Morgan woke up cold and thirsty. This was more like how he remembered his last visit to a prison in this country.
He sat up in the bed, which held the only two items that were issued to every prisoner: a thin blanket and a mattress. Conley was already stirring in the top bunk and Morgan’s internal clock told him that it was about seven, a half-hour before the 7:30 wake-up call from the guards.
Tunca was up and sitting at the small desk. His bed—an extra cot added to the corner of a cell built for two people—was already neatly made.
Morgan headed for the small sink and turned on the tap.
“No,” someone shouted behind him.
It was Tunca, who grabbed the cup out of his hands. “No,” he repeated, pointing to the tap.
The journalist had a quick exchange with the now alert Conley, who reported, “Water isn’t drinkable.”
“I got that,” Morgan said as Tunca held out a half empty bottle of water and Morgan took a sip.
“Prisoners have to buy bottled water from the commissary. Tunca works in the prison laundry to buy his,” Conley said. Morgan imagined that his pay didn’t go very far given that the bottle in his hand was the only one in the cell.
Tunca offered the bottle to Conley, who took a small sip.
The agents would have to pay Tunca back when they got into the commissary. Zeta would make sure that their commissary accounts were well funded—as befitting their covers.
A few minutes later, the guards did their formal wake-up call, which involved quite a bit of shouting and banging on the bars with nightsticks. The prisoners were mustered outside for a formal inmate count and led back to their cells.
A half hour after that, three bowls of some sort of slop were passed through the food slot on the floor. Morgan ate on his bed, Conley on the concrete stool by the desk, and Tunca on his own bed.
“Ask him what he did to get here?” Morgan said.
After a brief exchange, Conley said, “He says he did his job.”
“That sounds about right,” Morgan said.
The slop was terrible and there wasn’t nearly enough of it. Portion sizes, he knew, were set by prison capacity. And the prison, like the cell they were in, was a third over capacity. So 450 inmates were sharing food meant for 300.
Prisoners could supplement their meals with food from the commissary but you needed money to do that, or family that could help.
Given how thin he was, Morgan guessed that Tunca had neither.
“Ask our roommate how long he’s been in here,” Morgan said.
After a quick exchange, Conley replied, “Four months, but he says that he doesn’t expect to be charged for several more months.” There was another brief exchange and then Conley added, “Apparently, there are not enough judges to handle the new cases.”
“Well, that’s because so many of the good ones are in here, or places like it,” Morgan said.
That was true—the judiciary had been the target of more than one purge. Judges were frequently accused of disloyalty or supporting the “terrorist” movement that opposed President Shakir.
The guards mustered them into the corridor again, then brought them outside to an open courtyard that occupied the space between two of the cellblocks. Morgan and Conley kept close to Tunca. The man could be useful as they navigated the new environment. And Morgan had decided that he liked the quiet journalist, if for no other reason than the fact that the man had pissed off the current administration.
Normally, the first day in “the yard” would have Morgan on edge. There would be prison gangs fighting for control and punks anxious to test the newbies. But there was none of that here, just quiet men shuffling around outside.
“I thought there were sports or something in these prisons now,” Morgan said.
After a brief consultation with Tunca, Conley said, “Not in the political prisons.”
“And I thought we could get a football game going with the guards’ team,” Morgan replied.
Conley grinned. “You’ll have to organize that.”
A moment later a guard from their block showed up. No, not just a guard, but the one with the scar on his cheek. Morgan noted that Tunca took a step back when the man appeared.
The guard pointed to Morgan and Conley and shouted something.
Conley turned to his partner and said, “Apparently he’d like us to go with him.”
* * * *
Alex finished her last call to Zeta’s local assets. She was nearly a month early but they weren’t at all surprised to hear from her. Clearly, they had been in intelligence work long enough to not be fazed by changes in schedules or plans.
The network was small but would all do their jobs. The reality was the Turkey had gotten much “hotter” than it had been even five years ago. Agents, contractors, and assets of every kind were much more careful now.
Some had judged the work too much of a risk and retired, gone permanently underground, or had gotten out of Dodge. Given President Shakir’s actions, they weren’t wrong to do so.
Shakir had infected Turkish intelligence with his paranoia, but they weren’t fools and were actually remarkably professional. However, the great advantage Zeta had working in Turkey today was the fact that Turkish intelligence was now busy investigating large swaths of its own population. Thus, they were spread too thin to deal effectively with real threats—like Zeta, for instance.
When you added in the growing radical religious sentiment in the country, you had a recipe for years of pain for the entire population.
Alex was nostalgic for her days as a naïve high school student who had thought the world’s problems would be solved if the U.S. simply “waged peace” around the world.
But Alex wasn’t there to solve the world’s problems, or even Turkey’s problems. She was there for her father and Conley, and for the mission.
When her work on the phone was done, she realized that it was a good time for her to officially “wake up.” It took a full twenty minutes to put on the makeup she needed for Alex Jackson’s “wakeup” selfie.
Alex had trouble getting used to her newly blonde hair, but it fit her character. She lightly mussed the blonde locks and took a picture.
She captioned the photo: “Woke up a mess, LOL” and posted it. In this case, posting the photo meant uploading it to the Zeta servers where special software would subtlety change her face so that facial recognition software wouldn’t tag Alex Jackson as Alex Morgan, or anyone else in the real world.
It was something that Shepard and his partner in crime O’Neal had worked up, and Alex was grateful.
It wasn’t just important for missions like this. Zeta now had a whole subdivision dedicated to creating online and social media material to support its agents’ covers.
Now, in the event the overworked Turkish intelligence agency was keeping an eye on her social media, they’d see a self-obsessed daughter of a wealthy arms dealer and nothing more. It would help keep the authorities from getting in her and Shepard’s way. For that, if for no other reason, the cover identity would be worth something.
Alex was impatient to get on with their work for the day, but keeping her cover meant appearing to sleep in and then having a late breakfast.
Alex called the concierge and made a show of asking where the best restaurant for breakfast was in the area.
“Do you mean lunch, Ms. Jackson?” the concierge said in excellent English.
“Yes, lunch, food, whatever,” she said sharply.
“Of course,” the man said and rattled off the names of three local restaurants.
“Fine, would you have a cab waiting for us downstairs in twenty minutes,” she said.
“I can connect you to the—”
“Would you just do it!” she barked into the phone.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said.
When she hung up, Shepard was staring at her silently.
“What? It’s my cover,” she said.
“Of course,” he said, with a barely noticeable smile.
Keeping in character, she rolled her eyes. Then she switched back to agent mode, “Wheels up in twenty.”
Alex went back to her room and put on an absurdly expensive Dolce & Gabbana silk dress and ridiculous high-heeled shoes.
When she came out, Shepard announced that her delivery had come. It was a large box with the very American name StoneRock, which was a badly overpriced shoe store. There were four pairs of Manolo Blahnik shoes in her size—and five shoeboxes. The fifth box contained her pistol and four extra clips. Even though they had flown in on a private jet, she hadn’t wanted to bring the weapons through customs.
Shepard had already received a delivery from a local electronics store. It was a gaming console, accessories, and some of the special equipment they had been using today.
Zeta had been shipping weapons and equipment to the area for weeks. And local assets would be sending it to the hotel as needed. As always, the operation was carefully planned.
Though Alex’s outfit cost most than she had earned in all of her summer jobs combined during high school, she didn’t feel fully dressed until she dropped her weapon and an extra clip into her Prada bag.
They left the room, Shepard carrying his backpack, which held the tech they would need for the day. The cab was waiting for them downstairs as they began their first full day of the mission.