A lethal dose could cause death in a minute. Iraqi strongman Saddam Hussein discovered this in 1988, when he directed a sarin attack against the Kurdish village of Halabja that killed five thousand people. More recently, UN inspectors discovered that the Assad regime had used sarin against rebels occupying the Ghouta suburb of Damascus.
Janice said, “Assad’s military has been stockpiling the stuff for years. As military bases are overrun, there’s a very good chance of it falling into the hands of rebels, particularly ISIS and those groups allied with al-Qaeda.”
“For a number of real obvious reasons, we don’t want that to happen,” added Anders.
“No, we don’t,” echoed Janice.
“What are the odds?” Akil asked, finishing the apple and tossing the core in the trash.
“Odds of what?”
“Odds of AQ or ISIS getting their hands on the sarin.”
“Better than even,” Anders answered. “We know they’ve tried as recently as a month ago, when Turkish antiterror forces raided an ISIS safe house in the province of Adana. They arrested twelve terrorists and captured a cache of weapons and documents. Among the weapons they found a canister of sarin that had been seized from a base outside Damascus.”
Akil asked, “Any idea what they are planning to do with it?”
Janice looked at Anders, who nodded. She said, “NSA has picked up coded chatter on some ISIS al-Qaeda websites from someone who calls himself the Fox. His goal he says is to give ISIS an international profile by attacking the West.”
“That’s messed up,” Akil said.
“Especially when the WMDs they need are within reach,” Anders added.
Crocker leaned forward. “What do you need us to do?” he asked, already anticipating the answer.
“First, I need you to assess whether or not you can insert into Syria and recover the sarin canisters in the tunnel outside of Idlib before the city falls to ISIS, which could happen any day,” answered Anders.
“There’s nothing to assess,” Crocker said.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, it needs to be done, so let’s get to it.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Anders countered. “I want you to explore the possibility. Evaluate contingencies and capabilities, and assess options.”
“You already said that there’s no time.”
Anders frowned. “The problem is, Crocker, that without reliable partners or assets inside, we’re not sure how to get you inside Syria, or where it’s safe to operate.”
“We’ll figure that out.”
“How?”
“We need to talk to people who know what’s going on, on the ground.”
“I’ll call our liaison in Turkish MiT,” replied Anders.
“Good.”
“When are the rest of your men arriving?”
“They’re scheduled to land at 1700.”
“Then let’s arrange a meet tonight.”
The room at the Hotel Nena Istanbul, only a block and a half away from the Sultanhan, was lavish by SEAL standards. From the rooftop restaurant where Crocker and Akil snacked on hummus, black olives, and Efes Pilsen, they took in a panoramic view of the city, from the port located on the Asian side, to Bosphorus Bridge, Topkapi Palace, Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque with the Golden Horn in the background, and the Prince Islands in the Sea of Marmara.
“Pretty damn impressive, right?” Crocker asked.
After six years of working together in places like Pakistan, Yemen, Paraguay, and Afghanistan, he thought of Akil as a younger brother, even though their backgrounds were wildly different. Crocker came from a hardscrabble town in Massachusetts; Akil was born Muslim in a town outside of Cairo, emigrated to the States with his family, and joined the U.S. Marines. SEAL teams had bound the two men together in ways most people couldn’t understand.
“Yeah,” Akil offered, holding up his hand to shield the late afternoon sun. “There’s a whole shitload of history out there.”
“More than we can comprehend.”
“You notice how the Ottomans stuck the minarets on the Hagia Sophia?” Akil asked, pointing to the glistening multidomed monument.
“I did.”
“Randi told me about it. Started as the seat of the Greek Orthodox church in the fifth century, was converted into a Roman Catholic cathedral at the end of the Roman Empire, became a Muslim mosque when the Ottomans ran the city, and after World War I it was turned into a museum.”
“Randi, the blonde I saw you with earlier?” Crocker asked, thinking about how the mission to recover the sarin was going to work.
“Yeah. Puts everything in perspective, right?”
They’d need a reliable escort, weapons, a good cover, comms, vehicles. He saw Akil looking at him, waiting for an answer. “Who, Randi?” he asked.
“No, the Hagia Sophia,” Akil answered. “I mean all the blood that was shed over the place by the different religious groups. And now it’s a museum.”
“Yeah.”
After World War I, Turkish nationalist and president Mustafa Kemal Atatürk started to transform Turkey into a modern, secular state. Now, it seemed to Crocker that the current prime minister, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, who was an Islamist, was trying to take it backward, arresting journalists, banning YouTube and Twitter, and dissolving the long-standing separation between religion and the state.
Akil, seeing the faraway look in Crocker’s eyes, asked, “You okay with the shit that went down this morning?”
“Not really,” Crocker answered, “but what am I gonna do, cry?”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“I hear he was a good guy.”
“Jared? Yeah. Good sense of humor and a big fire in his belly. You would have liked him.”
“He tell you much?”
“About what?”
“The sarin. The hottie in the suit. The op.”
“Nah. Never got around to that.”
Akil raised his bottle of Turkish beer. “Here’s to the kid.”
“Jared.”
“Here’s hoping he’s in a better place.”
“Yeah.”
Back in their room, Crocker had a message from the desk clerk informing him that his friends had arrived and were staying in 321. He called and invited them up, then dialed Holly, who didn’t answer.
He left a message on her cell phone. “I’m safe. Will call again soon. Love to you and Jenny.”
As he looked out the window at the minarets in the distance and listened to the muezzin call evening prayer, he wondered if Dr. Mathews would consider him selfish for taking the mission.
A voice in his head said, How can I be selfish when I’m doing this to protect people?
That didn’t change the problems they were having in their marriage, or the faraway look in Holly’s eyes when he’d kissed her goodbye.
The awkward doubts disappeared the moment Mancini walked in, sporting a foot-long beard and hair that curled over his ears. The energy he brought with him was palpable.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Crocker asked.
“Life,” the linebacker-sized SEAL responded through a gap-toothed smile. “I grew some hair. How’s your leg?”
The cartel assassins who had bombed Crocker’s house had shot him in the thigh before he took them out.
“Still barks some, but it works.”
The two men embraced for the first time in three months. Crocker noticed that Mancini had a new tattoo on his forearm. It was a heart with his brother’s face in it and the words “In Memoriam Amantem” (in loving memory).
He felt something tighten in his chest.
Behind Mancini (who was the weapons, logistics, and tech expert on the team) followed Suarez (explosives) and Davis (comms). The last time Crocker saw Davis he’d been lying in a hospital in Guadalajara recovering from a bullet wound that had shattered his collarbone. He looked fit, tan, and healthy now.