“I’m at Joint Services,” Megan said. “I won’t be long. Meet me here and we can work out details for when we can talk again.”
“What are you doing at Joint Services?”
Megan knew she couldn’t tell Benbow what she was planning. “I’ve got a meeting with Chaplain Trimble. I’ve got to go now. He’s waiting.”
“Trimble? He’s one of General Braddock’s favorite officers. They play golf together.” Benbow sounded worried. “Look, just find out why he called the meeting—”
“I called the meeting,” Megan said.
“Why?”
Megan gathered her attaché case and stood, trying to ignore the withering stare the receptionist was giving her. “I’ve got to go.”
“All right. Tell me later. For the moment I need you to keep your head. Low profile, Mrs. Gander. Just keep thinking, low profile.”
Megan said good-bye and closed the phone. She approached the door bearing large lettering:
MAJOR AUGUSTUS R. TRIMBLE CHAPLAIN UNITED STATES ARMY
How do you tell a chaplain how to do his job? Megan asked herself nervously. Then she opened the door and went inside. Low profile. Just keep thinking low profile.
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 1359 Hours
As she watched the collapse of the burning building where First Sergeant Goose Gander had been fired upon by what turned out to be a group of PKK terrorists intent on carrying out their jihad against the Turks by way of killing American Rangers, Danielle’s mind raced.
She’d already done a bit for the news, but the attack was almost miniscule in light of everything else that had happened in the city in the past few hours. Normally a bunch of people dying guaranteed airtime, but not this confrontation. After all, the PKK were only a handful of terrorists who had intended to take advantage of the confusion in the city to strike against their perceived enemies. With the past news stories, it would take an attack by the Syrian government to punch a hole in the news.
Three Rangers were dead and six more wounded. Efforts were still being made to count the civilian dead in the building, but no one expected to complete that because the fire had already rendered the building off-limits. By the time the flames were out, only a pile of smoldering rubble would be left.
Most of the PKK terrorists were dead, killed by an attack helicopter that still beat the air overhead while holding in a defensive pattern. A few had fled, but the military searched for them now.
Danielle had tried for an interview with Goose but hadn’t been able to penetrate the cordon established by the Rangers. She’d wanted a couple sound bites with First Sergeant Gander, just enough to keep the points up on the ratings. Several viewers identified with the sergeant, commenting on the degree of professionalism he’d shown through the battles as well as the personal loss he’d had in his five-year-old son.
She’d seen Goose a few times. Primarily he seemed occupied with an unconscious man he’d carried out of the building and put in the back of a cargo truck that hauled supplies.
That piqued Danielle’s interest because the other people who had been rescued from the building had been transported in medical vehicles displaying appropriate markings. In all the confusion, no one else seemed to notice that the man the first sergeant had carried out hadn’t gone with them.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid, Danielle told herself. But then she spotted one of the CIA agents Captain Remington had confronted that morning. She didn’t know how long he’d been there. Or maybe I’m not being paranoid enough.
The CIA agent lounged in the shade of a building and drank from a sports bottle. He wore khakis and a white shirt. His wraparound sunglasses masked his face. He blended in with the media people, but he wasn’t one of them.
Danielle thought about Lizuca again, about the way she had been killed. She’d finally gotten the whole story from another employee she knew in the OneWorld NewsNet offices.
Stolojan hadn’t returned any of her phone calls. His assistant said that he was “unavailable,” but Danielle knew that Stolojan was only “unavailable” when he wanted to be.
So why was he avoiding her?
Unless he was worried that whatever had happened to Lizuca might spill over into the OneWorld NewsNet organization.
That gave Danielle something else to think about. If Lizuca was considered a threat that required assassination, what kept Danielle safe out in the middle of a war zone? The question erased any illusion of safety she had.
Lizuca had died trying to get information from OneWorld NewsNet’s data banks. Didn’t that prove something was there?
The question lent Danielle some enthusiasm and a reprieve from the guilt she felt over the young woman’s death. She hadn’t known that having Lizuca check on the identity of the CIA man would trigger repercussions at all, much less the girl’s murder. If she’d known, would it have stopped her? She thought so, though she knew that, given her nose for news, it wouldn’t have kept her from looking for answers, only from involving Lizuca.
She turned abruptly, watching as Cezar and Gorca started out from under the shade of an awning in front of an empty computer store. She waved them back and said, “Bathroom.”
Cezar waved at her and lit a cigarette. “Take your time. Looks like we will be doing nothing here.”
Danielle walked through the crowd of reporters until she was out of sight of her coworkers and the CIA man. “Paranoia might not be easy to carry around, but it’ll help keep you alive.” Hugh Taylor, the journalist who’d trained her to be an investigative reporter, had told her
