Operation Just Cause II

[Jay]

OPERATION JUST CAUSE II

Security Classification: TOP SECRET

SITUATION REPORT

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OVERVIEW The Republic of Türkiye has authorized a covert intelligence operation in response to escalating security concerns connected to PKK-linked activity in Europe. The organization has been directed to conduct a targeted intelligence mission in Rome to neutralize Hasan Özen. Raids against PKK insurgents inside Türkiye and Northern Iraq have identified Özen as a principal financier of the PKK's financial network in Germany. Operating out of Austria, the MİT's direct action group has been tasked with finding, neutralizing, and disposing of Hasan Özen. Turkish intelligence has learned from sources that Özen will be in Rome, and as such, plans for Operation Just Cause II have been adjusted to be carried out in Italy. Operatives Siyah and Doğan will carry out their operation through the Turkish Embassy in Rome. Operation Just Cause II is designed as a limited intelligence operation focused on the disruption of the PKK's financial networks. MİT's direct action group will operate alongside diplomatic cover officials to carry out this operation.

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BELLIGERENTS

BLUEFOR	TARGET
Republic of Türkiye National Intelligence Organization (MİT)	Kurdistan Workers' Party Hasan Özen Italian security and intelligence authorities

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MISSION OBJECTIVES

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Operation Phase I: Intelligence Preparation

• Deploy MİT personnel under official and non-official capacities.
• Arrive in Rome and begin the hunt to locate Özen.
• Locate Özen and prepare to eliminate him.

Operation Phase II: Direct Action

• Direct Action Group will carry out a targeted hit on Özen.

Operation Phase III: Extraction

• MİT personnel under non-official covers will exfil back to Türkiye.

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Active Personnel

[3] MİT Intelligence Officers

• [1] Diplomatic Cover Attached to Turkish Embassy, Ankara
• [2] 'illegals'

[4] Support and Analysis Personnel, Ankara

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SECRET​ Operation Parameters​ Mission Planning Objective Definition: Operation Just Cause II will deploy two MİT Direct Action Personnel code names Siyah and Doğan, who will fly to Rome to meet with Puhu, an MİT case officer under official cover. Puhu will provide Siyah and Doğan access to weapons and equipment to carry out their operation. The operation will focus on identifying and neutralizing Özen. Area of Operations: The primary area of operations will be Rome, Italy. Post-Mission Procedures Departure: Siyah and Doğan will depart upon conclusion of kill operations and return to Ankara for mission debrief. Assessment: Following completion of the mission period, collected information will be reviewed to determine further diplomatic, intelligence, or security responses. Documentation: All mission-related reports will be archived according to intelligence handling procedures and restricted access requirements.

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CAMPAIGN REGISTER​

Phase	Description	Status
Just Cause – Phase I: Intelligence Assessment	MİT personnel operating under the codenames Siyah and Doğan establish contact with Puhu to receive mission objectives, reporting requirements, and operational priorities.	Active
Just Cause – Phase II: Direct Action	Siyah and Doğan will carry out a direct action operation against their target with the goal of neutralizing him. Efforts will be made to label the attack as an inter-PKK fight over the group's vision and future. The goal is to maintain plausible deniability and ensure the ability to conduct reprisals for ongoing PKK terror attacks in Türkiye.	Planned
Just Cause – Phase III: Extraction	Siyah and Doğan will extract immediately upon completion of their operation.	Planned

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END OF DOCUMENT
BELGENİN SONU​

 

[Jay]

SECRET​

The arrivals hall at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport hummed with rolling suitcases dragging across polished floors, the low murmur of dozens of different passengers from all over the world. Outside the overhead glass ceiling, a soft orange hue began to lighten the place as Rome settled into the morning.

Doğan adjusted the strap of his carry-on and glanced sideways at Siyah, who was scrolling through something on her notebook. Neither of them looked at each other for more than a few seconds as Siyah was busying herself with a printed itinerary attached to her notebook.

"Passport, please have it ready," an Italian airport attendant called down the line, funneling the crowd of disembarked passengers toward the immigration queue.

Ahead of them, a broad-shouldered man in a golf polo turned halfway around, catching her eyes. Siyah knew this guy would be chatter.

"Rough one?" he asked as Siyah noticed the thick Texas with its vowels stretched flat and easy.

"From Istanbul," she said, "Six hours feels like ten after a work week."

"First time in Rome?" He asked.,

"For me, yes." She tilted her head toward Doğan, who was just staring at the line hoping it'd move along. "Emre's been through before, layovers mostly. I'm off from my hospital rotation in Ankara, so I told him he owed me an actual weekend. Trevi Fountain, the Colosseum, entirely too much pasta. The whole thing." She said giving him a soft nudge causing him to look over and extend his hand to the American and say hello.

"Enjoy Rome while you've got the chance, then." The man's wife touched his elbow from behind, and he half-turned back to her, then added over his shoulder, "Best pizza's not near the tourist spots, by the way. Ask a local, walk ten minutes further than you think you should."

"Good to know," Siyah said, and the line lurched forward again.

The queue thinned ahead of them. A uniformed officer at one of the booths glanced up, scanned the line, and beckoned with two fingers.

"Prossimi. Next two, avanti."

Siyah gave the Texan a parting wave, murmured something about it being nice talking to him, and let her hand find Doğan's. Together they stepped toward the booth. Doğan slid both passports across the counter.

Emre Oktem	Zehra Senturk
Nationality: Republic of Türkiye Passport No.: U 08256560 Date of Birth: 13 April 1979 Place of Birth: İzmir, Türkiye Issued: 14 February 2007 Expires: 13 February 2017	Nationality: Republic of Türkiye Passport No.: U 08229443 Date of Birth: 22 May 1980 Place of Birth: Bursa, Türkiye Issued: 18 August 2008 Expires: 19 August 2018

Danny

 

[Danny]

The Airport would be bustling with holiday goers, it was coming to the summer season and Italy specially Rome at this time of the year would be popular with those visiting the many tourist attractions the capital had to offer.

Finanziere Altieri of the Guardia di Finanzia would be sat at the border control booth. He was a 48 year old divorcee and you could tell it had hit him hard. His hair was missing from the top, whilst black matte hair remained at the back and sides whilst his eyes were covered in tiredness. He was a burly, stocky individual who had been apart of the Guardia for many years, he was close to reaching Sovrintendenti back in 2004. But an serious incident that was caused by Altieri which was brushed under carpet and demoted to Customs left him with nothing.

He looked to the two Turks with a disgruntled look as if he hated his job, he reached out his hand gesturing for their passports. Upon being handed over, he'd carefully review each one rubbing his chin.

Noticing nothing out of the ordinary from the baggage checks and the passports, he'd stamp on each of their passports arrival marking the date and location before handing each of their passports back.

"Benvenuto di Roma." (Welcome to Rome) He gestured for the next in line.

Jay

 

[Jay]

SECRET​

Emre and Zehra took back their passports and smiled. "Thank you." They passed through immigration and out into the terminal, traveling light, backpacks and a carry-on between them. They walked in silence through the airport to the doors leading out to the taxi stand.

The taxi took them to their accommodation. Emre paid cash at the reception. Once inside their room, they unpacked and changed. Zehra kept watch at the window, eyes tracking the street below, while Emre swept the room, checking behind the mirror, under the mattress, along the baseboards and everywhere else. Once he was done he turned and gave Zehra a nod. She disappeared into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later in a loose shirt, her hair pulled back.

"Right," Emre said, handing her a folded page. "That's the target. The organization says he has a meeting here in Rome with left-wing militants. The station confirmed the meeting will be tonight near Trigoria."

Zehra studied it, then checked her watch. "We should get to the drop site soon."

Emre nodded and buttoned his linen shirt halfway up. They left the room and stepped into the street, folding into the foot traffic. They wandered past a few shopfronts and attractions, unhurried, until the path opened onto a small local park.

Emre scanned the treeline while Zehra crouched to retie her shoe, unhurried, her eyes flicking once toward the fountain at the center of the path before she stood. He took her hand, and they walked on, past a mother pushing a stroller, past two old men arguing amicably over a chessboard balanced on a stone ledge. They passed two trees before slowing near a third, a crooked one, its trunk bent low over the path.

Then the fountain came into view, worn marble, water lisping over a chipped rim. A single coin sat balanced on the edge. Zehra only tightened her grip on Emre's hand, once, and he understood.

They sat. As they took in the leaves stirring, joggers passing, a burst of laughter from children chasing a dog near the swings.

Zehra leaned in and kissed him, her hand sliding beneath the bench's slats as she did. Her fingers found the thin roll of paper wedged into the gap and drew it free in the same motion, tucking it into her sleeve before she'd even pulled back from the kiss.

They stayed a few minutes longer, watching the joggers, playing the part of two people with nowhere else to be. Then they rose and walked on, out through the park's far gate.

Once they were clear, Zehra slipped the paper from her sleeve into Emre's palm without either of them looking down. He unrolled it just enough to read the words in a tight, cramped hand, an address, a time, before rolling it thin again between his fingers.

He stopped to light a cigarette, cupping his hand against a breeze that wasn't really there, and tucked the paper alongside the tobacco at the tip. The flame caught it first. He let it curl and blacken, watching the ink disappear into ash, before he finally drew on the cigarette itself letting out a puff as the two walked through the streets to their next location.

They walked the rest of the way in no particular hurry.

The café was half-empty, tables mostly bare in the flat heat of the afternoon, a couple of old women with glasses of wine by the window and a waiter polishing the same spot on the counter. Emre held the door for Zehra, and they stepped in out of the sun.

The waitress looked up from behind the espresso machine, already faintly amused by the hour. "Buongiorno."

"Due cappuccini, per favore," Emre said.

Her eyebrows lifted, just slightly, cappuccino, at four in the afternoon. What a bunch of tourists she thought. She said nothing beyond a small nod, the corner of her mouth twitching. In the back, to the right.

Emre thanked her and they moved past the counter, through the curtain, into a dim back room that smelled of old espresso grounds and cigarette smoke. A man sat alone at a small table, a newspaper folded beside an empty cup.

Puhu looked up and smiled, "Welcome to Rome." He moved over to let the two take a seat. "I know it is not Vienna, but it is beautiful in its own way."

Emre took the seat as Zehra stayed standing for a moment. "Yes, sadly, we are temporarily here."

Zehra then took her seat. "Beauty is fleeting anyway."

Puhu nodded. "That it is indeed."

Puhu waited until the waitress had disappeared back through the curtain before he spoke, his voice dropping into something quieter, more clipped.

"Change of plans. Hasan Özen left Vienna last night. He's here, in Rome." He tapped the folded newspaper. "That's why this moved up."

Zehra's expression didn't shift, but she leaned in slightly. "Why Rome?"

"Station believes he's meeting with the radical left here, the old networks. Thailand wants the civil war restarted. A live insurgency in Italy again, decades after Anni di Piombo was supposed to be over. Özen is the one greasing the wheels."

Emre and Zehra exchanged a glance and nodded.

"What should we be expecting?" Zehra asked.

"We traced a call, a cellphone in Syria to a number here in Rome. The tech wizards confirmed it was him. He's set to meet Renato Bosco and a handful of his associates."

Puhu reached into his jacket and slid a yellow padded envelope across the table. Zehra took it without looking at it directly and slipped it into her purse.

"You'll find them in Trigoria," Puhu went on. "Third house down from the curb, on Via della Cronaca road."

"What should we expect there?" Zehra asked again, quieter this time.

"Difficulty. The Brigade will have their own counter-surveillance running. And Italian intelligence will almost certainly be trying to get in on this, if they've picked up even half of what we have." He paused. "You won't be the only ones in the shadows."

Emre sat back slightly. "So we're trying to slip between two cats, both hunting the same mouse."

Puhu allowed himself a small, tired smile at that. "Something like that."

He stood, straightened his jacket, and looked down at them. "Good luck. Once you've confirmed the target, extract immediately. You have a flight booked for tomorrow morning." Then he turned and walked out through the curtain, leaving the folded newspaper behind on the table.

Zehra watched the curtain settle back into place before she looked at Emre. "Just great. Center fucking changing the mission on us last minute. Half-baked intel. Theories not evidence. They're going to get us fucking killed."

"No," he agreed. "Vienna would've been clean. A single man, a single location, days to prepare." He turned his cup slowly on its saucer, not drinking from it.

"If Italian intelligence is already watching that street, we're not just avoiding Bosco's people. They'll be able to watch us before we leave." She kept her voice low, even, but her thumb moved absently against the strap of her purse. "We can't get him and get out. How the hell do they expect us to neutralize him?"

Emre finally took a sip of the cappuccino. "We go earlier then." He looked at her. "We go in earlier and scout it out. Figure out his vehicle and then place the explosive in the driver seat compartment. Detonate it remotely and exfil once it's done. Italian intelligence is following the Reds not Özen. It'll be cleaner and give us time to leave."

Zehra shook her head. "Are you mad?" She said rhetorically. "A bombing. A fucking bombing. That will alert them instantly. They will be all over us."

"No they won't." Emre said, putting down the cup. "The Italians have a thousand leftist and neo-nazi cells still active. By the time they realize the target was the Kurd, we will be long gone."

"And if Özen makes us?" Zehra said taking the newspaper from the table and folding it before dunking it slowly in the flame.

"We confirm he's there, we plant the bomb. We get the hell out of there. Puhu was clear. This isn't a snatch, is a hit operation."

Zehra exhaled slowly. "Let's just get this done."

They sat with that a while longer, the espresso machine hissing somewhere out front. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Neither of them reached for their cups again as Zehra wiped it down with a wipe from her bag before gettig up. .

Finally Emre set a few euros on the table and stood. "Shall we", he said, extending his arm.

Zehra rose without a word, slipping her purse onto her shoulder, and grabbing his arm from underneath. They walked back out through the half-empty café into the afternoon light. A cab was idling near the corner. Emre gave the driver an address two streets off from Via della Cronaca, and the two of them settled into the back seat as the cab pulled out into traffic, toward Trigoria.

 

[Danny]

Bosco and four associates sat inside the property whilst waiting for Özen to turn up. Bosco knew he was taking a very serious risk bringing the Red Brigades back into the frame. They have been inactive for years and kept out of Law Enforcement and the public eyes. But after the first few conversations with Özen over the phone, Bosco was intrigued of what he had to offer. At the moment, the Red Brigades were reliant heavily on Bosco and his activties.

Bosco was ageing suffering from acute arthritis but he still ruled what remained of the Brigades with a iron fist. He shuffled his black coat as he moved towards the window, moving the curtain revealing the outside. He looked at two of his associates going by the nom de gurres 'Martha' and 'Deli' who were conducting their own surveilliance and watching out for any Law Enforcement or Intelligence watching them.

"The Kurd will be here soon Jackal." Remarked one of the associates.

Bosco was known as 'Jackal' he was a prominent member of the old Red Brigades who had worked alongside the founders such as Margherita Cagol. As a young teen, he witnessed Cagol give up her life for him to escape during a Carabinieri stop and he swore he would continue the fight for her behalf.

Bosco looked at his phone, then his watch. "He's taking his sweet time." He held his left hand which was shaking uncontrollably.

The streets around Via della Cronaca was quiet. It was a dense and tight spaced neighborhood and enough cover. Those who lived there were either home or out enjoying the Spring warm weather.

Italian Law Enforcement were always on top of potential threats and they were one step ahead of the Brigade. The Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale Anti Terrorism Squad of the Carabinieri were given the task and aware that the Red Brigades were meeting in Villa della Cronaca and were there for over two days watching Bosco and his associates crammed in a small home. In a house adjacent to the target property, Carabiniere Rossa and De Santis were watching with cameras taking snap after snap and keeping tabs on what was going on. The target home was bugged a week before the day of the meet so they could hear everything that was going on inside.

"The Kurd huh? Do you think it could be those fuckers from what they call themselves..." De Santis paused, clicking his fingers thinking. "The PKK? Kurdistan Workers Party?"

"Possibly, but orders are until we see who the Jackals meeting and we know what they're about to plan. We don't storm the place." Replied Rossa.

Around the neighborhood, three unmarked vehicles filled with ROC operators armed with Beretta 92FS and H&K MP5s were stationed out of sight. Whilst the call was made to the specialist Gruppo di intervento speciale operators to assist with the raid, they were stationed next door whilst a few were waiting in the house were Rossa and De Santis were. They were all waiting for the go ahead. There was in total 20 GIS operators ready and they had their full armament.

Rossa grabbed his coffee mug, drinking the lukewarm cappuccino. He began to snap more photographs as he witnessed the Jackal remove the curtains outside.

"The Jackal." He snickered as he read Bosco's profile. "Been in prison for so many years and he still wants to cause trouble." Rossa remarked as he continued to take photographs.

Jay

 

[Jay]

SECRET​

The taxi rattled over a pothole, and Zehra's hand tightened briefly on the yellow envelope in her lap before she let it settle again. The driver, a heavyset man with a gold crucifix swinging from the mirror, caught Emre's eye in the reflection.

"Trigoria," the driver said, drawing the word out like it tasted strange in his mouth. "Nobody goes to Trigoria. You go to Trigoria for what, football? The academy is there. Roma's boys."

"Not for football," Emre said, settling back against the seat. "My wife's colleague, she studied at the hospital there. Campus Bio-Medico. She's been telling her for a year to come see it, so." He shrugged.

The driver glanced at Zehra in the mirror. "You're a doctor?"

"Nurse," Zehra said, offering a small smile. "My friend did her residency there, then transferred to Rome for the program. I promised her I'd see the building myself. It sounds foolish, I know."

"Not foolish," the driver said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "Just…nobody leaves Rome for that. Tourists want the center. The fountains, the ruins. Trigoria is nothing. Quiet streets, a golf course, some sheep, if you can believe it. My cousin lives out there. He says even the pizza is better closer to the city."

"Its only for a few hours anyway," Emre said, and let the conversation die there, watching the buildings thin out through the window as the cab pulled them south.

Beside him, Zehra had turned slightly toward the door, the envelope angled into the gap between her body and the seatback, out of the mirror's line. Her fingers worked the flap loose without a sound. Inside, a slab of grey putty wrapped in cling film, a detonator no larger than a cigarette lighter nested in foam, two coils of wire taped flat. She then folded the flap back under itself and set the envelope back on her lap.

She looked up. The driver was still talking, something about his cousin's sheep, and she smiled at the right moment like she'd been listening the whole time.

They had the driver drop them at the edge of Parco Alessandrini Rocco de Zerbi, paying in cash. Emre thanked him in Italian, and the taxi pulled a U-turn and disappeared back toward the city.

The park was quiet in the early afternoon heat, a scatter of benches, a dry fountain, two teenagers sharing earbuds under a plane tree. Emre and Zehra walked its perimeter first, unhurried, his arm loose around her shoulders, her head tilted toward him like he'd said something worth laughing at.

"Winery," Zehra murmured, tipping her chin toward a low stone building visible past the treeline to their right, a hand-painted sign, barrels stacked under an awning. "Good sightline down the road, if anyone's using it."

"Noted." Emre didn't look at it directly. He was watching the road beyond the park's far edge instead, where it bent and narrowed into a residential street lined with terracotta rooftops. "That's the turn for della Cronaca."

They crossed out of the park onto Via del Torchio, the street running parallel and opposite to the target road, close enough to observe. Zehra laced her fingers through his again, and they walked down the road, stopping once for her to peer into the window of a shuttered hardware store, Emre's reflection in the glass giving him a clean look back down the street they'd just come from.

"Anything?" she asked, still facing the window.

"Parked van, two blocks back. Empty, far as I can tell." He turned them gently by the elbow, changing direction, using her as the pivot so his own back was never to the same stretch of road for long. "Could be nothing."

They kept walking, trading the lead every few minutes, one of them slowing reting a shoe while the other's eyes swept the windows above the street, the parked cars, the doorways sitting a little too open for the hour.

It was Emre who saw it first. A dark sedan came down the cross street at an unhurried pace, and for half a second the angle gave him a clean look through the rear passenger window.

He didn't stop walking. He didn't even turn his head fully. But his hand found the small of Zehra's back and pressed, once, and she felt it and looked without looking, her gaze sliding sideways. It was Özen. Older than his file photo, thinner in the face, but it was him, sitting upright in the back seat, saying something to the driver.

"Its him," Zehra breathed, barely moving her mouth.

Emre reached into Zehra’s purse and drew the bomb from the envelope opened halfway out, no more motion necessary than adjusting a bag strap. He took it, and placed it under his arm. He was already moving, out from between two parked cars at an angle calculated to intersect the road exactly where the sedan would be.

The car's horn screamed a half beat before the impact. Emre took it on the hip and went down hard onto the asphalt, map skittering away. The sedan's tires locked, rubber screaming, and it lurched to a stop a meter past him.

For a moment nobody moved. Then the curses started, muffled through glass, Emre could hear the Kurdish as Özen's voice cracked with a particular rage.

Zehra was already running, her voice pitched high and cracking. "Oddio, oddio, are you hurt, can you hear me, someone help him!" She screamed.

She dropped to her knees at Emre's side, hands fluttering over him touching him all over, and in the same motion, low, screened by her own body and the angle of the car, her free hand grabbed the explosives from Emre's arm and she found the gap beneath the rear passenger undercarriage and stuck the explosive into the frame, wire looped fast around the strut, thumb pressing the putty flat against cold metal before she pulled her hand back and let it return to Emre's shoulder like it had never left him.

The driver's door flew open. The front passenger followed a beat behind, hand already drifting toward the back of his jacket, eyes cutting up and down the street. Özen leaned forward from the back seat, face red, shouting something at the driver that needed no translation.

Zehra rounded on the driver before he'd taken two steps, her voice climbing into real fury now, Italian pouring out of her fast and ugly, guardare dove si va, cieco, idiota, you could have killed him, look what you did, look at him. She jabbed a finger at Emre, who was pushing himself up onto one elbow, groaning, cursing back in Italian loud enough to be heard over her, clutching his hip like it might be broken.

The driver threw his hands up, shouting back, gesturing at the two of them to pay attention. Seeing it was to no avail, he then shifted his jacket as he squared up, just enough for the grip of a Glock to show at his waistband.

Emre saw it. He got a hand around Zehra's wrist and pulled hard. "Basta, basta," he muttered, dragging himself upright, already turning them both away. "We're fine. We're fine, leave it." He said, limping away.

Zehra let herself be pulled, throwing one last venomous look over her shoulder, still muttering under her breath as Emre limped them both off the road and back toward the corner, putting distance and a parked delivery truck between themselves and the sedan.

Behind them, the driver spat onto the ground and climbed back in, slamming the door. The front passenger lingered a moment longer, scanning the street once, twice, then folded himself back inside.

The sedan pulled away from the curb, picked up speed, and turned right onto della Cronaca.

Emre's looked over her when they were behind the truck. "You get it under?"

"Stuck it under him in the car." Zehra was already moving, angling them along the row of parked cars toward the corner, keeping the truck between themselves and the sedan's mirrors. "We need eyes on where it stops."

They came up the street at a walk, ducking in behind a parked Alfa two houses short of della Cronaca's mouth, low enough that the car's roofline was all that showed above the hood.

The sedan rolled to a stop outside a narrow terracotta house halfway down the block. Zehra's hand closed slowly around the detonator in her pocket, thumb finding the switch without looking.

"Wait," Emre breathed.

The front door of the house had opened, and a third man was coming down the steps toward the sedan, the man had one hand lifted in a wave, someone from the Red Brigade coming out to walk Özen in.

Emre's jaw tightened. "Who the hell is that?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Zehra..."

"He's ten feet from the car and closing. It doesn't matter who he is." Her thumb was already flat against the switch, her eyes locked on Özen's shoulder still framed in the open door. "We wait for him to reach the car, we lose the window. We wait for him to get clear, Özen's already inside."

"That's a civilian..." Emre began to say as he saw the man get closer. The rear door of the car swung open.

Before Emre could say anything, Zehra pressed the switch.

The sedan came apart from the inside, a flat, compressed crack that punched the air out of the street before the sound of it caught up, glass and metal flung sideways into the terracotta wall of the house behind it. The third man was three strides short of the car when the blast reached him, and he went down with it, thrown back against the steps he'd just come down.

The wave rolled past Emre and Zehra a half second later, shaking the Alfa's windows, kicking grit across the pavement. Neither of them had flinched. They'd both turned their faces away before it went.

When Emre looked back, black smoke was pouring off a wreck that no longer resembled a car, one wheel spinning uselessly in the gutter. On the steps, the third man wasn't moving either.

"Confirmed," Zehra said, already rising. Emre didn't answer right away. He was still looking at the shape on the steps.

"Emre." She was already three steps toward the side street, not looking back. "Now."

Behind them, the neighborhood was walking outside, wondering what had happened, a woman's scream somewhere behind shuttered windows, a dog barking itself hoarse, someone's voice rising in Italian, fuoco, chiama qualcuno, chiama. The Italian agents would see the fireball and have to react as it was clear something went wrong.

As for Emre and Zehra didn't look back again as they walked, then ran with the crowd away. The hospital's drop-off circle was busy enough to swallow them, a line of cars, an ambulance idling by the entrance, visitors coming and going under the Campus Bio-Medico sign.

Emre raised a hand and a cab peeled off from the rank, and they climbed in without a word to each other, Zehra sliding across the seat, Emre giving the driver an address in the city center in Italian. The cab pulled out into traffic. Zehra kept her eyes forward, her hands folded in her lap.

Two blocks on, the sirens started, distant at first, then closer, a rising layer of them stacking on top of each other. The cab driver slowed instinctively, glancing in his mirror, and in the oncoming lane a police car screamed past, lights strobing blue across the windshield, then another behind it, then a fire truck taking up the whole width of the road, horn blaring a warning at the cars scattering to let it through.

The driver clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Sempre qualcosa," he muttered. Always something.

"Sempre," Emre agreed, watching the fire truck recede in the side mirror. Zehra didn't turn to look at all. She kept her eyes on the road ahead.

At the hotel, they didn't speak until the door was locked behind them. Zehra went first, scrubbing until the water ran cold, checking her hairline, her nails, the crease behind her ears, anywhere grit or residue could hide. Emre did the same after her, longer than he needed to, watching the water circle the drain. When they were both clean, they changed into fresh clothes, packed what little they'd unpacked, and Emre called down to have the bill settled that night.

The cab was waiting by the time they came down. Neither of them said much on the ride, the city sliding past dark and unbothered, until Emre noticed the bag sitting in Zehra's lap, small, ribboned, out of place against her hands.

"What's that?"

"Souvenir." She didn't look up.

He looked again, closer this time. A goodie bag with Rome magnets, memorabilia, chocolate, and a printed card visible through the cellophane. He almost asked, and then realized it was just the station chief's idea of tradecraft humor. He looked away instead and let the matter drop.

At the airport, they moved with the rest of the crowd, handing over their passports without incident, carrying their bags through security. Then they sat, side by side, waiting for the flight back to Ankara, chatting briefly about their plans back home, the chores awaiting them, and all that boring stuff. When the time came, they boarded their flight and returned to Ankara all the same.

Back at Trigoria, the Italian Intelligence Services would see the small crater left from the explosion. Inside the car three bodies could be made out. A forensic analysis would show that C4 was used and that the explosion likely came from the rear passenger side.

In addition, the Italian Intelligence Services would likely hear chatter either within the Red Brigade or between the group and the PKK cells that the "Connector" had been killed. It was not long before the Red Brigade realized there must have been a mole or that someone was watching them. As for the PKK, the blame rested with the Italians, whom they now believed to be working with Turkish intelligence.

Italian intelligence would begin picking up chatter that the PKK was beginning plans to retaliate against Italy. Although the time, manner, and place of such retaliation remained unknown.

Danny