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Metin leans back in the oversized armchair and repositions the folder. One arm drapes down, long fingers tapping against the leather. “Busy, busy.”
She pauses and throws me a tiny smile, but the way her fingers weave together, so tight her knuckles are white, undermines her try at nonchalance. “The NSA picked up some chatter. Maybe it’s connected to this mysterious delivery.” She taps the folder and nudges it closer to me.
“Hacking alerts?” Hacking threats are so common that I can’t imagine why they’d bother to pass anything on unless it’s a major security alert. CyberSec has two security analysts who work on nothing but threats. We’re bombarded with at least a thousand hacking attempts a day.
“No.” She shakes her head slightly. “Nothing to do with GSU directly.”
I slip my fingers onto the smooth paper cover and pull it closer and flip it open. Inside are some papers clipped together. I glance over the flimsy onionskin paper. The first is a half sheet with text messages.
SKYWATCHER: the breeze is blowing
DEMETER: the holy grail?
SKYWATCHER: …
DEMETER: This is bad
DEMETER: and…
SKYWATCHER: Smiley
DEMETER: Okay
I wince inwardly at the Smiley reference, but don’t bite. I’m still not sure how I ended up with the nickname but John Le Carré is everywhere in the spy world. Even though I know the answer, I still ask the question. “Who are these from?”
“Texts between me and the NSA.”
I nod at the confirmation, then move on. The other sheet, markedTop Secret, has today’s date, an update from a communique released a month ago. I scan it quickly, noting the important names—mine and Nasim Faez.
My scalp prickles. Faez has been in prison for the last ten years. My testimony helped put him there after the bombing of an alley in Istanbul that killed most of Turkish security team I was working with. I skim the rest of the document.
I put the papers back and toss the folder on top of the bumf already there, trying to control my shaking fingers. “Shit. I can’t believe this…” I can hardly get the words out. “The man was in a high-security prison. How the fuck did he escape?”
Metin’s lips twist into a frown. “They moved him to a medium-security prison last year. No one seems to know why. Payoffs? Perhaps as part of a plan to let him escape.”
“Why are we only hearing now, a month after the fact?”
She shifts uncomfortably, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “Sorting out the identification of the bodies has been tricky, but now the Turkish police believe Faez was not in the fuel refinery when it exploded. After the fiasco of allowing him to be moved to a lower-security prison, the Turks are giving out very little information.”
I run my tongue over my lips. My mouth tastes of salt, and I realize sweat droplets are running down my face. I swipe them away with the back of my hand. Deep breaths help bring my heart rate closer to normal, but my voice is still full of gravel. “Bloody Nasim Faez.”
We’re both silent for far too long before I go on. “Thought he’d die in prison.” I take off my glasses and rub my eyes, feeling phantom debris. A souvenir of the ambush. My hand trembles as I squeeze in some prescription eye drops, which run down my face, mixing with the remnants of the sweat. Damn.
Metin sits back, arms folded, and waits for me to go on.
“I’m not surprised I’ve heard nothing official from MI6.” Hacking as if I had swallowed sandpaper, I wipe my eyes. “Allan Mason is in charge of Turkish operations now, and let’s say there’s no love lost.”
“I heard there were some tensions.” Her tone is dry, but the widening of her eyes betrays curiosity.
I choke, then take another sip of water. “Allan felt I was in the way of his advancement.” Our acrimonious history goes back to our schooldays, but I don’t bother to explain. I lean the chair onto its back wheels, then rock forward. “I was a highflier until the cock-up in Istanbul.”
The police take pictures, put the envelope into a special container, and tell us they will let us know when they have the test results. Two detectives arrive a few minutes later and question us about the sequence of events. As they leave, I wonder if Faez sent this as a warning.
Now our CEO Clay Brandon, Metin, and the head of our security division, JL Martin, and I sit around the same conference table examining photos of the original. Addressed to me in block capitals, stamps festoon the outside of the envelope along with a printed drawing depicting a dervish. The smeared postmark and crumpled appearance makes me fancy the sender used a carrier pigeon, or at least on a cargo ship, rather than airmail. A slight rip in the paper reveals a shiny sliver, which the police told us is a small glassine envelope inside.
“Konya!” Metin stares at the photo. Dirty, creased, and crisscrossed with tape, the return address of a hotel in Konya is clearly visible. “Faez was imprisoned near there.” She taps her finger against the photo. “I think that’s a confirmation.” Her eyes narrow as she stares at me, willing me to say something. I fold my arms across my chest, lips pressed in a thin line, and say nothing.
Metin’s rubs her foot against the bottom crossbar of the oak conference table as the silence lengthens. Finally, with a sigh of exasperation, she barks at me, “But why was he hanging around there?”
