NEAR LAKE VAN, TURKISH KURDISTAN
Darkness and thick clouds had turned the barren mountains into a black abyss. The tiny village nestled against the steep mountains had only one dirt road leading to it. It was nearly one a.m. when the truck wound its way up the lonely road.
Mesut Carzani reflected quietly in the passenger seat, shifting his glance periodically to his driver, a strong man a little younger than himself but one who looked much older. They had fought together for decades as Peshmerga guerrillas in northern Iraq. Kill or be killed. There was nothing in between. Striking targets in and around Baghdad, and then fleeing to the mountain havens in Iran and Turkey. Futile efforts, at best, but they were at least men of action.
Carzani’s face was a road map of wrinkles, each one leading to a place he had been. He knew the mountains. He knew the people. They trusted him. And he would use that trust to his advantage. They had tried warfare, but there had always been too many factions. Too much second guessing. The Kurds needed a strong leader like him to put Kurdistan on the map as something more than a footnote in history books.
The truck snaked up the last hill and squeaked to a halt at a mottled brick house on an isolated drive above town.
The last to arrive, Carzani had waited down the mountain, watching the others drive by, and ensuring that their position had not been compromised. As the most recent leader of the Partia Karkaris Kurdistan in Turkey, the most extreme faction fighting for Kurdish autonomy and a homeland, Carzani had convinced Kurdish leaders from Iran, Iraq and Syria to meet and discuss a unified effort in their struggle. Others had found homes—the Israelis, the Palestinians, the Armenians. Now, at twenty million strong, it was their turn. The PKK had clashed with Turkish troops in the past, but were trying to keep a low profile until just the right moment. They remained huddled in the mountains, their traditional sanctuary, tending flocks of sheep and goats, and collecting weapons and support from the people. That is what they needed most for their movement. The will of that many people could not be denied or ignored. The world would have to listen.
The small town was completely sympathetic to the cause. The entire area was on alert, with weapons drawn in positions in the woods, on building tops, peering out through darkened open windows. There would be no chances taken this time. There was too much at stake.
Carzani, protected by four armed guards, slid out of the truck and entered the safe house. Two guards remained at the door outside, and two inside.
The sparse room he entered held only an old wooden table with a bench on each side. A stone fireplace, freshly stoked, provided much of the light and all of the warmth.
Sitting at the table, glaring at Carzani as he approached, were the three tribal leaders who would hopefully join forces with Carzani. Each man had a personal body guard behind him, and each rose now to greet the Turkish Kurd with a kiss on both cheeks. All of the three leaders had sent a messenger, initially agreeing to a unified front, subject to the outcome of this meeting.
Carzani took a seat. “I trust your trips went well,” the PKK leader said.
There was no response.
“As my message said,” Carzani continued. “I have a plan to ensure we are listened to by the international community. When you hear what I have to say, you too will be convinced that a free and autonomous Kurdistan is finally possible.”
There was still no response.
Mesut Carzani peered around the room at the security guards. “We must have complete privacy.” He shifted his eyes toward the door.
The three other leaders reluctantly waved and nodded for their men to step outside. When the room held only the four leaders, Carzani pulled a map from inside his jacket and spread it out on the table.
“Remember Halabja,” Carzani muttered solemnly.
MOSSAD HEADQUARTERS, TEL AVIV
The director of Israeli Intelligence, Mikhael Chagall, entered the secure room in a hardened shelter below ground, and shuffled immediately to his assistant who was standing next to an analyst at a console.
Chagall was a slight man, barely five feet, who had ascended to the top of Mossad by intellectual superiority, without leaving many enemies in his wake. As was tradition in Israel, no one knew the name of the current director, except for high ranking government and military officials. And Chagall preferred it that way. It allowed him to do his job more completely, without the fear of retribution from a brutal media.
“What do you have, Yosef?” the Mossad director asked.
The assistant handed the director a message that had just been deciphered, and the two of them went into an isolated, soundproof room. The message sender was identified by a code, and only the director and his assistant knew the identity. When the director was finished with the message, he immediately shredded it.
“So they are finally meeting,” Chagall said. “It means nothing.”
His assistant lowered his brows. “They are twenty million strong, Mikhael.”
Chagall approached his old friend and placed a tiny wrinkled hand on his shoulder. “We are allies traditionally, Yosef,” he muttered. “We will do them no harm. They are not Arabs or even Persians. They are merely lost sheep looking for home.”
MI-6, LONDON
“Tvchenko is dead,” the chairman of Britain’s foreign service said. “That’s why we called you in off your holiday.”
The chairman, Sir Geoffrey Baines, knew he didn’t need to explain himself to his field officers under any circumstances, but it made difficult assignments much more palatable. He sat back in his leather chair, which squeaked with each movement from the robust man, and he studied his officer carefully. He prided himself on being able to read people simply by observing their face. He was rarely wrong.
Baines was a consensus builder. Some, his critics mostly, considered him far too accommodating. Yet, for the past four years he had gotten results. The foreign service was in higher favor with parliament and the public than at any other time since World War II.
Sinclair Tucker had never had a private meeting with the chairman before. At thirty-eight, he was a field officer who had seen action first in Eastern Europe during the waning days of the Cold War, and more recently in the Balkans, where he had just arrived from two days previously for a short Easter vacation, after working six months in Odessa, undercover, as a British businessman. He had been part of a four-man advance team seeking markets for telephone communications equipment. Actually, he had been keeping an eye on Yuri Tvchenko. Tucker knew that the scientist had been seen with foreigners on numerous occasions, and was closing in on what he was currently working on.
“How?” Tucker asked.
“It appears he was poisoned in some way at the conference,” the chairman said.
Tucker shook his head. He had wanted to stick around Odessa during the conference, but had been ordered to take leave. His boss thought he had been working too hard. Needed a break. Besides, Tucker was supposed to be working for a communications firm, which had nothing to do with agriculture. He could not simply show up. But Tucker had realized that it would have been a perfect opportunity to make contacts, with all those representatives from various countries together.
“Murdered in front of all those people?” Tucker said.
“Afraid so. We’re not sure what this means, but we need you back in the country as soon as possible.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing,” the chairman said. “I understand that you’re friends with an American there, Jake Adams, a former CIA officer.”
Tucker lowered his gaze. “Jake is there? Yes, sir. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve gotten word that Adams was with Tvchenko when he died. Stick close to him. Will he work with you?”
Tucker had known Jake Adams for years. They had first met when Jake was an Air Force officer verifying the withdrawal of chemical weapons from the Ukraine. Later, during the Gulf War, they had worked together once again in Turkey. They had spent more than a few nights drinking from Diyarbakir to Istanbul. He had even gone pub crawling with Jake in London once while they were both on leave. What in the hell was Adams doing in Odessa? Would Jake Adams work with him? That depended entirely on Jake. He had always done what he wanted, regardless of the consequences. He knew that Jake had left the Agency more than three years ago, so what was he up to now?
“Jake follows orders when the occasion strikes him right,” Tucker said, smiling. “It’s not that he’s a rogue. It’s that he doesn’t trust just anyone.”
“And what about you?”
“We have some history. If I ask him nicely, I’m sure he’ll show us some consideration.”
“Good. You’re packed, I assume. Your flight leaves Heathrow in two hours.”
He had never unpacked. “Yes, sir.”
“Stick with Adams. You’ll lead our efforts. We’re spread pretty thin in that area, as you well know, but I’m sure you’re up to the job.”
He would have to be.