“Switching to a feed from a news helicopter,” Lincoln Shepard said.
The picture on the large situation room monitor shifted from the grainy traffic and security camera footage to high-definition video of a chase through the streets of Istanbul.
The high-resolution image was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, the assembled Zeta team could follow the operation closely. On the other hand, Alex had to watch her father and Peter Conley run out of road with the sea in front of them and a couple of dozen police cars behind them.
The Zeta agents’ Renault executed a perfect one-eighty to face its pursuers.
Even now, Dad can’t help showing off, Alex thought.
The room got very quiet as the police took position in front of her dad and Conley’s car. Alex noted that even Diana Bloch was holding her breath. As director of Zeta Division, she was normally unflappable. Of course, her father and Peter had a way of getting to people—even trained and experienced agents.
Alex was trained and had a bit of experience herself, yet she realized that she was nervous. Actually, it was worse than that—she was scared.
And then the Turkish police opened fire on her father’s Renault.
She winced as bullet after bullet hit the car. Somehow the fact that the video was silent made it worse. In her head, the guns were cannons.
The barrage lasted about half a minute and, remarkably, the car seemed to be intact.
Lincoln Shepard broke the silence, “I reviewed the specs on the armor. It should hold.”
She saw the passenger door open. Words were exchanged and then both Conley and her father stepped out of the car with their hands up, each with a few dozen guns pointed at them.
She relaxed a bit when she saw her father and Peter were both in one piece. A moment later, they were handcuffed and loaded into a police car and the image cut out.
“That went flawlessly,” Karen O’Neal said evenly. Both in their mid-twenties, O’Neal and Shepard ran Zeta’s computer, technical, and engineering divisions. Recently, Alex had learned that their partnership ran even deeper than that.
“And they are nearly a full week ahead of schedule,” Bloch said. “Now the real work begins. Morgan, Shepard, are your resources in place?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
“We’d like to get on site as early as possible,” Alex continued.
“This operation will be ongoing. It will be weeks before you can do any good,” Bloch said.
“We want to be there if anything unexpected comes up,” Alex replied.
“This is Morgan and Conley…” Shepard added.
Bloch thought about that for a second. “Good point. Alex, since you’re running back office on this, it’s your show.”
* * * *
“Did I mention how much I hate Turkish prisons?” Morgan asked.
“Once or twice,” Conley replied with a sigh.
“And yet here we are,” Morgan said as the prison bus passed the gate and approached the main building. The structure was surprisingly modern—nothing like the nineteenth century dungeon in his head.
“You’re just thinking of that movie,” Conley said.
“Well, it didn’t paint a very good picture. Of course, I’m also thinking about the actual Turkish prisons we’ve visited.”
“Oh, yeah,” Conley said. “But that was over ten years ago. The system is much more civilized now.”
“If it isn’t, I’m blaming you. And remember, if I don’t like it, I’m not staying,” Morgan said.
When the bus stopped, there was a line of prison guards armed with assault rifles waiting for them.
“Of course, our hosts may have different ideas,” Conley said.
Erdoğan Prison wasn’t fancy but it was new, with high concrete walls and guard towers in the front, with even more towers around the perimeter.
In preparation for the mission, Morgan had memorized the layout of the prison. There were three cellblocks that connected to a central hub of administration offices and common areas. The cellblocks radiated out from the center like spokes of a wheel. And even though it was newly built, the high walls and guard towers did give it a medieval appearance.
The design was loosely based on current maximum-security prisons in the U.S. and Europe. Of course, that level of security was overkill given the profile of the average prisoner, most of whom were journalists, scientists, students, and various civil servants who were all guilty of “treasonous” or “terrorist” activities.
There were also a fair number of former Turkish military in the prison. They had been plotting a coup—if you believed President Shakir and his people. Of course, like the last one, this presidential administration had used accusations of treasonous conspiracies to get rid of troublemakers.
If Morgan and Conley did their job, the administration would have one less troublemaker to worry about.
That particular troublemaker was an important scientist at NASA, and an American citizen who’d had the bad luck of visiting his sick mother when the President was feeling especially paranoid. Turks with ties to America were considered extremely suspect. And this particular scientist had skills that the President wanted— badly. Of course, the United States wanted those skills as well. And, moreover, no one in his right mind wanted President Shakir and his minions to have access to nuclear technology.
The guards herded the new prisoners inside.
Morgan had steeled himself for the worst but the initial processing into the prison was almost civilized. Their group was undressed and showered in full view of the general population. It was a classic fishbowl technique designed to humiliate the new prisoners and make them more docile.
By the look of the two-dozen or so other men standing around in the holding room, it wasn’t necessary. This group wasn’t full of hardened or violent criminals. Morgan had seen enough of those to know the type.
These people were scared men who knew they might not see the outside of the prison for years, if ever. And the way things were going in their country, Morgan couldn’t say they were wrong.
“What?” Conley said. “That wasn’t so bad. Better than last time.”
“That’s a pretty low bar,” Morgan replied.
“Just a little more of their intake and we can get to work,” Conley said.
Morgan knew what was coming and he was dreading it. “You know I’m not sure the changes are an improvement,” he mused.
“Didn’t you spend six months in a Russian gulag?” Conley quipped.
“Wasn’t great, but they didn’t try to pretend it was anything other than what it was. Sure it was a pit, but it was an honest pit,” Morgan replied.
“Have it your way. Me, I’m not much for the cold,” Conley said with a grin on his face. Like everything else in this prison, the grin just made Morgan angry.
The loudspeaker shouted something in Turkish and the guards ushered them into a hallway and then to a large open room with two rows of long tables. There were two clerks behind a counter and Morgan realized that the room looked like the DMV—except for the six guards swinging nightsticks.
An officious man addressed the room in Turkish. It meant nothing to Morgan, but he saw Conley listening with interest.
When the bureaucrat in charge asked the group a question, Conley spoke up and said, “We are.”
A minute later, an assistant came over with a packet of forms and other paperwork.
“I got us copies in English,” Conley said.
Morgan grunted. Both men knew what it meant that their hosts had English language material at the ready: there were more and more Americans ending up in President Shakir’s new prisons. In addition to a scientist from NASA named Dr. Erdem, that group included journalists as well as tourists and businesspeople.
Like everything else Morgan didn’t like about this place, that was a problem for another day.
Morgan filled out the forms, including the bank information for Dan Jackson, the cover that Zeta had created for him. For this mission, Conley was Peter Bourbon. Any computer search conducted by the Turkish penal system—or even the intelligence service—would show they were flamboyant American businessmen with ties to the international arms business.
Morgan had memorized his bio and had no trouble filling out the forms as the bureaucrat in charge droned on in Turkish about the rules for the prison. Of course, Morgan had also memorized the rules while preparing for the mission. Besides, he had already decided that, in a number of key ways, he wouldn’t be following them.