44

DOHA, QATAR

Hamdi Yaşar logged into his private Gmail account.

With so much breaking news, he had to get back to the Al-Sawt studios. During his calls with al-Masri and Abu Nakba, he had already received three text messages and had two missed calls from the network’s vice president for foreign news coverage demanding to know where he was.

Despite all the Kairos work on his plate, Yaşar knew he had no choice. He had to go back. It was critical that he maintain his cover as an award-winning field producer for the most watched satellite station in the Arab-speaking world. He had repeatedly urged Abu Nakba to let him resign and focus his efforts on Kairos full-time. But Father had been insistent. There was no better way for Yaşar to talk to so many sources and travel so widely and be so effective at building up the fledgling terrorist network than being on the Al-Sawt payroll.

Still, if he was really going to wire so much money to his man in Lebanon, the Turk had to be sure.

Waiting for him were three new emails. Each was from al-Masri.

Opening the first, he found no message, only an attachment. It was encrypted, so Yaşar entered the prearranged passcode and found a nine-second video. The image was poor, but the point was made. It was a woman. She was alive but terribly beaten. Her face was bruised and swollen. But her voice was calm, if scratchy. She said her name was Kailea Curtis and that she was an employee of the U.S. State Department. She gave her DSS badge number and demanded to be released immediately. Most importantly, the time stamp was visible in the top left corner of the screen. The video had been made that very day.

The next two emails also contained attachments. Same passcodes. Similar videos, each less than ten seconds long. Both were men. Both had also been brutally beaten. The younger man’s face was almost unrecognizable. The older seemed vaguely familiar. Both gave their names—Case and Millner—as well as their DSS badge numbers and more pathetic demands to be freed. The time stamps of the men’s videos were consistent with the woman’s.

Yaşar had no time to study the videos more carefully. Al-Masri was telling him the truth—that was all that concerned him. Satisfied, the Kairos operative completed the wire transfer to al-Masri’s accounts, then drove back to the studio.

Once there, he apologized to everyone for being late and lied about why. Then he retreated to his office and hit the phones, looking for officials throughout the region who would be willing to go on camera to react to the new war in Lebanon and the death of Iran’s Supreme Leader.

After a dozen conversations of varying lengths, Yaşar placed a call to the palace in Ankara, to the direct line of the spokesman for Turkish president Ahmet Mustafa. When the call went straight to voice mail, Yaşar dialed the man’s mobile phone. When that did not work either, he called him at home.

His wife answered. Yaşar identified himself and apologized for intruding.

It was no intrusion, she said and called for her husband.

“It’s Hamdi. I just need a second.”

“Good, because that’s all you’re going to get.”

“Are you tracking all this? The region is really blowing up.”

“I wasn’t. It’s a Saturday. I was about to take my family to Antalya for the weekend.”

“I just need two minutes of your boss’s time—a reaction, on the record or off.”

“Can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not talking to anyone.”

“He’ll talk to me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Just ask him, okay?”

“Fine—but don’t hold your breath.”

Yaşar did not, but five minutes later, his satellite phone began buzzing like crazy. The number was blocked, but he had no doubt it was Ahmet Mustafa.

“Are you watching this?” Yaşar asked the Turkish president.

“Impressive, is it not?” Mustafa asked.

“It’s unfolding just like you planned.”

“Yes, although I never expected the Supreme Leader to die the same day as our attack.”

“I know—it’s crazy.”

“I don’t have much time. How many hostages?”

“Three.”

“All alive? You’re sure?”

“Positive—I just watched the videos.”

“Three Israeli soldiers is better than we had dared imagine.”

“Actually, it’s better still.”

“How?”

“They’re not Israelis.”

“What?”

“They’re Americans—all of them.”

There was a long pause.

“Sir?” Yaşar asked. “You still there?”

“It was supposed to be Israelis,” said Mustafa.

“What can I say? We gambled and came up big.”

“You don’t understand. The last thing I need right now is a problem with the Americans.”

“Sir, with respect, if you were worried about the Americans, you would never have come to Father in the first place. You would not have funded Kairos. And you certainly would not have supported—enthusiastically, I would remind you—the kind of operations we have been engaged in.”

“But not right now,” Mustafa snapped. “I’ve got Secretary Whitney coming to see me soon. This was supposed to be about the Israelis—drawing them into a war with Hezbollah, sandbagging the Saudis. Suddenly we’re operating on a whole new level. And that’s not what I am paying for.”

“What do you want me to do about it now?” Yaşar asked. “I know we didn’t target Americans. But we got them. What do you want Father to do with them?”

“I don’t know,” said the Turkish leader. “Give me some time. I need to think about this.”

“Well, don’t take long, sir. We’ve got to get them out of the country before Hezbollah figures out what’s going on.”