Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 9

Richard Devon took one last look over the turquoise-blue Mediterranean and breathed in the air. Soon he would be inside a plane for ten hours, and he wanted to sear it all into his memory.

He and his Turkish counterpart usually met at the air base in Incirlik, but Ismet Bachar, Chief of the Turkish General Staff, was on vacation near Antalya. Bachar had no intention of leaving, not even for the U.S. Secretary of Defense. So, Devon had gone to him.

The Turkish Riviera was a part of the country he had never seen before. It turned out to be stunning.

Bachar’s villa was positioned to maximize its breathtaking view of the sea. They had lunch on the terrace, surrounded by stone pots planted with lavender. The sun was bright and strong, but the breeze off the water made for the perfect temperature. Devon understood why his colleague didn’t want to break away to come meet him.

While the Secretary of Defense looked like a doughy, fifty-five-year-old country club member who should have been spending more time on the treadmill and less time in the grill, Bachar looked like a Hollywood film star. He was tall and thin, with white hair that was perfectly trimmed. His handsome, angular face was tanned and sported a pair of black-framed glasses. Out of courtesy to his American guest, he had put on a suit, but no tie.

It was like being in the presence of a Turkish Cary Grant.

Though Devon had seen only a houseboy, he could imagine a bevy of bikini-clad women hidden upstairs, waiting for him to leave, so that whatever party he had interrupted could continue.

For lunch, Bachar served Mediterranean swordfish with pomegranate and pistachio salad. He paired it with a 2008 Domaine Leflaive Puligny-Montrachet Les Folatières Premier Cru. He was showing off. But considering how far Devon had come, and why, it was the least he could do.

The Turks had the second-largest army in NATO and were an important American ally. Their military also took the threat of fundamentalist Islam seriously.

Four times since Turkey’s founding, the Turkish military had stepped in to reduce the power of the Islamists in their country. Bachar was concerned that number five might be around the corner, maybe even before the next election.

Turkey’s leader saw himself more as a sultan than a president. He was gathering powers to his office that didn’t belong. Other branches of the government, which should have served as a check, had done nothing to stop him.

Of concern to the military was that their president was an Islamist. Of concern to the United States was that he was an Islamist, sympathetic to ISIS.

Turkey had only been putting on a show of fighting ISIS. While its President allowed the United States to launch bombing runs from Incirlik, he ignored the men, money, and materiel flowing to ISIS across the Turkish border.

When Turkish planes flew, they didn’t hammer ISIS positions. They hammered the Kurds who were successfully fighting against ISIS. The Turks didn’t want the forty million Kurds in Syria, Northern Iraq, and Western Turkey to unite and form their own sovereign nation.

The Turks also hated the Syrian regime, which meant they hated Russia and Iran for propping it up. They no longer thought twice about bloodying the noses of the Russians or the Iranians. If a justifiable situation presented itself, they took it.

Tossing lit matches into puddles of gasoline was a recipe for disaster. If the brinksmanship wasn’t deescalated, the world was going to war. All it would take was Turkey getting hit back and then citing Article 5 of the NATO charter—An armed attack on one member of the alliance is an attack on all.

The men spoke for more than three hours. Bachar played his cards close to his vest. For the time being, the Turkish military was following its president’s orders. That could change. More than that, Bachar wouldn’t say.

He agreed with Devon that ISIS was a growing cancer. It was a cancer, though, eating a neighbor that Turkey despised. Right now, he was content to let it continue.

The prospect of war with the Russians or the Iranians, though, wasn’t something he relished. He shared that with Devon and suggested that instead of pressuring Turkey, the United States should focus on those nations. Anything Turkey had done had been in retaliation for something Russia or Iran had done. None of it had been unprovoked. If Russia and Iran wanted to continue their escapades in Syria and if those escapades drifted over the border or threatened Turkish sovereignty in any way, they could expect more of the same. Turkey had a right to defend herself.

Devon understood that it was a matter of national pride. He also understood that by flexing its muscles, the Turkish military was bolstering its image among the Turkish people. That would come in handy if they decided to move against the President and other powerful Islamists.

A complicated chessboard was taking shape in Turkey. If the United States couldn’t control the movements, it at least needed to know where the pieces were.

Before leaving, Devon reassured his friend that whatever he chose to do, he would have the support of the United States. That level of support, though, could be dialed up or down, based upon how Turkey handled ISIS and any further Russian or Iranian provocations.

There was no need to read between the lines with Devon. He was always very clear when laying out what he wanted. He didn’t want his words interpreted. He wanted them understood. There was a difference.

Bachar smiled. He didn’t care for politicians. He liked simple, straight talk. Devon had always been honest with him. He appreciated that. And while there was only so much he could do under the current President, Bachar assured his colleague that he would keep the lines of communication open.

They enjoyed a final cup of strong Turkish coffee accompanied by a plate of ripe figs. Then Bachar walked his guest out to his car.

In the driveway were three black Range Rovers and a police escort. These days, only the President of the United States broadcast his presence abroad in a fleet of American-made vehicles.

The luxury, armored SUVs had tinted, bulletproof glass, run-flat tires, and a host of nasty surprises for anyone foolish enough to attempt an assault on the Secretary’s motorcade. In addition, Devon was accompanied by a team of switched-on, highly intense Special Operations personnel.

After thanking Bachar for their meeting, the Secretary of Defense climbed into the middle Range Rover, and the column rolled out of the gated driveway and headed toward the airport in Antalya.

The main road wound its way downhill and then hugged the ocean. With its beaches, glitzy boutiques, and gourmet restaurants, the area reminded Devon of the French Riviera. It was easy to see why it was one of Turkey’s biggest tourist draws.

When they arrived downtown, the police escort raced ahead, halting traffic at intersections so the Secretary could move through without stopping.

Antalya was the eighth-largest city in Turkey. It was a combination of Roman ruins and modern architecture, broad boulevards and narrow medieval streets, the perfect mix of the exotic and the traditional: the kind of place his wife would enjoy visiting. Depending on how Turkey handled matters going forward, he could see himself bringing her back.

The motorcade had just passed a quaint outdoor café, its name painted in gold leaf, when two men leapt out of a parked car. They were masked and carrying AK-47s. Immediately, they began firing.

“Contact left! Contact left!” one of the security team members yelled.

Tires squealed and gas flooded into the Range Rovers’ huge engines as the SUVs took evasive action.

Secretary Devon was forced to the floor for his safety. Just as his head was pressed beneath the window line, he saw both of their motorcycle escort cops lying dead in the street.

The agent in the forward vehicle was radioing instructions to the rest of the team as another agent alerted headquarters that they were under assault.

They made a sharp right turn, only to discover more gunmen waiting for them. Though the vehicle was practically soundproof, Devon could hear the popping of gunfire from outside and the impact of the rounds hitting his vehicle.

“They’re trying to funnel us!” one of the agents warned as more masked gunmen appeared at the next intersection.

“Run it!” another yelled, encouraging the motorcade to barrel through the gunmen.

“Jesus,” Devon’s driver cursed as he swerved, trading paint with and knocking the mirrors off three cars. “We have to get back to the boulevard! These streets are too narrow.”

Speeding into the intersection, the driver of the lead Range Rover pulled hard on the wheel and spun right into the gunfire.

The shooters rained down bullets on it and succeeded in cracking its windshield. Two of them were caught beneath the undercarriage and dragged.

One was dislodged, only to be run over by the vehicle right behind. It happened so fast the driver couldn’t avoid it.

Devon felt his heavy Range Rover lift slightly off the ground as it crushed a gunman’s body.

At the next intersection, they readied for gunfire, but none came. They appeared to have left the shooters behind. The lead vehicle made a hard left. The others followed.

The street was deserted, just rows of parked cars on both sides. The lead vehicle picked up speed. The others followed suit.

They were halfway down the block when a series of massive car bombs detonated in unison.

From a small apartment at the end of the street, Sacha Baseyev captured all of it on camera. The killing of U.S. Secretary of Defense Richard Devon was going to be his most spectacular video yet. And it would be another nail in the coffin of ISIS.