Double Blindside

NUCLEAR JEOPARDY

The killing of US operatives in Turkey threatens to jeopardize US–Turkish relations. Committed to putting an end to the murder before another agent is assassinated, Phoenix Force heads overseas, only to discover the dead agents are just the beginning. Extremists have stolen nuclear devices and set targets in both Turkey and America. With the countdown to D-day already started, Phoenix Force must race to stop the bombs from detonating in Turkey while Able Team must do whatever it takes to neutralize the threat in the US. Failure is simply not an option.

THERE WAS NO MISTAKINGTHE DRIVER’S INTENTION

A panel truck came roaring out of a side street and sped directly at the Turkish secret service vehicle. The driver was using the truck as a guided missile. And the target was Phoenix Force and Agent Kartal.

If the SUV had been stationary the impact would have been worse, but Kartal managed to boost the power, stamping on the gas and sending the SUV lurching forward. The truck slammed into the rear quarter of the SUV instead of full-on. Still, the impact spun the SUV in a half circle, glass shattering and spraying inside the passenger compartment as the car rocked violently, wheels lifting off the road for seconds. The impact drove the lower section of the wheel well into the vehicle’s tire.

“Two inside,” she called out. “They’re showing weapons.”

“Move,” McCarter ordered. “Everyone out. Fast!”

Double Blindside

Don Pendleton

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Istanbul, Turkey

Phil Makerson slowly made his way along an empty street awash with rain. The sky was so dark with clouds it might have been midnight rather than early evening. The downpour was so intense the drains could not keep pace and there were sections of the sidewalk where the water overflowed. There was no air movement, so the rain fell in vertical sheets. Rainstorms in Istanbul were rare, especially at this time of year, but this one had come swiftly and with a vengeance.

With no protective clothing, Makerson’s suit was soaked. He didn’t seem to notice as he made his way along the uneven pavement. Thoughts spinning inside his head, his mind was on other things. So much had happened in the past few hours that he was having trouble keeping it all in some kind of order. And on top of that he was hurting. His body was aching from his encounter with the man he knew as Axos; the son of a bitch had been trying to kill him. Makerson was sure of that. He might have succeeded if Makerson hadn’t landed that lucky—and he considered it lucky—blow with the heavy lamp he had managed to grasp. He had lashed out, catching Axos a solid blow across the side of his skull. Thinking back, Makerson was sure he had heard something crack when the lamp connected with Axos’s head. The moment Axos went down, Makerson had vacated the run-down apartment, making his exit out onto the street.

His head was all over the place as he struggled to make sense of the recent events. Axos had been trying to kill him; Makerson had no doubts about that. The blood and bruises on his face and throat, the ache in his ribs, proved the point. Axos’s unprovoked attack had taken Makerson completely off guard, and he was convinced he would have ended up dead if he had not fought back.

The only reason for the attack had to be that his cover had been exposed. Makerson had been undercover for a couple of months and, contrary to his usual care, he had somehow let his guard slip. He had become too comfortable in his role and now he was paying for it.

Makerson took that on board. He needed to get clear so he could pass along the information he had gathered. He was hoping that Berna Kartal, the female Turkish agent he had been working alongside, had managed to stay safe. Between them they had gathered a dossier of information on their target. Though Kartal had assured Makerson it was safe, he had backed up their findings by sending data to his laptop in his New York apartment. It had been a way of getting the data away from Özgürlük, the Turkish group under investigation.

Makerson had decided not to contact Kartal. He didn’t want to put her in danger. All he wanted now was to escape before Axos’s partner, Kristos, recovered and set off in pursuit.

He was unfamiliar with his location. Istanbul was a sprawling city that transitioned between the ancient and modern. And he had not had the time to become too familiar with the metropolis. All he knew for certain was his proximity to the water. In the hazy distance he could make out the lights of the port area.

Images of his dead partner forced their way into his mind. Jerry Callender was a good man who had been slaughtered and left in a pool of his own blood. Gutted like fish on a slab. Callender had been killed in the same room where he had been held. The image refused to fade. Makerson could still see the shock on Callender’s bloody face. Those pictures would be with him for a long time.

Only if you get clear, he told himself. So quit feeling sorry for yourself and keep moving.

He sheltered under the sagging awning of a closed store and pulled out his sat phone. He knew there was plenty of power. He just hoped the signal was strong enough to reach the man he was calling. From Turkey to the U.S. He picked up the sound of the line engaging, heard the tone and then a familiar voice.

“Makerson? What the hell…?” The voice belonged to Redman, Makerson’s contact. Not the most diplomatic of men.

“Callender’s dead,” Makerson said. “I managed to get out, but I have a feeling I won’t be alone for long.”

Redman, for once, was out of words.

“They made us,” Makerson said. “I don’t know how, but they knew all about us. Wanted to find out how much we knew.”

“Where are you? Let me send a retrieval team. Get you to a safe place.”

“Right now I wouldn’t know who to trust, and I have a feeling those bastards are close. Just listen. Our intel was sound. The group is working on something that will affect our assets in Turkey and the U.S. They have something planned. We didn’t have time to get any more details before they hit us. I put everything I had in a text on my cell and sent it to my personal laptop in New York.”

“Phil,” Redman said, “let us bring you in.”

Makerson heard the soft growl of a powerful engine close by. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw a high-end SUV crawling along the shadowed, rain-swept street. For a brief instant he felt panic, then a sensation of calm washed over him.

“No time,” he said. “No more time.”

The SUV accelerated, bearing down on him like a gleaming black monster.

“Phil?”

“Özgürlük,” Makerson said. “They call themselves Özgürlük. And I think they might have nukes.”

Makerson broke into a run. He was unarmed, his weapon having been taken when Kristos had overpowered him. His cell had been taken, too, but he had managed to snatch it from the table as he’d made his escape. He had to get rid of the phone. It would hold the details of his call. If Kristos took it he would know Makerson had called America.

He crossed the street, heading for the far side where the black waters of the Med shone in the near darkness. As he ran he fumbled open the phone and stripped out the SIM card. He snapped it in two and stood on the edge of the quay. Throwing the broken SIM out into the water, he tossed the rest of the cell.

He heard the rising howl of the SUV’s engine as it picked him up in its headlamps. The high bulk of the vehicle bore down on him with such speed Makerson stood no chance. The solid front of the SUV slammed into him, the impact taking Makerson off his feet and flinging his shattered body into the air. He landed with brutal force, unable to move as the SUV came on and ran over him, leaving his crushed body lifeless on the rain-sodden ground.

CHAPTER ONE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

David McCarter, the commander of Phoenix Force, was already seated at the conference table in the War Room when the rest of the team entered. The lean, tanned Briton, casually dressed as usual when off duty, set a chilled bottle of Classic Coke in front of him. He watched as the group filed in and took their places at the table.

Hal Brognola, the director of Stony Man Farm, placed a stack of folders on the table as he sat. He had a resigned expression on his face that warned the assembly they were not about to be overjoyed at what he had to tell them. Last into the room was Aaron Kurtzman, the Stony Man cyber boss.

“This doesn’t suggest we’re about to play happy families,” McCarter said.

Barbara Price, the honey-blonde, attractive mission controller, said, “On the button as usual, David.”

“Comes naturally.” McCarter grinned. “Like second sight. I know what’s coming.”

Since stepping up to take command of Phoenix Force, the Briton had maintained a confident, often brash character. Out in the field, when the time came for holding a team together, there was no one better than David McCarter. He knew Brognola was about to spell out the upcoming mission and, as always, McCarter was more than ready to take it on board. That didn’t stop the irrepressible man from making his flip comments. The former SAS officer had a forceful personality that was hard to ignore. His irreverent humor vanished when Phoenix Force became involved in official business; then he became a skilled fighter with few equals.

With everyone settled, Brognola distributed the folders, sliding one along the table to each man. With that done, he leaned back in his seat and unwrapped one of his trademark cigars and clamped it between his teeth. No one could recall the last time he’d actually smoked one of them. He simply chewed on the cigar, using it like a tobacco-based worry bead. As head of the Farm, Harold Brognola had plenty to be worried about.

Silence reigned for the next few minutes as the teams absorbed the contents of the files.

“Two undercover agents killed?” Carl Lyons, the Able Team commander, queried. Powerfully built, the blond former LAPD cop was a full-on, no-nonsense fighter who seldom took prisoners unless there was a good reason to keep them alive. “In Turkey?”

Rosario Blancanales, Able Team’s infiltration specialist, followed up. “Both teamed on the same investigation?” Nicknamed “the Politician,” Blancanales had the skills and confidence of a negotiator coupled with his enduring combat qualifications.

Calvin James added, “Hell of a security breach.” The black Phoenix Force warrior was tall and leanly powerful. A former Navy SEAL, the Chicago-raised man was also the Phoenix Force medic. James was ferocious in battle, never giving an inch, yet in the aftermath would give as much of himself again to tend to a wounded individual—friend or foe alike.

“The President feels the same way,” Brognola said. “He’s already had talks with the Turkish president. There’s a lot at stake here, people. So he’s passed it along to us. Wants to keep it under the radar, if possible, until it’s sorted.”

“Nice of him,” McCarter said. “Question is why?”

“The bottom line seems to indicate a conspiracy aimed at disturbing the U.S.-Turkish alliance,” Rafael Encizo said, tapping his copy of the file. “No definite proof but an overall suggestion. And we can’t ignore the reference to possible nuclear ordnance mentioned in the reports. Some kind of blackmail threat.”

The Cuban had an earned reputation as being one of the most skilled knife-fighters around and had a fertile, probing mind. He was tenacious, a relentless fighter who never backed down. He still bore the scars from a term in Cuba’s infamous Principe prison before he made his break for freedom to the U.S.A. He had never forgotten his imprisonment, the memory still in his mind and the physical scars on his body. One of Encizo’s proudest moments was when he became an American citizen. His commitment to Phoenix Force was one of the ways he offered his thanks.

“Nor should you,” Brognola said. “Turkey has been a U.S. ally for a long time. That relationship has come under attack on a number of occasions. Their location puts them in a delicate position and the U.S. doesn’t want to lose that advantage. However, certain groups in the country don’t like the closeness to us. They make their feelings known whenever the opportunity comes up. But the suggestions in the report veer toward more than just protest groups and staged rallies. Top of their agenda has been the removal of our base at Incirlik.”

“By nuclear blackmail?” Thomas Jackson Hawkins said. “That seems to be coming through pretty damn strong.”

“Trouble with threats is they can end up turning into the real thing,” James noted. “Especially if they’re in the hands of extremists.”

“So are we taking direct action?” Hawkins asked. A Texan, the youngest Phoenix Force member was former Delta Force and was rapidly developing into a seasoned veteran. He still had moments of unrestrained enthusiasm that got the better of him, but his military experience and fighting skills had made him a valuable asset to Phoenix Force.

“Rein it in, cowboy,” Gary Manning quipped. The brawny Canadian fighter held the distinction of being Phoenix Force’s demolitions expert. Former RCMP, Manning had extensive knowledge of global terrorist groups. “Your time will come.”

“From the little intel we’ve received, there’s a group organizing itself for some kind of extreme protest,” Brognola continued. “There was a name in the transcripts that came up a number of times. Kadir Polat is a Turkish national. He’s a guy who wants to be counted when it comes to opposition against our presence in the country.”

Brognola glanced down the table to where Aaron Kurtzman, head of Stony Man’s dedicated cyber team, sat quietly in his motorized wheelchair. The big man had been crippled from the waist down a number of years back when Stony Man Farm had been hit for the first and only time. Despite his disability, Kurtzman had proved himself countless times by providing information that assisted the Stony Man field teams. His ongoing mission was to maintain his department as the best around, and to offer the Stony Man teams the ultimate in backup. Kurtzman was never more at home than when presented with a complex technical problem. If there was a need for something, Kurtzman would find the solution. His understanding of the internet was matched only by his innate curiosity and the need to keep learning.

“Getting into Makerson’s laptop gave us the opening we needed,” Kurtzman said. “That guy had put down everything he’d sourced—names and locations and images he’d captured on his cell. He’s left us a hell of a legacy.”

Kurtzman used the remote he held to bring up the information on the wall-mounted plasma screen. The data Makerson had gathered had been assembled into understandable order and the Stony Man teams were able to follow it clearly.

“The first image is Kadir Polat himself.” Another image flashed on-screen. “Then we have this guy—Hakan Kaplan. Polat’s second in command and lifelong personal friend. Makerson has him down as the harder man of the two. Both these guys are part of Özgürlük. Pretty well are Özgürlük. It’s Turkish for freedom, for those interested. Nice little choice of words. Their politics are well-known, and on the surface they appear as people with grievances concerning Turkey’s involvement with the U.S. and NATO. Makerson had tracked them both to meetings with other activist individuals.”

Kurtzman clicked to a second image of Polat. It showed a close-up of the strong-faced, good-looking man, his dark eyes seeming to actually stare at everyone in the room. The effect was unsettling. The man had a head of thick black hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. The set of his lips showed a hint of a smile.

“Polat. Early forties. A devout advocate of Turkish withdrawal from NATO and involvement with the U.S. His opposition is on record and he openly defies the elected government. He’s highly visible. He criticizes the elected government for being a sycophantic ally of the U.S. He is,” Kurtzman added, “an extremely popular guy. Has an immense following and the backing of influential people in business and politics.”

Barbara Price studied the face, admitting to herself that Polat was more than just good-looking. There was something in his dark eyes that could easily have been tantalizing. Maybe it was the light olive complexion. His black hair. The way he stared into the camera lens. The mesmerizing expression in the deep pupils…

The Stony Man mission controller mentally shook herself, hoping her brief lapse had not been noticed. Price was no giddy schoolgirl. What the hell was she thinking? A faint warmth crept across her cheeks. She was a woman dedicated to her work and not the kind to be easily seduced by a simple photograph of an attractive man. She became aware again of Kurtzman’s voice as he explained more about Polat. She realized she had zoned out for a few moments and pulled herself back to the present.

“Polat’s background tells us he comes from a wealthy family. Extremely wealthy. And I emphasize wealthy. The Polat dynasty goes back decades. Very traditional Turkish. They own businesses around the country, including a shipping line. They have homes in Turkey. A villa on the Costa Brava. Run aircraft like normal people run cars. And there’s an ocean-going cruiser Kadir keeps moored in the harbor outside Istanbul.”

“Married?” McCarter asked casually.

It was an innocent question on the surface, but when Price caught the Briton’s gaze she could see a thin smile edging his lips.

“Just filling in the background.”

Dammit, she thought, had he noticed?

“No,” Brognola said. “Though he has been linked with some well-known women.”

“Interesting,” McCarter said. “Quite a bloke, then.”

Price felt a flash of anger at his remark. She pushed it out of her mind instantly. She realized McCarter was simply teasing. He was well-known for his dry wit and the pointed way he could deliver his sly retorts.

“So what’s Polat done that gets him in this report?” McCarter asked, his attention back on Brognola. “Is he suspected of being involved in the deaths of the agents?”

“Lots of suspicion,” Brognola said. “No hard proof. But Polat is smart enough to stay in the background and surround himself with people to make his history interesting.

“Polat has a younger brother who is involved with Özgürlük. Amal Polat. He has the family money behind him and a rep as a hothead. He’s twenty-four years old but still has the willful attitude of a teenager.”

They went over the files again, taking in the data that applied to each team.

“This is one of the good guys,” Brognola said, nodding at the cyber boss. “To be politically correct, one of the good girls.”

Kurtzman brought up another image on the plasma. This time a young female. She was strikingly attractive. Her fall of thick black hair framed an oval, mobile face. She had large brown eyes and a full mouth, light brown skin and dark brows.

“Now, she is interesting,” Encizo said. “And she’s on the side of the good guys?”

“Agent Berna Kartal,” Brognola said. “And, yes, she is. Kartal is an agent with the NIO—the Turkish National Intelligence Organization, aka secret service. Early thirties. Did a couple of years in active military service when she was eligible. Her current assignment is investigating Özgürlük. She had the local contact with Makerson and his partner until they disappeared. The next time she saw them was in the morgue. Dead agents push this a step up the ladder.”

“So what’s the bottom line here?” Lyons said.

“Polat is suspected of having a desire to push his group further along the dissent road. Behind the outer charm he’s funded rallies expressing dissatisfaction with American presence on Turkish soil. He has the ear of powerful Turkish groups who also have big money behind them. Industrialists. Old-time Turkish families, like his own, who would prefer nothing better than for the country to be free from foreign influence. And there are groups within the Turkish government who have the same feelings. Kartal believes there may also be some military backing coming via General Demir Marangol.”

The next photo showed a thickset man in a Turkish military uniform bedecked with ribbons. The man’s broad face stared out of the picture with a belligerent scowl. His dark eyes and thick mustache gave him a powerful expression.

“Marangol. Old family friend of the Polat dynasty. Also extremely pro–Turkish independence. Makes no bones about his feelings. Wants his country independent of foreign influence. Has a lot of power behind him in the military.”

“So no solid evidence of anything except hot air?” Lyons growled.

As always the Able Team leader was not shy about expressing his opinion. Carl “Ironman” Lyons saw everything in black and white; there was good and there was bad. It was advisable to remain in the good guys’ camp if Lyons was on your case; he tended to subscribe to the school of “shoot first, worry about the questions later.”

Lyons had little concern over criminals’ rights. He was fair, but had no time for tolerating bad behavior. He’d undergone paramilitary training in preparation for antiterrorist missions. Though he had not had any military service, Lyons had worked in the LAPD as a detective sergeant. Since becoming the leader of Able Team, Lyons had gained on-the-job experience in the fight against terrorism.

“No. Speculation by the carload, but no positive proof. Until recently,” Brognola said. “Kartal’s report backs up what the dead agent, Makerson, sent to his home laptop. The first time there’s been anything except a great deal of hearsay.”

“Enough to move on?” Encizo inquired.

“When an investigation ends up with two agents dead, it becomes a possible threat we can’t afford to ignore. Enough that the President has called in Stony Man and sanctioned a mission to follow through on what he’s been made privy to. His advisers have given him background on the Turkish unrest. The President has taken it on board and told his people to keep an eye on the situation. But behind closed doors he felt there was enough to give Stony Man a mandate to investigate further without the State Department blocking his way. He considered all the options and there was enough to cause him concern. It seems that at one point his advisory briefings postulated at the hint of some actual physical strike against U.S. interests in Turkey.”

Brognola looked around the table. “And a veiled hint that a similar incident could take place here, on U.S. soil, to back up what Özgürlük is threatening. Now, this may be nothing more than some Turkish half-assed bullying. But when U.S. agents are murdered—agents investigating Turkish agitators advocating the removal of our base at Incirlik—it all starts to take on a shadow of reality. The deaths have been kept out of the spotlight. No point in allowing press hype to muddy the waters.”

“With the background of NATO and the American presence in Turkey,” James said, “I have to say we do need to follow through.”

“The President doesn’t want to be caught on the back foot if something does happen,” Brognola said. “Turkish stability needs to be maintained. There’s a lot at stake with our base at Incirlik and the NATO alliance. Anything that might upset it at all needs to be eliminated. These days there are too many groups wrangling for position. And U.S. influence is constantly under fire from various involved parties.”

“These alleged strikes…” McCarter said. “Do we have any idea how they might be formulated?”

“At this point we’re guessing in the dark. That’s why we need Phoenix Force presence on two fronts. Turkey and London.”

“What’s in London?” McCarter asked.

Brognola slid a sheet of paper across for him to read.

“Kartal picked up on some mention of Özgürlük’s banker in London. The guy who collects money. Passes it out when the organization needs funds. Makerson had the NSA run some phone intercepts and he liaised with Kartal. Between them they got a location for this guy, Aziz Makar. And phone transmissions from another London address. Could be a safehouse. It’s a starting point for a look-see while the Turkish end is being checked out at the same time.”

“We ran the address. Tracked it down through local admin for property tax they pay in the UK. House is owned by a guy called Stanley Rimmer. His bio has him down as a landlord on a few properties. Tracking back through his transactions, we came to a dead stop with the real owner of the house.”

“The Polat group?” McCarter said.

“Way down the chain,” Kurtzman said. “A long chain, but if you’re in there, the truth will come out.”

“More to it, though?” McCarter said.

Brognola smiled at the Briton’s grasp of the detail.

“Money in the deal was paid via Aziz Makar. Our Özgürlük paymaster.”

Brognola waited to see if anyone registered the word and was not disappointed when Hawkins tapped the file in front of him.

“It’s in the file,” he said. “The organization fronting the opposition to the U.S. in Turkey and the hinted-at American strike—Özgürlük—keeps showing.”

“Based on intel from Makerson and Berna Kartal’s own file, I had my people run a deep trawl across the internet,” Kurtzman said, joining the ongoing conversation again.

Deep trawling was Kurtzman’s way of saying his team had dug their way into sites both open and secret. In Kurtzman’s eyes, if information was available, whether he got it by fair means or foul, the need was there. It was seldom the Stony Man cyber team failed to come up with the goods. When Stony Man got caught up in missions where lives and security were the main factors, Kurtzman threw rule books out the window. He hated protocols that might deter weaker individuals. They were knocked aside by Kurtzman and his people. To him the protection of America, the SOG teams and that often sneered-at word justice were more important. Aaron Kurtzman dedicated every waking hour to maintaining the integrity of his department and his people.

“The NSA has picked up recent phone chatter involving Özgürlük. This group might have money behind them,” Kurtzman said, “but they don’t have a monopoly on staying totally undercover. They are not very sophisticated when it comes to covering their tracks. We picked up traces of communication between various individuals. Once we located cell phones from the numbers Kartal and Makerson identified, it wasn’t all that difficult to expand our lists and start tracking messages.”

He put the text messages on-screen—most of the originals had been in Turkish, so Kurtzman had pulled in Erika Dukas, one of the translators Stony Man occasionally consulted. She had taken the messages and fed them through her computer, translating and creating English versions. Passed back to Kurtzman, the messages had been incorporated into his files.

“Lots of talk back and forth,” Kurtzman said. “All about logistics. Supply. Locations. This last one will interest Able. You people may recall the late Jack Regan. Arms dealer who was killed a while back. Now we have his successor, a Mexican named Pablo Gutierrez. He’s picked up some of Regan’s old clients. The Echelon listening device picked up some vague chatter with Gutierrez’s name attached to a couple of emails from our Turkish dissidents. Something about a deal with a Russian—Gennadi Antonov. Vague. No specifics, but Antonov is suspected of ties to former Russian military.”

“Where does he hang out? This Regan clone?” Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz, Able Team’s electronics expert who had been silent for most of the meeting, asked.

“Miami.”

Blancanales scanned the messages on the plasma screen.

“That damn name again,” he said. “Özgürlük. It’s like a secret handshake for these guys. But unfortunately for them, not too secret.”

Brognola said, “Okay, people, time to saddle up. Look into it. If it doesn’t pan out, no harm done. But if there’s solid evidence, you know what to do. We don’t dare miss this in case it is real.”

There was a brief silence as everyone around the conference table had a final run through their files. A few more questions were put forward until they were all satisfied for the moment.