Liar's Candle

by August Thomas

“Diplomats talk to sources, Melek.”

  “Diplomats? Davut Mehmetoğlu is affiliated with known Kurdish separatist groups.”

  “He’s a former politician in your parliament.”

  “Former. You may pal around with those people in Syria. But in Turkey, we call them terrorists. Mehmetoğlu was at that party to sell your spy Zachary Robson secret information. I have evidence that proves Penny Kessler was involved. I also know you told me none of this. So you tell me. What is the CIA playing at?”

  “I thought you were too smart for this, Melek. Is your father’s paranoia contagious? We want Turkey stable as much as you do. I’m just trying to help. But you’re making that almost impossible.”

  “What a convenient excuse for you.”

  “I don’t like your attitude, Melek.” Christina’s tone sharpens. “How do I know you didn’t deliberately release the girl, as a childish threat to me? A kind of plague rat, to spread inconvenient rumors? Have you grown tired of my help, Melek? Are you such a big girl now that you think that you can act alone? Do you want to see how fast you’ll fail without me? What would your father say, if he finds out?”

  “Your condescension is as unbecoming as it is unwise.” Melek is keeping her composure, but only just.

  “I’m a realist, Melek. I thought you were, too.”

  “You’re trying to provoke me.” There is a rustle as Melek straightens a stack of papers on her desk. “But I won’t be so easily distracted. The girl is gone. And now I begin to wonder: Was Zachary Robson the loose cannon you claimed? Or was he acting on your orders all along?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” hisses Christina. “You should be sweating bullets to help bring the real terrorists to justice. Instead, you kidnap Flag Girl and illegally interrogate her in the Presidential Palace!”

  “My father said I could invite her here as a humanitarian gesture. He has no idea about the interrogation!”

  “I believe you. But we both know no one else will.”

  “Would you undo a peace so many have died for just to get the upper hand?”

  “That’s a lot of moralizing, coming from a kidnapper.”

  “I only scared the girl!”

  “You’ve screwed this up, Melek. I’m going to give you just one chance to put it right.”

  Melek says nothing. But they both know she can’t afford to hang up now.

  “Do you have any idea where Penny Kessler is?” asks Christina.

  “We know where the vehicle she’s in is probably headed. But—”

  “Where?” Christina has already pulled up the map on her computer.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Tell me where to find Penny Kessler.”

  “Tell me what Zach Robson was digging for.”

  “Let me help you, Melek. I can make this whole problem go away.”

  “I wonder”—Melek’s voice is quiet with stifled rage—“what is in this for you?”

  11

  * * *

  ORDERS

  ANKARA, TURKEY

  17:12 LOCAL TIME

  “Thank God that’s fucking over.” Frank Lerman leans back in the only chair in room 754 of the Rixos Grand Ankara (the budget section, commanding views of a nearby fire escape) and props his oxfords on the bedspread. “I hate seeing injured people, you know what I mean? That guy with the burns on his face gave me the creeps. I’d make a really shitty doctor. Thank God for law school.” He rubs his eyes. Stretches. “Teleconference is five thirty, right?”

  Connor nods, still at attention. “Yes, sir.”

  “No time for the spa, I guess.” Frank jabs his finger at the glossy model on the cover of hotel-amenities brochure. “Why’s she got a bunch of little rocks lined up on her spine? What’s that gonna do for you?”

  Connor shrugs. “No idea, sir.”

  “Nice ass, though.”

  Connor gives a noncommittal mumble.

  Frank drums his fingers on the chair. “What are they doing down there, inventing the coffee bean? Milking the little coffee cows?”

  Connor shifts uncomfortably. His shoes are too new, his feet are getting sore, and Frank Lerman is growing dangerously punchable. “You want me to go down and check on it, sir?”

  “Coffee detail? Nah. I’m not that kind of boss.”

  Connor keeps his expression carefully neutral. “No, sir.”

  Frank’s eyebrows arch toward the shiny pink dome of his head. “Yessir nosir. What was it, the Marines?”

  Connor laughs. “Fourth-generation Navy, sir.” It’s been ten years since he got his acceptance letter from the Naval Academy, and he still loves being able to say it. He remembers Pop’s beaming face and crinkled eyes, the first time Connor came home to Peachtree City in uniform—the closest he’d ever seen his father to tears. Back when Pop still knew how to be proud of him.

  “Should’ve guessed it,” says Frank. “You stand like you’re about to salute. Sailing the ocean blue, huh?”

  “I sailed a computer, sir. Naval Intelligence. ‘In God we trust. All others we monitor.’ ”

  “Ha.” Frank rubs his shadowed eyes. “You ever been to Turkey before?”

  “No, sir. First time in the Middle East. They had me learning Russian before this.”

  “Borscht patrol?”

  “Not yet, sir. Navy had me in Florida, then the Med.”

  “Lucky bastard. You surf?”

  “Not really, sir. I play a mean Marco Polo, though.”

  “Ha. Funny guy. Me, I run. Did the DC Rock ’n’ Roll Half Marathon this year. I’ve got these toe-shoes—it’s just like running barefoot. Back to nature. Like organic bourbon.” Frank loosens his tie. “When that goddamn coffee comes, it better be made of Buddha’s piss, I’m telling you.” His beady eyes fix on Connor’s face. “So. They’ve got you on the Turkish Agricultural Policy and Food Security desk?”

  “That’s right, sir. Good old Foggy Bottom. They’ve still got me down on the third floor, though.”

  “Agriculture.” Frank grins crookedly. “And for the biggest terrorist attack of the decade they just thought it would be fun to reassign my usual aide and send you instead. Take Your Farmer to Work Day.”

  Connor shrugs. “Guess so, sir. State moves in mysterious ways.”

  “Agriculture.”

  “About seventy-five percent of the world’s figs come from Turkey,” says Connor with well-simulated enthusiasm. “That’s a lot of Fig Newtons. America’s favorite fruit cookie.”

  “Hate figs. Seeds get in your teeth.”

  Connor’s phone beeps.

  “That’ll be your girlfriend, huh?” says Frank. “The one you keep texting when you think I don’t see you?”

  Connor grimaces theatrically. Better to play it broad for a jerk like Lerman. “She’s the clingy type.”

  “Sure.” Frank rolls his eyes. “Because I’m as dumb as Brenda Pelecchia looks.”

  Connor tries to match Frank’s tone. “That blazer of hers was a little grim.”

  “Listen, buddy.” The jollity slides out of Frank’s voice. “This belongs to State. Do you get me?”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t sir me, my friend. You just tell your real boss, whoever he is, to keep his chips out of my guacamole.”

  Connor shakes his head. “Sir—”

  “Go check on my coffee. I don’t want to snore in Secretary Winthrop’s digital face. Wouldn’t look good, you know? We’re supposed to be on high alert here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Connor rolls back on his heels. “Skinny macchiato, right?”

  “Hell, make it soy. Knock yourself out. And leave my briefcase here.”

  Connor sets it down on the bed. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea, Mr. Lerman. We’re all on the same team.”

  “Yeah, buddy?” Frank leans forward. “You know what I think? I think it’s weird that a hundred and eighty-nine Americans are murdered, and CIA tries to send some undercover Boy Scout to deal with it. What are you, twenty-six? Twenty-seven?�
�

  Connor takes a deep breath. “Sir, as you know, Martin MacGowan, CIA’s Ankara Station Chief, was killed in the explosion, along with both his aides.”

  “So? MacGowan doesn’t have a deputy?”

  “That would be Zachary Robson, sir.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Sir, Istanbul Station’s working round-the-clock to protect the NATO Summit. We needed more officers on the ground. I’m honored to serve.”

  “Well, I’m honored to tell you to fuck off. This isn’t the place to get your training wheels. And why lie to me about it? It’s bad enough having you assholes second-guess our every move. But this is over the line. And Secretary Winthrop isn’t going to like it.”

  Connor blanches. He can imagine Christina’s reaction; he’ll spend the next decade handcuffed to a desk in Langley. Not even a nice desk near the window. He tries to sound suave. “What makes you think Secretary Winthrop didn’t personally authorize it, sir?”

  “Nice bluff, son. What makes you think I have the IQ of a zucchini?”

  “Very funny, sir.”

  “You know what I think?” Frank’s eyes narrow. “I think this smells like a cover-up. Zachary Robson was one of your guys. I think somebody at CIA screwed up something big. And that somebody doesn’t want to get caught.”

  “Would that be before or after we faked the moon landings, sir?”

  “Sassing me, huh? That’s real professional.”

  “Sorry, sir. Soy macchiato, right?”

  “I don’t want to know what your boss is up to. You’re too junior to have a clue, anyway. But let me let you in on a little secret. The preliminary forensics report came in. And whoop-de-do, it was a bomb. A big fat bomb, inside the soft-serve machine in the ice cream truck. Not homemade. No TATP. Military-grade. Expensive. And made in the US of A.”

  “What?” Connor doesn’t even try to hide his exasperation. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Frank smirks. “So State isn’t always the dumb older brother, huh? Well, let me tell you something else. Security cleared that truck when it came in. No K9s, because of food safety. So whoever put that bomb there did it before the party. And they hid it plain sight, where a doggy could’ve sniffed it out, but human security missed it.”

  “Security didn’t X-ray the soft-serve machine?”

  “It was bolted into place.”

  “So the company that owns the ice cream truck must have known!”

  “Nope. Apparently, those stupid fuckers keep the truck parked on the side of a street. Anybody could break in.”

  Connor’s phone beeps.

  “Our analysts are saying this attack has Hashashin written all over it,” says Frank. “And if that’s true, maybe you could tell me what the fuck the Hashashin are doing with state-of-the-art, military-grade American bombs?”

  Connor’s phone beeps again.

  “I’m glad somebody out there wants to talk to you. ’Cause I sure as shit don’t.”

  “Sir—”

  “Listen, buddy. As soon as Secretary Winthrop talks to me, he’s going to talk to the President, and the President is going to make a statement to the press. And let me tell you something. If it turns out the terrorists piggybacked in on some cockeyed CIA mission, heads will roll. Important heads.”

  “Sir—”

  “The point,” says Frank, “is that I want no part of your shitstorm. I’m clean, and Secretary Winthrop is clean. And I’m going to keep it that way. You go take that back to your boss like a good boy, huh?”

  “Your coffee—”

  “Fuck the coffee. Get the hell out of my room.”

  “Sir.” Connor steps outside. The muscles in his jaw are as tight as guitar strings. He pulls out his phone. Christina’s sent him three pings to call her on the secure line. He opens the doors to the stairwell. Empty. Good. He leans against the wall and dials.

  A momentary pause, and Christina’s voice comes through. “On what planet does ‘red star alert’ mean ‘call me when you feel like it,’ Connor?”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Lerman’s not happy. He says the bomb—”

  “We know. If you answered your phone, I could have told you.”

  Connor squares his shoulders. “He’s guessed my true affiliation. He thinks I’m on some crazy cover-up—”

  “Never mind that. The Penny Kessler situation has gone critical.”

  “It’s bad,” Connor agrees, eager to show he’s at least up to speed on this. “Official update from the Presidential Palace about ten minutes ago said Palamut’s doctor had seen her, and she’s resting up. They’re not letting us anywhere near her—”

  “That’s because she’s gone.”

  Connor can see Penny’s face so clearly: ashen and fearful, desperate for someone to trust. And he sent her into enemy territory stuffed with tranqs. Guilt twists in his gut like a broken bottle. “Is she—dead?”

  “Hardly.” Christina snorts. “She escaped from under direct surveillance at the Presidential Palace in broad daylight. Knocked out the guy guarding her and hitched a ride out of the compound.”

  “She what?” The three premature creases across Connor’s forehead deepen. He must have misheard. “How?”

  “You tell me, Connor.” Christina sounds way too nice, which means she’s livid.

  “Are we talking about the same girl? ’Cause the one I saw looked like a babysitter who’d been run over by a truck.”

  “Fortunately,” continues Christina’s dry voice, “we’re pretty sure where she’s headed. Ditch Lerman. I’ve set up a driver—he should be in the lobby dressed as a chauffeur, holding a sign with ‘Eagle Eye Tourism’ on it. His name’s Faruk. He’s seen your photo. Doesn’t speak English, but he’s been instructed where to go.”

  “I’m on my way down.” Connor pounds down the stairs three at a time.

  “Stay alert. Given her association with Mehmetoğlu, we’re now treating Penny Kessler as the primary suspect in the bombing.”

  “Penny?”

  “Penny.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Connor mutters. “She just seemed like a normal college kid!”

  “Do you know how many ‘normal college kids’ ran off and joined ISIS? Babysitters can be terrorists, too.”

  “Ma’am.” Connor tries to cram as much respect as possible into the syllable; Christina is no fan of being contradicted. “Are we absolutely sure? Penny just seemed scared. And . . .” He races down the stairs. “You know. Young. Innocent.”

  “Innocent? Would you say that about a twenty-one-year-old male who fraternized with known terrorists and punched out a Turkish government official?”

  “Ma’am, I didn’t—”

  “I didn’t expect that kind of sexist crap from a guy like you. How fucking naïve are you, Connor?”

  Connor feels an acid wave of shame burn in his stomach. He’d felt terrible for Penny in the hospital, with her big scared eyes and shaky voice. He believed her. Now Christina thinks he’s weak. Connor knows where that leads for a guy like him.

  It happened in the Navy after he came out. Buddies he’d survived plebe summer with, guys who’d have died or killed or been best man for him, suddenly went cold, as if his being gay erased everything else they knew about him. They scrutinized every friendly word. Called him a coward when they used to joke about how nobody could get him riled up. Sabotaged his work just to see him fail. Not everybody—but enough to sour the whole ship’s morale. Connor had faith. He held on for two more years, determined that he could change their minds. He couldn’t. He’d joined the Navy to serve, not to hide. The day he served out his enlistment, he applied to the CIA.

  Connor had been out at the Agency from day one—he even kept a photo of his and Alex’s engagement party on his desk. CIA genuinely makes an effort: during Pride Month, Connor smiled resolutely through half a dozen Agency pride events, those living Venn diagrams of awkwardness, good intentions, and colorful ties. But regulations don’t change a culture overnight, and at CIA more than a smidg
en of paramilitary hypermachismo was still sloshing around. His years in Naval Intelligence didn’t matter. He’d have to prove himself all over again. So far, he hadn’t had much of a chance. Fresh off the Farm and raring to hit the field, he’d gotten stranded with almost a year of office work. He’d been stunned and grateful when Christina Ekdahl—the Christina Ekdahl—chose him personally for this assignment. “There’s a dozen Turkey specialists I could send,” she’d told him. “But they’re so sure they know the patterns, they don’t see what’s right in front of them. You’ll be my fresh eyes.” Connor knew a big break when he got one. And now, thanks to Penny freaking Kessler, Christina thought he was a weakling and a dupe.

  And yet.

  He remembers the catch in Penny’s voice. The way she looked when she found out her friends were dead. He’s seen that look before. Back in the Navy, his ship once rescued a boatload of refugees off Lampedusa. Half of their group had already drowned. The survivors’ faces had that same uncomprehending grief.

  “Ma’am, Penny had just come out of sedation. She’s got to be in shock. Half the people she works with were just murdered. Her boyfriend’s missing. Her record’s cleaner than clean. Don’t you think there’s a chance—”

  “Listen to yourself.” Christina’s voice comes through calm as a 911 operator. “She secretly helped a terrorist gain access to the U.S. Embassy, lied about her relationship with Zach Robson, got rid of the pills you gave her, gave President Palamut’s Chief of Staff a concussion, and is currently on the run from the Turkish police. Is that what you call clean?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Just get her into the car. Faruk will take you both to a secure location. Do not attempt interrogation on your own. Be careful. Treat her like you would any other terror suspect.”

  Connor swallows. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Have you got your ECRP with you?”

  “My ECRP?” Connor balks. Emergency Combat Readiness Packs are a highly controversial last resort, first developed for fieldwork in Yemen and almost never authorized outside war zones. Connor had to sign three extra forms just to transport this one; he never thought he’d have to use it.