by Adam LeBor
“Who needs bullets?” replied Yael, holding the gun like a hammer. She hurled it just to the side of Eli’s head. Just as she had anticipated, he swerved left. The gun hit him full in the face.
“Ben zonah! Son of a bitch,” he shouted as he toppled backward, landing with a crash.
Yael walked over to the edge and looked down. Eli was lying on the top of the Dumpster, unmoving.
Even now she had a strong urge to climb down and check that he was all right. But he had fallen straight. No blood seeped from his head, and his neck was not twisted. None of his limbs appeared to be broken or dislocated. He would live.
And in any case, she knew there would soon be a backup team on the spot, especially after her stun grenade.
The gunman quickly set up the sniper rifle on the roof of the apartment building. The call had come five minutes before: “The target is on the roof of the bazaar.”
The Dragunov was accurate to a range of about three-quarters of a mile. It fired a steel-jacketed bullet with an air pocket, steel core, and lead base, for what was known as “maximum terminal effect.” The target was about five hundred yards away but would soon be moving—and swiftly. It was going to be a difficult shot, but he felt confident.
The Dragunov’s barrel rested on a small bipod. The gunman felt the weight of the weapon, adjusted the sight, compensated for distance, wind shear, bullet-drop, the rifle’s idiosyncrasies. The trigger felt taut under his finger, coiled, ready. A breeze blew through the window, cold and damp. He could smell the the sea, a whiff of cigarette smoke, grilled meat.
It made him hungry. A single shot, he hoped, then lunch. Some fish, grilled, and a carafe of chilled wine. A reward.
He peered through the telescopic sight and turned a dial. She came into focus, the pattern on her blue kilim backpack clear and sharp.
Yael walked away from the edge, looked ahead, and took her bearings. The sky was gray, the clouds the color of dirty water, the air damp and chilly. But this was Istanbul as she had never seen it before.
A sea of red-tiled roofs, dotted with air conditioners and satellite dishes, stretched into the distance. Narrow pathways, their edges cracked and crumbling, snaked across the top of the buildings. Rickety windows and tiny wooden doors marked long-abandoned rooms and passages. An ornate gateway, its arch inscribed with Ottoman Turkish script, written in Arabic characters, was bricked up, its secrets sealed forever. A hundred yards away was the roof of the Iç Bedesten, the oldest section of the bazaar. Over it all loomed the dome of the Hagia Sophia, the seventh-century Byzantine church that was now a mosque, its four minarets aiming skyward, like rockets about to launch into space.
Yael walked forward. A pigeon coop, twelve small cages in two rows, six high, behind a mesh fence, stood halfway across. The birds rustled their wings as she walked past, cooing excitedly.
She reached the end of the flat roof and looked out over the top of the bazaar, mapping an escape route. The ledge was worn and dilapidated. There was a gap between it and the roofs of the bazaar about two yards wide.
Could she make it? The jump was not the problem. Landing on the other side, and not sliding off, would be. Yael flexed her legs. She leapt back as a piece of concrete gave way underneath her, shattering when it hit the ground, two stories below.
One part of her was furious with herself, another oddly vindicated. Of course she should have listened to her sixth sense. It had never been wrong, and certainly had not been today. She had been set up. Tel Aviv wanted her back. She understood why Tel Aviv was ready to kidnap her if necessary. Her former employer had a long memory, even longer arms, and she had invaluable intelligence about the inner workings of the world of secret diplomacy. She was only surprised that they had taken so long to make their approach, first through Eli at the bar, and then more forcefully. Still, she had also proved, if only to herself, that she would go to any lengths, confront any danger, to find out what had happened to her brother.
But why had Isis betrayed her? Why did she want her out of the way? That was a mystery. Yael thought back over what she had learned and about Clarence Clairborne’s disinformation plan. It had worked. Security was now at the maximum possible level in anticipation of an attack from the outside.
She looked into the distance. She could just see the farthest edge of the bazaar on the other side of the complex. There was a small parking lot on the side of Tiǧcilar, not far from the Mercan Kapısı and the Zincirli Han. A long limousine was parked there, together with two large black SUVs. Two American flags flew from either side of the limousine’s hood. The han would be her choice too if she were president and wanted to visit the bazaar: somewhere near the entrance, enclosed, easy to reach, a place where the crowd could be controlled.
Isis Franklin and President Freshwater.
An old friend, in the same city as the president. An old friend with security clearance.
Yael suddenly understood what was going to happen.
Ten yards behind her, the pigeons erupted.
President Freshwater held the necklace up to the light, marveling at the way the black opals, each encased in thick white gold, appeared to glow. “Look at this, Isis,” she said, her voice full of admiration. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Isis nodded, smiling widely. “It’s stunning, Renee. Try it on.”
They were standing outside a jewelry shop in the Zincirli Han. The han was a narrow oblong courtyard, about fifteen yards wide and four times as long. The walls were reddish brown, and each door and window frame was painted white. A large chestnut tree stood in the middle. The lower floor, once used for accommodation for the animals of visiting travelers, hosted silver-and goldsmiths and their workshops. Gray sidewalks extended a yard or so from the shop fronts into the central stone floor, which now glistened in the rain. The merchants and their families were gathered outside their doors, watching intently, chattering and snapping endless photographs of the president with their mobile telephones.
Yaşar Izmiri, whose necklace President Freshwater was examining, was doing his best to control his excitement—and that of his six-year-old son, who kept peeking out from behind his father’s legs. Izmiri, a jolly middle-aged man with lively brown eyes, had already received two visits from the Secret Service advance teams. Until this morning, he had not really believed that the president of America would actually come and buy something from him. But here she was, and with so many bodyguards. There were at least six out here, two more inside his workshop, one on each side of the doorway, and a dozen more patrolling the covered walkway above the shops.
Izmiri looked at Isis for a moment. I am right, he told himself, I have seen her before. “Did you find what you were looking for, madam?” he asked politely.
Isis frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Yesterday, when you were here, you dropped something, by the tree,” said Izmiri, gesturing at the roots of the chestnut. “I saw you looking on the ground there.”
Isis blushed. “Oh, yes, yes. I did. Thanks for asking.”
Dave Reardon stood close by, not listening to the exchange, his eyes continually scanning their surroundings. He had not factored in Isis’s appearance, but the two women had met by chance—Isis had just been leaving the bazaar at the Mercan Kapısı when the president and her entourage arrived. Reardon had watched, almost amused despite his state of high alert, as Isis showed the president her new black leather gloves, insisting that the president touch them to see how soft they were. The president, impressed with Isis’s eye for a bargain, invited her to come shopping. Isis had readily agreed.
Izmiri looked at Reardon and pointed at the necklace in the president’s hands. “May I?”
Reardon nodded. He was focused on the entrance to the han. There were at least a hundred reporters gathered there. He had agreed to let three come to the front. They would operate a pool and share their material with their colleagues. Murat Yilmaz, from the Turkish news agency, would supply the print news wire services such as Reuters an
d Associated Press, Sami Boustani would share his material with the newspapers, and Najwa al-Sameera would feed her sound and video footage to radio and television stations. Najwa was already in prime position, standing at the front of the crowd, directing her cameraman.
Izmiri picked up the necklace from Freshwater’s hand and stood behind her, fastening it around her neck. He handed her a small mirror.
Freshwater regarded herself, pleased with her purchase. The black stones went perfectly with her dark complexion and strong features.
“What do you think?”
“It’s perfect,” said Isis.
Freshwater smiled, for a moment relaxed and happy. She walked over to Najwa and her camera crew. Najwa moved forward, but a Secret Service agent blocked her path.
“It’s OK,” said Freshwater, “I want to talk to her.”
The agent stepped aside. Freshwater started to speak to Najwa but the words would not come out properly.
She made a strange gargling noise, stared at Najwa, and collapsed.
The pigeons fluttered.
Yael launched herself over the gap.
She landed on the edge, dropped down on all fours to stabilize herself. She scrabbled forward to grab the peak of the roof.
Her feet slid on the wet surface. She grabbed the rooftop. The tiles began to crack and give way.
Eli leapt after her.
Pandemonium erupted.
The Secret Service agents instantly formed a cordon around the president’s supine form.
She groaned, a thin trickle of saliva leaking from the side of her mouth. Her eyes rolled backward.
A female agent in her late thirties, red haired and freckled, kneeled next to Freshwater. Trained as a paramedic, she quickly removed the necklace, checked Freshwater’s airways, pulse, respiration, all the while muttering furiously into her radio earpiece.
The reporters surged forward, all thought of pool agreements now gone. Four Secret Service agents instantly formed a cordon across the gateway to the han, but they could not hold back a hundred people.
Dave Reardon was speaking rapidly into his radio. “Mermaid is down, Mermaid is down,” he said, using the code name for the president. “Need reinforcements and urgent medevac.”
Isis watched the spectacle for several seconds, then walked up to Reardon. “She’s been poisoned.”
Reardon wheeled around. “How do you know?”
The roar of helicopter blades sounded in the distance.
“Because I did it.”
The gunman kept his scope on Yael as she hauled herself up onto the point of the roof, shards of roof tiles falling behind her.
She sprinted down the rooftop pathway toward Zincirli Han, Eli running after her.
Reardon picked up Isis by her arms and slammed her against the wall of the han.
Isis grunted in pain. “You have ten minutes before her heart stops.”
“Antidote? Where’s the fucking antidote?” demanded Reardon, his face twisted in fury.
“Near. Very near. But you won’t find it in time.”
“What. Do. You. Want?”
“Do you know why I joined the State Department? Chose a life of public service?”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“You should, Dave. You and the rest of this administration should give a shit. Because I believed that America stood for something. Something good: progress, democracy, human rights. And then I saw the reality….”
Reardon pushed Isis harder against the wall. “The reality is that unless you tell us where the antidote is you will spend the rest of your life in a supermax prison. In a tiny concrete cell, twenty-four hours a day with no visitors. Ever.”
Isis laughed. “Sure, Dave. You know all about that stuff.”
Reardon frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a seventeen-year-old boy locked in a dog kennel at Bagram air base for two weeks until he was strapped to a gurney with a towel over his head. And a thickset black American guy”—Isis paused and looked at him—“maybe five-eight, tipping water over his face. Not a mercenary or a contractor. A US government employee, acting with the full knowledge and support of his superiors. A torturer. But the boy didn’t tell you much, did he? Because he died.”
Reardon shook his head, several times. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“You are a bad liar, Dave. Or let’s talk about the video I saw last week. In the US mission on First Avenue.”
“Fuck your video. Where’s the antidote?”
“It’s your video too, Dave. I watched a teenage boy crawl across a field in Afghanistan after a drone strike. He was dragging himself forward on his elbows. His legs were stumps. They left a black trail behind him. He was trying to reach his house. I saw his mother and father run out, trying to help him. His sister ran back and picked up the stumps of his legs. It was quite a sight. A little girl holding her brother’s legs. It was too late. He—what is the technical term—bled out.”
“Tragic. What do you want?” shouted Reardon, pushing her harder against the wall.
“The Black File,” said Isis calmly.
“The what?”
“You know full well what it is. The secret record of all the drone strikes. The intel, the chain of command, the poststrike debriefings. The casualty count. Of the women and children that the United States has killed. And never taken responsibility for.”
Reardon’s grip eased slightly. “I may be able to get you sight of that.”
Isis laughed. “Not for me. On the net. Unredacted.”
He called over two Secret Service agents. “Cuff her and search her. Everywhere.”
The agents yanked Isis’s arms behind her back and handcuffed her wrists together.
“You are wasting your time,” Isis said.
Isis turned to watch Freshwater moan, semiconscious, as the Secret Service agents began to hustle her away. “Make those calls, Dave,” Isis said, her voice confident. “You have eight minutes.”
The pathway between the roofs was made of concrete slabs barely more than a foot wide. Now wet and shiny from the rain, it was designed for slow, careful negotiation. There was no safety barrier to prevent anyone on the path slipping and plunging down the side of the roofs.
Yael ran forward. Her left foot slid out from under her. She landed on her right side as she slammed onto the path, gasping in pain, gripping the edge of the roof tiles to prevent herself from sliding off.
She glanced around. Eli was still behind her, his Glock in his hand.
She crawled ahead as fast as she could, almost gagging from the ammoniacal stink of encrusted pigeon droppings.
She was just a few yards from the edge now and could see down into Zincirli Han. A woman was lying on the ground, a circle of men in blue suits standing around her. A helicopter swooped low over the bazaar, its side emblazoned with a red crescent.
She felt a pressure on the back of her neck. The hairs rose again, not just from danger, but also from a strange sense that someone was watching her.
Eli was just a few yards away now.
“Yael,” he shouted, “don’t make me do this!”
The gunman watched the two figures through his scope.
Eli stopped, raised his pistol, and pointed it at Yael’s leg.
The gunman gently squeezed the trigger.
Yael froze at the sound of the rifle shot. There was nowhere to go.
She was lying on the edge of the roof. If she stood up and ran, she would make herself a bigger target. She forced herself down as flat as she could, bracing herself for the exploding tiles, for the searing agony of the bullet, the plunge to earth, the moment of impact.
She looked down.
It was a twenty-foot drop into the han. With luck and a good landing she would live, but she would almost certainly break at least one limb, maybe more.
She slid forward, preparing to make the drop.
She glanced behind her, one last time.
The gunman began to dismantle his Dragunov.
It had been a tricky shot, hitting a moving target at five hundred yards. He had earned his lunch.
The gunman unscrewed the barrel; removed the stock, magazine, and telescopic sight; and placed all the pieces in a long aluminum case lined with dense foam rubber. He checked all around him, ensuring that he had not left anything behind in the dusty attic.
Just before departing, he pulled out a small leather pouch from his trouser pocket. He opened the pouch and tipped it over his hand.
A small silver and turquoise earring fell into his palm.
He stared at it for several seconds, then nodded, a smile on his face. He slipped the earring back into the case and left.
Yael lifted her head and looked down. The hairs on the back of her neck slowly settled.
President Freshwater lay on the ground, semiconscious, surrounded by Secret Service agents. Isis was handcuffed, her arms behind her. A line of agents, now backed up by Turkish plainclothes policemen, stood at the entrance to the han, blocking the crowd of journalists, who were pushing forward.
Najwa was standing with her back to the han, giving a running commentary.
Yael slowly raised her hands to show she was not a threat. “Isis!” she shouted. “It’s me.”
Four Secret Service agents instantly spun around, their guns trained on Yael.
Isis stared up at the roof.
“I know about Babur,” said Yael. “I know how it feels. Isis, let’s talk about Babur. We can work this out. Isis, please.”
Reardon looked at Isis. Her face trembled.
The decision, he knew, was his alone, and had to be taken now.
“Help her down,” he told the Secret Service agents, directing them toward Yael.
Isis was standing against the wall of the jewelry shop, a female Secret Service agent on either side of her. Yael saw fear, anger, but most of all, longing, grief, and regret.
“I need some time alone with her,” she said to Reardon.
“We don’t have time.” He glanced at his watch. “Six minutes at the most.”
