SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Fox (19 page)

N
inety minutes
later Crocker stood beside Oz as his men inspected a long line of trucks at a roadblock outside the city of
İ
skenderun on the Mediterranean coast, thinking that this was necessary but probably wouldn’t yield squat. Whoever had stolen the sarin was too smart to transport it in a truck on a major highway. The hijackers had probably moved fast, via local roads, and had most likely passed the WMDs to the next stage, or end user, hours ago. Oz had assured him that every avenue east, north, and south, and all local airports, were now being carefully monitored.

Mancini remained as anxious as Crocker, constantly offering suggestions and warnings. Now he was telling Crocker about the ancient cave city of Cappadocio, north of where they stood now, and explaining that it was a perfect place to hide the canisters.

“Mention it to Oz,” Crocker said, nodding toward the Turkish colonel, who stood ten feet away talking into a cell phone and looking overwhelmed and angry.

Crocker kept eyeing the coast. Helicopters and surveillance aircraft were up and boat crews were on their way, according to the colonel, but he saw no sign of them.

Almost four hours after the sarin was taken, all they had found so far was a 2.5-ton Mercedes truck stolen the night before from a construction company in Adana, farther west and north. There was no evidence that linked it to the sarin except for descriptions from the guards at the AFAD camp of a similar-looking truck driving away.

Crocker was growing increasingly anxious. Hoping for some good news, he called Davis on his burner cell.

“Anything new there?”

“Not really, no. According to Captain Nasar everyone in the camp has been accounted for. So the only one missing is Hassan.”

“Any word from or about him?”

“No.”

“You talk to Jamila?”

“Yeah. She was nice, but kind of evasive.”

“In what way?” Crocker asked.

“When I asked her about the argument she and Hassan had as they were getting out of the van, the one Mancini overheard, she denied it. Said maybe she was complaining about her back, which has been sore since the birth of the baby.”

Whether they were arguing or not didn’t seem like a big deal to Crocker. “Anything more from Ankara?”

“No.”

“Any word from the hijackers?”

“Not according to Nasar. He’s been real helpful. Has a brother who works with the police department in Seattle.”

“Good,” Crocker said. He had something else on his mind. “I want you to call Captain Sutter back at HQ. Tell him that with Suarez in the hospital and Akil nicked up, we might need more men. Tell him we can use Cal and Tré if they can get out here quickly.”

Cal was the sniper assigned to Black Cell who had been injured in the helo crash that had killed Ritchie four and a half months ago. Dante Tremaine was an African American former marine, University of Nevada basketball player, and explosives expert who had worked with Black Cell a year ago in Venezuela. Everyone on the teams called him Tré, as in the three-point shot in basketball, which had been his specialty. He was a tough young operator and a fun guy to be around.

“Will do,” replied Davis.

“Tell Sutter my gut tells me that whoever took the sarin is going to use it quickly. These guys, whoever they are, seem smart and well organized. I sense that they have a plan and specific target in mind.” In the past Sutter hadn’t put a lot of stock in Crocker’s instincts, but they were all he had so far.

“We should make sure we have air, sea, and land assets on alert,” Crocker added.

“I’ll tell him.”

“When you’re done with Sutter, ask Nasar if you can borrow a vehicle so you and Akil can drive here and meet us. Bring our weapons and gear with you. Do you know what happened to them?” Crocker asked.

“The Turkish guards confiscated everything after the theft.”

“Tell Nasar we need them back. Explain that we’re working with Oz and trying to recover the sarin.”

“Nasar’s cool. I don’t think he’ll be a problem.”

“Good.”

“Hey, one more thing, boss. When I was talking to Jamila, I mentioned that Hassan had been introduced to you by his uncle, Mr. Talab, and his half sister, Fatima.”

“That’s correct.”

“She claimed she knows all of Hassan’s extended family and has never heard of an uncle Talab, and she was, like, totally adamant that Hassan doesn’t have a half sister.”

“No, half sister, stepsister, or adopted sister named Fatima?”

“No, none of the above.”

“Interesting,” said Crocker.

“I thought so, too.”

The longer they waited, the more the consequences of the situation beat down on him, until his head, neck, shoulders, back, and legs hurt. It was impossible to stand and watch the black-uniformed Turkish commandos running back and forth at the roadblock, barking orders as they choked on diesel exhaust from the dozens of backed-up trucks while he knew some dastardly plan was unfolding somewhere else.

Mancini, who had pitched in to help with the inspections, looked equally impatient and grim. He stood beside Colonel Oz, who was now screaming at some young officer about the kebab sandwiches he had ordered for his men and looking as if he was about to wring the young man’s neck. They’d been here three hours now, and all the while the hijackers were probably gaining ground. The only good news was that Akil, Davis, and Janice were on their way.

Feeling that he had to do something, Crocker excused himself and called Anders in Ankara on one of his burner cell phones. The CIA officer sounded harried and exhausted.

“Crocker, you’re still in-country? Where are you now?”

“With Oz, inspecting trucks on the O-52 motorway a few klicks north of
İ
skenderun.”

“Where’s that?” Anders asked.

“Hatay province. East and south of you.”

“I’m up to my frigging eyeballs here. How can I help you?”

“How well do you know Mr. Talab?” Crocker asked.

“What kind of question is that?”

“How well do you know him?”

“Talab? Personally, not well. But he’s been a trusted Agency source for years. Why?”

“What about that Fatima chick? His aide.”

“The very fine looking woman he had with him? All I know is what I saw. Why?”

“They both claimed to be related to Hassan, right?”

“Did they?” asked Anders. “Why’s that important?”

“When we met Talab at the hotel, he said Hassan was his nephew. And while we were waiting for the order to launch in Yaylada
ğ
i, Fatima told me she was his half sister.”

“So?”

“So Hassan’s girlfriend, Jamila, just told Davis that she knows all the members of his family and that Hassan isn’t related to either of them.”

“The girlfriend, the one who just had the baby?” asked Anders.

“Yeah.”

“You believe her?”

“No reason not to.”

“Maybe Talab and Fatima were speaking loosely,” Anders offered. “You know, ‘family’ can be a loose term here. Maybe they were trying to impress on us how close they are to Hassan so we’d trust him.”

“Yeah, they wanted us to trust him. You have any idea where Talab and Fatima are now?” Crocker asked.

“Last I heard, Talab was in Damascus taking care of family business. Fatima, I don’t know. Maybe she went with him. I’d take her with me, wouldn’t you?”

“Probably. But that’s irrelevant.”

“What are you trying to say, Crocker?” Anders asked. “Seems to me you’re reaching for something. It’s very likely that Hassan is a victim here. Anyway, I’ve got to go.”

“Just a second,” Crocker said. “You basing that on anything—that part about Hassan being a victim?”

“Yes.” Anders whispered something to someone on the other end before continuing. “NSA has picked up something online from some ISIS AQ-affiliated jihadist who calls himself the Fox.”

Anders and Janice had mentioned him before, during the first meeting at the Sultanhan Hotel. “This Fox guy mention Hassan specifically?” asked Crocker.

“No, no. Everything he says is in code, very difficult to decipher. But he does talk about an upcoming big strike and kidnapping the enemy.”

“Anything else?”

“Maybe you should let us do the analysis and targeting, and focus on working with Colonel Oz to recover the sarin.”

Crocker couldn’t hold back this time. “Fuck you, Anders.”

“Crocker, look…I didn’t mean to insult you. We’re all stretched to the max. I’m glad you’re still here. We might need your services. Stay ready and alert.”

“I will.”

A swath of deep magenta leaked across the darkening sky as the black Range Rover passed between the faux-marble columns that marked the entrance to the port of Ku
ş
adası, Turkey, and stopped. Two multitiered cruise ships rose ahead on the right, both impressively lit with hundreds of deck lights that gave the impression they were massive wedding cakes.

The female passenger on the Rover’s backseat said a quick prayer and waited for the door to open. She was dressed to attract attention and ready to play her part. She adjusted her wide-brimmed white hat, clutched her light-green Bottega Veneta crocodile shoulder bag, and stepped out.

The warm evening air rushed to greet her, ruffling her long dark hair and passing through the thin silk suit and blouse to caress her skin. Behind her two men unloaded two large trunks and several suitcases. Local porters rushed forward with metal carts and offered their assistance.

The tourist city of Ku
ş
adası hummed behind her, a maze of tourist stalls, cafés, air-conditioned malls, and sleek high-rise hotels. Most people staying there were drawn by the ruins of the once-powerful Greek and later Roman city of Ephesus, nine miles away. But none of that seemed to interest her, neither the history, nor the commerce, nor the delicious local Muscat wine served chilled in the cafés.

Steely-eyed and sober, she strode toward the modest modern glass terminal with a Welcome to Turkey banner across the front. Slightly behind her followed her dashing associate, Stavros Petras, in a white shirt and expensive-looking black suit.

Before they reached the terminal door a uniformed concierge emerged and greeted her with a toothy smile. He wore a light-blue vest with a Disney insignia on the pocket and spoke with a slight Spanish accent. His words were tightly scripted. “Good evening, Mrs. Girard. My name is Marco. It’s my pleasure to serve as your concierge and welcome you to your Disney cruise. That’s our ship, the
Disney Magic,
straight ahead.” He pointed over his shoulder to the closest and largest of the two ships. Handsome, and a massive 984 feet long, with eleven passenger decks and a capacity of 950 crew members and 2,713 passengers.

She quickly took in the details—the Mickey Mouse–ear logos on the twin black-and-red funnels, the bright-yellow lifeboats, and the figure of Goofy wearing overalls and hanging from his suspenders at the stern. The sight gave her an impression of fun, wealth, and class.

“I’m here to make everything as enjoyable for you as possible. Check-in will take a few minutes,” Marco said. “Please follow me.”

She smiled. “You’re so kind.”

They entered a relatively empty high-ceilinged space, her white patent-leather Louboutin heels clicking against the tile floor. In the corner a uniformed Turkish customs official sat up, his German shepherd held by a metal leash. Two other bored-looking customs agents stood behind a long counter. One of them, an older man with short gray hair, extinguished the cigarette he was smoking as Mrs. Girard, Petras, and Marco approached.

Since they were the only two passengers joining the Mediterranean cruise at Ku
ş
adası, security was light.

Marco stopped at the counter, turned to her, and smiled. “I’m going to need to show them your passports and tickets. I believe your destination is Barcelona. Is that correct, Mrs. Girard?”

“Yes, Barcelona. I’m staying there two nights, then taking the train to Paris for the fall fashion shows.”

“You’ll be traveling alone?”

“No. It’s myself and my assistant, Mr. Petras. We’re booked in separate cabins.”

“Of course.”

She handed over the tickets and her stolen French passport with the photo expertly attached and appropriate entry and exit stamps. Petras’s passport, also stolen, was Greek.

“Thank you, Mrs. Girard. You’re in one of our deluxe oceanview staterooms, which features a bedroom with a queen-sized bed, a living room, two bathrooms, a wet bar, and a private veranda.”

“Excellent.”

“Your associate, Mr. Petras, has one of our junior staterooms on the deck below. We arrive in Barcelona next Saturday morning, so you’ll be with us for eight wonder-filled nights. I’ll stop by your cabin and fill you in on all the ship’s services and amenities after you get settled.”

Local porters arrived pushing two carts loaded with her trunks and other luggage, which meant the moment of truth was near. She felt sweat trickling between her breasts and running down her upper thighs, but she managed to appear perfectly composed and calm.

She had been told that luggage moving through the port wasn’t X-rayed, nor was the port equipped with visual scanners or chemical sniffers. All the officials there used were low-frequency handheld metal wands. As a precaution, the trunks were made of a metal fabric that would shield their interiors from electromagnetic signals in the 800 megahertz to 2.4 gigahertz range. They were also padlocked. Should the officials demand to inspect them she would say she had no keys because the trunks contained valuable jewelry. They had been sealed and locked by a French bonding agency, which would open them only when they arrived in Paris. However, the inspector seemed more interested in the presence of narcotics, pulling the dog closer to the trunks and suitcases.

She removed her suit jacket and draped it over her left arm. The thin silk tank top underneath clung to her bare breasts. The eyes of the luggage inspector and two Turkish customs agents standing behind the counter were drawn to them as if by some secret force.