I didn’t bother with a full report: too much melodrama. “I’m a day away,” I said, knowing he would understand that I would have boots on the ground in the badlands tomorrow. “I need an ID infusion.” Meaning new passports with completely revised travel packets. I wanted to go in without any of the baggage I’d accumulated in Amsterdam and Turkey. Tom didn’t need an explanation.
“They’ll be in your deployment kit.”
“And my transportation?” Meaning the C-17 Globemaster III.
“Ready for a pickup, 0100 tomorrow morning, your time. Rendezvous point is seven hours away,” he said, referring to Field 27. “You better hustle.”
“And you’d better put in some time on that serve of yours. My daughter’s got more juice on her serve than that weak-kneed thing you were sending over the net last time we faced off,” I told him.
“Is this the same daughter who’s been kicking your ass since she was fifteen?”
I grinned. “Touché, my friend. Touché.”
Tom’s grin didn’t last. We were separated by thousands of miles and our images were nothing but tiny dots on an electronic screen, but I could still feel his concern.
“Godspeed, my friend.”
Honestly, that was the problem with working hand-in-hand with a friend: the emotional baggage couldn’t possibly do either of us any good. I said, “Thanks,” and the screen went blank.
Time to go. I fished Trevor McCormick’s card from my jacket and dialed his cell phone. It rang once. I could hear by the tone of his voice and a quick intake of breath that Mr. Elliot had put him on the alert. I asked how soon he could get to me. He said twenty-five minutes.
“Good. I’ll be across the square from the Column of Constantine. In the gift shop.”
“What? Why there? What’s up?” he wanted to know. So, Mr. Elliot hadn’t told him about the screwup at the Hotel Marmara.
“I’ll explain when I see you,” I said. “And if you can track down some coffee, I’d appreciate it.”
I spent ten minutes washing up at a communal sink at the end of the hall. I’d used a lot worse. There was a bar of soap attached by a piece of rope to the faucet. The water was lukewarm and only slightly rusty. There was an empty paper-towel dispenser and a cloth towel that looked as if it had been used by a construction worker or a gardener. I walked with wet hands and face back to my room and used a corner of the bedsheet to dry off.
I spent the five minutes rechecking my Walther. I spent another minute composing a text to the DDO, asking him to set up a safe house in Tehran, as close to Jomhuri as possible. Jomhuri was located in the city center, and I only knew about it because that’s where everyone went to buy their computers and cell phones, and the bazaar there was apparently overrun by the younger generation. The request would keep Wiseman busy, even though I had no intention of using one of the Agency’s safe houses, except perhaps as a diversion.
I checked myself in the mirror hanging over the dresser. I needed a shave. But other than that, the news wasn’t all bad. At least there were no dark circles looming under my eyes. I shared an ironic grin with my reflection and headed for the door.
The woman behind the reception desk was still working the keys of her adding machine; apparently running a motel the size of the Burnt Column was more complex than I’d imagined. She smiled at me and her round face came to life, eyes bright, as if running a motel the size of the Burnt Column was a blessing.
Her smile compelled me to say, “Thank you,” but when I was outside the motel I still turned in the opposite direction, away from the square surrounding the Column of Constantine. I walked down the cobbled alley, turned left, and circled the block. I ducked into the gift shop I had mentioned to McCormick, thumbed through a local newspaper, and watched my tracks. I bought a copy of the English version of HaberSkop. I turned away from the counter, stopped to put the change back into my pocket, and saw two policemen patrolling the walk.
Ten-to-one they had nothing to do with me, but I got out my iPhone and called McCormick anyway. “Change in plans. Come down Isil Street. Slow down when you see the Yildiz Market. It’ll be on your right. But don’t stop.”
“I’m sixty seconds away.”
I stepped through the gift-shop door. I rolled the magazine in my palm and fell in behind an Asian couple with a map of the old town opened in front of them. The police were looking in the direction of the square and the ever-present crowd taking in the sights. I turned down Isil Street and heard a car rolling up beside me. I dropped the magazine into a curbside trash can. I walked into the street just as the Mercedes rolled past and slowed. I heard the door locks click. I jerked the door open and slipped into the front seat.
“Everything okay?” McCormick asked.
“Just a couple of cops in the square. Better part of valor, if you get my meaning.”
“If you mean you’re not overly enamored with the Turkish police, yeah, I get your meaning,” he replied. He took the first turn away from the square. “So why the change in location? The Hotel Marmara not to your liking?”
I wasn’t going to mention anything about the poisoning. The embassy would learn what had happened when I filed my after-action report. Although McCormick and I were on the same team and Mr. Elliot had vouched for him, he really didn’t need to know anything extraneous to the task at hand.
“Nah,” I said casually. “I was just in the mood for a little sightseeing.”
McCormick stared across the front seat at me. I didn’t move. Then he said, “Okay. Where to?”
“We might want to start with a full tank. We got a helluva drive ahead of us.”
I flicked on the navigation app on my iPhone. Field 27 was due east, nearly 400 miles away. I plugged it into the GPS on the Mercedes dash. It popped up on the navigation screen. McCormick studied it. Shrugged. “Glad I brought coffee.”
He reached into the backseat. The thermos was stainless steel and good for ten or twelve cups by the looks of it. The cups were paper. I poured. He drove.
We stopped for kebabs and manti at a food stand near Korfez. Typical Turkish fast food served with hot tea. I was famished, and even food on a stick tasted good. McCormick tried to make small talk, but I spent most of my time retraining my mind for a HALO jump from forty thousand feet in the air.
I offered to drive, but McCormick shook his head and smiled. “You’re in good hands,” he said. “If I were sitting in that seat and had my choice between the Turkish landscape and sleep, I’d already be sleeping.”
“In good hands, huh? That’s what a friend of mine said, too.” I looked across the console for three seconds. Made a decision. I lowered the back of the seat and closed my eyes. “Wake me up when we get to Sorgun.”
He did. I opened my eyes, repositioned my seat back, and stretched. My eyes went immediately to my watch. The time was 12:22 A.M. An hour and twenty minutes of solid sleep.
“Thanks. I needed that,” I said, and he seemed to know what I meant. I gazed into the pitch black of a moonless night. Two minutes later, I pointed to an exit leading into the low hills off the E88 highway. “Left here.”
The road angled north through plowed fields set against shallow clay hills. Lights from farmhouses shone within the draws surrounding us. Clusters of stars peeked through a ghostly layer of feathery clouds.
I followed our progress on the iPhone map, searching for the road to the airstrip. It had been years since I was last here. It was dark as the inside of a gun barrel, and the rugged terrain was not marked by a plethora of outstanding landmarks. At least not ones that I recognized.
Always have an escape route in mind in case of trouble—basic tradecraft—and McCormick and I were mindful of both the potential trouble and the potential exit strategy. He slowed to a crawl and shook his head at the same time. “We’re shit out of luck if this goes south,” he said, but his voice was calm when he said it.
We rounded the bend, and our headlights shone against the back of a pickup truck parked beside the road fifty meters ahead. Its l
ights were off, but the vapor wisping from its tailpipe told me the motor was idling.
I slipped my hand under my jacket and gripped my pistol.
McCormick eased off the gas. “We expecting company?”
The placard on the tailgate of the truck came into view. It read: MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR.
“What the hell’s a government truck doing out here?” he hissed. “Coincidence?”
“Like hell.” My chest tightened.
A man in a dark uniform stepped into the road from the left side of the truck. Strips of reflective tape glowed on his jacket. He cradled an MP5 submachine gun and called us to a halt with a raised hand.
“He’s got company,” I said, seeing the silhouette of a second man in the truck. “Passenger side.”
McCormick whispered, “Okay. Excellent. Now what?”
My mind flipped through a dozen possible action plans, none of which had a chance in hell of working. We could run the guy over and come back for his companion, but that made less sense than seeing what the hell he was doing out here, not a half mile from Field 27 and my transportation into Iran. In any case, it was a good bet the landing zone had been compromised and my mission was dead in its tracks anyway.
“Keep cool. Let’s see what he wants.”
The cop put up his hand, and McCormick eased to a stop.
The cop came around to my side of the Mercedes. I thought that was kind of odd, but maybe that was the way they did things in Turkey. He kept his head down and skirted the periphery of the light created by our headlights.
I wrapped my hand around the Walther’s grip and kept it nestled along the door panel. Safety off. Finger on the trigger.
If there was something urgent or out of place happening here, the cop gave no indication. His step was even. His posture was relaxed. Of course, he had a machine gun capable of displacing twenty rounds in a split second, so maybe he had a right to be nonchalant. Then I got a glimpse of his face, and my memory traveled back in time nearly fifteen years.
He made a circle with his hand, telling me to roll my window down. I pressed the window control on the side of the door, and it opened. The cop leaned in. I recognized him.
“Atif! Jesus! What the hell?” I said. Atif Hakan. An operative from the Turkish State Security Bureau. He and I had worked together for nearly six months, busting narco rings and cracking heads from Izmir to Budapest. He was as ruthless as I was and just as dedicated. “You’re still alive.”
“You sound surprised.” He extended a hand. “Jake Conlan. I shouldn’t be surprised to find you in the middle of nowhere.”
“What’s an old fossil like you doing out here?” I replied. I was still gripping the Walther. This was weird. McCormick had used the word coincidence, but coincidence didn’t explain this. “Who’d you piss off?”
“Duty calls. You know the drill.” His grip was firm, pleasant. His tone easy and relaxed.
“The last time we met,” I said, “you were wearing the uniform of an air force colonel. That’s quite a fall to flatfoot cop.”
Hakan laughed. “Well, with all the cutbacks, I’m lucky to have a job. This time it’s something really important. Like making sure a certain airstrip is clear of stray goats.”
“You’re kidding?” I was genuinely surprised.
“Would I do that?” He straightened. “Follow me up the road.”
Hakan climbed into the cab of the truck. Its headlights came to life. A spray of white illuminated the road, and the truck rumbled out ahead of us.
“Who is he?” Trevor McCormick wanted to know, and rightfully so.
“An old colleague.”
“Is that why you were gripping your gun like a man holding on to his last dollar?” He glanced over at me.
“He’s Turkish. Turks take it as an insult if you trust them,” I said.
The American embassy attaché shook his head. “Our guy back in D.C. didn’t tell me you were completely full of shit.”
A half mile ahead, we turned off the road and followed a dirt path bordered by slender poplars, through newly turned fields, and up and over a rocky slope. The air outside was chilly and smelled of rain, but I kept the window down. The road dead-ended in a small wooded valley. The truck stopped and turned off its lights. Hakan got out. The airfield was just beyond the crest of the hill.
“Cut the lights and motor,” I said to McCormick.
I combed the surroundings. The trees were a tangle of black against the purple of the night sky. The night had fallen under a spell of dead silence. All I heard were Hakan’s footfalls approaching. He had left the MP5 in the truck and instead carried a radio.
He touched the side of his wristwatch. A dim yellow glow chiseled his features with soft light. “The bird is ten minutes out. Better get going.”
I looked over at McCormick and shook his hand. “Thanks. I’ll put in a good word for you when I get back home.”
He grinned when he heard this. “I’d say, ‘Stay out of trouble,’ but I know that’s not going to happen.”
“Probably not.” I climbed out and slid the Walther into my shoulder harness.
Hakan and I hiked up the draw to the top of the hill. In the darkness, I felt a rush of old memories storming back—distant missions and fallen comrades—and told myself this was no place for a walk down memory lane. Actually, if I never walked down memory lane again it would be too soon.
We crested the hill and found ourselves at the southern end of a long, wide strip of flat concrete, like a section of highway someone forgot to connect with the rest of the world.
Hakan adjusted the volume of his radio. The speaker crackled.
A groan echoed from the distance. To the west, a black form cut through the clouds. Cigar-shaped fuselage. Four turbo props. Long, narrow wings that raised the C-17’s operational ceiling from thirty-three thousand feet to a height well over forty thousand. Fuel tanks hanging between the engines that allowed the plane to stay aloft pretty much all day.
Hakan raised the radio to his mouth. “Tango-tango-sierra-five. Have you in sight. Status. Victor.”
A voice replied, “Roger.”
In the early days, for a mission like this, we’d have to guide the airplane in with radar vectors and radio beacons and mark the landing strip with portable lights. Now, with GPS, the crew could plop the machine within one foot of any location, no sweat. Supersensitive radar allowed the pilot to thread a needle if that’s what he had in mind. Night-vision systems gave the crew a clear-as-day view of the terrain. Electronic countermeasures made the airplane practically invisible to radar and infrared detectors. About the only thing the Globemaster couldn’t do was clear the landing zone of stray farm animals.
The plane began a steady descent, wings level, landing gear extending. No navigation lights, no landing lights, just a black shape getting bigger and bigger. Very cool.
Seconds later, the C-17’s huge tires touched the pavement, and puffs of smoke feathered skyward. There was some protesting from the engines and the brakes, but the pilot got the plane stopped, and did so with runway to spare.
The big airplane crawled toward us. The thunderous noise, the sense of urgency, and the sudden realization that I would be jumping out of the tail end of this behemoth made my blood pulse with anticipation.
The C-17 rolled to a stop. The ramp dropped to the ground.
Hakan slapped my back and shouted, “Good luck, Jake. Next time we meet, you better be retired and knee deep in grandkids.”
“I’m working on it.”
I ran toward the C-17 Globemaster.
Next stop. Iran.
CHAPTER 12
IRAN—DAY SIX
I stood at the rear of the C-17’s cargo deck, feeling like a stuffed pig.
An air force staff sergeant named Dooley checked my HALO rig for the umpteenth time, and I had no intention of complaining. He fussed with the harness. He ran his hands over the main parachute and did the same with the reserve chute. He scanned the GPS monitor on my
instrument console, the O2 equipment on my right hip, and the jump bag banded around my waist. He checked the breathing regulator attached to my oxygen tank and the seals where my helmet, gloves, and boots fit into a pressure suit, a necessity at this altitude: forty-two thousand feet. One leak and my blood would literally boil. Dooley gave me a thumbs-up.
“You’re a thing of beauty,” he said. Normally, you have to write everything down on a dry eraser board or a pad in a situation like this, but we were on comms and using a bone mike.
“I owe you a beer,” I said.
“Oh, hey. I nearly forgot.” He reached into his back pocket and came away with a folded piece of paper that looked like it had been torn off yellow legal pad and not very gently. “This was tucked inside your suit when I unpacked it.”
He handed it over. I opened it with gloved hands.
It was handwritten and clearly in haste. It read: Enjoy the ride, old man. Try coming back in one piece. Roger. I grinned out of the side of my mouth and offered Roger a mental thanks. Dooley took the note back and found a pocket for it.
“Let’s check the numbers,” he said, nodding toward my helmet and visor.
The digital readout from the instrument console hovered inside my visor: Pressure Altitude. Absolute Height Above Ground. GPS location. Distance and compass heading to the LZ (landing zone). Time Elapsed. Oxygen Count. Not a lot of light reading.
This time I gave Dooley a thumbs-up.
“Better you than me,” he said. I felt like a man in a fishbowl, and the hollow sound of his voice didn’t help.
Dooley wore a helmet and pressure suit similar to mine only with a monkey strap that secured his harness to the airplane. The fuselage interior lamps reflected across his visor. He squinted at his wristwatch.
“Showtime, Mr. Conlan. All set?” Now his voice was all business. So was his expression.
This was a critical step of the HALO protocol, switching from the airplane’s oxygen system to my personal tank. For the last hour and a half, I’d been “prebreathing” to purge nitrogen from my bloodstream. Falling through the rarefied atmosphere could induce an embolism, though not as extreme as what could happen to a deep-sea diver. I wouldn’t suffer the bends, but I could sure as hell get disoriented and lose track of what I was doing. Not a healthy mindset when you’re dropping through the night sky at one hundred twenty miles per hour, counting every second, and maneuvering like a bird of prey in free fall.
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