“Is it possible?”
The general waffles. “Technically, yes, Melek Hanım. But the heat sensor readings were negative. Not even a goat.”
“They were in Cappadocia, weren’t they? Do the sensors work through rock?”
“With all due respect—”
“If these terrorists flew due west, avoiding all major targets, it’s reasonable to suppose their goal may have been the NATO Summit. If there’s the slightest chance my father’s life may still be in danger, surely, General Yağhane—”
The general is no fool; he can see where this is going. “We’ll have troops in the area check the crash site.”
“It’s been an hour!” snaps Melek. “If they survived, they’ve surely escaped by now.”
In the silence after she’s hung up, Melek considers her options.
Christina has betrayed her.
But even a forged coin can be flipped.
* * *
ÇIRAĞAN PALACE KEMPINSKI, ISTANBUL
14:04 LOCAL TIME
In the broad gardens of the Çırağan Palace Kempinski, U.S. Secretary of State Robert Winthrop steps out of the shadow of the rustling palm trees and up to the podium. To his left, in somber black, stand Moe Sokolof, Brenda Pelecchia, and Frank Lerman. To his right, Palamut, smirking at the vast crowd, and the puppyishly beaming Bolu.
“First of all,” Winthrop booms, “I’d like to thank President Palamut and Prime Minister Bolu for such a warm welcome to this beautiful city of Istanbul.”
The audience, decked out in more discreet jewelry, bulletproof shapewear, and security earpieces than even Istanbul’s fanciest hotel usually sees, gives a resounding cheer. The noise carries beyond the white filigreed iron of the garden’s seafront walls, and eastward out over the impossibly blue waters of the Bosphorus. Impossibly blue and improbably empty. Security has cleared all water traffic for a five-hundred-meter perimeter, effectively choking one of the world’s busiest sea-traffic corridors. Taking advantage of the unusual stillness, slick black cormorants dive deep into the current in search of fish. Beyond the hundred-and-forty-year-old, twenty-foot stone barricade of the Kempinski garden’s landward wall, a relic of its days as pleasure palace-prison to the last sultans, the busy coastal road is silent. Of the thousands of protesters who stood chanting there two hours ago, only fallen banners and tear-gas residue on the asphalt remain. Behind the intricate white façade of the Çırağan—one of the better-surviving remnants from a nineteenth-century imperial Versailles-or-bust building spree—black-suited members of Palamut’s Presidential Guard keep watch at each window.
“Next, I’d like to thank the ladies and gentlemen of the press for joining us.” As he’s so often called upon to do, Winthrop strikes a carefully vetted chord between charm and gravitas. The breeze off the Bosphorus doesn’t muss his thick dark hair.
“I was in a helicopter with the Secretary outside Kabul once,” Moe whispers in Brenda’s ear. “Even then, his hair didn’t move.”
Winthrop leans forward. “This press conference was intended as a kind of appetizer for tonight’s big event.” Polite laughter. “But in light of a communication we’ve just received, President Palamut and I will be making a special joint announcement.” A murmur swells through the garden. “Today, the Republic of Turkey and the United States come together in a moment of terrible tragedy. We all pray that the NATO Summit that will commence this evening marks the beginning of a unified global effort towards peace.” He stills the hair-trigger applause with his hand. “But sometimes, the vehicle of peace is force. The world must know that we stand strong against the armies of terrorism and chaos. We stand against those who would corrupt freedom. Against those whose only currency is fear and hate, whose only language is violence. Our enemies must know our strength, and that, when circumstances demand it, the United States will never fear to act!”
On cue, President Palamut steps forward. His stills the fevered clapping with a motion of his hand. “My people.” His voice echoes up through the swaying palm fronds, echoed by a breathless English translation. “Our enemies have conspired against this day. Those so-called enlightened intellectuals—those traitorous Kurdish terrorists—they try to bring darkness, to make us weak. But we are stronger every day! We will destroy our enemies!” He waves away the cheers.
Brenda steels her face to blankness.
“I bring you news of a great victory,” declares Palamut. “Yesterday, the Hashashin dared to occupy Mor Samuel. Today, the invaders are dead. They destroyed Mor Samuel, but we will rebuild it to twice the size. And now the Turkish flag will fly proudly above it!” Palamut clasps Winthrop’s hand with both of his. The Secretary of State makes a visible effort not to look uncomfortable. Brenda can almost see him figuring the political calculus on how friendly to appear. “At eleven twenty-five this morning, the might of the Turkish air force joined with our American allies to destroy a Hashashin attack helicopter. A helicopter that took off from Mor Samuel armed with missiles intended to destroy the NATO conference.” Palamut adds, with relish, “There were no survivors.”
When the speeches are over, journalists jostle for the first question.
“Mr. Secretary.” Nick Abensour, the BBC’s bright-eyed Turkey correspondent, cuts through the clutter. “Mr. Secretary, we know Davut Mehmetoğlu was being held at Mor Samuel. What about the missing Foreign Service officer, Zachary Robson? Was he present at Mor Samuel, too?”
Winthrop speaks with quiet reproach. “We haven’t been able to fully sweep the area and assess the situation yet. Until then, any statement about Mr. Robson would be pure speculation. And I’m sure we’d all condemn any cheap sensationalism in a moment of international tragedy.”
Nick Abensour isn’t so easily dismissed. “Any comment on the leak regarding President Palamut’s daughter, Melek—that she’s allegedly connected with the Hashashin?”
Winthrop frowns. “That has been thoroughly debunked.” He points at the woman from CNN Türk.
But Abensour isn’t finished. “Sir, you’re saying a U.S. government employee leaked a forged document in an attempt to incriminate Melek Palamut?”
Winthrop smiles tightly. “Why don’t we let one of your colleagues ask a question, too.”
When the press have been shepherded away, Brenda finds Carolyn Sokolof staring out over the water, an unsipped glass of pale green melon juice in her fist.
Carolyn’s back shudders in her tasteful black linen sheath. “So we blew up some of those bastards. Does that fix anything?”
“It doesn’t hurt.” Brenda shrugs.
“I don’t know.”
“Poor Zach,” mutters Brenda. “Jack, I guess I should say. Apparently the whole Mehmetoğlu thing was a false lead, just some source he was chasing.”
Carolyn takes a long sip.
Brenda rubs her old friend’s arm. “You must be exhausted. Moe said you came straight from the Consulate.”
“Yeah.” Carolyn shakes her head. “I don’t know how you’re still standing.”
“Because they can’t. And I still can.” Brenda blinks away the faces. “And maybe I’m still dumb enough to think that somehow we can make a real, decent peace, so I can go home and look my children in the eye.”
Polite party noises in six languages eddy around them, pierced by the cries of jubilant seabirds. Waiters maneuver among the guests with trays of canapés. Apparently someone along the chain of command thought freestanding plastic soupspoons of garlicky cucumber-yogurt soup would make good power-broker party food.
Brenda and Carolyn politely decline.
“I can’t get the kids’ voices out of my head, Bren.” Carolyn’s voice breaks. “What do you say to a five-year-old who wants to know why her mommy and daddy can’t come tuck her in?”
Brenda’s phone rings. “Christ, I’m sorry. Let me just check . . .”
The caller ID reads: Dr. Ali Denizci.
Denizci? Memory kicks in. The hospital.
“I’d better take this.”
Brenda picks up. “Dr. Denizci, hello. Is everything—”
“I am profoundly sorry to interrupt, Ms. Pelecchia, but this is an emergency. I was the doctor responsible for Penny Kessler.”
“I remember.” Brenda’s throat is tight. “Thank you for what you did for her.”
“You seemed to care about her.” There’s something unsettling in his intensity.
“She’s—she was an intern in my office. It’s terrible.”
“The newspapers reported that she died of a catastrophic cerebral hemorrhage triggered by the explosion. I could not believe it when I heard.”
Brenda swallows hard. “That poor girl.”
“You misunderstand.” Dr. Denizci’s voice is a whisper. “What the press reported was simply not credible. Not with that kind of cerebral trauma. I thought perhaps it had been a delayed adverse reaction to the methylphenidate. I felt responsible. I should never have prescribed it when it was not clinically necessary.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Brenda is struggling to keep her composure. “Frank Lerman should never have pressured you. I should have stopped him. Sometimes . . . these things . . .”
“If it was the methylphenidate, there should have been elevated heart rate, shock symptoms—the profile is very distinctive. I went to check her file. She was my patient. I owed her that.”
Brenda feels ill. “And?”
“It was a fake.”
“What do you mean?” whispers Brenda.
“I signed off on her chart myself. She had a moderate head injury—the survival rates are almost one hundred percent. But the paperwork in the file claimed she’d arrived from the Embassy with a traumatic brain injury—she wouldn’t have been able to walk or talk, probably not even lift her head. And Ms. Pelecchia, the document had my signature on it.”
Brenda covers her mouth. “You have the file?”
He pauses. She can hear him take a deep breath. Then: “Yes.”
“You did the right thing.” Brenda tries to keep the urgency out of her voice; he already sounds terrified enough. “I’ll send someone to pick you up. Are you still at the hospital?”
His voice is raw. “I left immediately.”
“Where are you now?”
He hesitates. “If they find me—”
“Dr. Denizci, I am the acting Ambassador. You have the United States of America behind you. We’ll keep you safe.”
The doctor exhales shakily.
Brenda presses. “Where are you now?”
“Istanbul,” he whispers. “I got in my car and drove straight here.”
Brenda glances up. Frank is hovering at Secretary Winthrop’s elbow, deep in negotiations with a server—“I said Diet Pepsi. With ice. Ice! Where’s the fucking translator?”
Brenda drops her voice. “Meet me at the U.S. Consulate in İstinye in half an hour. Tell security you have a meeting with the Chargé d’Affaires.” She hangs up and strides toward Secretary Winthrop.
Frank Lerman interposes himself. “Where are you going?”
“I need to speak to Secretary Winthrop.”
“He’s in conference with the Prime Minister,” hisses Frank.
“It’s an emergency.” Brenda sidesteps him. “Mr. Secretary?”
“Brenda Pelecchia.” Robert Winthrop gives his brilliant, dimpled smile. “Our acting Ambassador. You know Prime Minister Bolu, don’t you?”
Brenda nods. “It’s always an honor, Prime Minister.”
Prime Minister Bolu nods cheerfully. His glass of ayran is nearly empty. “You will all take a picture with me?”
“Of course.” Winthrop nods to a photographer and clasps Bolu’s hand. Brenda and Frank smile tightly in the background.
“Mr. Secretary.” Brenda blinks away the flash. “May we speak privately for a moment?”
“Ms. Pelecchia,” says Frank, through his teeth. “I really don’t think the Secretary—”
“Now, Frank.” Winthrop shakes his head indulgently and claps Bolu on the back. “Prime Minister Bolu, I’ll be right back with you. Maybe Frank can tell you about the Turkish-American sports championship idea we’ve been kicking around?” Winthrop steers Brenda a few feet away, where they are shielded by Diplomatic Security. “Brenda, you’ve got my full attention. What’s wrong?”
“There’s a situation at the Consulate General, sir. You know about Penny Kessler?”
“The flag girl.” He shakes his head. “Horrific.”
“The doctor who treated her at the hospital in Ankara just called me. He claims her records have been falsified. There’s strong reason to suspect foul play in connection with her death.”
Winthrop’s face freezes. “This is the last damn thing we need right now. Can you put him on ice? At least until after the Summit.”
“He’s meeting me in İstinye in half an hour, sir. He claims he has hard proof. The sooner we secure it, the better.”
“Good God.” Winthrop drops his voice. “As soon as you debrief him, report directly to me. We don’t want rumors flying around.”
“Yes, sir.”
Winthrop smiles, grave and reassuring. “Godspeed.”
“Sir?” Frank hustles alongside. “Is everything all right?”
“It will be.” Winthrop’s smile has withered. “I need to make a call. Secure line. Now.”
* * *
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
07:45 LOCAL TIME
The cars of graveyard shifters in the lot are streaked with condensation and pigeon droppings. Unfortunately, the Agency Starbucks is locked until eight a.m. Christina grips the phone between her ear and padded shoulder and slides a caramel ristretto pod into the backup machine. “Don’t worry, Mr. Secretary.”
“Don’t worry?” Robert Winthrop’s ragged whisper comes through the phone. “If he’s telling the truth—”
“I’ve already issued the orders. You just go back to your party. It’s better if you don’t know the details.”
She hangs up and shakes her head.
A ping from Sametime. Who on earth is writing to her at this hour?
Dan Bishop-TT: Chris, you in the office?
Christina Ekdahl: No. I’m on the beach in Palm Springs.
Christina Ekdahl: What are you doing at work? Barb dump your sorry tail?
Dan Bishop-TT: We’ve got some weird stuff coming over from NSA.
Christina Ekdahl: How weird?
Dan Bishop-TT: NSA read you into WALDO?
Christina Ekdahl: Why?
Dan Bishop-TT: Take it that’s a no?
Christina Ekdahl: Really gunning for that TDY in Ouagadougou, Dan . . .
Dan Bishop-TT: Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.
Dan Bishop-TT: WALDO’s a pilot facial-recognition program for all POI, focusing on SOCMINT in real time. They’re letting NCTC kick the tires before they roll it out to the rest of the IC.
Christina Ekdahl: And your point is?
Dan Bishop-TT: Penny Kessler’s name was still on my list of POI. And she just popped up in a social-media post tagged Derinkuyu, Turkey.
Christina Ekdahl: That’s not possible.
Dan Bishop-TT: I pulled the photo. It’s her. Sending now.
Dan Bishop-TT: She’s in the background, on the left, next to the tall blond guy.
Christina Ekdahl: Not definitive. Lots of girls look like Penny Kessler.
Dan Bishop-TT: Lots of girls who happen to be 10 miles from the Apache shootdown site?
37
* * *
AMERICAN FORTRESS
U.S. CONSULATE GENERAL, İSTINYE, ISTANBUL
15:36 LOCAL TIME
Like a Silicon Valley hoodie-zillionaire, a Secretary of State hardly scraping his forties is going to find himself having to project benevolent authority to intelligent, world-weathered men and women decades older. Usually, Winthrop does it with skill and grace, and an impressively low cringe factor. Brenda’s always considered him thoughtful and fairly compassionate—especially for someone so privileged. The future-President ru
mors never even made her wince. America could do far worse.
She’s starting to reconsider.
“Brenda,” Winthrop says with the gentle confidence of a man who has been found charming all his life. “I’m so glad you came to me with this. The important thing is that we all communicate.”
They’re back up the Bosphorus, in the concrete fortress of the U.S. Consulate General. The safe room is upscale bland—it could be any high-end lawyer’s office. Just without windows. Even so, Brenda can hear the sirens outside.
“Forgive me, sir.” Brenda’s throat is tight. “But I think it’s more important that a major source tries to alert us to the possible murder of one of our own interns, and he gets killed fifty feet from the Consulate!”
“It was an accident,” says Frank. “The driver didn’t see him—”
“The file was gone, Mr. Lerman! Do you think the wind just blew it away?”
“If there even was a file,” says Frank. “The hospital says nothing was taken!”
“Brenda,” Secretary Winthrop repeats, and she’s certain he had to double-check her name with Frank. “You’ve been through hell. You’ve lost good friends and colleagues. You’re hurting. You’re angry. You’re in shock. We all are. In the aftermath of a trauma like this, it’s natural to look for answers. And we are looking, Brenda. The murderers who attacked our men and women will be brought to justice.”
“But, sir—”
“Ms. Pelecchia, are you questioning the authority of the Secretary of State?”
“Down, Frank.” Winthrop has the grace to look embarrassed. “Brenda, I know it’s hard. But we must never let grief make us lose hold of our rationality or reach for the false comfort of conspiracy theories. We don’t know what Dr. Denizci’s motives may have been, or even if he really had the files he claimed. The poor man just spent most of the past twenty-four hours trying to save bomb victims. You know better than I do that what came out of our Embassy was worse than anyone’s worst nightmares. For all we know, this doctor had a breakdown. Maybe even a psychotic break.”
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