by Rachel Grant
“We need to tip off the Antalya police about Duhoki,” Stan said.
“Not until her flight takes off,” Ian said. “Even though Hejan was alive when she left, you know they’ll detain her. We’ll never get the next link in the cell if she doesn’t go to Van.” He paused. “Get me a seat on her flight. The seat next to hers, to be exact.”
“You know I can’t do that. She saw you at the club.”
“She didn’t see me.”
“Zack said you held her back, during the fight. No way would she fail to notice you after that.”
Ian silently cursed Zack. The rat. “She was focused on the fight. I retreated before she thought to look.” He sighed and rubbed his chin. The beard would have to go, which was a shame. The extra-long beard helped him blend in in the Muslim world, and it was a shield against people noticing him. Supervisors had told him his face was too striking for covert ops, and he’d never go unnoticed, which was simple bullshit. His looks were nothing special in the Muslim world. But still, to get around that objection, he’d grown the beard and found it useful. “I’ll shave and put on glasses. Even if she got a glimpse, she won’t recognize me without the beard.”
“Zack is ready to go.”
“As backup. Zack’s language skills are weak, and he reeks of newbie.”
“Zack’s been in-country for months, and he aced every simulation the Company put him through.” Stan sighed. “But you’re right about his Turkish. You’re sure she has the microchip?”
“Hejan gave her an envelope marked in the corner, just like he promised. You and I both know whoever killed Hejan was probably after the microchip. Now they’ll be after her.”
“We should let the Turkish police nab her at the airport.”
“We might get her—and the chip—but Hejan was adamant that the courier would lead us to the next link in the chain, who will take us to the leader. We can take apart the entire network with this op.”
“Ian, you’ve been doing this too long to believe that fairy tale. It’s always the next one up the chain.”
Ian took a deep breath. He couldn’t put into words how he knew it wasn’t a bullshit lead. He just knew. From the moment he’d interviewed Hejan, he knew this was the informant, the man who would break everything open. Hejan was the real deal. All he said was, “This is it, Stan. She’s the key, and with Hejan dead, she’s the only lead we’ve got.”
Stan clicked his tongue. “You’re talking about using a civilian as bait.”
“There’s a good chance she’s in on it. And we aren’t the ones who put her at risk. Hejan did that when he gave her the microchip, and she accepted that risk when she took it from him. In a public place. In front of a hundred people. Get me a seat next to her on the plane. That will give me two hours to decide whose side she’s on and act accordingly.”
Stan sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
While Stan pulled strings, Ian took a long and involved Surveillance Detection Route back to his hotel so he could shave and prep for his role. Transformed, he then took another SDR, driving around Antalya, seemingly aimless. His role in the mission would have to be aborted if there was any sign he was being tailed.
Thankfully, after an hour and a half, he hadn’t spotted any followers. He was clear to head to the airport. He pulled into the airport parking lot and called the intelligence officer who’d been gathering information on Cressida Porter. “What can you tell me?” Ian asked.
“She’s here working on an underwater archaeology excavation funded in part by the Akdeniz University in Antalya, her graduate program at Florida State University, and the MacLeod-Hill Exploration Institute. One of our guys went out to the island where the crew for the underwater dig is living. Most were out—night on the town, just like Porter—but the professor running the dig was there. He’s Porter’s graduate advisor at FSU.”
“Name?” Ian asked.
“Dr. Steven Brenner. One of those academic types who insists on being called ‘doctor’—a real prig, according to our guy. He was none too pleased to be woken up early and questioned but eager to spill info on Porter. She’s not his favorite student.”
“Why’s that?”
“A few months ago, another graduate student, Todros Ganem—goes by Todd—stole the university’s new, state-of-the-art Lidar equipment. We’re talking upwards of a few hundred thousand dollars, including drones for aerial survey. The equipment was recovered from his house, which Ganem shared with his girlfriend, Porter. He was arrested and implicated Porter in the theft, saying she needed Lidar drones for her dissertation research. Tallahassee PD arrested her, and she was facing serious time, but—and this is where it gets interesting—none other than US Attorney General Curt Dominick ordered the FBI to investigate, citing counterintelligence concerns. Sure enough, the FBI found evidence Ganem had sent out feelers to associates in Jordan prior to the theft. No word on whether he planned to use the drones to map sensitive locations on US soil, or if he simply wanted to sell them to finance his own research. Political motives haven’t been ruled out. There was no connection to Porter’s research, and the FBI found no evidence other than Ganem’s word she was involved—he’d offered her up hoping to receive a reduced sentence. All charges against her were dropped. The university was forced to reinstate her.”
“But Dr. Brenner doesn’t believe she’s innocent?”
“No. He thinks she asked Ganem to steal for her and, when he got caught, let him take the fall.”
“What’s the scoop on Ganem?”
“His parents immigrated to the US from Jordan the year before he was born. He has an uncle in Jordan who’s high in the military. The uncle has made several inflammatory anti-American statements. It’s possible the uncle or his cronies wanted the Lidar and drones for aerial reconnaissance of the Jordan/Syrian border.”
“Where is Ganem now?”
“Also interesting—no one knows. He disappeared five or six weeks ago. Investigators think he’s in Jordan with his uncle.”
Ian frowned. “She decked a guy in the bar last night. Any chance that was Ganem?”
“Possible. We’re trying to locate the blonde—Suzanne Davis—to confirm the man’s identity.”
“Why is Porter going to Van?”
“A research trip to gather data for a grant proposal. She wants to convince the private exploration institute—the one that’s partially backing the shipwreck excavation—to fund a Lidar survey in southeastern Turkey to search for archaeological sites. She needs outside funding because FSU won’t let her use their Lidar equipment after what happened with Ganem. According to Dr. Brenner, she resumed planning this trip the moment she was reinstated at the university.”
Ian tapped the steering wheel. On one level, everything about Cressida Porter added up—she could be a squeaky-clean innocent grad student with poor taste in men—but throw the microchip into the equation, and nothing balanced.
“You should know,” the intelligence officer added, “Dr. Brenner believes her research will take her closer to the border.”
“Which border?”
“Southeastern Turkey.”
Ian paused. “You mean Iran, Iraq, and Syria?”
“Yes.”
“Holy fuck,” Ian said.
“Yeah, I thought so too.”
Ian had to admit, it was brazenly brilliant to use a woman—and an American woman at that—as courier. If he could pull off the academic angle, he’d have used the archaeologist cover himself years ago. Hell, covert reconnaissance missions with archaeologists likely predated T. E. Lawrence’s survey of the Sinai Peninsula for British military intelligence a century ago, when the man was supposedly looking for evidence of the Exodus.
“What’s her religious background?” Ian asked. “Are we dealing with a zealot?”
“We only know her mother’s side, which is mixed Christian and Jewish. No word on if she’s practicing either, so it seems unlikely she’s an extremist with an agenda. Which leaves stupid as the o
nly other reason she’d head into the region alone.”
“The word crazy also comes to mind. And it’s too early to rule out extremist, no matter how unlikely. Keep digging. Send what you find to my email.” Call completed, Ian next dialed Stan. “What’s the word on my flight?”
“By the time the airline agreed to cooperate, the passengers were already boarding and the seat next to hers was assigned. We had to pull yet more strings to ground the flight and rearrange seating.”
“You got me in the seat next to her?”
“Yeah. They’ve switched planes, forcing a seating chart scramble. Do I need to remind you how much this is going to cost us? And I’m not talking money, I’m talking favors. I’ve burned through them all with this.”
“It’ll be worth it, Stan.”
Stan sighed. “Your ticket is waiting at the VIP counter. Hurry your ass up, the new plane will start boarding soon. We can’t hold the flight and don’t have any favors left. This is a deep cover op, Ian. You’re on your own once you board that jet.”
“I know.”
Chapter Four
Cressida’s frustration simmered when they announced everyone had to disembark the jet on which they’d just embarked. She was tired and cranky and afraid the flight would be canceled. She grabbed her heavy suitcase from the overhead compartment and shuffled down the narrow aisle with the other passengers.
Nothing about this trip was going right. She was cursed. The universe was out to get her.
Stop being a narcissistic baby. This flight delay has nothing to do with me.
In the terminal, she made a beeline for the coffee stand next to the gate. She’d feel human with more caffeine in her system.
Coffee in hand, she settled into a seat. Exhaustion weighed on her like full diving gear. She’d actually fallen asleep underwater once. The hot Florida sun had beat down on the shallow water of the bathtub-warm Gulf of Mexico, and exhaustion mixed with heat had lulled her into closing her eyes, just to rest them for a moment…
She startled, realizing she’d done the same thing here. She rubbed her face and glanced around, trying to determine if she’d been out for more than a few seconds. Her eyes met those of a man sitting two aisles across from her.
She glanced away, uncomfortable to have met a stranger’s gaze, even as her body flushed in an uncontrollable response to his sheer…perfection. How could a mere glance cause a physical reaction?
The scientist in her wanted to study the evolution of why eyes just that shape, capped by thick, dark brows, combined with those sharp cheekbones and that firm jawline with dimpled, squared chin, was such an appealing masculine combination. Why was his particular arrangement of features so harmonious? Why did she find more pleasure in looking at him than, say, the man sitting to his left? That man’s nose was a tad wider, with cheeks that bore the marks of a losing battle with acne in adolescence. The man with acne scars wasn’t unattractive. His face had a certain appeal, but it lacked the symmetry, the perfection of his neighbor. She doubted her heart would flutter after a chance meeting of gazes with him. Which was ridiculous, really.
She knew nothing about either man.
Her name sounded over the loudspeaker, dragging her tired brain away from musings on male beauty and surreptitious glances at the Adonis in the boarding area. She grabbed her bag and made her way to the counter, where the agent gave her a new seat assignment and boarding pass.
She returned to her seat and was disappointed to see the guy with the perfect face was gone. To occupy herself, she pulled out her cell phone. She’d shut it off hours ago to avoid Todd and now was tempted to turn it on again to check for messages, hoping to hear from Berzan. She wanted to know if he’d changed shifts so they could set out for Cizre tonight. Expecting to set out right away, she hadn’t booked a hotel in Van and now was nervous about arriving in a remote foreign city without reservations. Anthony Bourdain, she was not.
Boarding began again, making the decision for her. She tucked the phone back into her purse, then lined up with the other passengers.
Inside the jet, she noted there were two seats on one side of the center aisle and three on the other, a different configuration from the first plane. That had to seriously mess up the seat assignments and explained the long delay. Cressida had been assigned a spot on the two-seat side, but there was a man sitting in her seat. And not just any man. It was the Adonis.
Panic swept through her. What if the ticket agent had screwed up and she’d been bumped from the flight by accident? How would she straighten this out when she couldn’t speak the language? “Excuse me, there must be some mistake—”
The man met her gaze and flashed a warm smile. “My bad,” he said in crisp American English, “I prefer the aisle—do you mind trading?”
She was too relieved to object. “No problem.”
He stood and stepped into the aisle so she could get to the window seat. “Thanks. Can I help you with your bag?”
The cramped aisle and waiting passengers at her back had her practically pressed against him. It would be hard to lift her heavy wheeled carry-on over her head without hitting him with it. “Thank you,” she said, then brushed past him into the row, leaving her bag for him to lift.
He dressed like a man traveling on business—dark slacks and a light button-down shirt that stretched tight over thick biceps when he lifted her suitcase above his head. She couldn’t help but pause to admire the display.
He glanced down and caught her eye as he positioned the bag. His smile said he’d noticed her appreciative look. She flushed and settled into the window seat.
No. Men. She clearly had crap taste in that area, so the fact that she thought he was good-looking must mean he was a thief or a liar or had connections to anti-American activists in Jordan.
Or, if she was twice blessed, all three.
Adonis dropped into the aisle seat, knowing smile firmly in place. His gaze landed on her left hand. She couldn’t help herself and peeked at his left hand too. No ring.
Not that she cared, because she wasn’t interested. It didn’t matter how attractive he was, with those pale gray eyes highlighted behind frameless, rectangular glasses, or the faint lines that creased his skin next to his eyes and mouth, telling her this was no young grad student but a man.
She was so tired of grad students.
He offered his hand. “John Baker.”
“Cr-rista.” She stumbled, employing a fake name on impulse. She’d promised her friends she’d be careful, and giving her real name to a total stranger was definitely not safe behavior. “Crista Portman.”
The man cocked his head. “That’s funny, because I was just thinking you look like—”
“Natalie Portman. Yes. I’ve been told that.” She affected a casual shrug. “We aren’t related.” She’d been hearing about her resemblance to the actress since her braces came off when she was fifteen, which was why she’d co-opted the woman’s last name. “And thank you. I consider it a compliment.” She was always flattered when someone made the comparison, because she was nowhere near as pretty as the Black Swan actress.
The man held her hand a beat too long, and her heart rate picked up—her reaction had more to do with that handsome face than with her impulsive lie. Plus he smelled good. Shaving cream and soap combined with a musky scent that made her want to breathe deep and relax. But maybe that was due more to her utter exhaustion than to the attractiveness of her seatmate.
“Is your final destination Van?” he asked.
She pulled her hand from his. “I don’t know you, Mr. Baker, and I don’t share my travel plans with strangers.”
His grin deepened as if he relished a challenge. “Call me John. And I understand your caution. A woman traveling alone can’t be too careful. What brings you to Turkey?”
She should grab her book and end the conversation right here and now, but…she didn’t want to. After a hellishly long night and having to face an ex she’d hoped never to see again, it was refreshin
g to meet a handsome stranger. Maybe it was the simple fact that he came from her country but had nothing to do with the insular world of underwater archaeology that made him appealing. He knew nothing about her relationship with Todd and the fallout from his lies.
It hit her, all at once, that in addition to being upset by Todd’s arrival, she was also homesick. She’d been in Turkey for eight weeks and was tired of the struggle to get around when she didn’t speak the language, and heading east, the difficulty would only get worse. John Baker…he spoke her language.
“What brings you to Turkey, John?”
He flashed a smile and winked. “Business.”
An announcement was made in Turkish, Arabic, and at least two other languages she didn’t recognize. The seat belt light turned on. Cressida adjusted her belt and stowed her purse—plucking out a book and tucking it in the seat pocket in case she decided to end the conversation. Flight prep completed, she leaned back in her seat and said, “What sort of business?”
“I work in private security—my client—a tech company I’m not at liberty to name—is sending me to Van to make security arrangements for an upcoming meeting between company executives and officials from all over the Middle East.”
Security. She knew a few men in that field. His muscular build made sense, as did his polish and charm.
The jet pushed back from the gate. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. After months of planning, saving, and stress, she was finally on her way to Eastern Anatolia on an insane quest to find an ancient aqueduct that would make or break her academic career.
Chapter Five
Ian leaned forward and plucked Cressida’s—or rather, Crista’s—book from the seat pocket. “Serçe Limani: An Eleventh-Century Shipwreck,” he said, reading the title. “A relaxing beach read?”