“’Scuse me,” said Karr. He put his right hand on top of the SUV, slipping the tracking device under the roof rack. “I’m a little lost and I was looking for Sultanahmet Square?”
The man answered by aiming a Beretta at his face.
“Whoa — probably not around here, huh?” Karr took a couple of steps backwards, then trotted sideways down the driveway. He didn’t figure that the bodyguard would be stupid enough to shoot him if he didn’t have to — but you never could tell. Syrians weren’t noted for common sense.
“What are you doing?” said Rockman.
“Just playing the ugly American,” said Karr, ducking around the corner. They’d parked two other cars nearby, and Karr decided to walk to the red Volkswagen on the nearby side street, making it less likely that the driver would spot him. Between the tracking devices and the bug implant, which could be tracked using triangulation, it was unnecessary for him to stay very close to Asad as he trailed the terrorist to his lair.
“Tommy, Red Lion’s coming out. Get ready to follow him.”
“Ya think?” laughed Karr, getting into the car.
CHAPTER 13
The pain came in waves, shaking Asad bin Taysr’s head from the inside, as if his brain were pounding against his skull, trying to escape. The doctor had said something about pain killers, and while Asad wouldn’t ordinarily trust an Egyptian — they were as a rule decadent, corrupted by their proximity to the Jews — the man had seemed to know what he was talking about, accurately describing how the pain would feel.
He was lucky to have escaped so easily. God had delivered him from calamity, from the Devil himself, to preserve his mission. In a few days, Asad bin Taysr would lead Islam to the next stage in its historical battle with the demonic West. His blows would strike at the heart of the western economies, sweeping away the foundation of their oppression against Islam. The strikes would not be as symbolic as the glorious raid on the World Trade Center and Pentagon in America on 9/11, peace be with the souls of the brave martyrs who had carried it out. But it would be more devastating. Their economies would crumble.
“Find out what this medication is.” Asad handed over the prescription to Abd Katib, the chief of his bodyguards. “And get me some.”
“Yes, sheik. It will be done.”
“The others?”
“The driver is still in the hospital. He broke his leg and his face was burned by the air bag.”
The driver had joined them in southern Turkey; though a Saudi who had been recommended by a trusted associate, Asad did not know him well enough to gauge how far he could be trusted.
“He is a liability in the hospital,” said Asad.
“That will be taken care of before the sun goes down.”
“His widow will be told that he was a martyr. He was a soldier of God, and peace be upon him.”
CHAPTER 14
“They want to kill the driver,” Marie Telach said, pushing the microphone of her headset away from her face. “What do you want to do?”
Rubens stared at the screen, which showed the feed from Tommy Karr’s Volkswagen as he drove through the streets of Istanbul. It had been many years since Rubens was in Turkey, but at least from what he saw on the screen, little had changed. Past and present bumped up against each other in a dusty jumble. Minarets rose over cascades of domes, but what drew the eye were the billboards for credit cards and Western cigarettes.
“How long has the driver been with Asad?” asked Rubens.
“He met Asad and the bodyguards just over the Syrian border. The CIA has nothing on him, not even a name.”
This didn’t mean that the man was unimportant. The CIA was notorious for its ignorance.
“If he’s to be of any use, he would need to see that they wanted to kill him,” Rubens told Telach.
“That’ll be tricky. We’ll need to use the backup teams.”
The Red Lion operation was a Desk Three venture, but the Deep Black field team was too small to insure success in the event something went wrong. Several teams of backup surveillance people and resources like small boats and planes were scattered around the Istanbul area. Coordinated by the Art Room, the individual units had limited knowledge of the operation to help insure secrecy. Security was so great that the CIA agents and paramilitaries on standby had not participated in the extensive rehearsals.
“Where are our operatives now?” Rubens asked Telach.
“Tommy and Dean are in separate cars, tracking Asad,” said Telach. “We assume they’re en route to a safe house.”
“Lia?”
“Just picked up Dr. Ramil and is heading to his hotel.”
“If the others don’t need her, have her arrange to meet one of the CIA teams near the hospital. You can see the driver’s room through the security network?”
“Yes.”
“Lia should plan something to snatch the driver — but the danger he is in has to be clear.”
CHAPTER 15
Lia had the cab stop at the Four Seasons, a deluxe hotel in the Sultanahmet area of old Istanbul, the center of the city’s main tourist attractions. She paid the driver, rounding up the tip to the next whole lira, then joined Ramil on the sidewalk. The doctor seemed spent, his face white and drawn.
“You all right?” she asked.
“Tired. Did you change my hotel?”
“We’re going to walk around this way,” said Lia, pointing to the right. “I want to make sure the hotel isn’t being watched before we go in.”
“Uh-huh.”
They walked down the cobblestone street, turning up the hill in the direction of the Blue Mosque. The stones were not as old as they seemed; the area was booming because of the tourist trade, and the road had recently been torn up and resurfaced. Middle-aged men watched them from the sidewalk near their stores. Had they looked more like rich tourists, the men would have approached and hawked rugs or a nearby restaurant, but Ramil’s Egyptian face and Lia’s heavy dress signaled they weren’t worth the effort.
Watching tourists was a favorite pastime in this part of Istanbul, but as they circled the block Lia didn’t spot anyone who looked like they were interested in anything other than selling them a rug. In the meantime, Sandy Chafetz checked the feed from the video bugs they’d planted in the hotel and told her everything was quiet.
The Sari Oteli had been built as a townhouse by a member of the sultan’s entourage sometime in the seventeenth century. Rebuilt at the end of the twentieth, it had the air of a country inn rather than a big city hotel. The woman at the desk greeted Ramil warmly, remembering the cover story he had told her that he was a doctor.
“My friend is a nurse I met at the conference,” said Ramil. “She’s going to help me with some notes.”
Lia rolled her eyes.
“You made it sound like you picked me up,” she told him after scanning the room to make sure there were no bugs.
“I don’t think she thought that.” Ramil collapsed back on the bed.
Lia retrieved the suitcase of spare clothes she’d left in the closet. Sweating like a pig under the heavy Islamic dress, she jumped into the shower before changing into Western clothes, a long skirt and knit sweater baggy enough to hide one of her guns as well as a satphone and her handheld PDA.
Ramil was snoring on the bed when she came out. Lia checked the video feeds, then sat on the other bed to check in with the Art Room.
“How’s the doc?” asked Chafetz.
“Out cold. Where are Dean and Karr?” Lia asked.
“They’re trailing Asad,” said Telach, coming on the line. “Listen, we want you go back near the hospital.”
“Why?”
“We want to put together an operation to snatch Red Lion’s driver. The al-Qaeda people are going to kill him. We heard Asad okay the plan.”
“So?”
“Lia, I’m not in the mood. Get back over there right away. Dr. Ramil can go back to the hospital to set up a review of his patient.”
“Rami
l’s going nowhere,” said Lia. “He’s out cold. Besides, he’s supposed to be able to take care of himself, isn’t he? He doesn’t need me watching him.”
“Fine.” There was a pop on the line as the Art Room supervisor switched out of Lia’s channel.
CHAPTER 16
Karr turned onto Kennedy Caddesi, the highway that circled old Istanbul, and drove along the Sea of Marmara, the large body of water connecting the Mediterranean with the Black Sea. He passed a large marina of pleasure boats and turned off to the left, circling toward the water. Both SUVs were about a half mile dead ahead.
“Hey, Charlie, you hearing me?” he asked Dean.
“I’m here.”
“I’m off the Kennedy road, near the water. Why don’t you go on ahead in case they get back on?”
“They’re probably going to take a boat.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figure.”
If Asad went out in a boat, Karr would launch a Crow — a small robot aircraft that looked like the bird it was named for. The Crow would stay near the al-Qaeda leader until Karr arranged for a boat to pick him or Dean up. They had four small vessels in the waters nearby, all operated by contracted paramilitaries who had no knowledge of the overall mission.
The PDA he was using to plot the SUV’s positions beeped, then beeped again, indicating that the vehicles had stopped. According to the map, they were on the other side of the highway, away from the water.
“Yo, Rockman — what are these dudes talking about?” Karr asked. “They going for a boat or what?”
“Buggee isn’t talking, Tommy. They’re just sitting there.”
“Tommy, how close are you to Red Lion?” asked Marie Telach.
“Quarter of a mile, little more. Right?”
“We’re worried that we’re not hearing anything. It’s possible something is interfering with the signal.”
“Yeah, I was thinking that myself. I’ll take a walk with one of the boosters and see if that helps.”
He pulled the car forward, leaving just enough space for someone else to get by. Then he grabbed his backpack and got out, pulling on a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses. He’d just reached the highway when Rockman warned him that the cars were moving again. It was too late to turn around without seeming suspicious, so Karr continued walking, thumb curled in the backpack’s strap.
“Bug’s working,” said Rockman. “They’re just following some sort of prearranged plan.”
“Great” said Karr. “Then you’ll hear them shoot me.”
Neither of the SUVs slowed down as they passed. Karr continued past the spot where they had stopped, figuring the second car might have dropped off someone to watch for a trail.
“Coming your way, Charlie,” he said. “I’ll catch up in a bit.”
* * *
Traffic was light, and Dean had no trouble pulling out about a half a mile ahead of the SUVs, protected from sight by a bend in the road. He drove slowly enough that they passed him within a few minutes. Dean waited until they were nearly out of sight to pick up his pace. A dulmus—a minivan used as a local bus — pulled onto the road between them and Dean had to slow down again. He was just thinking he might pass the bus when one of the SUVs turned off the highway, once more heading toward the city.
“Tommy, you in your car?”
“About five minutes away. I thought they might have dropped someone off but I can’t see him.”
“They split up. Asad’s in the truck that got off the highway. I’m going to stick with him.”
“Gotcha.”
Dean followed the SUV into a residential area. A few minutes later, he passed the vehicle, which had parked in front of a three-story house. The bottom of the house was made of narrow gray bricks, which gave way about the middle of the second story to dark black clapboard.
“You got him,” said Rockman. “The buggee’s inside.” He chortled a bit, in love with his earlier joke about the buggee getting buggered. “Looks like the other SUV is circling around and headed in your direction. He’s at least ten minutes away. Tommy’s on his tail.”
“Great,” said Dean, continuing down the street so he could find a place to park.
* * *
“Best place to put the receiving unit is this tree behind the house,” said Karr, jabbing his finger at the picture in the screen of the PDA.
“Too close,” said Dean. “You can see it from the top floor of the house.”
They were three blocks away, sitting beneath the pink umbrella of a small cafe. Small was the operative word — there was only one table, and they were the only customers. Karr had launched the Crow, allowing them to view the neighborhood.
“I could land the Crow in the tree and we could get it,” said Karr. “Claim it’s a kite.”
Dean took the PDA and looked at the image from the small, unmanned aircraft. The robot plane flew a random pattern, and looked so much like a real bird that Dean had mistaken a real one for the robot soon after Karr launched it.
“This house here is above them,” said Dean, pointing to a smooth white building two doors away. Even though it appeared to be only two stories, its roof was higher and flat. “We could climb up the vine at the back and stick the unit in the gutter. No one’ll find it.”
“That vine will never hold me. We need Lia.”
“Lia’s not around,” said Dean. “Stay here.”
* * *
The vine gave way as soon as Dean pulled at it. He threw it to the ground and stepped back, looking for another way up. A large metal garbage can nearby would give him a decent boost if he dragged it over; he could push it over to the side and grab onto the metal conduit protecting the power line and pull himself up — assuming it didn’t give way under his weight. But the spot there was exposed; while he hadn’t seen anyone yet, he’d be in easy view from any of the neighboring houses.
Dean took another two steps back and bumped into something that moved. He swirled around, bowling over a boy six or seven years old. The kid’s soccer ball bounced from his hands, rolling away.
“Sorry,” said Dean. “Affedersiniz,” he added immediately, remembering the Turkish word for excuse me. He grabbed the ball and held it out to the boy, who was seven or eight.
The kid leaned forward, tilting his head — and then with a quick flick of his hand swatted it from Dean’s palm. He jumped up in time to rebound it off the top of his knee, settling it down on the ground with a grin.
“Pretty good, kid,” said Dean. The translator gave Dean the phrase in Turkish, but Dean didn’t have time to use it — the boy kicked the ball to Dean, who caught it as if it were an American football.
“How high can you kick it?” Dean asked the kid.
“I can kick higher than the house,” said the boy, his English perfect.
“What are you doing, Charlie?” Rockman asked.
Dean pulled a ten-lira note from his pocket and showed it to the boy. “Yours if you get the ball on the roof.”
He made it on the first try. Dean pulled the garbage can over; as he climbed on top of it the boy reappeared on the edge of the roof above him, laughing.
“How’d you do that, you little monkey?” asked Dean. He grabbed hold of the pipe and pulled himself to the top of the roof. The kid was waiting, ball under his arm, smiling.
Dean dug into his pocket and took out a bill.
“You wanna play soccer, mister?”
“You’d whip me ten ways to Sunday,” Dean told the boy. “Thanks, though ”
The kid gave him a forced little smile, then popped the ball upwards off his head. It shot up about five feet; he headed it again. Dean’s heart leapt as the boy tottered near the edge of the roof. But he recovered his balance, tapped the ball upwards, then dropped and climbed down the side, landing on the ground just as the ball completed its third bounce in front of his feet.
Dean planted the booster device between a gap in the bricks that formed a crown on the front part of the roof.
“Working
,” said Rockman. “Much better signal.”
“I’m going to kick the ball around with this kid a bit before I go back to the car,” Dean said, starting down. “For cover.”
“Since when are you nice to kids?” Rockman asked.
“I’m always nice to kids.”
CHAPTER 17
William Rubens was due at the White House at noon to brief the new national security advisor on the operation. With things running well, he decided to leave Crypto City early enough to stop and visit the old national security advisor, his friend and one-time teacher, George Hadash. But as he approached Hadash’s hospital room, he was suddenly filled with dread; it was only out of a sense of loyalty and duty that he forced himself to continue down the corridor. Two days before, Hadash had undergone an operation to remove a brain tumor. The doctors had pronounced the operation a great success, but Rubens, visiting him a few hours later, had a completely different impression.
“Come,” said Hadash when he knocked on the door. Rubens was pleasantly surprised to find him sitting up in bed, the newest issue of Foreign Affairs in his hands. A pile of books sat on the bed next to him; two laptops sat on the rolling tray to the left.
“William! How are you?” said Hadash, his voice as strong as ever.
“I believe the question is how are you?” said Rubens. He shook Hadash’s hand — a good grip, though a little cold — and looked for a chair to sit down in. The nearest one was covered with books: all on the Civil War, Rubens noted as he piled them on the floor.
“Have you read this?” Hadash held up the Foreign Affairs. “McNally on Russia?”
Before Rubens could answer — he had read a few paragraphs and then moved on in disgust — Hadash launched into a lengthy and devastating critique, punctuated several times by the phrase “and people in Congress talk seriously of McNally as the next secretary of state.”
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