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ChapterOne
November 2003
Grant House, near Grantown-on-Spey
Brian Grant sat on the sofa in one of the five reception rooms in the family’s seventeenth-century Grade II listed house and sipped from a bottle of Belhaven Best ale, washing down a mouthful of cheese and onion crisps. The wood-paneled walls and rustic stone fireplace gave it a cozy feel, unexpected in such a big house. A television sat on a table, angled to make viewing convenient from anywhere in the large, rectangular room.
Now the days were colder, and the nights drawing in earlier, he spent less time in the hangar, tinkering with his granddad’s World War I–era planes, and more time indoors, watching the box. Documentaries and sport for the most part. All five of kids had played rugby at school. Only their middle son, Max, continued to play, scoring the winning goal for Oxford in the Varsity Match against Cambridge in his senior year.
Today was a much-anticipated documentary on RAF prisoners in the Second World War. As a retired pilot, anything about the service drew his interest, especially programs about World War II. His dad, a flying ace, was shot down over Germany in 1942, and spent the rest of his war in a German Stalag. His grandfather had been one of the few in the Royal Flying Corps in the First War to come home.
A message flashed on the screen. “We interrupt this program for breaking news.”
Brian groaned. What bloody disaster had happened now?
The scene shifted to a newsroom desk with a screen behind it trumpeting New Terrorist Attack in Turkey. Brian glared at the seemingly impassive news announcer, who had laced his fingers together, the tips turning white.
“Today, in the aftermath of the 15th and 20th of November Istanbul terrorist bombings, several smaller attacks have taken place.”
A map of a portion of Istanbul came up on the screen, a red arrow pointing to the site. Max, Brian thought. He’s in Istanbul. Brian’s ragged breath and racing heart had him groping for his pills.
“In a narrow alley in the Fatih district, terrorists set an ambush for a Turkish counterterrorism unit. On the scene, Alisa Brand has this report.”
A picture of a bomb-shattered Istanbul alley appeared, newly opened space surrounded by stubs of buildings, small craters, bricks, and twisted metal. Flames flared and danced in narrow rings around pools of oil, wisps of smoke hanging in the air. A woman dressed in khaki slacks, black polo neck sweater, and flak jacket held a microphone so close to her mouth she might have been licking an ice cream cone. Her short blond hair was pushed back.
“At one end of the alley are the remains of a rusted red compact car.” The camera panned to the right, where a deconstructed metal skeleton glinted with hints of reddish paint. She took in a noticeable gulp of air. “Reports were received that a terrorist cell connected to Al-Qaeda in Turkey was operating in the vicinity. A Turkish antiterrorism unit was dispatched to this location”
Brian’s eyes widened, and his hand shook. He put down his beer and called out to his wife. “Viktoria!” No response. Bloody hell. Where in the enormous expanse of Grant House was she? After a second, louder bellow went unanswered, he picked up his mobile to text her, never taking his eyes off the television screen.
Viktoria. Come to the sitting room. Fast as you can.
Brian refocused on the reporter’s words. He detected an underlying tremor as she continued.
“Several hours ago, three Turkish security jeeps crowded into the narrow space when the booby-trapped car exploded. A fourth vehicle was starting the turn and was out of range of the explosion. According to witnesses, a deafening roar was followed by a moment of eerie silence. Then there was the blare of returning noise—loud booms interspersed with the tinkling of glass and brick, and sharp reports of metal hitting metal as a hail of nails, screws, and other sharp objects blew out of the IED. Vehicle gas tanks exploded, and the walls of abandoned factory buildings collapsed.”
As Brian perched on the edge of sofa, his body reached forward as if to run toward the correspondent. He heard, rather than saw, Viktoria Grant stalk into the room. Her thick silver mane swung around her shoulders.
“What is it, Brian?” Her voice was sharp with the ghost of a Russian accent.
Silently, he gestured toward the scene. Viktoria turned. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“One terrorist is dead, and two others apprehended while fleeing the scene. Of the eight members of the counterterrorism unit, only the two in the last vehicle survived, including Turkish driver Ahmet Iskander and a British citizen consulting with Turkish security services.” A camera swung to show a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance.
The reporter’s voice continued as the camera swung to a tall, hawk-faced Turk standing next to her. “This is Burak Hazan, a representative of the Turkish Security Forces.” She gave a slight pause. “Burak, could you explain what happened here?”
Hazan’s voice, British intonation overlaying his Turkish accent, poured out like honey. But the camera had shifted again and the man staring out at the viewers was not the clean-shaven Turk in his olive drab uniform.
A different man was being walked toward an ambulance by paramedics. Brian gasped, squeezing his wife’s hand, as the camera zoomed in for a close-up of a shockingly familiar face, blackened with soot, blood oozing from the tiny cuts that scored his skin. Dust and debris powdered his black hair, giving him the air of an eighteenth-century gentleman battered by time travel.
Sound faded away as they stood in front of the screen, transfixed by the image of the stumbling figure with sunken steel-gray eyes, clouded with pain and shock.
Brian hazarded a glance at his wife. Viktoria pulled her hand back, then crossed herself. Her cry was breathy with horror and despair. “Oh my god. It’s Max. At least he’s alive.”
Brian stepped forward, tears of relief running down his furrowed cheeks, and caught her as she crumpled toward the floor.
ChapterTwo
Chicago, Illinois
