According to, the file, forty-one-year-old Colonel Seden was a rising star in the Turkish Security Forces. He had joined the paramilitary gendarmerie Jandarma when he was seventeen, two years older than many new recruits. After overhearing three Kurds in a cafe plotting to poison a large shipment of tobacco headed for Europe, Seden had followed them to their apartment and single-handedly arrested them. He'd been offered a post in the TSF two weeks later. There was an eyes-only note in the dossier from Seden's commanding officer at the TSF. General Suleyman feared that the "takedown" of the Kurds had been too fortuitous. There was Kurdish blood on Seden's mother's side, and the general worried that the Kurds had willingly sacrificed themselves so that Seden could infiltrate the security force. However, nothing in the colonel's subsequent record indicated anything but complete devotion to the TSF and to the government.
"Of course his record would be impeccable," Rodgers muttered when he reached that section of the file. "You don't slip a mole in and immediately set him spying. You wait."
"For what?" Mary Rose asked.
"For one of two things," he replied. "For a crisis, when you absolutely need data. Otherwise you wait for the person to work his or her way up to the highest levels of security clearance. At those levels, a mole can bring in other moles. The Germans did a lot of that during World War II. They would attempt to locate just one sympathizer in some area of the British aristocracy. That person would then recommend chauffeurs or domestics to lords or officers or members of the government. Those workers were all German plants, of course, who would then spy on their employers and pass information on to milkmen, postal workers, and others who had been bought by the Germans."
"Gee, they never taught me that in my computer and fiber-optics classes," Mary Rose remarked.
"It isn't even taught in most of the history classes," the general lamented. "Too many professors are afraid of insulting the German-Americans or the British-Americans or any other hyphenate group which might be wounded, every inch of it, if you insult a fraction."
Mary Rose nodded. "So does this mean Seden is absolutely tied to the Kurdish underground?"
"Not at all," said Rodgers. "According to the Turks, only about a third of the people who have some Kurdish blood sympathize with their cause. The rest are loyal to their host country. It does mean we show him as little as possible."
They continued to scan the dossier as they spoke. Seden was unmarried. He had a widowed mother who lived in an apartment in Ankara and an unmarried sister who lived with her. His father was a riveter who had died in a construction accident when the boy was nine. The colonel had attended secular school in Istanbul, where he'd studied hard and at the same time excelled at weight lifting. He'd been part of the Turkish weight-lifting team in the summer Olympics in 1992. He'd then quit school in order to join the Jandarma.
"No dependents," Rodgers said. "Well, these days that doesn't mean much. Marriages of convenience between spies is the new thing. Investigators always look for lone wolves."
Mary Rose closed the file. "So where does that leave us with Colonel Seden?"
"Informed," Rodgers smiled.
"That's all?" Mary Rose asked.
"That's all. You never know when information will come in handy." Rodgers's smile broadened. "Why don't you take a break now. We'll continue after Colonel Seden has—"
Rodgers stopped as one of his computer alarms began pinging softly but insistently. It sounded twice for a second, was silent for a second, sounded once, and then was silent for another second. After that it repeated the pattern.
"That's the ABA warning," Mary Rose said. She bent her head sharpy as she stood and leaned behind Rodgers.
The ABA, Air Border Alarm, was an advanced radar-and-satellite system that constantly monitored air traffic within a nation or province. Detailed relief maps could be brought up to tell the ROC how high and how fast the craft was flying. At the same time, heat tracking from space told the ROC how fast the ship was moving. Reconnaissance craft were typically slower-moving and flew higher than attack craft. The ABA also used a digitized template of a nation or province to ascertain when an aircraft was within a mile of crossing the border. That was the reason it had sounded now.
A low-flying, fast-moving ship headed to the border was presumed to be hostile. The alarm sounded when such an aircraft was spotted.
"It's heading almost due west," Rodgers said. "The speed and height indicate that it's a chopper." There was concern in his voice, but also excitement. The ROC was doing its job flawlessly.
Mary Rose crouched beside a console to Rodgers's left. "Are you surprised to find one traveling alone?"
"Border patrols travel solo," Rodgers said. "But this one is going too fast for just a look-see. It's got a destination."
Mary Rose punched an auto-tune button on the console. At once, an antenna hidden in the van's dark, domed sunroof turned toward the ABA's target. It began listening to communications to and from the target vessel. The computer was programed with hundreds of languages and dialects. After digitally cleaning away static and other imperfections, the monitor displayed a simultaneous translation of any electronic transmission it received.
"find out there?"
There was silence from the chopper.
"Repeat, Mardin One. What did you find at the crossing?"
There was still no answer.
"The chopper is from the Turkish air base at Mardin," Rodgers said. He punched a few keys and brought up data on the facility. "What've they got there? Two choppers, both Hughes 500Ds; and a Piper Cub." He glanced at the ABA speed indicator. "This one's traveling at one hundred and thirty-four MPH. That sounds about right for the 500D."
"So what have we got?" Mary Rose asked. "A lost pilot?"
"I don't think so," Rodgers said. "It looks like a crew was sent out to reconnoiter and hasn't reported in. He wouldn't be flying at his maximum speed if he were lost. And it sure doesn't look like he's defecting because the chopper's headed further into Turkey."
"Could the radio have been damaged?" Mary Rose asked.
"Possibly," Rodgers said. "But again, they're butting right up against their maximum cruising speed. These guys are in a hurry."
Jabbing at the keys with his index fingers, Rodgers asked the computer to check on military facilities in the southwestern section of eastern Anatolia. Unlike the rest of Turkey, which was mountain or desert, Anatolia was mostly flat plateau with areas of low hills.
The screen quickly flashed a red X for negative.
"They're not headed for an emergency landing," Rodgers said. "These guys are after something."
Outside, over the low hum of the air-conditioner, Mary Rose could hear the putter of a motor approaching the van. She continued to read the transcript as it scrolled up one of the monitors.
"are out of our radar range and we are not picking up your signal. Is there a problem? Why do you not answer?"
"Maybe someone's gotten into the country and they're chasing them down," Mary Rose suggested.
"Then why wouldn't they report that to base?" Rodgers shook his head. "No, something isn't right here. I'll tell the TSF what we've got and see what they say."
"Don't you think they'd have been alerted if there were a problem?" Mary Rose asked.
"To the contrary," Rodgers said. "Out here, the rivalries between government factions make Washington politics seem like triple-A ball. They're almost as intense as the rivalries between religious factions."
There was a knock on the door. Mary Rose leaned over, turned the handle, and peeked out. It was Private Pupshaw.
"Yes?" she said.
"Colonel Nejat Seden is here to see General Rodgers," the hulking Pupshaw said.
"Please send him in, Private," Rodgers replied without looking over.