Patriot Dream

by Stephen Templin

  Omer Ozturk, nicknamed Ozzie, a geeky, chubby, twenty-something man, talked with Hannah. He was the telecommunications guru for the Brotherhood of Ali, a militant Alawite Muslim organization that earned its money through smuggling illegal aliens, committing extortion, and trafficking drugs. In their spare time, they did bombings and assassinations. They supported the dictator of neighboring Syria, President Bashar al-Assad, also an Alawite Muslim. Recently, Special Collection Service, a joint CIA-NSA program, had intercepted communications that the Brotherhood of Ali was planning to assassinate a high-value Western target, and Langley tasked Chris and Hannah to find out who was being targeted and who was going to do the hit. After examining available intel on the Brotherhood of Ali, Ozzie seemed like the easiest mark to lead them to the assassin and his target.

  Near Hannah and Ozzie stood a bedraggled middle-aged businessman checking his watch and a perky young woman wearing a bright yellow head scarf, or hijab, texting on her smartphone. A policewoman donning her uniform cap over a black hijab hurried south on foot. Turkey’s previous president had prohibited the hijab in government offices, but today’s president, Recep Erdogan, allowed police officers and other civil servants to wear the head covering. Chris didn’t have a problem with the hijab for government workers, but he did have a problem with President Erdogan repeatedly shutting down social media, jailing more journalists than any other country in the world, and declaring a state of emergency that continued for over a year, pushing Turkey’s democracy closer and closer to a dictatorship—not good for a NATO country, or any country for that matter.

  Chris smiled and waved to Hannah. She waved back. A week ago, when she had first met Ozzie at the stop, she asked an innocuous question: “When does the next tram arrive?” Each day, she engaged in light chit chat about the weather and so on, and each day, Chris picked her up in his sporty car. Sonny, the third member of Chris and Hannah’s trio, remained hidden and shadowed Ozzie.

  Ozzie started each morning here at Mescid-i Selam Station. Although he used various routes to arrive in Istanbul, he always ended at the Brotherhood of Ali’s hangout, Mustafa Teahouse, where they gathered to drink, smoke, gossip, and conduct business.

  But today was different—the tram was late. Unbeknownst to Ozzie, the tram was involved in a small “accident.” Chris and Hannah, however, knew it was Sonny who’d caused the fender bender, and he wouldn’t be tailing Ozzie today.

  Hannah was to invite Ozzie to ride with her, and Chris was pleased to see them approach the Porsche together.

  Chris rolled down the window.

  “This is my new friend, Ozzie,” Hannah said cheerfully. “His train is late—can we give him a ride?”

  “Sure. Hi, I’m Chris Weston.” He used his real first name, easy to remember, and an alias for a last name.

  “Thank you,” Ozzie said. His pronunciation sounded like sank you.

  Hannah opened the back passenger door for him.

  “This car looks great,” Ozzie said.

  Chris and Hannah smiled. The fish was eyeing the bait.

  From earlier surveillance, Chris already knew Ozzie’s destination, but he pretended not to. “Where you going?”

  Ozzie hesitated. “Vatan.” He often got off at Vatan and walked the two hundred and fifty meters to the Metro Ten Line. Now it would be easier for Ozzie to get dropped off directly at the Metro Ten, but he seemed to be careful not to give his exact destination.

  Chris looked around for the policewoman or her fellow officers. No cops were in sight. He waited a moment for a car to turn off the road, and then he put the Porsche in gear and gassed it. The seats sucked Chris back, and the vehicle leaped forward. He glanced in the rearview mirror.

  Ozzie smiled. “Ohh!” He grabbed the seat and said something in Turkish in a tone mixed with joy and fear. Behind the car, a trail of dust kicked up, infused with bright sunlight. Ozzie laughed like he was on a roller coaster ride.

  Chris raced past restaurants, shops, and a gas station before braking for a turn. The deeper he drove into Istanbul, the newer the buildings were and the more congested the traffic became. He made another turn. “Hannah probably told you, but we’re here in Istanbul doing some international trading.”

  “I work in computers,” Ozzie said.

  “Oh, what in computers?” Chris asked.

  Ozzie shifted in his seat. “Computers.”

  “Ozzie is a private man,” Hannah said.

  “Of course,” Chris said. “Well, maybe we can get together at my house sometime, or we can go out for dinner.”

  Ozzie didn’t say anything.

  Chris worried that he’d pushed too hard too soon, so he turned on the radio.

  “What’s a good radio station?” Hannah asked.

  “FM 94.9,” Ozzie said.

  Hannah found the radio station. It played an eclectic mix of classical, rock, and hip-hop music, and soon they arrived at Vatan. Chris stopped in front of the tram station there and handed his business card to Ozzie. On it were the addresses and phone numbers of fronts for Chris’s headquarters in Montreal and his European office in London—each with a real office where a secretary would greet visitors and answer phones and e-mail.

  “Thank you,” Ozzie said politely. He opened the door and stepped out.

  “See you tomorrow,” Hannah said.

  Ozzie smiled. “Bye.”

  “Bye,” Chris said. He pulled away from the curb and onto the street. “That didn’t go so well,” he mumbled.

  “For a first meet, that went sweet,” Hannah said. She was more experienced at the recruiting side of Agency work; Chris’s forte was the paramilitary side.

  Chris looked in the rearview mirror to see if anyone had followed them, or if the same vehicle showed up repeatedly. “We need to find out who the assassin and his target are.”

  “We will.”

  THE NEXT DAY, WHEN Hannah offered Ozzie a ride again, he took it. On the way to Vatan, listening to FM 94.9, Hannah said, “Ozzie, we’re thinking about importing some computers, but we’re no computer experts, and I was wondering if you might go out to dinner with us tonight and take a look at the specs.”

  Ozzie stared at her.

  She smiled.

  His face beamed brightly. “Sure.”

  “Shall we pick you up at Mescid-i Selam Station at six?” she asked.

  “Six is good.”

  Chris dropped him off at Vatan.

  THAT EVENING, CHRIS and Hannah picked up Ozzie at the tram stop. This time, they drove him further into Istanbul. Across from the Italian Consulate stood a nineteenth-century building, originally a Franciscan monastery for nuns, which was now a hotel—the Tomtom Suites—warmly illuminated by the setting sun.

  They strolled inside the four-story hotel and took the elevator to the top, where they located the Nicole restaurant. There Sonny already sat at a table. He’d arrived early to watch for anyone suspicious—especially a surveillance or ambush team. Like a chipmunk, his cheeks were stuffed with food. Red peppers, raspberries, and their juices lay on his plate like the scene of a messy murder. His cover as a casual diner was so convincing that Chris worried for a moment if he really was doing his job, but in situations like this, Sonny kept his head on a tactical swivel, and ultimately Chris had confidence in him. If the bullets started flying, Chris couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather have on his side.

  Chris scanned the restaurant for possible threats, but nothing tingled his spider senses. A waitress greeted his party in Turkish, “Hozgeldiniz,” which Chris recognized as “welcome,” but he didn’t understand the rest of what she said. Ozzie replied in Turkish. To Chris’s horror, the waitress led them to a window seat—a good spot for a sniper to take them out. Chris asked, “Could we have a different table, please?”

  “Yes,” the waitress said in English.

  “What wrong that table?” Ozzie asked.

  “It’s not clean,” Hannah said.

  Ozzie squinted at the clean table as if searchi
ng for the unclean spot. “Ah.”

  The waitress seated them at a table farther from the window. Hannah sat beside Ozzie and Chris across from them. “Would you like some wine?” Hannah asked Ozzie.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “May I recommend a local white wine?” the waitress asked.

  “Yes, for two please,” Hannah said. A few drinks would help to loosen up Ozzie.

  Ozzie looked at Chris and said, “Don’t you want to drink?”

  “I’m driving,” Chris said. Even if he wasn’t driving, he’d given up alcohol when he became a minister. Some pastors drank, but Chris wasn’t one of them. Their waitress handed them bilingual menus in Turkish and English before leaving to give them some time to think about their orders.

  Chris could see past the other patrons to the view outside. The sunlight dimmed, and the parks darkened, but soon lights flicked on, illuminating mosque domes and a minaret. Beyond them, ships on the Sea of Marmara glowed, passing to and fro between the Black Sea and the Aegean Sea—the same waters where the Argonaut heroes of Greek mythology sailed thousands of years ago.

  Hannah’s eyes sparkled like moonlight reflecting off the dark ocean, and Chris once again found himself within her depths. He was a part of the ocean and the ocean a part of him. The ebb and flow of the waves caressed him. He rose and fell with the swells—aware of the rhythm of his breathing. The sea kissed his soul, and he kept swimming. Eventually, his arms and legs weakened, and he began to sink. The sea gave life, and it took life, too. He returned to shore. On land, his body became heavy and off balance, and he had to sit down. He flapped the kinks out of his wrists and ankles. His strength and equilibrium returned, and he stood, staring at the sea one final time. No matter how seductively the ocean sparkled or how wonderful she made him feel, she could never be his. Sometimes he closed his eyes, and he continued to feel the push-pull of her waters, and he dreamed of diving deep. But he could never stay there. Although he was a former frogman and comfortable with the water, his body required land, where he could run, climb rocks, and rappel down cliffs. It was where he belonged. He wanted to let go, but there was nothing that could compare to the ocean. He needed to let go. But once again he found himself at the water’s edge.

  The waitress brought their wine and took their orders before disappearing again.

  Ozzie took a sip of his beverage. “Chris, may I ask personal question?”

  “Sure,” Chris said.

  “Are you and Hannah—you know?”

  Chris tried not to betray his astonishment at Ozzie’s blunt question in Hannah’s presence, but he quickly recalled from their briefings that the man simply was not experienced with women. He tried to sound convincing in his reply. “We’re business partners. And friends. That’s all.”

  Ozzie smiled. Then he glanced at Hannah.

  She returned his smile.

  The waitress brought out an amuse-bouche, followed by a tarama and watermelon salad. Ozzie’s glass was empty, and Hannah’s was half full. She ordered a refill for Ozzie.

  “What do you like to do in your spare time, Ozzie?” she asked.

  Ozzie spoke in a monotone with minimal eye contact: “A lot of indie concerts. And model building.” Then he kept talking, as if reciting a list for an elementary school report. “I like play accordion and kazoo. I like jogging. I like work out and exercise. Play video games...”

  “Oh,” Hannah said politely. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  Chris and Hannah already knew the answer.

  The waitress arrived and refilled Ozzie’s glass with wine, and he took a sip. “No,” he said.

  Hannah could hold her liquor, and she played the spy vs. spy game of getting him to drink more. “What do you look for in a girl?” she asked.

  He looked directly at her. “A girl who likes to party like me.”

  Chris was amused by Ozzie’s attempt at bluster. He tried to hide his mood by taking a bite of his salad and covertly scanning nearby eyes and hands for threats. Eyes betray thoughts, which betray hands, which betray actions. A woman wearing a green blouse and no makeup had eyes with small pupils, like a snake about to strike, and she wielded her knife as if she might stab someone. The woman across from her chattered on as if oblivious to her dining partner’s body language. Snake Eyes didn’t seem to notice Chris or his table, and it didn’t seem like she could do much damage with the table knife, so he continued to examine the room.

  Sonny stuffed his serene face with lamb.

  Chris grinned.

  The other tables filled with customers. In the lobby, a fit man in a dark suit jacket, black polo shirt, and tan slacks sat patiently while others around him fidgeted and waited for a table. Chris pretended not to look at him but caught Black Polo looking his way—maybe it meant nothing; maybe it meant something.

  The waitress brought out octopus seasoned with red peppers and raspberries, the same dish Sonny had massacred earlier. Hannah ordered red wine for Ozzie and herself.

  Chris had eaten enough poorly prepared rubbery octopus to dislike it, but he needed to do something while he and Hannah waited for the effects of the wine to work on Ozzie. Once Ozzie got a good buzz going, Chris would make his pitch. In the meantime, he took a bite of his octopus. Surprisingly, it was tender and tasty.

  After the red wine arrived and Ozzie was down to half a glass, Chris made his pitch. “Ozzie, a Kuwaiti businessman is selling used computers cheap, and Hannah and I have a buyer lined up in Brazil, where computers are quite expensive.”

  “It seems like a great deal,” Hannah said, “but we were wondering if you might take a look at the specs and the price. See what you think.”

  Ozzie set his wine glass down. “Let me look.”

  Chris took out his iPhone and showed Ozzie a document with the numbers. They were slightly overpriced for used computers, and Chris hoped Ozzie would notice and say something about it.

  “This sale is US dollars?” Ozzie asked.

  “Yes,” Chris replied.

  “He overcharge you.”

  “Overcharging by how much?” Hannah asked.

  Ozzie lifted his glass and took a drink. “If I buy these, I tell him take two hundred dollars off each.”

  “Wow,” Chris said. “That’s a significant difference, especially since we’ll be buying and selling in bulk.”

  “Are you sure, Ozzie?” Hannah asked.

  Ozzie drained his glass and set it on the table. “Yes. You might even ask cheaper.”

  “That’s fantastic!” Chris said.

  Hannah put her hand on Ozzie’s shoulder. Chris didn’t care for it, but her flirting with Ozzie was part of the bait. “Thank you, Ozzie,” she said.

  Tomorrow they would hook the fish.

  Chapter Five

  The next afternoon, Chris and Hannah picked up Ozzie. He still hadn’t given them his home address or his work destination, but they already knew them. Chris pulled away from the curb and, after a few minutes of small talk, Hannah reached into the back seat and handed Ozzie an envelope.

  He opened it. Inside was seven thousand Turkish liras, roughly equivalent to two thousand US dollars.

  “I can’t take this,” Ozzie said.

  “You made us a lot more than that by helping us negotiate this shipment of computers,” Chris said. “In the future, I expect we’ll sell even more used computers.”

  “This is simply a small way to show our gratitude,” Hannah said.

  Ozzie was unsophisticated, and now he had new friends, extra cash, the opportunity to make more money, and romantic possibilities. But even he seemed to sense the danger of the situation. He held the envelope in his hands and stared at it. He was on the edge.

  Hannah smiled at him.

  Ozzie looked at her hesitantly. Then he grinned broadly. He pocketed the money and gave her his cell phone number.

  He took the bait! Chris wanted to jump out of his skin and celebrate, but he maintained a poker face and kept the Porsche between the ditches. Now it w
as time to use the little fish as bait to lure in the big fish—Brotherhood of Ali’s assassin.

  The following morning, Chris and Hannah didn’t meet Ozzie at the tram stop. The business day after, they picked him up. This time, Hannah played quiet.

  “Chris, what wrong with Hannah?” Ozzie said. “I asked her, but she not say. What happened?”

  Chris let out a sigh as he steered round a curve. “Weeks ago, we shipped some cargo for a man who called himself the Kurd, but he refused to pay us, so we stopped doing business with him. Yesterday, he left a dead pigeon on Hannah’s doorstep with a note that said if she didn’t become his mistress, she’d become like the pigeon. It was signed, ‘the Kurd.’ She was so afraid, she wouldn’t even leave her house yesterday.” Chris and Hannah knew that Ozzie and the Brotherhood of Ali disliked the Kurds.

  “Do you know this Kurd’s name?” Ozzie asked.

  “Huseyin Giyasettin,” Chris said. “He recently emigrated from Iraq.”

  “Name not familiar,” Ozzie said. “You talked to the police?”

  Chris stopped at the light. “Should I?”

  “No. I know someone who can take care of this.”

  “I don’t know. The Kurd seemed pretty dangerous. Like mafia or something.”

  “Don’t worry about the Kurdish mafia. Falcon can make this problem go away. Permanently.” Ozzie put his hand on Hannah’s shoulder.

  Bingo! Chris thought. “His name is Falcon?”

  “Not his real name.”

  “We don’t want to do anything illegal,” Chris said.

  “You not do anything illegal,” Ozzie said. “No worry.”

  “Maybe you can set up a meeting with Falcon at Nicole restaurant, and Hannah and I can be there, too—make like it’s a coincidence. Maybe you could introduce us,” Chris said.