Boston, Massachusetts
Fifteen Years Ago
“Just be home before school starts,” Jenny had said as he prepared to leave the house.
“If the job is more than two weeks I can just turn it down,” Morgan replied. That would give him plenty of time, since there was a month before the start of school.
Jenny looked at him in silence before she kissed him good-bye.
That silence, more than anything else, made Morgan determined to be home as promised. Alex was starting second grade. He wasn’t going to miss it.
For one, he didn’t want to disappoint Jenny. And for another, he had missed too much already.
He was in a bit of a mood by the time he got to Conley’s place and in even more of a mood when they reached the diner. Plante was waiting for them in a booth in the back.
Their handler was somewhere around thirty, with already thinning hair. He was wearing a polo shirt and slacks, appearing uncomfortable out of a suit. The fact that he had made the trip to Boston showed the partners that this was an important mission.
“Cobra, Cougar,” Plante said, extending his hand.
Using their code names was another sign that this one was serious.
Once the handshaking and pleasantries were over, Morgan got right down to business.
“What’s the target?” he asked.
Plante was used to his direct approach, so it didn’t faze him. He simply said, “A general in the Turkish military, currently in charge of the Turkish forces on Cyprus,” Plante said.
“Why is he a target?” Morgan said.
“You know you’re not allowed to ask me that and I’m definitely not allowed to tell you. That’s how this works. I give you the target, you do the job. Any other intel you get comes only if it’s necessary for the operation. However, I can tell you this mission is of high international importance and impacts U.S. interests directly.”
Morgan simply stared back at the man silently. Conley kept quiet as well. He had seen this game play out before.
After nearly a full minute, Plante sighed and said, “I could lose my job for this…General Ketenci is building a power base. He has long-standing family ties to the military and is very well connected politically. We think he has plans to stage a military coup and install himself as a dictator.”
“What’s the timeframe?” Morgan said.
“Five years maximum,” Plante said.
“A lot can happen in five years,” Morgan said.
“Yeah, and a lot of it bad. We have solid intelligence that he is personally planning to stage an incident in the next eighteen months that will allow him to invade the three quarters of the island of Cyprus that is currently under Greek control. As it is, he doesn’t stay on his side of the line. He’s been testing the Greeks for months.”
Plante hesitated for a few seconds and then added, “And his troops don’t behave when they are on Greek soil. They commit the standard robberies and assaults but there’s something worse going on. Young women have begun to disappear. Very few are found. And none are found alive.”
They’d take the job. Plante knew Morgan well and had carefully selected the details he revealed to push his buttons. And yet Morgan also knew the man wouldn’t lie to them.
“The target’s code name is Kang,” Plante said.
He turned to Conley. “What do you think Peter?”
“Sounds like a bad guy,” Conley said.
Two weeks later they were on a plane heading for Cyprus. They flew into Larnaca Airport, south of the “Green Line”—the raggedy east-west buffer that separated the Turkish North and the Greek Cypriot south.
Though the Turks held less than a third of the island, they had kept more than twenty thousand troops there since the 1974 invasion and occupation.
That number was less than the forty thousand they had used in the invasion. Even so, the Turkish garrison was now at least a third larger than the Greek forces.
Given the fact that the Turkish force estimates were notoriously inaccurate, the twenty thousand figure was probably low. The official public numbers were nonsense, of course. And even the CIA had trouble keeping an accurate count.
Whatever the number, the Greeks had plenty good reason to worry.
The lower numbers also gave European nations cover for their inaction about the growing threat.
The British had two military bases on the island. And the UN was patrolling the new buffer zone between the two sectors. And yet here Morgan and Peter were.
Plante liked to call the partners specialists. But at times like this Morgan knew what they really were: trash collectors.
And they specialized in the trash nobody wanted to touch.
Their visas listed the reason for their trip as business and pleasure. It allowed them to scout the business districts and the remote places where they could more easily cross the border undetected.
The U.N. troops patrolling the buffer zone made that a bit harder, but not much.
The agents rented a car and headed to their hotel in the capital, Nicosia. It was a beautiful city, with the Green Line running right down the middle. Not surprisingly, the buffer zone was the most heavily patrolled in the city.
Yet the agents were able to cross over and visit the Turkish quarter fairly easily. They chose the checkpoint in the center of Nicosia. The streets were quaint and medieval, with a number of modern restaurants, shops, and boutiques.
Morgan thought that Jenny would like it, until he got closer to the buffer zone and saw the concrete, razor wire, sandbags, and gun embankments.
It was ugly, certainly, but he knew it was also necessary. The wounds from the invasion had still not healed in the thirty years since, and a little distance would give the people on both sides time to figure out the next step. It would help keep the U.S. from getting dragged into a nightmare.
Morgan understood that these people would likely only get that time if Morgan and Conley did their jobs.
On the Turkish side, the buildings were roughly the same medieval stone structures—though there were more kebab shops than restaurants, and the signs were in Turkish instead of Greek.
But more importantly, this side of the line appeared to be lost in time. There were no modern storefronts, no trendy boutiques. If you took away the cars and the electric lights, Morgan imagined this side of the city hadn’t changed much in a hundred years.
He wouldn’t have said the north side was any worse, but it definitely felt less alive than the bustling south.
The partners had lunch close to the buffer zone so they could observe the soldiers, who were reasonably alert and guarded. Morgan wasn’t surprised. There was still plenty of tension at the border, and both the guards and the customs people on both sides were on edge.
Of course, the crossings had been open less than two years. With any luck, people would relax and the soldiers could fall into the bored complacency that characterized most border duty in non-hostile countries.
These two countries could use a little boredom, he thought.
Their next stop was the “international” airport in Nicosia. No longer a working airport, it has been one of the main targets of the Turkish invasion in 1974. Overnight, it had gone from a brand new international hub to a literal graveyard, complete with rotting passenger jets sitting on the tarmac.
Because it was in the city and in the center of the buffer zone, the airport was relatively heavily patrolled.
However, the size of the grounds and the fact that it was mostly protected by loose chain link fencing meant that it would likely be the best place inside the city for an illicit evening border crossing.
The next day they were up early and in the car heading west. They took their time, surveying the various checkpoints, walls, and fencing. Wherever they went, the closer they got to the green zone, the more nervous the population got.
Morgan and Conley made their last stop at a small fishing village called Pomos, on the furthest west coast of the island. It had green mountains on one side, the Mediterranean on the other, and beaches in between.
“Maybe when we’re done with this mess I might come back and stay here for a little while,” Conley said.
They found a small inn to stay for the night and had dinner there. In the dining room, Morgan saw what appeared to be locals and a few other tourists.
The innkeeper and his wife, Kostas and Elena, were polite but guarded, though they perked up when they realized that Morgan and Conley were Americans. The partners spent a pleasant evening with the middle-aged couple talking about their teenage daughter, who would be getting back from a school trip with her friends to “the mainland.”
When Peter asked the couple how they felt about living so close to the border Kostas shrugged and said, “It’s okay. There’s been some trouble with the soldiers, but not here.”
Morgan and Conley turned in early and headed to their rooms. It was less than an hour later that they heard the screams. Conley was already in the hallway when Morgan got there.
Morgan felt the comforting weight of his Walther in his shoulder holster. He had no doubt that Conley had his .45 under his jacket.
“We have to be careful Dan. We can’t let this get out of hand,” Conley said.
“I’m always careful,” Morgan replied.
Downstairs, he saw that there were two guests in a small den. They seemed both scared and confused. Elena showed up, calling out in Greek. There was another scream from out back and then recognition on Elena’s face. “Maria!” she cried.
That was her daughter’s name.
Morgan had his gun out and showed it to her. “Elena, we’re going to help you. Get Kostas and turn on whatever lights you have outside. Keep everybody inside and together.”
“Maria…” she said, sounding desperate.
“We’ll find her,” Morgan said. Just then Kostas showed up carrying a shotgun. He seemed comfortable with it but Morgan didn’t want civilians running around getting themselves or anyone else hurt.
“Stay inside,” Conley said. “Let us help.”
Morgan and Conley raced out the back and into a Turkish army fire team.
There were four men in military uniforms. Two of them held rifles on the agents while two other men each held a struggling teenage girl in their arms.
The uniforms gave them away. These weren’t just soldiers out making trouble. They were making a statement. They were telling the Greek people that they weren’t safe, that the Turkish army could come and go at will and do what they wanted. It sent a message of powerlessness to the Greek Cypriots and created a sense of invulnerability around the Turkish army.
It was exactly the kind of demoralizing psychological op you would run if you were preparing a population for invasion.
Morgan and Conley each took aim at one of the soldiers with rifles who, in turn, took aim at them.
The soldiers were all screaming in Turkish. Morgan didn’t need Conley’s understanding of the language to know they were telling the agents to put their guns down.
It was a classic Mexican standoff with the additional element of two teenage hostages.
“Hold on!” Morgan shouted. “We can talk about this.”
That was met with just more shouting in Turkish. This was going nowhere, and the longer it went on the greater the chance that something would go wrong.
Morgan shot a sidelong glance at Conley and said, “My friend and I are going to shoot you. We won’t kill you but it’s going to hurt.”
Then, together, Morgan and Conley each took aim at the left shoulder of the men holding the rifles. Shooting their right shoulder would have increased the chance of a twitch in their right hand, each of which was poised on the trigger of a rifle.
Both shots hit their marks and the men recoiled, dropping their weapons without firing them. As a bonus, one of the men holding the girls let go of her as he fumbled for his own weapon.
To her credit, the girl kept to her feet and immediately leapt toward the house.
Morgan didn’t hesitate, as soon as the girl was clear he clipped the one who had been holding her in the shoulder.
By the time he fell to the ground, the girl was safely inside.
“Get them out of here,” Morgan said to Conley. He trained his gun on the last soldier, who was holding a girl of about fifteen with dark curly hair. She was scared but keeping it together even though the soldier now had a combat knife to her throat.
Conley made sure the injured soldiers weren’t holding any weapons and ushered them into the night and toward the border.
“Maria!” Elena said. Morgan could hear a mother’s panic in her voice.
“Tell them to stay back,” the soldier said in broken English.
Morgan spared a glance and saw that Kostas was there as well, holding the shotgun but not wanting to point it in his daughter’s direction.
“Put the gun down Kostas,” Morgan said.
“You are American,” the soldier said. “I don’t like Americans.”
“I’m reserving judgment on your people but I definitely don’t like you,” Morgan said. “Release the girl and I’ll let you live.”
The soldier turned his body, keeping Maria squarely between himself and Morgan. Then he pressed the point of the knife harder into her neck. Not deep enough to kill her but deep enough to break the skin.
Maria called out and her mother gave another scream.
“I am leaving. I am also taking the girl with me. If you follow, I will kill her instantly,” he said.
“I can’t let you do that,” Morgan said.
“You cannot stop me, if you try she dies here,” the soldier said. He spat at the ground. “You Americans, you think you can come to our country and make rules. We make the rules. And tonight, I make the rules.” He pressed the knife against the girl’s neck, deep enough this time to draw blood.
Morgan had no choice; he put down his Walther and showed his hands.
Then he took a step forward and said, “Two things: This isn’t your country. And second, orospu çocuğu.”
It was one of the few phrases he knew in Turkish. It might not have been fair to the soldier’s mother, but it had the desired effect.
The soldier tossed the girl to the side and charged Morgan with his knife. He was big, at least three inches taller than Morgan himself.
The Turk telegraphed his knife thrust, giving Morgan time to deflect it with his right forearm. This put Morgan on the “outside” of the attacker’s body. It also allowed him to hook his fingers and tear into the man’s face.
“If you control the head, you control the fight,” one of his instructors at The Farm had taught him.
Bad guys are useless without their heads, he and Conley used to joke.
And also without two good eyes, Morgan saw.
The soldier had dropped his knife and was clutching the mess that was his left eye. He howled.
Morgan grabbed the man by one shoulder and shook him. “I’ve taken your eye, but I’m going to let you live. Go back with your dangalak friends.”
Conley appeared from the night and said, “You don’t have to just learn the insults.”
Morgan turned and saw Kostas and Elena huddled over their daughter. “They’re gone,” Conley said.
The family looked up and then stood. Elena gave the men a pained smile and led her daughter inside.
Kostas choked out a thank you and then said, “Who are you? Are you policemen?”
Morgan shook his head. “No we’re not policemen. Would you believe we’re trash collectors?”
Conley stepped in and said, “Kostas, we can’t stay. It’s better if we’re not here for the police.”
The man nodded and thanked them again.
“Go see your wife and daughter. Those men won’t be back,” Morgan said.
As the agents headed up to their rooms Conley asked, “What did you do to that last soldier?”
“He’ll live but he’ll have terrible depth perception,” Morgan said.
“At least we didn’t have to kill any of them,” Conley said.
It was true, as much as Morgan had wanted to. They couldn’t afford a flare-up here, with possible reprisals and further attacks. They still had a target and a mission.
Conley flipped open his phone and called Plante to tell their handler he might have to handle the local police.
When he closed the phone he said, “We have movement and a possible location on the target tomorrow. We should stop back at Nicosia, pick up our gear and head east.”