Toprak, a Turkish company. Southern Turkey, the… Cukurova? The Cukurova region in southern Turkey is apparently some of the most agriculturally fertile land in the world. So, big company, globalizing, international partnerships, all that. Right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, then after the deal is cut, and the first shovel goes into the ground and the ribbon-cutting and all that-after that, Randall Manning returns to the United States and leaves his son, Quinn, behind to run the business, the joint venture. Quinn Manning has a wife, Julie, and a daughter, Cailie. Also, Randall Manning’s wife, Bethany, stays there, probably just for a while, to hang with the son and the granddaughter, right?”
“Right.”
“The city where they’re staying is Adana. Adana, Turkey.” He looked at us.
“Oh, Adana.” A gasp escaped Shauna. “The… what did they call it? The Adana Massacre or something?”
I was a little behind. It rang a bell, but I’ve had my head up my ass for quite some time now. Some would say a long time. Others would say always. “Help me out, someone,” I said.
Joel was glad to oblige, proud of his investigative work. “The first week of May 2009, there’s some kind of European soccer tournament in Adana’s main stadium. French, Spanish, Italians, Germans-all kinds of foreigners flooding to Adana for the tournament. That brings us to May sixth, 2009.
“May sixth, 2009, the Brotherhood of Jihad terrorist group attacks the Sahmeran Adana Hotel. A truck loaded with explosives drives up to the steps of the hotel and detonates. It rocks the building and destabilizes it. A lot of people die inside. But some don’t. Some manage to escape. And-you remember this now? The terrorists are waiting for them outside. They open fire on people trying to escape. They pick them off like it’s a video game. And they have machetes, too. They behead some of them. I mean, it’s fucking medieval.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“More like Allah.” Joel nodded. “Manning’s wife, son, daughter-in-law, and only grandchild are staying there. They all die. Randall Manning’s whole family dies.”
Holy shit. I knew something about losing a wife and daughter. But I had nobody else to blame, except maybe myself.
“Bruce McCabe,” said Joel. “McCabe’s wife worked in international sales for Global Harvest,” he said. “She was only in Adana temporarily. She died, too.”
“Wow,” said Shauna.
“And Stanley Keane?” I asked.
Joel nodded gravely. “His son was some big high school soccer star. He caught on with a Belgium team that was playing in Adana that week. I can’t tell if he was staying at the hotel, but I know he was in the hotel that day. He died, too. And so did his mother, Stanley’s wife.”
Unbelievable. That explained Stanley’s mumblings about how he was sorry he wasn’t there, how much he missed his family. His wife and son, blown up in a building by Islamic terrorists.
“Over three hundred people died that day,” said Joel. “Seventeen were American.”
“So it wasn’t viewed so much as an attack on America.”
“Right. Most of the victims were European. Americans died, but this was an attack on the infidels, the nonbelievers,” said Joel. “Nonbelievers invading their soil.”
Shauna threw up her hands. “So there’s the connection.”
“The connection is that they’re pissed off at our government,” said Joel. He shook his hand, which held the remote for the television and DVD player in our conference room.
He hit Play and the television came to life. “This was very hard to find,” he said.
It took me a moment, but it was Randall Manning, standing before a bank of microphones. He was dressed down and his hair was uncharacteristically messy. His face was contorted in anger.
“Why isn’t our government invading this country?” he said. “Why aren’t we going after the headquarters of the Brotherhood of Jihad? When Al Qaeda bombed the twin towers, we invaded Afghanistan and hit them where they live. Why not now? We know the Brotherhood of Jihad is in the Sudan, we know it’s in Yemen, and we know it’s here in Turkey. What are we waiting for?
“Three thousand casualties is unacceptable, but seventeen is okay? What amount of American lives is an acceptable level of casualties before this administration will act? I know we’re all very heartened that the administration is ‘gravely concerned’ and ‘investigating diligently.’ But where is the justice?” He looked around at what I assumed were gathering reporters. “Where is our government when the citizens need it most?”
The picture disappeared and the television went black.
Nobody spoke. A part of me agreed with the guy. These guys are attacking us, go attack them.
“So he’s not real happy with our government,” said Lightner. “He organized an online petition and got over a million people to sign it and urge the president to bomb Brotherhood of Jihad facilities in Yemen, Sudan, and Turkey.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Shauna.
Maybe not, but that wouldn’t assuage Randall Manning.
“He’s going to replicate it,” I said. “He’s got explosives and assault weapons. He’s going to bomb those buildings and shoot anyone who tries to flee.”
87
Randall Manning always closed his eyes when it came to mind, as if that would shut out the imagery. He recoiled from it but pursued it at the same time. He’d promised himself he’d never forget.
The Brotherhood of Jihad had posted the video following the attack at the Sahmeran Adana Hotel. Someone had had the sense to take it down shortly thereafter, but Manning had a copy. He didn’t play it every day. Only once in a while. Like when he was having any second thoughts, any residual doubt, about what he was going to do.
Like today, when he got this text message on his prepaid cell phone: The FBI was looking for you this morning.
He had to admit it had crossed his mind to abort the plan. He was only human. Bruce McCabe had harbored similar thoughts. But the feeling had been fleeting. All Manning had to do was hit Play on the computer and watch that video for five seconds.
Chunks of the building falling to the ground. The torso of the building buckling as it struggled to remain standing. Innocent people jumping from windows or scrambling out from the lobby. Terrorists shooting at them, chasing them with machetes, which they swung without mercy, without regard to man, woman, or child.
He remembered the bodies coming back from Turkey on a military plane. He remembered the inconceivable sense of loss. He remembered asking the funeral director, an old family friend, if it was possible to reattach his son Quinn’s head to his body for the visitation, and bursting into tears when the answer was no.
He remembered the image of Jawhar Al-Asmari, the leader of the Brotherhood of Jihad, speaking into the camera, a white mural behind him, hiding like a coward from an undisclosed location, praising the attack on the Sahmeran Adana Hotel and vowing more of the same.
He remembered a president with nothing but words. Diplomacy and justice didn’t belong in the same sentence.
He remembered the runaround from the Department of State, a lot of political doubletalk about a complicated menagerie of interests and considerations in the Middle East.
He remembered how desperately he wanted the head of Jawhar Al-Asmari, and how desperately he wanted his government to want the same thing.
He remembered promising his wife, Bethany, his son, Quinn, his daughter-in-law, and their only granddaughter-he remembered promising them, as he stood over their dead bodies, that he would never forget.
He’d met Bruce McCabe and Stanley Keane on the military plane on the way to Turkey. They lived close enough together that they shared the same government transport. They were all shell-shocked, wounded and numb and completely at a loss. They spoke then in only general concepts-this can’t go unanswered, our government has to respond, someone has to pay. They’d traded phone numbers and agreed to keep in touch.
