Excerpt



Experience had taught Justin Sween an undisputable truth that guided his travels throughout much of the world: at the core of ancient places existed an irremovable layer of blood, sorrow, and resentment that could not be veiled or diluted by any superficial brushing of contemporary ambiance. Nowhere was this lesson more relevant than in the Islamic lands of the once formidable Ottoman Empire. Everything about Turkey seemed tenuous and duplicitous, as it remained split between obliging the occidental influences of Europe and reveling in a rebirth of the antiquated ways of its faded glory. The Grand Kervansaray Hotel was no exception. It was a converted caravanserai built in the sixteenth century to accommodate merchants traveling the old Silk Road connecting India with Istanbul. The structures facade of chipped pillars, blemished engravings, arched corridors, and rustic fountains gave way to modern amenities, including a fitness center and an upscale restaurant.

When traveling, Sween preferred this edifying blend to the sterile comforts of ultra-modern hotels, and he marveled at the structures aged craftsmanship as he walked within an expansive courtyard, which at this hour stood deserted. He grabbed a steel-rimmed chair and leaned back into its embrace, finding solitude in the isolation and silence. Everyone who mattered to him had questioned when he would shake loose from his aloof and somber demeanor-- why he needed to be here. For a moment, he resented them for their heartfelt concerns and indirect insinuations that he was anchorless and adrift. He wanted them to have more faith in him, knowing the plunge from Mach II to inertia, and the journey back, was a disobliging road taken at unpredictable speeds. What they could not know was he had quietly battled his most implacable regrets for months to no ones notice: at times winning, at times still losing, and on occasion simply making peace with them. Sween gazed up and studied the constellations; foreign in location, yet familiar in configuration and the grand tales they told. He navigated them determinately, reviewing his strategy to place his life back in order, though after the basics, such plans never produced a consistent, clear pathway.

He would leave National Geographic on his own terms and return to Maine. He would turn the page of this soured novel and revisit earlier chapters in his life: simple pleasures that his youth, his wanderlust, and his god-given talents had left forgotten, underappreciated, and too quickly forsaken. Most importantly-- he would do his best to mend the one life he knew his actions in the military had shattered beyond all possible salvation. And then? He tried to reassure himself that it did not need to be cut and dry, and that it was good that his future held so many wildcards. He closed his eyes and thought of Aferdita Kavalle.

"Hey there, flyboy. Fancy meeting you here."

The sultry greeting sent him darting to his feet. "Whatever are you doing in this part of the world?"

Cassie Carlisle shuffled over and kissed him on the cheek. "Abner pulled me off holiday and told me to get my fannie on assignment. So.., this is your last hurrah."

"I wish you called. I would have met you at the airport."

"I just finished checking in and came cruisin' for ya. The hotel bar has an hour's stock left to it. What do you say we give it a run for its money?"


They took a wood table deep within the rustic tavern, which was otherwise void of westerners. The farther east he had traveled, the more tilted Sween found the tone and temperament of the Turkish populace favoring the legacies of Salaamed and bin Laden over the allure of the Euro and a Calvin Klein wardrobe. He felt the silent inspection of many eyes and the forced courtesies of the professional hospitality industry from those who had seated them. He ordered a Heineken and a whiskey sour for Cassie.

"Did you come straight from Australia, or were you back in the States?"

"Air Qantas swayed the day." She lit a cigarette with the table's candle, indifferent to the tempest stirred by her presence, and then fanned her cleavage with one flap of her blouse. "My body is still on Melbourne time. Not a very fair fight for ya."

"I plan to be unconscious long before the sun rises," he warned, sensing her overflow of mischievous energy.

"Did you see the smashing pool out there?"

He gave pause not to strangle her. Cassie globetrotted exotic lands like others sampled nightclubs: always looking for a beat and rhythm just a little more chic than the last. It had been hard enough keeping up with her even on two legs. "I'm not going skinny-dipping, or engaging in anything else, that might land me the starring role in a remake of Midnight Express."

She flashed him a playful gaze and reached across the table to place a hand on his. "I'm just riding ya, Sweenie. Just so damn smashing seeing you up and about again!"

The waiter placed down their drinks.

"'Rose-lipped maidens; light-foot lads,'" Cassie toasted.

Sween raised his beer, impassive to her inadvertent choice of words; it was just her way. She had seen him through his darkest hours and he would never begrudge her anything. He glanced over to some rugged looking men who were overtly eavesdropping on their conversation. One of them brusquely ordered the bartender to change the television from CNN International to Al Jazeera. "Let's take the next round out onto the courtyard."

"Gibberish. I'm just starting to fall for this ghastly place."

He whispered, "Al Qaeda types at the bar. They like you."

She managed not to look over. "Probably just some local blokes itchin' to show me their weapons of mass destruction."

Sween could not help but to laugh. "Don't be such a feather. I know the difference."

"Are you armed?" To his half nod, she surmised, "Then we best take our drinks to my suite. Either way we're courting trouble."