Demir seemed pleased by Conza’s enthusiasm.
JC looked at her once, and Katie gave him a subtle nod.
He grinned a pirate’s grin, reached into his pocket, and tossed her the keys to the SUV. Moments later, he was introducing himself to the helo crew.
—
Katie watched the Turkish Black Hawk rise into the sky in a blossoming cloud of dust. With its camo paint scheme, the T-70 looked little different from any U.S. Army Black Hawk. Theaircraft lifted into the dusk, rotated eastward, and disappeared behind the hills. She still had reservations about splitting up with JC, but there had been no practical reason for keeping him grounded. She decided to return to the hotel.
She steered the SUV slowly down the access road—it was in worse shape than ever, having been rutted by heavy equipment all day. In the passenger seat next to her was Sergeant Thomas, a very large and amiable young man from Colonel Carter’s team. They chatted to pass the time, mostly exchanging insights about their respective services, and arrived at the hotel as the sun was setting.
Katie went straight to her room and took a long shower. The grime of the day washed away, forming a brown counterclockwise swirl at the drain. Afterward she dressed in civvies, a pair of jeans and a loose cotton shirt. She was set to meet Carter and his staff in the lobby, dinner on the agenda.
She paused at the window and took in a chamber of commerce view. The hotel was directly on Bodrum Harbor, and the panorama of the marina was spectacular. There were a few fishing boats and utility scows, but the majority of the slips were occupied by magnificent sailboats. Each seemed to be unique, handcrafted in polished hardwood, sixty- and seventy-foot yachts available for charter. With November being on the fringe of the low season, there were hundreds of them riding the slack evening tide.
As captivating as that scene was, Katie invariably found her attention drawn to the harbor’s fringes. Parked cars, loitering men, idling delivery trucks. She searched for sounds and movement that didn’t fit in. She’d felt a similar compulsion in Italy, although it had been less pronounced there, since she’d been quartered on base.
This was the box from which she could never escape. Katierecalled the subtle nod she’d given Conza earlier, her tacit approval of his helicopter excursion. It would probably be nothing more than a tour flight, yet they both knew the question of him heading out for a bit of reconnaissance was only half the issue.
The other part involved Katie herself.
It was the never-ending backdrop of her life. Had been for years. Try as she might to ignore it, she could not escape who she was. Or more relevantly, whoher fatherwas.
Among the responsibilities held by all service members was that they could never, when off duty, knowingly put themselves at risk. For most soldiers that translated to not swimming near rip currents or BASE jumping off of buildings. Reckless behavior could cause injury, potentially depriving the nation of a highly trained warrior. Katie, however, faced a maddeningly higher bar. One that forced her to live on an eternal high wire between vigilance and paranoia.
Being a military officer put one in an unknowable degree of jeopardy. Many never saw combat in their entire careers. Yet in the last year, Katie had twice found herself caught up in a shooting war. Neither her parents nor her commander had complained—she’d only been doing her job. She wondered now if it was happening again. She was in a dangerous corner of the world, separated from her partner. And not justanypartner. She and Conza had never talked about it directly, but the undercurrent was too obvious to ignore. John Conza had been tasked to accompany her to Sigonella because he was a former Navy SEAL. However unofficial, JC was her bodyguard.
She suspected the issue was on Colonel Carter’s mind as well. The way Sergeant Thomas had asked for a ride back to the hotel. The way they all had rooms on the same floor, hers being squarely in the middle.
Coincidence?
Hardly.
Being the President’s daughter was an annoying fact of her life.
Katie, however, also got a vote in the matter. And she was determined that she would never let it hold her back.
20
The Kremlin
Moscow, Russia
1832 Local Time
General Vasin walked swiftly down the red-carpet runner. With gilt-edged portraits of glorified Russian battles and crystalline chandeliers above, the hallway was nothing less than a gallery of intimidation.
As director of the GRU, Vasin attended staff meetings at the Kremlin on a regular basis, at least two a week when the president hadn’t decamped to one of his palaces. One-on-one meetings were far less common, and they usually implied a crisis. Thankfully, the invitation for this visit had arrived yesterday and Vasin had heard no rumors of an imminent disaster. Better yet, he thought he knew what it was about, although in these halls one could never be sure.
At the entrance of the presidential suite two serious men eyed him, but neither blocked his path. Vasin had already been through three security scanners, two hand-wand searches, and an intimate pat-down. The president might exude confidence…but he was neverreallysure.
Vasin went into the anteroom and saw Yermilov’s assistant, Anastasia. She was a longtime fixture. Mid-forties, attractive, officious. Whether she was anything more was a question best left unasked.
“Good evening, General,” she said. “He will be with you in five minutes.”
It took two. This was another of the president’s games. Sometimes he made you wait, other times he rushed you in—anything to put visitors on edge.
Vasin entered Yermilov’s office to find the president squaring up a file on his desk. He was old-school that way, suspicious of electronics, preferring hard-copy documents that could be shredded before his eyes. The use of paper was common throughout the executive wing, a manifestation of the paranoia that dominated the Russian psyche. Five generations of spying on neighbors, backstabbing coworkers, and even questioning the fidelity of family members had taken its toll. The very word trust,doveryat, had virtually fallen from the language.
