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“We’re intact,” Kate said, “but there are three losses.”
Meaning that Jacob Marrs had killed the three security men. When it came to protecting Kate, Samantha knew Jake never hesitated.
“Will you need cleanup there?”
“Negative. Our guest is used to cleaning up after himself, and he’ll be properly motivated to do a good job of it.”
Okay, that was a point in their favor. Now if everything happened correctly in Istanbul, it was going to be a good evening’s work.
4
Istanbul
Ajza sat in the back seat of the cargo van and tried not to look nervous. She thought about the cargo they planned to pick up and how cruelly Turkish laws dealt with criminals regarding drugs. Considering the fact that she was more or less on her own—except for the exfiltration team she hadn’t talked to in weeks—she thought she was holding up pretty well.
As it had been for hundreds of years, the marketplace was a gathering place for merchants, local buyers and tourists. Only a few of the tourists walked through the aisles, along with those in search of early-morning bargains. Mostly the hawkers and buskers pursued the regular customers, people who’d come to market early to buy fresh vegetables for meals.
Ajza loved the Anatolian side of Istanbul. The city stood proudly, the only one in the world to straddle two continents. As a result, throughout history, armies and peacemakers of the East and the West met there to do battle and to reach trade agreements.
The Bosphorus Strait cut the city in two. The brown water flowed into the green Sea of Marmara in the harbor—not far from the prearranged meeting place. Fishermen already plied the waters, their sails brave and full against the azure sky. Motorboats filled the immediate vicinity with noise.
Bookshops and antique dealers butted up against coffeehouses and cinemas, the constant mix of the old and the new that shaped the city. At least this side of it.
When she’d had time on her own, which hadn’t been often, Ajza loved roaming through the bookstores. Spying in the field was lonely work. Reading helped pass the time and occupy the mind so it didn’t constantly dredge up everything that could go wrong.
Besides that, bookstores often held gems of information, lost books and maps that had histories and locations within whatever city she was posted. These had, on rare occasions, helped her keep her cover story intact and saved her life.
“Are you thinking about breakfast?” Nazmi asked.
She didn’t look at him. She’d already given him far too much encouragement. Getting close to someone, especially someone she might have to kill or who might try to kill her, was foolish. She’d already been down that road once and it hadn’t worked out well.
“No,” she answered.
“Then what?” Nazmi demanded. “You’re not worried, are you?”
“Should I be?”
“No.” Nazmi put a hand on the stock of the AK-47 assault rifle he carried. “We’re here for show. Just to keep the honest men honest.” He shrugged. “When you’re dealing with drugs, the people involved aren’t always trustworthy.”
Ajza knew that. Spies working for money or for political conviction proved much easier to work with than drug dealers. The drug dealers lived on paranoia and killed at the drop of a hat. The only reason spies and terrorists dealt with those people was because the commodity they sold translated more readily into influence across international borders than cash or gold. Drugs represented money in any currency.
“I know,” Ajza said. The feeling that something was off haunted her. “We’ve never made an early-morning pickup like this.”
Nazmi shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe these people came in during the night and haven’t been to bed yet.”
That, Ajza decided, seemed even worse. Paranoia and insomnia wasn’t a good combination.
“Here comes Mustafa.” Nazmi nodded at the leader of the group Ajza had infiltrated.
Mustafa was broad and powerful-looking. Early in his life, he’d been a stevedore, one of the young, strong backs that eked out a living shifting freight for the cargo ships. His mustache was fierce. His loose shirt hid the pistol he carried in his waistband. He also carried a briefcase that Ajza knew immediately was going to the drug dealers.
“Out of the van,” Mustafa ordered. He rapped the knuckles of one hand against the glass beside Ajza. “Stay ready.”
Watching the man, Ajza decided he was more ready for the coming encounter than in his previous calls to action. He walked briskly to the designated meeting area. Anyone watching him would think he didn’t have a care in the world.
Nazmi placed the assault rifle into a long duffel bag that he slung over one shoulder as he stood. Although the canvas material was heavy, Nazmi could get to his weapon in record time. Slits in the sides allowed him to reach inside and fire the rifle from within if he needed to.
Ajza shoved her pistol into the holster at the back of her waistband. Then she followed Nazmi and the other men out. All of them trailed Mustafa to a waiting delivery truck.
A group of men stood in front of the truck. They wore loose robes that concealed the weapons Ajza knew they carried. All of them looked hard and dangerous, covered in scars and made distrustful by the dangerous lives they led.
“Mustafa,” one of the men greeted. He was thin and pockmarked.
Ajza’s mental mug file identified the man before Mustafa gave voice to his name.
“Hasan, my good friend,” Mustafa replied.
The two men embraced, then walked together to take shade under the canopy of a jewelry merchant busy laying out his wares. The merchant seemed about to protest the use of his canopy. Then he looked at the men and decided to ignore them.
Ajza’s nerves stayed tight. The problem with meeting in the marketplace was that there were so many bystanders. She adjusted the sunglasses she wore and looked at the rooftops of the nearby buildings. Surely MI-6 had someone there.
But she saw no one.
“You had a safe journey?” Mustafa asked Hasan.
Ajza knew he wasn’t asking just to be polite or to make conversation. If authorities had taken an interest in Hasan, Mustafa wanted to know about it.
“Safe enough,” Hasan replied. “The trip was relatively uneventful.”
“Oh?” Mustafa raised his eyebrows. “Tell me more.”
Hasan shrugged and spat into the sand at their feet. “A thief in my house. Nothing more.” He grinned evilly. “He now sleeps at the bottom of the sea. I am a man of standards, you know.”
And a bloodthirsty one, Ajza remembered. MI-6 kept a thick file on Hasan but had never succeeded in getting close enough to him to take him out.
With snipers on the rooftops today, she thought, it could be done.
“You have the goods?” Mustafa asked.
Hasan spread his arms. “Of course. If you have the money.”
Mustafa gestured. Fikret and another man carried suitcases to Hasan. The drug dealer’s bodyguards stepped forward smoothly to intercept them.
Honor existed among thieves, Ajza thought, but precious little of it. The weight of the pistol at her back felt both comforting and threatening.
The bodyguards opened the suitcases a short distance away. Everyone knew the danger of satchel charges. If anyone died, it would be the bodyguards.
Both men looked relieved when the suitcases didn’t explode in their faces. They carried them back to Hasan to view the contents.
Ajza caught a brief glimpse of the stacks of money inside one of the suitcases. The cash came from the United States, Great Britain and France, perhaps other places, but she didn’t have time to see everything.
“You brought American money.” Hasan didn’t sound pleased.
“I had to,” Mustafa said. “It was all I had. I still do a lot of business with American buyers.”
“I don’t care for American money.” Hasan riffled through a few of the stacks of money. “It is far too easy to counterfeit. The Americans make their bills too much the same. No imagination.”
The merchant spotted the stacks of bills in Hasan’s callused hands. Aware that his life might be forfeit, he retreated to the back of his kiosk. He didn’t want anyone to think he was going to report what he’d seen. He busied himself making silver necklaces.
“None of that money is counterfeit,” Mustafa said. “I checked it myself.”
Hasan tossed the packets of American money back into the suitcase. The bodyguards closed the suitcases and stepped to one side.
“I choose to trust you, my friend,” Hasan said. “But in the future—”
“In the future,” Mustafa said, not to be browbeaten, “perhaps there might exist more time to prepare to take advantage of your good fortune.”
Hasan smiled. “It was good fortune. And now the good fortune is yours.”
“Only after you have taken your cut, my brother.”
“Merely the price of doing business.” Hasan waved Mustafa to the rear of the truck. “Come. I will show you what you have been so fortunate to purchase.”
Mustafa followed the other man to the rear of the truck. His bodyguards, including Ajza, trailed behind.
Hasan threw open the metal door to reveal wooden crates stacked inside. Ajza knew what the crates contained the instant she smelled the gun oil. This wasn’t a drug delivery, after all.
Panic rose in her. Drugs were one thing, but she couldn’t allow the munitions cargo in the back of the truck to get funneled to Mustafa’s buyers. She searched the rooftops again and saw nothing.
For a moment she thought she was going to be sick. Something had to be done.
5
London
“Okay,” the young man with the goatee said, “let’s bring Room 59 online and hook Indigo into the sat-links we’ve appropriated, people.”
As she paced around the room, Samantha watched the mini-satellite dishes power up and independently search for transmissions.
“Satellite Alpha has a lock,” one of the women said.
“Satellite Beta is streaming,” another man reported.
Diagnostics ran across the screens of the various laptops as everything came online. One of the women walked to the front of the room and pulled down a huge blank screen. Immediately different windows filled it. The designations for the computers occupied the lower-left quadrant of the individual monitors.
Samantha studied them, quickly memorizing the location and designation of the various computers. Even after years of being involved in cutting-edge technology designed for espionage, every time she took the command seat for Room 59, it still wowed her.
Kate Cochran served as the director of the clandestine agency, but whoever stood in Room 59 during an operation was captain of the ship. Kate kept everything moving, but Samantha knew she depended on the people she served with.
“Room 59 is live,” the man in the goatee said. His fingers were poised over the keyboard.
“Bring up Alpha and Beta,” Samantha said. “Side by side, please.”
Immediately, the two monitor views expanded and filled the screen. Beta showed Kate Cochran and Hirschvogel in the latter’s New York apartment.
“Orange,” Samantha said, referring to Kate by her designated call sign for the op, “I have a visual on your location.”
“Understood, Indigo.”
“Bring up Delta in the lower-right corner,” Samantha said.
Immediately the monitor screen with Kate and Hirschvogel shrank and became the same size as the new screen, which flipped through random images of Hirschvogel’s apartment building.
“I also have your back,” Samantha stated. One of the techs constantly kept an eye on the apartment building’s electronic security. If anything suspicious happened, the tech would alert her.
“Good,” Kate replied.
Samantha concentrated on the Alpha screen.
“Do any of the businesses in the area maintain closed-circuit security?” Samantha asked. Since 9/11, security cameras seemed to exist everywhere.
“Yes,” one of the women said.
“Can you access them?”
“I’m working on it. I think I can hack into a bank.” Her fingers clicked across the keyboard. “All right.” Satisfaction sounded in her voice. “I’m in. I’ve designated it as Epsilon.”
“Bring it up. Stack it on the right.” Samantha paced behind the operatives.
Another window opened up showing the back of the truck where the group under electronic surveillance milled about.
“Are we getting digital images?” Samantha asked.
“Every time I get a face,” another of the women said. “I’ve got fourteen so far.”
“Excellent job. Thank you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The young woman kept working, efficiently alternating between the mouse and the keyboard.
The computers instantly shot every scrap of information the team gathered to a secure holding area. Nothing remained on the machines operating Room 59.
Samantha continued studying the windows. Reading the body language of the men, the way they reacted to one another within the group, it became easy to tell who was with whom.
At that point Epsilon, which had a better straight-ahead view of the back of the truck, revealed the cargo.
“Freeze Epsilon,” Samantha ordered.
The image suspended.
