Assignment- Adventure A SpyCo Collection 1-3

by Craig A. Hart

  7

  Not all of Istanbul is beautiful.

  Perry was willing to grant that for a city with over 14 million people there were a lot more trees than one would expect. But even the trees did not soften the look of the blocks of flats lining Ladin Sokak. Constructed in Late Industrial style, and designed to cram a maximum amount of people into minimal space, Perry could think only of the American phrase for such places: the Projects.

  But this was the address Zeki had given him. It was a building not far from the Bosphorus Strait—the place where Istanbul straddles Europe and Asia—and there were two busy highways nearby, adding an ambience of traffic noise to the smell of the water.

  Perry looked at the slip of paper one more time, but the address did not change. This is where he was supposed to be.

  Outside the building there was no yard. The paved parking lot extended to the scarred facade. The absence of lawn did not prevent a group of rough looking characters from sitting around in lawn chairs, specifically the metal-frame and woven poly-plastic strip variety that adorned the yards of many American homes…forty years ago. There were eight of them, and they were passing a bottle around.

  This is just wonderful, Perry thought. Not only is the place I’m supposed to go guarded by a pack of very unfriendly looking louts, but they’re probably drunk.

  He was still twenty feet from the men, walking slowly toward them. They stopped talking and looked as he drew near. What they could not know was that Perry was silently calculating the order in which he’d attack them, if need be, and the best angles of approach. He estimated the force with which he’d have to strike their windpipes to quickly disable them and which of the men would need their legs broken to prevent them from interfering. He clenched and unclenched his fists, anticipating the pain the impacts would cause.

  Although it was unlikely he’d be successful, Perry’s plan was to try to walk past them to the door of the apartment building without saying anything. As he moved to within six feet of where they were standing he was surprised to realize one of the men, an enormous, obese fellow, didn’t appear to be Turkish. He looked like some sort of Pacific Islander. An odd piece to an otherwise fairly homogeneous jigsaw puzzle. It was just the beginning of his bewilderment.

  “Hey, you Perry?” the Polynesian asked.

  “Wha…?”

  “Are...you…Perry?” the big man repeated slowly, enunciating as if for an especially stupid primate.

  “Um. Yeah.”

  The man, with great effort, rose from his overtaxed chair and extended one of the largest hands Perry had ever seen. It engulfed his as they shook.

  “I’m Timo. Ali called me cuz someone called him. He tol’ me to be lookin’ for you, bruddah. Don’t act so shocked.”

  “Sorry. That’s pretty much what I am. I saw you lot and thought I might have to fight for my life just to ring the doorbell.”

  “What a kick in the sack that would have been. Doorbell don’ even work!”

  Perry laughed, allowing his fist to relax and his heart rate to return to normal. “So did this Ali tell you why I was coming to see you?”

  “Lookin’ for a dude. That’s all he said. That’s why they sent you to me. I know where to find a lot of dudes.”

  Perry noticed the other men had also left their chairs and were now standing around Timo. He got the sense their English wasn’t great, individually or collectively, but they wore expressions of mild interest as the two men talked.

  “So who’s the dude?” Timo asked.

  Perry pulled out his phone and called up the picture. He held it up for Timo to see. Again, to his amazement, it was not Timo who reacted, but the others.

  “Fiske! Oh, no. Fiske!” gasped one, perhaps exhausting his entire English vocabulary with the “oh, no.”

  “‘Fiske?’” Perry said to Timo, a look of total befuddlement painting his face.

  “Ya. Fiske. Dat’s Turkish, bruddah. It means ‘Flick.” Your dude is Flick.”

  Perry was now completely at a loss. Everything up to this point was a little odd, but this was completely off the wall. Not only did Timo know who Flick was, it appeared the rest of the group knew and, judging from their reactions, feared him as well.

  “Yeah. My dude is Flick.”

  “Dat changes things. We need to take dis party inside.”

  The mob moved as one toward the battered metal door of the block and mortar five-story box, abandoning the lawn chairs, which Perry now saw were in even worse condition than he’d first realized.

  “Aren’t you worried about your chairs?” he asked as Timo opened the door.

  “Who’d steal dat shit?”

  The inside of the building was far more depressing than the exterior. Of the ten single-bulb lamps meant to light the hall, only three were working. Some were even shattered, though still screwed into their sockets. A cat walked belligerently past as they entered, and one whiff of the air confirmed it was not the only feline in the building. Lots of cats, not many litter boxes. Perry realized the odor contained more than a little eau de human urine as well.

  They moved down the hallway, with Perry and Timo bringing up the rear of the column. Half way along the men began stepping over the body of a person sleeping on the floor. Perry hoped he was sleeping, anyway. When Timo reached the form his tree-trunk legs could not negotiate the maneuver, so he gave the fellow a kick. With an angry growl the man repositioned himself to allow the big Islander to pass, then promptly went back to sleep.

  Two of the apartments they passed had their door opened, and Perry glanced in, seeing a scene of poverty and hopelessness in each. The furniture was little more than crates and cardboard. The people’s faces were careworn, and not friendly toward the white man walking past.

  So when they reached the last door of the hallway, and the men moved aside to allow Timo to unlock and open it, Perry was once more dumbfounded.

  Immediately inside the door a tapestry was hung across the short hallway. Perry recognized the style: he’d had a similar one hanging on the ceiling of his dorm room at Columbia. But when Timo’s huge hand pushed it aside, the interior of the apartment was nothing like he’d imagined. Every wall was lined with flat screen monitors that would be ideal for watching the Giants play the Cowboys on a beer soaked Sunday afternoon. But these were attached to computers, and a heady mix of scrolling text and images flashed across them. In front of the monitors were wall-length tables, each with a half-dozen or so computer terminals. The scruffy group of men fanned out and began working frantically.

  In the center of the room was a comfortable looking chair and a loveseat. Timo sat in the latter, filling it. He pointed to the chair, and Perry sat down.

  “A lot of people in ‘Bul know your dude, but they know him by a lot of different names. He tends to end up here when some fan somewhere in the world has met with some shit. I’m guessing dat’s the case again.”

  Perry decided not to divulge too much. He’d taken an instant liking to Timo, but tradecraft tended to inspire caution. “Yeah. He was mixed up in something pretty nasty in Paris. I had a chance to take him out there, but one thing led to another.”

  “As will happen. So you’re lookin’ end him, huh?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Won’t break my heart. Never dealt wid him directly, but I ain’t never heard one good thing about the dude. In fact, everything I hear is bad. Real bad.”

  “He needs killing.”

  Timo banged a large hand down on the arm of the loveseat, causing a small cloud of dust to rise. “Good. Then we gonna help you fin’ him.”

  Perry looked to the now industrious Turks clicking at the keyboards and asked, “Timo, who do you work for?”

  The Islander let out a breathy laugh and said, “Self-employed, bruddah! Dis my crew. I call us The Dude Finders.”

  Perry couldn’t help but laugh with him. “That’s the best goddamn name for an organization I’ve ever heard,” he said.

  “Not much or
ganization wid dese guys, but we get the job done. We find dudes.”

  One of the men looked up at his monitor, then turned to Timo. He pointed to the huge screen. “Kaynaklı video kaynağı Hagia Sophia,” he said.

  Perry and Timo stood and moved closer to the screen.

  “It’s a feed from a security camera near the Hagia Sophia,” Timo said, indicating the huge church in the background. A swollen crowd milled about, but with a few clicks on the keyboard and a bit of spiffy mouse-work, the Turk zoomed in on a section of the crowd.

  Perry saw him. He reached forward and poked the screen with his finger. With clenched teeth he said, “That’s him.”

  “It sure as hell is,” said Timo. “He’s got that kind of face, you know? Fits into any crowd, but once you know him…you know him.” As he was speaking, Timo was already reaching for a cell phone lying on the table near the computer terminal. A moment later he was speaking fluent Turkish. The conversation lasted only a few seconds, but when he disconnected he pointed to the screen and said to Perry, “Watch.”

  While Flick continued to mill about, seemingly without any purpose, a young man’s face came into view on the computer screen. He appeared to be looking directly into the camera, and to Perry’s surprise he gave a little wave.

  “My man is on your dude,” Timo said. “If all goes well we’ll find out where he’s staying pretty soon. Meantime, you wanna drink?”

  Perry did not hesitate. “Nope. Not till this bastard is done with life. Then I’ll drink all damn night with you.”

  “Bruddah, you got a deal.”

  8

  Lyndsey Archer sipped her fresh Starbucks coffee and gave a small shiver of delight.

  Burke chuckled. “Here you are at the Istanbul airport and you choose Starbucks.”

  “Sometimes the familiar things are nice, you know?”

  Burke nodded, understanding completely. He had more than once been guilty of going to a McDonald’s while on international duty, simply to feel at home. Experiencing the genuine culture was great at first and vital for tourists, but the charm and novelty of traveling the world had worn thin over the years and Burke no longer landed wide-eyed in a foreign country.

  Between sips, Lyndsey asked, “Any idea where to start looking for Perry?”

  “One or two. SpyCo has more than one contact in the city. One in particular, a man named Zeki, has worked with Perry before, I’m not sure exactly in what capacity. I’d say we start there and see where it takes us.”

  “Do you know where this Zeki lives?”

  “No, but I’m sure Moore could give us the information. I’d call the Intelligence Division, but I’m not sure how many people should know about this particular mission.” Burke took out his phone and tapped on the screen a few times, accessing the secure international network. Then he dialed Moore’s direct line. The phone rang several times...and then kept ringing. Burke looked quizzical, but finally gave up and disconnected. He looked at Lyndsey. “No answer,” he said.

  “That’s odd. The man’s a workaholic.”

  “And not only that, but his calls are patched through to his private line when he’s out of the office. But, hey, maybe he’s on the can.”

  Lyndsey scrunched her nose in disgust. “Or maybe he’s busy.”

  “Right, busy on the can.” Burke laughed at Lyndsey’s expression of annoyance. “I know, I know. I’m twelve.” He was about to make another attempt at adolescent humor when he heard a British accented voice behind them.

  “Excuse me, but did I overhear you were trying to call a Mr. Moore?”

  Burke whirled around and then stopped dead. Standing before him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her dark hair framed an oval face sporting a complexion so fine it could have been porcelain. Almond-shaped eyes the color of melted dark chocolate and framed with long, thick lashes stared up at him. The woman couldn’t have been more than five foot, two inches tall, a stark difference to Burke’s six foot one frame. The woman wore black business attire that, on her, looked entirely unprofessional. It somehow accentuated her curves and the open top three buttons didn’t hurt either. Burke thought he caught a glimpse of black lace and then realized he was staring at the woman. And that Lyndsey was staring at him.

  “Sorry,” Burke rushed to say. “What did you say?”

  “I thought I heard you mention a Mr. Moore.”

  “Did you, er, did we? I mean...what?”

  The woman smiled, the simple action made sultry by her full, perfectly-shaped lips. “I apologize. I should explain. I’m here at the request of a Mr. Moore, tasked with meeting two of his...employees. I was wondering if you might be those employees.”

  Burke was slowly regaining his senses. “What did you say your name is?”

  “Adabelle”

  “Annabelle?”

  “No, Adabelle. It’s how one might say Annabelle if they had a cold.” The woman smiled; clearly she had explained this many times before.

  “All right, Adabelle. And you’re claiming to be here at the behest of a Mr. Moore?”

  “J. Carlton Moore, yes. The director of SpyCo operations. You two must be Lyndsey Archer and James Burke.”

  Burke emitted a short laugh. “I see there’s no sense playing the old song and dance any longer. You obviously have us pegged. Care to fill us in?”

  Adabelle nodded. “Yes. But not here. I have a car waiting outside. It will be safe to talk there.”

  With Adabelle leading the way, they exited the airport. As they followed behind the mysterious woman, Burke and Lyndsey exchanged communicative glances. Burke knew they were both thinking the same things: who was this woman and could she be trusted.

  The car turned out to be a black Mercedes with tinted windows. It sat in front of the airport, its engine idling. As they approached, a man got out and opened their doors for them. First Lyndsey, then Adabelle, and finally Burke. The door was shut and the man walked back around to the driver’s side and got in. Once he got into the car, the driver was completely out of sight, as an opaque privacy panel completely separated the front and back seats. Adabelle tapped on the panel and almost at once the car began moving.

  “I don’t wish to appear overly inquisitive,” Burke said, “and I don’t want you to think we don’t appreciate your dramatic appearance of a few minutes ago, but...where the hell are we going?”

  “First of all, to get your weapons.”

  This revelation allowed Burke to breathe a little easier. Generally, when sending his agents on international missions that required commercial flight, Moore arranged a weapons drop in the target country to avoid any embarrassing altercations with airport security. A set of coordinates would be sent to the active agent, who could then find the location via GPS and go on their way, armed to the teeth without ever having to navigate a metal detector or an x-ray conveyor belt.

  “You know where the weapons cache is?” Lyndsey’s voice sounded light and conversational, but Burke knew her well enough to know it was all an act. She was suspicious of the new woman. Burke wondered vainly if he was at all to blame. Was there a bit of jealousy at play? He hadn’t meant to ogle Adabelle. Hadn’t ogled her, in fact. The entire exchange had simply taken him completely off guard and...he decided to stop fooling himself. He had looked. Hell, how could anyone not look at Adabelle. Nevertheless, it was a rude thing to do, with Lyndsey standing right there. Burke cursed himself, while at the same time hanging onto the slim thread of hope Lyndsey was experiencing a bit of jealousy. Not to make her miserable, of course, but it would feel like a stamp of legitimacy of their newly reconstructed relationship. After all, she wouldn’t be jealous if she didn’t care. Would she?

  “Yes, Miss Archer,” Adabelle said. “I know the location of the weapons and I know why you two are in Istanbul.”

  “That’s all very interesting,” Lyndsey said. “But first I’d like to know why you are in Istanbul.”

  “Do you, Miss Archer? Do you really want to know?”

 
Lyndsey visibly bristled at both the question and its tone. “I’m a big girl. I think I can take it.”

  “Two reasons. First, it’s my post.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m insurance,” Adabelle said.

  Burke raised an eyebrow. “Insurance? Against what?”

  “Against the possibility you two will choose friendship over duty.”

  Lyndsey’s lips had tightened to a thin line. “Where I come from, those two things go hand-in-hand.”

  “I don’t know where you come from, Miss Archer,” Adabelle said icily. “But it was obviously a throwback to the good old days of white picket fences and potlucks. As for me, I come from Istanbul.”

  “Via the mean streets of Oxford, from the sound of it. And I assume you mean I was sheltered.”

  “Quite. And not only that, but instilled with traditionalist values that make it almost impossible to succeed in the real world.”

  Lyndsey looked as if she wanted to pluck two brown eyes from their sockets. “Oh, I think I’ve done pretty well for myself. I’m still alive, which is more than one can say for the numerous enemy agents who have gotten in my way.”

  “But that’s exactly it,” Adabelle said. “In those cases, you knew who the enemy was. Anyone can kill if they are convinced the victim is the ‘bad guy.’ That’s the purpose of war propaganda, after all. A population will only fight if they believe the other side is evil.”

  “So you’re saying I’ve been brainwashed by the agency.”

  “I’m saying you look for the moral high ground and, once you find it, nothing can stop you. In this case, however, there is the possibility the moral high ground—in your mind—may involve going against orders. Perry Hall has to die. And die he will.”

  “So you’re here to make sure we kill Perry,” Burke said, stating the obvious. “Moore must really want him dead.”

  Adabelle shook her head. “It isn’t a matter of Moore wanting him dead; it’s a matter of Perry Hall being a stark liability. It’s not personal.”