This was the one piece of intelligence that could force the United States government to play ball. The intelligence was so damning, so explosive, that they would be happy to pay to keep it secret. Max was sure of it.
Unfortunately, he’d had to play catch-up since his mother had already sent Charlie Henican to Turkey to eliminate Ramirez. Thanks to the contacts he’d developed during his tenure as a NOC, Max had been able to stop Henican before he could take out Ramirez. Four years out from a failed coup that had nearly overthrown the government, the Turkish authorities were still paranoid about the possibility of another assassination attempt against the president. A few lies planted in trusting ears was all it took to set the wheels in motion for Henican’s arrest.
Where Henican was at that moment, Max didn’t know. But that didn’t mean he didn’t care. Henican was one of them. A soldier. A patriot. He’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, serving the wrong person: Max’s mother.
“You think she’ll be okay?” Wood asked, finishing his cigarette.
Max watched him toss the glowing butt overboard with a flick of the wrist.
“Dorothy Triggs is a survivor, my friend,” Max said, clapping Wood on the shoulder. “She’ll be fine.”
CHAPTER NINE
Somewhere in Turkey
Charlie Henican struggled slowly toward consciousness. He had something in his mouth. A cloth of some sort. A revolting stench made him queasy with every breath he took. It smelled of unwashed bodies and soiled clothing, of urine and human excrement. Henican forced himself not to panic. If he vomited, he would choke. That would be a wretched death. Drowning in his own puke wasn’t part of his grand plan.
However hard he strained his head and neck, he could see nothing but the haziest hint of light through the cloth bag over his head. He wondered if this was because his eyes were swollen shut due to the savage beatings he had endured. His legs were numb, and his wrists were tied behind him onto a cold metal chair. A blaze had been set in each of his shoulders. Every time Henican tried to move, they flared up more, spearing flames through his joints and strained muscles.
Henican had been through SERE—Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape—training, and it had sucked. But this was worse. Much worse. He had to stay calm, because the more he struggled against his restraints, the more it hurt and the harder it was for him to draw the next gulp of oxygen. Something brushed against his ankle—something long and prickly.
Like a damn rat’s tail, Henican thought, disgusted.
The last beating had been the harshest. They had beaten him senseless, two torturers taking turns so they could conserve energy. The worst was that his jailers hadn’t asked him a single question. He hadn’t even been given the chance to lie yet!
Then he heard something. He held his breath and tilted his head, closing his eyes so he could hear more clearly. Footsteps were approaching, the steps of not one man but three. The beatings would soon resume. His breathing sped up, forcing him to inhale more of the rancid stench that filled the space he was in. The footsteps stopped behind him. Henican shivered, fear taking hold.
“I see you’re back with us, Mr. Henican,” a man said. His English was marked by a strong Turkish accent.
Even if he’d wanted to, Henican couldn’t reply. The cloth in his mouth prevented it.
“My mother used to say that a fox always smells his own hole first. Have you heard this before, Charlie?
“Well,” the man continued, “I disagree with my mother on this one. Truth is that the fox is not aware of his own stink. It’s part of it. It’s immersed in it, just like a fish in water. You, Charlie, you have your own signature stench. It belongs to you and to nobody else. You understand what I’m saying so far?”
Behind Henican, men were chuckling. Henican didn’t think any of it was funny.
The man persisted. “You walk down the street, and your nose picks up a certain smell. You say, ‘Somebody’s barbecuing.’ You smell something else, like a flower, and you say, ‘That’s a rose!’ Well, it’s the same thing with you, Charlie. Your nose picks up a special, eye-watering stench, and you say, ‘It’s Charlie Henican!’”
The men behind him burst into laughter.
Suddenly the cloth bag over his head was ripped away. He blinked several times. His vision seemed okay, but even the dim light made his head hurt. There was a throbbing pain behind his eyes. The gag was pulled out of his mouth.
“Who hired you to kill our president?” The voice was deep and resonant now. Its owner, while remaining out of sight, spoke in an unhurried manner.
Who hired you to kill our president? Henican sighed heavily. He was in much more trouble than he’d thought.
His eyes darted left to right in an effort to learn a little more about where he was being held. A pool. He was in the deep end of an abandoned swimming pool. The last time they’d beaten him, he’d been in a cell.
They must have moved me here while I was unconscious.
The swimming facility had been closed for at least a decade; its once–light blue tiles were now cracked and smeared with gunk. It had been converted into some sort of detention center. This was a world away from the pool he’d been in only a few weeks ago in Costa Rica. Henican closed his eyes. An image flashed.
Harriet Jacobs.
In his mind’s eye, he could see her lying in bed, her naked body stretched languorously across the white sheets in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Despite the desperate situation he was in, his body responded to the memory.
Then, out of nowhere, a hard punch landed between Henican’s shoulder blades. He winced in pain.
“Answer the question,” the man hissed.
Henican didn’t even remember what the question was.
“I’d . . . I’d like . . . to speak with the . . . Canadian embassy,” he managed to whisper. His mouth was dry, and he could feel broken teeth with his swollen tongue. His tongue brushed over a raw nerve, and a shooting pain ignited in his skull.
“We kind of wished you would say something stupid like that, Mr. Henican,” the man said. “My friends have been begging me to let them have another go at you, you know. Should I let them?”
Henican knew there were no good or bad answers to rhetorical questions like this one. He remained quiet.
“I have great respect for American warriors like you, Mr. Henican,” the man said. “Delta Force, then CIA paramilitary. You had a great career.”
Henican hoped the man would keep talking. He was desperate for any intelligence that would tell him who he was dealing with and what his captors knew about his operation on Turkish soil. He needed to find some way to persuade them to release him.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” the man said. “Would you like some water, maybe?”
Henican nodded. “That . . . that would be great.”
The man snapped his fingers. Moments later, Henican heard him twist open the cap of a bottle of water. His tormentor walked in front of him. The man was in his fifties, tall, and clearly fit. He had broad shoulders, hard eyes, and a firm-set mouth. The man put the bottle of water against Henican’s lips. It hurt. His lips were dry and split by the numerous punches he’d received at the hands of the man’s thugs. The man tipped the bottle up, giving Henican a few tiny sips. Henican had to work on swallowing. It was as if he had forgotten how to do it.