Covert Evidence

by Rachel Grant

  He watched her eat her trail mix. She ate each item in order: first a raisin, then a peanut, cashew, almond, and finally an M&M. Then she started over with a raisin. She was probably the type who ate her vegetables first and dessert last. Ian was a handful-of-trail-mix-all-at-once kind of guy, and he had no problem with dessert first.

  He plucked the M&Ms from his ration and dropped them in her hands.

  She smiled at him. “I can’t take your M&Ms. They’re the best part.”

  “That’s why you should have them.” He’d give her his entire ration if he thought she could navigate Syria without him. But she needed him, so he would duly eat and drink his share.

  “Ian—”

  “Just enjoy it, Cress. Please?”

  Her brow furrowed, and she set the treat aside. He wasn’t sure if she was saving it for last or if she planned to slip the colorful candies back into the mix sack, but at least she didn’t protest.

  “What are you going to do with your life when you get back to the US?” he asked. It was a question he hadn’t dared ask when escaping Turkey seemed improbable.

  “I don’t know. I can’t imagine returning to grad school. Tallahassee isn’t home, and Todd is so intertwined with everything that happened there and here. I’ll miss Suzanne, though.” She leaned her head against the chisel-cut wall, her features soft. “I suppose I could move to DC. Erica talked about a job opening up at NHHC, but with grad school, it wasn’t really an option.” She let out a bitter laugh. “Silver lining.” She cleared her throat. “What about you?”

  He reached for the flashlight and flicked the switch, enclosing them in pitch darkness. “We should save the batteries for digging out,” he said. Plus he could say what he needed to say without seeing her face. And more importantly, she couldn’t see his. “If this op is sorted out, and I’m cleared, I might be able to stay on with the CIA as an analyst.”

  “So…you’ll be in DC, then.”

  His heart pounded. He knew exactly what she was aiming for. “Probably not. With my language skills, I could work on US bases in the Middle East. With the rise of ISIS, they’ll need me here.”

  “So you won’t stay in the US.”

  “Not if I can avoid it.”

  “I see.” He heard the disappointment in her voice.

  It was better this way. Letting her know now. There was no room for her in his life. No matter how he felt about her.

  “I won’t—” She stopped short. She made a noise, which could have been a sob. Or just a hitch in her breath. “I won’t return to the Middle East. Ever.”

  “I know.”

  Silence stretched between them. Her clothes rustled as she shifted position. Then he heard a slight crunch as she chewed. A moment later, she said, “Thanks for the M&Ms.”

  He felt pathetic that five M&Ms was the best he had to offer her.

  It took hours to dig in the narrow, confined space. Ian tunneled forward while Cressida rebuilt the backstop behind them, ensuring that filling the opening and hiding the tunnel after they escaped wouldn’t be a Herculean task.

  Ian crawled through the narrow gap first, emerging onto shrub plain on a cloudless summer night. A quick scan of the area confirmed nothing much had changed since Lawrence penned a description of this exit point—remote and distant from aboveground water sources, this area might see nomads or others passing through, but no one had ever settled on this part of the inhospitable steppe.

  He gave silent thanks to any and all higher powers that ISIS hadn’t set up camp in this area. ISIS would execute Cressida and him without hesitation, and they’d post the video on the Internet for all the world to see.

  He tucked his gun into the holster at the small of his back and reached into the hole to take Cressida’s hand as she emerged from the darkness. Feet once again on the surface of the earth, she took a slow deep breath, her chest rising as she threw back her shoulders after hours of constraint in the dark, tight shaft.

  Like him, she was coated in a fine layer of dirt. Much of her hair had come loose from the braid and was plastered to her temples as sweat dotted her forehead and formed tracks in the film of dirt.

  She’d never looked more beautiful.

  Well, maybe twice she had, when he’d held her in his arms and made love to her. Her eyes had met his with revealing emotion and sweat glistened on her brow as he brought her to climax.

  They needed to be on guard. They were near ISIS-controlled territory in Northern Syria, of all places, but still, he would have this moment. He cradled her dirt-streaked cheeks in his hands and kissed her fast and hard, then said, “Let’s fill the hole, then make tracks so we can call Sean.”

  She nodded, and they set to work, gathering rocks to fill the opening, their work lit only by the moon and stars. Backfilling took nearly as long as digging their way out had, because this qanat had been tunneled through bedrock, and the wind had scoured the surface of dirt. Cressida located a buildup of soil in the lee of a hill a short distance away.

  They emptied their backpacks of supplies, and filled both with dirt from the hillside. The makeshift buckets worked to transport dirt to opening. Finally, hole filled, they covered it with stones large and small to disguise it on the rocky landscape.

  Cressida stood back, crossed her arms, and frowned. “It won’t pass close inspection, but it’s probably the best we can do.”

  Ian shrugged, not willing to admit the tunnel wouldn’t be their secret for long. That argument could wait a few hours.

  They set off, using Cressida’s dive watch compass and the stars to navigate. After walking over a mile from the tunnel, skirting all roads and places rebels or ISIS were likely to inhabit, Ian checked the cell phone for a signal. No luck. They shifted directions, heading east, toward the Tigris, where towns dotted the landscape and they’d be likely to get a signal, however, they were also more likely to come across an armed group who would shoot them on sight.

  Finally, at three in the morning, having thankfully avoided rebel and ISIS encampments, he checked the phone again and a faint bar appeared. He handed it to Cressida and said, “Honey, why don’t you call Sean?”

  Cressida merely said hello to Sean, then handed the phone back to Ian, so the spy and the mercenary could discuss options. She listened with interest as Ian outlined his plan, unease filtering through her when he explained that he intended to call an asset within YPG—the Syrian Kurdish rebel group—to aid them in crossing the river into Iraq. YPG controlled the river in the northern part of the country, and fortunately, Ian had connections. Or at least he did before he was burned and publicly accused of being associated with PKK rebels—who, if she had her alphabet straight, were currently at odds with YPG. Even though both groups were Kurdish, the PKK and other Kurdish groups had somewhat allied themselves with an al-Qaeda group that was fighting the Syrian government, while the YPG fought both al-Qaeda and the Assad regime.

  One concern Ian didn’t voice but had Cressida’s throat dry with fear: If Ian’s YPG contact believed news reports stating Ian had turned to the PKK, then the YPG also had reason to shoot him on sight.

  This war had far too many enemies and victims.

  Place and time for a river rendezvous set, Ian clicked off. Without pause, he dialed another number and said something in Kurdish. Moments later, he chatted in animated Kurdish, and she saw another facet to Ian. This wasn’t amiable John Baker with a Kurdish flair, nor was it Ian Boyd, master spy. She guessed this was a hybrid player—the manipulator who trafficked in information.

  Ian’s gaze met hers, and she saw a flash of remorse. Why? What had he said that triggered guilt?

  And then it hit her. He was making a deal. He’d never give up the microchip, which meant the only information he had of value to the YPG was the location of the tunnel entrance.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Logically, she knew it was foolish to be angry with him for giving up the tunnel. He was doing it to save their lives, but still, he must have known all along this wo
uld be necessary, yet he’d said nothing.

  He’d gone through the motions of burying the entrance—burning precious energy and time, when they were weak with hunger and fatigue. Her arms ached from lifting cobbles and carefully placing them so they wouldn’t dislodge the weakened panels she’d managed to replace.

  But then, the tunnel was valuable if only one group knew about it, so hiding it had been necessary.

  Conversation complete, Ian snapped off the phone, plucked the battery from the back, and shoved both in his pocket. “C’mon. We need to hurry. We’re rendezvousing with YPG soldiers in less than an hour.”

  “You told them. Didn’t you?”

  “Not yet. If I tell them now, they’ll have no reason to keep us alive.”

  “Dammit, Ian! That tunnel is a piece of history, not a political chip to be played!”

  “No, Cressida, that tunnel will change the balance of power between several warring factions. It isn’t a damn museum to gawk at, and it sure as hell isn’t a pretty relic that tells us about the past. It’s a strategic, unmonitored entry and exit point from a war-torn country into a NATO country. It’s a way for NATO, the UN, even the European Union to smuggle aid, arms, and supplies to rebels who are fighting the good fight. It’s a way for the Kurds in Turkey and the Kurds in Syria to align—instead of fight each other—and maybe, just maybe, join up with the Kurds of Northern Iraq—who are already YPG allies—and form a true Kurdish state.”

  “How long do you think a tunnel like this can remain secret?”

  “How long were the Hamas tunnels a secret? Even if word gets out after a month, it would be a valuable month for whoever is in control.”

  His gaze swept across the landscape. “Think about what it could mean, Cressida. A true Kurdish state. We’re talking about a pro-Western democracy in the heart of the Middle East. We’re talking about having a real US ally—and a Muslim one at that—in al-Qaeda and ISIS’s primary breeding ground.”

  She took a step back. “Is that your agenda? Why you joined the CIA? To create Kurdistan? Do you see yourself as some sort of modern-day Lawrence of Kurdistan?”

  “No. I joined the Army to fight for my country and took the job with the CIA to continue that fight, in the best way I could contribute, gathering intel and data to help the US maintain an edge over those who would see our democracy destroyed. I don’t have an agenda. I’m just looking out for the US’s best interests. And my Middle Eastern studies degree combined with my years of living and working in the Middle East tells me that a true, free Kurdistan is very much in the US’s best interests.”

  Here Cressida faltered. She was supremely outmatched in her knowledge of the issues and players in the Middle East, and she wasn’t the type to argue a point she disagreed with only on principle. Especially when she didn’t have the facts to back it up. And Ian had more facts on the Middle East in his head than she had in all the research books stacked in her apartment in Tallahassee.

  “What was Hejan?” she finally asked, realizing she’d never truly understood the factions they were running from, let alone who they were running toward.

  Ian smiled, threaded his fingers through hers, and said, “I’ll tell you while we walk.”

  She left her hand in his and nodded, matching his pace as they set out again.

  “Hejan Duhoki first came to me about ten months ago.”

  “To you? He showed up at your door?” she asked.

  “No. That’s not how my business works. People put out feelers, the Company responds. In this situation, we learned a member of a PKK splinter group prone to violent acts of rebellion was willing to deal. Since I speak Kurdish, Hejan was assigned to me. We met a few times. My gut said he was the real deal: a man disillusioned with his group—not his cause, mind you, but the tactics of the group—who was looking for a way to make up for his mistakes.”

  “And what were his mistakes? What did Hejan have to make up for?”

  “His cell had received a much sought-after supply of shoulder-fired rocket launchers. They were supposed to be used to aid the rebels in Syria—to fight Assad. And they did, except his group’s leader sold them to an al-Qaeda faction that’s fighting both Assad and the YPG Kurdish rebels.

  “The al-Qaeda group used a rocket launcher to attack a YPG stronghold. Hejan’s brother, Berzan, had joined the Syrian cause and was one of thirty YPG rebels who died in the attack.”

  Cressida gasped. “Berzan is dead?”

  Ian nodded. “When you first told me Berzan was your guide, I knew it was a message from Hejan to me, but I didn’t know what it meant—beyond the fact that there was no guide waiting for you in Van. I think Hejan intended for me to be your guide all along.”

  To her, Hejan had been a translator. An idle young man having fun in the big city. She’d been a shallow academic, enjoying a summer project in sultry Turkey, who valued research and history over the modern issues that shaped the country she visited. Shame and guilt settled low in her belly. She’d been superficial. She’d known about the atrocities being committed in Syria, and the plight of Kurds throughout the region, but she’d turned a blind eye to it as she sought selfish academic glory.

  She’d asked Hejan, a devout Muslim, to meet her at a bar, of all places. “He must have hated me,” she murmured.

  “No, Cress. Not hate. He was probably grateful for you. You were his opportunity. Hejan knew simply changing sides and fighting for the YPG—as his brother had—wasn’t enough. He wanted revenge against the leader who’d betrayed all ethnic Kurds. You made his revenge possible.

  “I spent months with Hejan on the small stuff,” Ian continued. “Minor information exchanges. There was always a chance I was being played, but his story checked out. At the same time, things were getting tense in Ankara. The Turkish government had been sniffing around. There was speculation that we might have a mole, that I’d been identified as CIA and not a Raptor contractor. My boss considered pulling me. Sending me back to the US. My days in Turkey were likely numbered.”

  What would that mean for Ian? Did he have a life to return to in the US, or would it have been a form of exile? From his tone, she guessed the prospect of living in the US left him adrift. Was it Turkey he loved or espionage? She was tempted to ask but wanted Hejan’s story even more and didn’t dare sidetrack the conversation with questions.

  “A little more than a month ago, Hejan told me something big was coming, that he’d be the first link in a chain that would lead me to the leader of his group. We’re talking the man’s name, his location, everything we’d need to remove him from the game. The Turkish government wants the splinter group leader—badly. He’s organized several coordinated suicide bombings, killing dozens of people, yet after years, no one even knew the bastard’s name.”

  “Hejan didn’t know his name?” she asked.

  “He said he didn’t.” Ian shrugged. “If I could bring down the leader—whoever he is—it would have been a reason for the Turkish government to be quietly grateful to the US, which is something we need right now, as Turkey inches ever closer to a conservative Muslim state wishing to cut all ties with the US.”

  Cressida’s mind swirled with the details. She knew the surface of the story—she’d researched Turkey and the unrest in the eastern part of the country extensively in preparation for her trip—but espionage necessarily went far beyond the headlines.

  “Hejan had offered me the one bait that would keep me on the hook—a way to get his leader. Naturally, I bit.” Ian’s fingers tightened around hers, making her wonder what he thought of his decisions in retrospect. “Hejan made it clear that things could—would—get dicey on this mission and said I’d be following the courier to Eastern Turkey, most likely to Batman or Van, and from there we’d go south and could end up along the border somewhere between Cizre and Nusaybin. Being the cautious sort, I set up the safe house in Kurubaş, the apartment in Siirt, and another house in Cizre.”

  He rolled his shoulders as if bracing himself for her reac
tion. “I’d planned to get you safely out of the country and then head to the Cizre house so I could regroup and go after Zack.”

  The idea of him staying behind left her chilled. “And now? Is that what you’re planning?”

  “No. I refuse to trust your safety with anyone else. I don’t care how well you know Sean Logan. I don’t trust him to keep you safe.”

  She found his habit of stopping just short of telling her he cared irritating. But then, did it matter that he cared? He planned to continue on in the Middle East. There was no place for her in his life. “Back to Hejan,” she said, her voice harder, maybe, than the conversation warranted.

  He glanced sideways at her, his expression unreadable, and she wondered if he knew exactly why she was annoyed.

  When in northern Syria with a spy wanted dead or alive en route to a rendezvous with separatists who might shoot them both on sight, it was totally the time to obsess over the fact that he’d all but told her there was no future for them.

  Sometimes I’m such a girl.

  “Hejan disappeared for a few weeks, and I was concerned. Then, two days before the drop in Antalya, he contacted me. We met, and he told me what was supposed to be on the microchip, as if nabbing the leader of his group wasn’t incentive enough.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Hejan was the money guy. He didn’t move the weapons that killed his brother, he moved the money that paid for the weapons. And when they were sold to al-Qaeda, he received, for his group, the payment.”

  “Hejan was a…banker? I thought he was a kid. A college student out to make extra money with translation work for the university.”

  “That’s because that’s what Hejan wanted you to see. He was young—early twenties—he grew up near Van and moved to the city when he was sixteen, determined to get away from rural farm life. He got a job at a bank there as a teller. He worked his way up from simple transactions and account setups to more complex business accounts and finally to money laundering for the local PKK group. So, you see, when he told me the microchip would contain names, I believed him. He’d spent months tracing back through accounts, connecting names to account numbers. Information that was supposed to be buried.”