So much screaming.
A swishy blonde leans forward. “Penny, almost two hundred of your colleagues were just murdered. How do you feel?”
Penny swallows hard. “How do you think I feel?”
“Penny, last year, Congress slashed the security budget for our embassies.” A pug-faced guy shoves a microphone toward her. “Do they have American blood on their hands?”
“Seriously?” Frank explodes. “Read the press release, people. She’s the summer intern!” He pushes the mikes aside. “We’ve got a roster—”
There’s a sudden surge in shouting outside, mostly in Turkish. Frank’s BlackBerry shrills to life. “What? . . . Who? . . . The whole motorcade? Jesus.” He turns to Brenda, wild-eyed. “He’s not supposed to be here.”
“Who?” Brenda is clearly unnerved by his reaction.
The woman from CNN focuses on Frank. “Who?”
“Oh, that is not okay. At my press conference?” Frank is turning purple. “Turn off the cameras! Press, out! Now!”
Two black-suited, silver-earpieced Turkish men push through the door, check the room. Outside, their colleagues herd more journalists out of the way. “Yol verin, lütfen! Yol verin!”
A strange hush falls.
A solidly built Turkish man swaggers in. Graying hair parted on the side. Pouty lips, handlebar mustache. Dry dark eyes. Big gleaming smile, like the Cheshire cat gnawed a box of tooth-whitening strips. He smells faintly of yogurt and soap. Penny wonders if this is a hallucination. She knows that face. Everyone in Turkey knows that face.
Bilal Bolu. The freshly minted Prime Minister of Turkey—Binky, as he is derisively known throughout POL Section. The flabby former minister of youth and sports, Binky spent twelve years presenting middle-school folk-dancing prizes, beaming behind President Palamut on state occasions, and making as many waves as a rubber duck on a concrete slab. Everyone—including Binky—had expected him to continue serenely inaugurating volleyball courts until a plush retirement intervened. But three months ago, Binky’s luck changed—because three months ago President Palamut’s previous Prime Minister inopportunely sprouted a spine, daring to express pro-Western opinions mildly at odds with the President’s doctrine, and even making use of prime-ministerial privilege in an attempt to deal directly with the United States.
Sniffing disobedience, President Palamut not only ousted the semivertebrate Prime Minister—he branded him a traitor and forced him into underemployment as mayor of a backwater town in shelling distance of the Syrian border. That left a Prime Minister–shaped vacancy for a truly loyal man. And who could be more loyal than his grateful protégé, the profoundly unthreatening Binky?
Prime Minister Bolu strides with newfound confidence to Penny’s side.
The reporters look skittish, as well they should; Turkey jails more journalists than China or Iran.
Penny’s stomach lurches. Democracy-minded Turks call Binky “Satan’s Pet Hamster.” She does not want her photo taken with this man.
Frank springs to life. “Sir, this is such an honor—”
The Prime Minister’s security guards shut him up.
The Prime Minister puts a huge paternal hand on Penny’s shoulder. Cameras are rolling. Binky’s accent is surprisingly heavy; he didn’t need much English on the netball championship circuit. The sour-yogurt smell is worse: ayran, the salty yogurt drink he and his boss guzzle on every public occasion.
Penny’s head is still pounding. Aspirin.
Binky is saying, “. . . nothing can break the special ties between our two great countries. Turkey is strong. Turkey will annihilate these terrorists. Our minarets are bayonets!” A small cheer from the guards. It’s one of President Palamut’s catchphrases. “Our friend America is hurt and weak, like this young woman.”
Penny tries to sit up properly. “I’m not—”
“And we will help them back onto their feet!” Binky smiles at Penny, as if about to reveal a great treat. “This young woman will stay in President Palamut’s new palace. She will have the President’s private doctor!” Binky grins to the cameras.
Penny stares at him in horror. “Th-thank you, but I absolutely can’t . . .”
Frank makes shut-up motions at her with his hand.
“I insist!” Binky gives a small, fatherly smile; his kids are about Penny’s age. Then his puffy lips purse in the stern expression Penny recognizes from his newspaper photos—people call it his pasha scowl. “I insist.”
Penny turns beseechingly to Frank and Brenda. Both are spluttering full blast. “Mr. Prime Minister—too generous—cannot possibly impose . . .”
The cameras are still rolling. Binky smiles at the Americans, daring them to try to take back the moment he has so thoroughly seized.
Frank and Brenda exchange helpless glances. Penny can almost see their thoughts. Turkey is still one of America’s key strategic allies in the region. Insulting President Palamut’s favorite protégé in front of the global press is way above their pay grade. Still, Brenda takes a stab. “Prime Minister Bolu, you are too generous, but the facilities at the hospital are surely much better equipped . . .”
“Better equipped than the Presidential Palace?” Binky’s expression is derisive. “I think not.” He turns to his guards. “Get an ambulance.”
Once Binky is gone, it takes less than twenty seconds for his guards to expel the protesting journalists, cameras and all. Four new Turkish security guards in identical suits and earpieces materialize, followed by Connor.
Frank is snarling into his BlackBerry, “Of course I know it isn’t protocol!”
Too much noise and too much light and too much heat, and still no aspirin. Penny scrapes together all the strength she has and whispers, “Brenda?”
Her supervisor bends close to listen, eyes intent. “Yes, Penny?”
“Why does Palamut want me there?” Fear twists in Penny’s stomach. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Brenda presses her lips together. “No.”
“Well, what was I supposed to do?” Frank spits into his BlackBerry. “Have our Diplomatic Security guys fight his bodyguards? Call in a Black Hawk from Incirlik? You tell Secretary Winthrop—”
Brenda leans closer. “Penny, is there anything you haven’t told us? Anything about Zach or Mehmetoğlu?” She studies Penny’s battered face. “You know you can trust me.”
Penny agonizes. Connor said not to tell. But what does she know about Connor, anyway? She glances over to see if he’s listening. His pale eyes stare back at her with earnest intensity. Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head. Penny looks at her lap. Zach didn’t tell Brenda, either. And Connor wants to help save Zach. Penny takes a deep breath and mumbles, “I . . . don’t think so. No.”
“Okay.” Brenda doesn’t sound convinced.
Another guard enters, pushing a wheelchair.
Penny asks Brenda, “Can you come with me?”
Frank shoves the BlackBerry into his trouser pocket. “I’m coming with you, Penny.”
Connor is about to speak, but one of Binky’s security guards cuts in, “She goes alone.”
“She needs a nurse,” protests Brenda.
“Come on now, fellas.” says Frank, oozing oleaginous charm. “President Palamut and Prime Minister Bolu have been extremely generous. But Penny will be fine right here.” The guard is stony-faced, but Frank keeps right on pitching. “She can get in the ambulance for the cameras, drive around for half an hour, and come back in discreetly. When she’s a little stronger, we’d all be honored to join the President and Prime Minister Bolu at the palace for a press conference—”
“The girl goes now,” says the security guard, and turns to the nurses. “Haydi, gidelim!”
Many rubber-gloved hands reach for Penny.
“I’m fine!” She flinches away. She slowly swings her legs over the edge of the hospital bed, one hand clamped over the IV drip to keep it in place. With Brenda’s help, she balances unsteadily, barefoot on the warm floor. Her legs are lace
d with tiny cuts; both knees skinned like a small child’s, sticky and orange with iodine.
She can feel their stares glued on her, in the papery hospital gown. Humiliating.
A guard gestures to the wheelchair.
Penny balks. “I can walk.” She can’t stomach the thought of feeling any more helpless than she does already.
They won’t allow it. Penny is too dizzy to put up much of a fight. She sinks into the heat-sticky plastic of the wheelchair. Head spinning, spinning. Nurses produce a clipboard of paperwork for Penny to sign; the guards wave them away. Rules don’t exist for President Palamut and his underlings. Not in his own capital.
“I need my clothes,” says Penny. “My purse. My phone . . .”
“I’ll come this afternoon,” says Brenda. Her reassurance doesn’t sound convincing. “I’ll bring your stuff. Don’t worry—”
“We need a moment with Penny alone,” says Frank.
Nobody’s listening.
Connor drops down in front of the wheelchair and unscrews his Nalgene bottle. “Hey, Penny. You want that aspirin?”
Penny gratefully gulps down three of the white pills. She swipes the plasticky water from her mouth. “Thank you.” She looks up at Connor’s kindly, boyish face. He can’t be all that much older than she is, maybe twenty-six. Up close, the smell of his sunscreen is overpowering: eau de chemical banana.
“Don’t worry,” says Connor in a low voice. “I’ll contact you at the palace. We’ll get you out of there. Try to relax. You’re gonna be just fine. Don’t try anything on your own, though, okay?”
“I don’t even know what you want me to do.” Penny is getting desperate. “Zach only asked me to put Mehmetoğlu on the guest list. That’s it. I don’t know anything—”
“I’ll explain tomorrow.” His voice is reassuring. “Trust me. We’ll fix this. You just get some rest.”
“Deal with this.” Frank jams the BlackBerry into Connor’s hand. “Goons at NCTC want us to do their fucking jobs—” Frank’s eyes latch on Penny. Sweat from his jowls bleeds into his sharp collar. “Penny. You don’t say anything to anyone, okay? We’ll get you out of there ASAP. Till then, zip it. Got the picture?”
“I am not letting you take her away,” says Brenda. “Mr. Lerman, can’t you get Secretary Winthrop on the phone? This is an emergency!”
Penny grits her teeth as the guard grabs her IV drip and slams her wheelchair through the door.
4
* * *
SIRENS
As the ambulance pulls out of the hospital parking lot, Penny rests her head back on the thin foam pillow of the gurney. She closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to see Binky’s four sweaty guards scowling at her. She wishes Brenda were here. Or at least a nurse. The IV needle is still in her arm, sore as a bee sting. Every pulse of the siren makes her head pound. If only Connor’s aspirin would kick in already. But all she feels is strangely sleepy, and more nauseous by the second.
She’s always been prone to car sickness. She remembers that awful snowy drive from Petoskey to Saugatuck, the day after Grandma’s funeral. Everything she owned was zipped in suitcases in the back of Dad’s Volvo: all the books Grandpa gave her; the wooden globe Grandma helped her paint.
Grandma and Grandpa’s sunny house in Petoskey was the only real home Penny had ever known. After the divorce, Mom had parked two-year-old Penny at her grandparents’ house, with all the other detritus of her old life. Mom was supposed to stay in California for a month “to get her land legs back.” Then, when she met Bruce, she was supposed to bring Penny to live with them in Silicon Valley “as soon as we’re back from the honeymoon.” Then, “as soon as the twins get past the newborn stage.” But “soon” was never now.
Grandma retired early from the elementary school to stay home with Penny. Dad dropped by once or twice a year. But he was just a visitor. Home was Petoskey, with Grandpa, who read to her every night in the bow window after he got back from his law practice, and Grandma, who braided Penny’s hair every morning before school.
The summer before Penny started high school, Grandpa died. Two years later, Grandma was gone as well. And there Penny was, stuck in Dad’s Volvo as it veered and stuttered on the February ice. Dad had to pull over at every rest stop from Boyne Falls to Zeeland so she could puke under the pines.
“It’s all good, Penny,” she could remember him repeating, from a splash-safe distance. “It’s all natural.”
The ambulance driver leans on his horn and swerves onto Fatih Sultan Mehmet Boulevard.
The vertigo, the heat, the oily, bloody stench—it’s all too much. Penny sits up, ashen faced. Barely in time, one of the guards thrusts a waxy brown sick bag into her hands.
Penny retches. The three white pills come up first—they’ve barely even started to dissolve. So much for Connor’s aspirin. When there’s nothing left for her to throw up, she tries to swallow down the sour acid taste in her mouth.
She asks an unsmiling guard, “Water?”
He tsks and raises his eyebrows, the brusque Turkish gesture for “no.”
He’s holding a water bottle.
5
* * *
FOXFIRE
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
07:53 LOCAL TIME
Blu-tacked to the door of Christina Ekdahl’s office at CIA’s Mission Center for Stabilization Operations is a battered red-and-black movie poster from 1990, the same year she joined the Agency. At first glance, it looks like a normal poster for The Hunt for Red October, with the dark silhouette of the submarine. But where the normal tagline should be, it says FIND THE SOVIET HOAGIE. It’s an old Agency joke. They say that if you think it’s funny, you’ve been here way too long. It makes Christina smile every single time. Not much else can.
A few years ago, the Director created CIA’s eleven new Mission Centers, designed to integrate operations and analysis—or, as unenthused Agency lifers put it, stir scorpions into the Jell-O salad. Everyone expected Christina to pluck the plum command: the Mission Center for Counterterrorism. Instead, she gunned to lead Stabilization Operations. “STAB OPS,” she likes to tell her officers, “means killing problems at the root.”
Christina leans back in her office chair. She’s tall and large boned—Minnesota Swedish—with strong Viking features softened by thin wire glasses. Her suburban-housewife highlights are chopped short, pageboy style. Back when she joined, she gave the ex-Marines in her trainee group at the Farm a run for their money, even with the parachute jumps. Right now, though, she’s at ease, plastic spoon in her fat-free Greek yogurt, messaging one-handed on Sametime with one of those same ex-Marines—now her subordinate—who’s currently on rotation to the National Counterterrorism Center. NCTC was founded after 9/11 to force CIA, FBI, DIA, and the rest of the alphabet soup to actually share intel fast enough to prevent another major attack. So far, as far as Christina is concerned, its most notable success has been defeating the nerds on the NSA soccer team at the last interagency picnic. CIA gets the real work done. NCTC is where Christina sends her officers on rotation if they do something stupid but not bad enough to get them fired, like pissing off a valuable source, or—in Dan Bishop’s case—asking for paternity leave in the middle of the Assad biological-weapons crisis. It was his third wife, for Christ’s sake! Dan’s a good officer—not resentful of Christina’s success, like so many of the forty-something macho wannabes who congregate in the middle management of the Clandestine Service. That said, he’s a Division I whiner.
Christina shakes her head. After her son was born, she’d flown back to Dhaka before her episiotomy stitches were even out. It wasn’t as if she’d had a choice. Twined around her desk lamp is a bendy action figure of Elastigirl from The Incredibles. The movie came out right before her best friend, Isabel, got posted to Afghanistan. At her going-away party, Isabel handed out identical action figures to all the other CIA moms. Elastigirl is the unofficial mascot of working mothers in the intelligence community. Succeeding as a female CIA officer doesn�
��t mean being a babe or a bitch or a crazy hot mess, like in the movies. It means being stretched in every direction at once, and never snapping.
Being in the office before 7:00 a.m. is Christina’s normal. The company of so many of her panicking subordinates is the unusual part. It happened after 9/11, after Benghazi. Most everyone else slows back down, eventually. But never Christina.
Dan Bishop-TT: Palamut’s palace? The hell, Christina? I’d almost finished my report. Now it’s fucked.
Christina Ekdahl: Don’t get your panties in a twist. And don’t call Lerman again.
Dan Bishop-TT: If you’d told me your officer was in deep cover, I wouldn’t have called him. Ahem.
Christina Ekdahl: Can you hear my tiny violin?
Christina Ekdahl: Hang on. Phone.
She picks up. “Connor. Fill me in.”
“Hi. Can’t stay on long—our car’s here in five. Basically, I can’t tell. The girl says she doesn’t know anything—”
“Well, she would, wouldn’t she?”
“And she tried to pretend she wasn’t involved with Zach, which was weird—”
“Probably the concussion talking. You can dig deeper tomorrow. What the hell happened with the Prime Minister?”
“Couldn’t stop it. Frank Lerman tried to make it look like we were on board with it. Not sure the press are buying, though.”
“Did you secure the information?” Connor can’t see it, but Christina is biting her nails.
The young man’s proud voice fills her ear. “I gave her three. That buys us what, twelve hours?” It’s a good thing Connor can’t see the relief on Christina’s face. “Three?” she says roughly. “Careful there, kid. We don’t want her to Marilyn Monroe on us.”
“Brenda Pelecchia could be a problem. Can I put her in the picture?”
“Are you kidding me, Connor? Why don’t we just send out a press release?”
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