at Camp Tamal?”
“Yes and no. The person isn’t living at Camp Tamal, but this person is definitely close to the Imam.”
“Well, who would—”
“It’s Kamila Hanim,” Ben said. “She’s been holding daily conversations with Barat Mustafa.”
I had a feeling Ben was pleased to see he’d been able to shock me.
“You know, Ben,” I said, “as much as I hate to admit it, your love life keeps getting more interesting all the time.”