by Cliff Ryder
She dashed through an opening in a chain-link fence and ran across the hot tarmac. She stayed behind vehicles and heavy equipment.
"Get down! Get down!" she ordered the dockworkers. When they didn't move fast enough, she hauled her pistol from her waistband and waved it around. She waited to fire, not knowing if the water had completely cleared the barrel.
The dockworkers moved quickly, but they ran for their lives when bullets ripped through the chain-link fence and ricocheted off the cars and heavy equipment.
Only a short distance ahead of her, a young man straddled a motorcycle. Ajza ran toward him, rammed him in the back with an elbow and knocked him off the bike. She caught the motorcycle before it fell over — she didn't know if she had the strength to right it if it went down. She shoved her pistol back into the waistband holster.
Hurrying, trying to remain calm, she threw a leg over the motorcycle, slammed the gearshift into low, twisted the throttle and let out the clutch. The rear tire grabbed traction at once and she shot forward. Bullets chased her, peppering vehicles and the road.
One of Mustafa's cars braked ahead of her. Men spilled from the car and drew their weapons, taking aim at once.
Out of options, Ajza steered across the road, double-clutched and downshifted, then powered the motorcycle's front tire into the air. She hit the road's edge and went airborne.
Panic churned through her as she felt the heavy motorcycle fighting the jump. The ground came up faster than she anticipated. When she landed, she struggled for control and barely managed to keep the motorcycle upright as the rear tire churned through the loose earth. She threw her body violently to the side and managed to stay on.
Her knee, dropped far outside to aid in balance, struck the ground, the material of her pants ripping. The exposed flesh burned hotly. She didn't know how badly she was hurt because the impact, after an initial burst of pain, made her knee go numb.
The drop hid her from the view of the gunners. For a moment she thought she'd lost them. Then she heard the racing engine paralleling her route and knew they hadn't given up.
The soft ground of the slope Ajza drove over proved treacherous as loose soil tore free under the motorcycle's tires. She nearly lost control twice and knew that the bike was too heavy for the off-road conditions. Desperate, she angled upward, hoping to somehow get by her pursuers.
A low-slung sedan roared out of nowhere and slammed into the car pursuing her. The collision forced the car off the road and it briefly sailed through the air over the embankment. A moment later the car landed in the trees and rolled. A man's broken body tumbled from one of the windows.
Ajza hoped it wasn't Nazmi just before thoughts of survival consumed her again. She steered up the embankment, standing on the pegs as the motorcycle bucked and heaved beneath her.
The car that had smashed Mustafa's pursuit vehicle jerked into motion just as she passed it. Armed men sat inside, but none of them seemed interested in her.
A third party? Ajza couldn't imagine anyone who would want to take part in the confrontation going on. Everything that existed to fight over was lying at the bottom of the harbor.
It might have been the MI-6 backup team she'd waited on.
They hadn't identified themselves, though, and she couldn't take that chance. She accelerated and raced through the motorcycle's gears again. No one stayed with her this time. But she still didn't feel safe.
11
London
"Okay," Samantha said as she watched the motorcycle race back into the heart of the city, "she's away."
"Pretty resourceful," Kate commented.
"I'd have to agree. We weren't set up to deal with a cache of weapons."
"And if you'd known for sure they were there?"
Samantha didn't hesitate. "The only option we'd have had was the same one Ajza exercised."
"I agree. If we'd thought of it as quickly. I have to admit, she was ahead of me. As you said, we weren't set up to handle weapons."
"Intel assured us that Mustafa doesn't deal in weapons. We were there to target a drug shipment and take it out to disrupt the finances we'd uncovered."
"I want to track down both ends of this operation," Kate said. "Those were American weapons. They were a special order. I'll handle things from this end. Maybe you could have someone take a look at Mustafa's business and find out where those weapons were going. He's not an end-user for something like that."
"Agreed. Nor is he set up to piece a shipment like that off. He was acting as a middleman for a buyer."
"I want to find out who that buyer is," Kate said.
Samantha watched the car Red Team had used to run blocker for Ajza Manaev. The driver fought with the steering but finally got the vehicle back on solid ground. He drove away, but from the looks of the smoke billowing out from under the hood, the car wasn't destined to go far.
"We have Red Team in the field," Samantha said.
"How exposed are they?" Kate asked.
Samantha considered. "Provided they can get cleanly out of this, they should be fine."
"Are there any undercover operatives among them?"
"No one we can put on the ground here."
"What about local assets?" Kate asked. "Can we exploit those?"
"Yes. But we're going to take a chance on burning them."
"With Mustafa."
"Yes."
"When we're finished here, let's take Mustafa off the board," Kate said.
Samantha was surprised by the decision. Kate Cochran didn't casually order someone's execution. Yet that was exactly what the Room 59 director had just done. "All right," she said. She knew it was the right decision.
"Mustafa is too good at what he does," Kate went on. "I don't want to risk him expanding his business. His departure should trigger a power struggle that one of the intelligence agencies can take advantage of."
"I think so, too. I know my agency will be interested in keeping an eye on things there." Samantha consulted the wall screen again.
Turkish military vehicles had arrived on the scene. Fishermen, cargo handlers and tourists were all being pushed back from the area where the truck had gone into the water. Another group converged on the wrecked car Red Team had taken out.
"Are you ready to wrap this?" Kate asked.
"Yes."
"Get a report to me immediately. Let's work through debrief quickly and establish the next leg of this project."
"Will do." Samantha cut Kate out of the communication loop. Then she contacted Red Team and ordered them to pull back, too. "Where's Manaev?"
"She headed back into the city," the lead computer-tech support answered. "We lost her in the crowd."
Smart girl, Samantha thought. "Support?"
"Yes."
"Get me a full background and a deep jacket on Ajza Manaev. I want it at my workstation in an hour."
"I'll have it there."
Samantha turned to the computer crew on-site. "Box it up."
Quickly and efficiently, the computer crew stowed their gear back in the protective cases. In minutes it was like they'd never been there.
"Do you think she'll get out of Istanbul all right?" the lead computer specialist asked when they reached the sidewalk outside.
Samantha looked at the man and smiled a little. "Smitten?"
He shrugged. "She's pretty brill. Gotta give her that. I thought that bloody lot had her a couple of times."
"But they didn't."
The man frowned. "I've worked ops where things didn't turn out so well."
Samantha had, too. "As talented as she is, she'll have a bolt-hole."
"Even if her mates didn't show up to cover her back?"
"When you're out in the field," Samantha replied, "you always keep two escape plans. One that your handlers know about and another that no one knows about."
The man nodded. "Hope so. Well, then, we're off." He grinned. "Thanks again for another exciting time."
"You, too," Samantha said. She turne
d and walked into the shadows. Stifling a yawn, she reflected on the fact that she wasn't going to get any sleep.
By the time she put the car in gear and pulled out onto the street, she was already organizing her report to Kate Cochran in her head.
12
Istanbul
Mustafa stared at the bloody man sitting in the straight-backed chair in the center of the shipping container on the dock. A single battery-operated light hung over the man's head, but the angle left the man's face in shadows. His rasping breath filled the close confines of the container.
"Someone leaked information about the transaction I had a few days ago," Mustafa said.
"It wasn't me," the wounded man gasped. "Please, please, it wasn't me."
"Only a handful of people knew what we were doing that morning. You were one of those, Hamid."
"I only did as you ordered."
"You handled the money," Mustafa said. "You knew who I was dealing with and when I was going to do the deal."
The man cried. His shoulders jerked as the hoarse sobs tore from his dry throat. Bloody drool dripped onto his shirt. Two broken teeth caught the light and gleamed on his chest.
"I would not betray you," the man insisted.
"You would do anything for money. Even sell your own mother." Mustafa knew that because he was no different.
"Please. I beg you. I did not betray you."
Mustafa sighed. He knew that discovering how the transaction was sabotaged was a long shot, but he'd felt compelled to try it. The immediate avenue to explore was the financial one. He was confident Hasan wouldn't have betrayed him.
"I have lost the weapons and my money," Mustafa said. It wasn't all his money, of course. His buyer had put up half the amount, but if things went badly and the man didn't understand the circumstances, Mustafa would have to pay that back, as well.
"I did not cause that to happen."
"Sadly, my friend, I believe you."
The man raised his head tentatively. Hope dawned in his swollen eyes. He made an immense effort to smile, but the result looked forced and false.
"We are friends, Mustafa. I have told you this many times. What is good for you is good for me." The man's mouth and jaw barely worked after the beating, but he tried to fill his words with sincerity.
"I know. We have had a satisfactory arrangement. You're very skilled. I hate the thought of losing you."
"But you don't have to lose me. I will still work for you." Fear drowned the hope in the man's gaze.
"I believe you," Mustafa said. "For a while, perhaps. But you've been badly beaten, Hamid. Soon, too soon, you will desire your pound of flesh for all that I have put you through. It is only human. Were I in your shoes, I would do the same."
The man shook his head desperately. "That's not true. I understand why you did this to me."
"One day you will not feel so understanding." Mustafa took a breath and gestured to one of the men standing beside him. The man handed him a slim black pistol. "Also, until I find the person truly responsible for my loss, I have to let others know that I am no fool. And that I will not suffer betrayal easily."
"Please, Mustafa. I beg you. Don't do this." The man wept openly now. His voice shrilled.
"I must. Someone must be punished. Even if it's not the right person. I have to kill someone." Mustafa pointed the silenced pistol at the man's head. "But I will miss you. I also promise you that I will kill whoever is responsible for your death."
Hamid tried to jerk in the chair, but it was bolted to the floor and the rope bound him too tightly.
Mustafa shot the prisoner in the face. The round didn't kill Hamid immediately, and Mustafa had to shoot the man twice more to get the job done.
"Clean this up," Mustafa said to the men as he handed the pistol back. "Leave his body where it can be found."
* * *
Mustafa punched numbers on his cell phone while he sat in the luxury of his private car. Two bodyguards sat with him and the driver. Bulletproof glass made the night outside the windows seem darker. Despite the additional weight of the armor, the sedan rode low and smooth and moved powerfully.
The connection rang twice.
"Yes," a deep voice with a Russian accent answered.
"I have found our leak," Mustafa announced. Later, when he found the true leak, he could simply claim that person had acted in collusion with Hamid.
"That's good, but it's too late to save my shipment. This is a big disappointment to me."
Mustafa held back a curse. He couldn't blame the other man for feeling as he did, but he still didn't want to carry the blame.
"I'm hoping to replace your shipment very soon," Mustafa said. "As a matter of fact, I have leads now that should…"
"No."
Mustafa controlled his anger, fear and frustration. He wasn't used to being told no. "I don't understand."
"Your services are no longer required."
That wasn't what Mustafa wanted to hear. He wasn't a domestic servant who could be casually dismissed. He silently cursed his bad luck and promised a horrible death to whoever had betrayed him.
"Don't be hasty. You're not going to find anyone else who can deliver the goods you need."
"It's already been arranged."
Mustafa tried to think of something to say.
"I want the money that I gave you in advance," the man said.
"I have already given the money to my contact," Mustafa said.
"Then get it back from him."
"He blames me for the loss of the goods."
"As do I."
Mustafa hardened his voice. "We all risked in this venture. The loss should be shared."
"The loss should never have happened. Because I know that you have suffered a hardship, I will give you ten days to get my money back to me."
"That's impossible."
"I hope, for your sake, that getting the money back to me isn't impossible."
"I can't do it in ten days." Mustafa's first recourse in any money matter was to buy more time. After a little more time, he was certain he could renegotiate the deal — or at least pass his losses on to others. His driver suddenly swerved to the right. The bodyguard seated beside Mustafa pulled his sidearm. On the left side of the car, a truck sped forward and slammed into them. Mustafa's driver cursed as the car wobbled, then cursed again as the truck in front of them suddenly stopped. The sedan driver applied his brakes, but it was no use. The sedan slammed into the back of the truck.
"Get us out of here!" Mustafa bellowed. "That was no accident."
His driver tried to get away, but there was no room to maneuver.
Three men bailed out of the truck. They carried stubby submachine guns and moved professionally.
"Now!" Mustafa shouted.
The bodyguard beside him raised his pistol.
"Do not shoot," Mustafa ordered. "That's bulletproof glass. The ricochet will hit us."
The man held the pistol ready all the same.
Frantic, Mustafa's driver shoved the car into reverse. The car bucked and moved back a foot or so.
Headlights suddenly flared in the back window as another vehicle roared up from behind. Mustafa stared helplessly and held on to his cell phone. He disconnected from the Russian and punched in another number as the third vehicle smashed into his sedan and drove it into the stopped truck.
Mustafa's head jerked painfully. He told himself that everything would be all right. The car was armor-plated and protected enough to save him until help arrived.
The driver struggled with the wheel and shifted gears. He was trapped, unable to go forward or backward. Rubber shrilled on the street.
The bodyguard on the passenger side tried to open his door, but it moved outward only a few inches before being blocked by the wall. He barely got his hand and pistol out.
"Shut the door," Mustafa said. "We'll be safe in here. This car was designed to withstand a tank round." He didn't know if that was true, but the man who sold him the car had c
laimed that. It felt good to remind himself of that now.
The three men outside stopped. Two men flanked the third as he removed a high-powered, battery-operated drill from a canvas bag he carried. Without a word, he placed the drill bit against the bulletproof glass, pulled up the safety goggles hanging around his neck and initiated the drill.
The bit chewed smoothly through the glass. Setting the drill back into the bag, the man took out a canister attached to a rubber hose. He threaded the rubber hose through the hole created by the drill. In the next instant, liquid propelled by compressed air filled the sedan's interior.
The sweet, unmistakable aroma of gasoline filled Mustafa's nostrils. On the other side of the bulletproof glass, the man flipped open a lighter and ignited the flame. The yellow and blue fire danced.
"Wait!" Mustafa shouted, pressing his face against the window. "We need to talk!"
"Speak English," the man said in that tongue.
Mustafa's hopes rose. If the men were willing to talk, there was room for negotiation. At least it would allow his other security team to arrive.
"Can't we make a deal?" he pleaded.
The man waited a moment, as if processing the offer. "I want your phone."
Mustafa hesitated. The lighter flame danced but didn't waver. The smell of gasoline grew stronger.
"All right," he agreed. The phone contained a lot of information that might prove damaging to him, but he had no doubt the man would kill him if he didn't hand it over.
Mustafa lowered the window a little over an inch. He didn't want the man to just shoot him out of hand. He slid the cell phone through the space.
The man plucked the phone from his fingertips and shoved it into a pocket.
"That's what you wanted, right?" Mustafa said. "The phone?"
"No," the man said. The headlights of the truck behind the sedan revealed the man's features. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed with a chiseled jaw.
Realizing what the man intended to do, Mustafa grabbed the pistol from his bodyguard's hand and tried to shove the barrel through the space.
