Page 5 of At the Crossroads

“MI6 sent me to Istanbul in late September 2003 to work with Turkish security on credible terrorist threats to Britain. They teamed me up with a group of six Turkish security agents, including Yavuz and Zehra Arslan.”

I squirm in my seat, wanting to stand, but—etiquette. I shift slightly, trying to stretch my legs under the table, but I end up kicking both Metin and Clay.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I expected a lot of suspicion when I came onboard, but everyone was very welcoming.” I grimace at the memory. “And here I was, turning up like a bad penny.”

Confusion clouds every face. “Seven is a lucky number, eight is not, but no one grumbled. We called our temporary team Octave,” I explain.

JL gives a grunt of astonishment at the musical reference. “Who thought up that name? I assume not you with your well-known philistinism when it comes to music.”

My smile is a brief upturn to the corners of my mouth. “Probably didn’t hurt that I speak Turkish reasonably well.”

“Did you have special training before they sent you there?” Clay asks.

I quirk an eyebrow. “Good at languages.”

Clay growls. “I know about your language skills. I meant special counterterrorism training.”

I snort. “Field operatives have that training, with updates as needed.”

Eyes lifted toward the ceiling, Metin’s clouded face resembles the Greek goddess Hera when she discovers Zeus has been unfaithful again. “Konya.”

Not sure where to start with this utterly pointless story, I stay silent.

Seconds creep by. Each one is like hours. Chairs creak. My skin heats from glares emanating from the tribunal.

I crack. “Two weeks into the assignment, we had a little time off. Yavuz and Zehra proposed a trip to Konya to take in the Rumi sights and take in a performance by the dervishes.” Mouth dry, I take a swallow of tea, choking slightly as a muscle in my cheek twitches with nerves.

Back under control, I continue. “I was having difficulty with the posting because I had found out my cousin was dying, and my masters had refused compassionate leave had.”

The lack of reaction clues me in. All of this must be in my fucking personnel file. I push on.

“I was very vulnerable and Zehra was exquisite.” I sigh. Her long, red hair, willowy body, and the seductive curve of her calves. Yeah, I was susceptible. I was angry and my life was shit. I grabbed her with both hands. “Anyway, we started an affair, and I moved out of my hotel and into her flat.”

I stop. Three expressionless faces. “Her brother wasn’t best pleased. But we rubbed along. And the three of us took the trip to Konya a week before the bombings.”

“Brother’s name?” Metin picks up her mobile, ready to text.

“Yavuz Arslan. Why?”

“Always best to cross the Ts and dot the Is.”

I lean over the table to grab one of the bottles of water sitting in the center, my breath ragged, chest heaving as if I had run a marathon.

“If you’d asked, I would have tossed you one.” JL mimes throwing one at my head.

I gulp down a few swallows, coughing as the water catches in my windpipe. A few deep breaths later, I squeeze out a few words. “That’s it. That’s the story. No connection to Nasim Faez.”

Clay’s phone rings. He nods his head a few times, making some indeterminate noises. He turns to us. “That was the lab.”

One advantage we have as a company is Clay’s network of connections, which in this case fast tracks the analysis of the envelope contents. “Talc.”

We all breathe a sigh of relief.

“And a message.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Istanbul.”

A beep alerts has us all focusing on Metin, who has a response to her text. “Yavuz appears clean. Except…”

“Except, what?” I press.

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