Please read the opening chapter (actually, the Prologue) to The River: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel.
The River - Prologue
The temperature hit 109°F, but with little humidity.
Dry heat, my ass. It’s just damn hot. Period.
Excessive heat, or cold for that matter, never really bothered Stephen Grant. Thanks to his training as a Navy SEAL and then with the CIA, Grant learned that complaining, especially about the uncontrollable, was a waste of time and energy.
Still, he looked down at the sweat visible through his brown cotton shirt, and then his eyes moved to his partner, Paige Caldwell, sitting across the small table. It either bothered or fascinated him – he couldn’t decide – that she looked comfortable, even cool. It was as if she were enjoying an iced drink under an umbrella near the ocean in San Diego, rather than sipping a warm beer in a dusty, outdoor bar in Diyabakir, Turkey, in early July.
“Why aren’t you sweating – at all?” asked Grant.
Caldwell smiled seductively. “I did enough of that last night. Didn’t you?”
Grant nodded. His mind was not convinced that mixing work and sex was smart, or the right thing to do. But given all that Caldwell and Grant had been through over the last two years – never doubting that each other’s back was covered – their intimacies just developed naturally.
Grant and Caldwell seemed to fit together in many ways. Each was self-assured, smart, loyal, willing to take risks, strong, calm amidst danger, and attractive to the opposite sex.
Stephen Grant had an athletic, six-foot build, with green eyes, tanned skin, and short, black hair. Rather typical cargo pants and white sneakers accompanied his brown shirt.
Meanwhile, Paige Caldwell’s fit, five-foot-nine-inch body was covered in freckles, accentuated by full, pink lips, a rounded nose, and steely blue eyes now hidden behind sunglasses. Her long, jet-black hair was pulled atop her head with just a few strands hanging down, brushing against her neck and flirting with the shoulders of a white cotton shirt. The shirt hung loosely over a white tank top and tan shorts.
But a difference did exist.
While dedicated to his work, Grant understood that there was more to life than the CIA. He was unable, however, to detect such recognition in Caldwell. She actually loved being consumed by the job. Other than sex, everything Caldwell did somehow tied in to her work with the CIA. Grant often wondered if Paige even saw their encounters in bed as a way for her to find a necessary release that would make her a better operative.
She regularly made fun of Grant for his “outside interests,” as Caldwell put it, including his love of history, movies and golf. Stephen also had been an archer since his teenage years, but even Paige had to acknowledge that those skills had come in handy during his earliest time with the agency.
In the end, their relationship was convenient and uncomplicated, which appealed to both of them, at least at this point in their lives.
Grant’s official title with the agency was “analyst.” He even had a cubicle at Langley. But he was more often than not missing from his desk. He had a unique skill set, which meant often being in the field doing things unknown to those in adjacent cubicles. Caldwell’s abilities complemented his well.
Grant and Caldwell were posing as tourists. And as tourists, they’d have to be moving on soon if nothing happened. They’d been sitting at the bar for nearly two hours waiting for a shipment to arrive at a small, dull, stone building just up the street, looking to see who would be receiving and stashing the shipment.
After several weeks of what amounted to detective work, the two operatives hoped that they were about to close this investigation. It was a case they wanted no part of in the first place.
Langley suspected that one of their own on the ground in Turkey – Eric Clark – was running a side business. If their suspicions turned out to be correct, that off-the-books venture would cause quite an international incident if exposed.
Grant and Caldwell were tasked with proving or disproving the agency’s fears. If Clark was clean, they were to leave the country without him knowing they had been there. If he was dirty, his mess had to be cleaned up and Clark brought home to deal with the consequences.
With the help of the third member of their team, Edward “Tank” Hoard, Grant and Caldwell found this address to be central to the activity that caught the attention of the agency.
Hoard earned the nickname “Tank” due to his body-builder physique. He manned the team’s base of operation in Ankara.
The Turks involved in the smuggling operation had been identified. Hoard assured Grant and Caldwell that they would be arriving with a shipment this afternoon. So, they waited to see if Eric Clark would be showing up as well.
As Grant, Caldwell and Hoard had discovered, this was a careful operation. The thefts were calculated to limit the chances of being caught, while maximizing possible payoffs. There was a certain mathematical precision to the risk-reward tradeoff, and Eric Clark had earned a graduate degree in mathematics before joining the agency.
After taking a sip of beer, Grant whispered, “I’m going to find a bathroom.”
Caldwell replied, “No, I don’t think so.” She nodded her head toward the building under surveillance.
A short, stocky man dressed in jeans and a light gray bush shirt approached. His facial features, except for a bulbous nose, were largely hidden behind sunglasses and a tan bucket hat.
“Crap. That’s Clark.” Grant was disappointed. He had hoped, despite the mounting evidence, that Clark was clean.
Clark entered the building. Less than five minutes later, a white van pulled up.
Two men got out of the front cab, walked around the vehicle, and opened the back doors. A third man handed wood crates out to each.
“Those are our Turkish accomplices,” Caldwell said in a low voice.
Grant grunted his agreement.
After six crates were moved inside, a much larger wood box, roughly six feet long, three feet wide and two feet high, was maneuvered out of the van and into the building by the three men.
“Time to move,” declared Grant. He left enough lira on the table to more than cover their tab. They moved into the narrow stone street, and toward the building that Clark and his friends had entered. The untrained eye would see a couple strolling hand in hand. But as they nonchalantly strolled along, their eyes were scanning the road, windows, rooftops and doorways to make sure no one else warranted their attention and concern.
Grant generally disliked being on the ground in an urban setting. It meant that potential enemies could have the high ground, and he’d be a sitting duck. While not expected here, he never ruled anything out during an operation.
Behind them, at the corner of a busier thoroughfare, a street vendor was selling fish from the Tigris. Even though they rested on ice, Grant had serious doubts about fish sold from a cart in this heat.
At the other end of the street, three teenagers kicked around a soccer ball.
Grant found nothing in the streetscape to earn additional worry. He nodded at Caldwell, and they moved smoothly to the blue painted door set against the light, tan stone of the building.
As Paige grabbed the door, and quietly clicked it open, they both drew the Glock 19s that were resting against their backs, hidden under shirts.
Grant moved in first, with the handgun in front of him. He scanned the small room. It was sparsely furnished – two dark wood benches, a long, matching table, and a chair in a corner. No one was in the room. But there was movement through an open doorway heading to the back of the building.
Once again, Grant led the way, with Caldwell close behind.
The four men had opened the long crate, and were looking inside. The three Turks, with their backs turned, had no idea that the stealthy Grant and Caldwell were behind them.
But Eric Clark looked up. His smile melted away into a sad resignation.
Clark said, “Hmmm, apparently, I miscalculated. Langley, I presume.”
Caldwell replied, “Sure as hell isn’t Dr. Livingstone.”
The trio of Turks spun to see who was speaking. Grant and Caldwell’s guns earned attention. Unfortunately, the Turks’ reactions were to go for their own weapons.
As chaos broke, Clark yelled, “No!” His partners paid no attention.
A short, fat man with little hair but a bushy, dark mustache was the first to move. As he pulled a gun from a shoulder holster, Grant fired off two shots. They both hit the man’s chest, quickly spreading blood down his ill-fitting white shirt.
The second man moving into action – medium build, thick black hair and a thin beard – managed to get off a shot in the direction of Grant and Caldwell. But before a second could be fired, Caldwell’s 9mm round found its way into the front of the Turkish man’s brain.
It was the third person working with Clark who presented the most significant threat. When Grant fired his initial shot, the middle-aged man, with graying hair, pointed nose and thick eyebrows, dove behind three of the stacked crates, pulling a mini-UZI from a canvas bag on the floor. He clicked the 32-round magazine in place, popped up from behind the crates, and fired at the two CIA invaders.
Amidst the hail of bullets, Grant gained cover alongside a heavy cabinet. Caldwell tried to move back through the doorway, but a round found her right calf. She returned fire blindly while falling to the floor.
The middle-aged Turk dropped back down until there was a pause from Caldwell’s gun. He popped back up, smiled broadly seeing Paige struggling to move in the direction of the doorway, and repositioned the mini-UZI to get a steadier death shot.
But the Turk’s own death came quickly and surprisingly from two directions. Moving in from behind, Eric Clark grabbed the Turk’s head with his left arm, while driving a tactical knife into the man’s back. At the same time, Grant slid from behind the cabinet across the floor, landing a round in the Turk’s stomach.
Clark let the man’s body, along with the knife, drop to the floor, and then, staring at the two guns pointed at him, put his hands up.
Without moving his eyes from Clark, Grant said, “Paige, you okay?”
“As they say in those movies you love, it’s just a flesh wound. I’ll be fine.”
“You owe me, again,” he replied.
Clark interrupted, “Hey, I helped.”
Grant moved toward Clark, with his gun still trained.
As she assessed her wound, Caldwell lectured Clark. “Oh, right, you’re such a great asset to the team. You jackass. You’re not only a damn thief, but you’re, in effect, a traitor. If it came to light that a CIA employee was running a ring smuggling antiquities out of Iraq, it would fuel conspiracy theories across the region.”
“Still, I wouldn’t allow these men to kill a fellow agency employee. That’s got to count in the equation, right?”
Caldwell replied, “What do you want, a fucking gold star?”
Clark ignored her comment, adding, “Besides, who said I was the one running things?”
Grant asked, “What does that mean?”
Clark smiled. “Now, why would I tell you that? I need something to bargain with, to limit my potential losses, don’t I?”
Grant looked into the box the four thieves had opened.
Staring up was a bronze figure almost five feet long.
Caldwell limped over and glanced into the crate as well. “Who’s that supposed to be?”
Grant responded, “I can’t be sure.” He looked up and down the figure, noting the carvings of torches and the flames at the bottom. “But if I recall from readings I did after one of my ancient history courses at Valpo, this could be a representation of Girra, a Mesopotamian god of fire. He was worshiped for the role that fire played in purification and in making things like bricks, but also feared for his destructive acts, like setting fields ablaze.”
Caldwell rolled her eyes. “Too much information.”
Grant smiled at Paige, and then looked at Clark, who still had his hands in the air. Grant tilted his head toward Girra. “That belongs in a museum.”
Clark looked bewildered, and shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, okay?”
Grant shook his head. “How do you not know that line?”
Caldwell said, “Okay, I’ll say it: ‘So do you.’ Now that you’ve gotten another Indiana Jones moment out of the way – God, how many has that been since we were given this job? – could you get Tank on the satphone and let him know what we have?”
