Jihad db-5

by Stephen Coonts

  * * *

  Dean parked a block from the Mercedes in the heart of the Sultanahmet district, the most popular tourist area in Istanbul and the center of the city for more than a thousand years. He could see the walls and minarets of the Blue Mosque just up the hill; beyond it to the right but out of view were the Haghia Sophia and the Sultan’s Palace. Literally thousands of people thronged through the area every day; Asad and his al-Qaeda contacts would be just so many needles in a massive haystack, their foreign faces as much a part of the scenery as Dean’s.

  “Buggee is headed for the Blue Mosque. Must be doing the tourist thing,” said Rockman in Dean’s head as he pulled on his sunglasses and got out of the car.

  Dean climbed up the hill, walking in the middle of the street. A man near the corner asked if he wanted to buy a rug; Dean smiled but said nothing. Yesterday, with thick stubble and slightly rouged face, he and his rumpled coat might have passed for a Turk as well as the Spanish doctor he was portraying. Today, clean-shaven, in a loud tourist shirt, he looked like a very different man. Which of course was the idea.

  Built by Sultan Ahmet I, the Blue Mosque had scandalized many of the sultan’s subjects because its beauty and size rivaled Mecca’s own. The sultan was long gone, but the monument to his devotion and ego remained, drawing a steady stream of tourists as well as worshippers. Dean cut through the garden at the side, ignoring the old ladies hawking scarves and shoeshine men touting for work as he closed the distance between him and Red Lion.

  “Just finished washing his feet,” said Rockman. “Going up into the courtyard.”

  Only a few yards away now, Dean slowed down. The enclosed courtyard, constructed of massive marble squares and rounded by a high-columned portico, sat directly in front of the dome-topped prayer hall. Dean took a few steps to the side, as if admiring the cascade of domes while looking for his target.

  It’d be so much easier if Asad was just a target and Dean was still a sniper. Set up, spot him, steady the gun.

  Bam.

  So much easier.

  But that was what the idiot CIA jerk Pinchon had done yesterday, wasn’t it? Erase the problem. And in the process, lose the chance to find out what these slimes were really up to.

  Asad led his three bodyguards to the line reserved for practicing Muslims at the center of the building. Both he and his men wore dark suit jackets; they could easily be visiting businessmen taking the morning off to see the sights.

  Dean walked around to the side entrance, joining the line of tourists. He was given a bag for his shoes; slipping them inside, he walked into the cool interior of the mosque, his feet cushioned by thick Turkish rugs.

  The massive dome and the high ceilings around it transformed the murmured prayers of the faithful and the hushed awe of the tourists into a low-pitched hum, a sound that harmonized with the blue light from the stained glass windows to create a holy, timeless space. Even Dean, who had not only been inside twice before but was hardly religious, felt the sensation. He stopped for a moment near the door, getting his bearings, then he walked along the rail dividing those praying from those simply admiring, looking for Asad.

  The terrorist leader was prostrate near the mihrab, the stone indicating the direction of Mecca. Dean continued across the mosque, drifting in the direction of the modem rooms used for teaching and other mosque activities.

  Dean was close enough to Asad’s group as he went outside to see that he didn’t stop at the table where donations were accepted. Maybe he figured he’d given enough at the office.

  “Charlie, you don’t have to get too close,” said Rockman from the Art Room as Dean tagged along behind Asad, following through the park between the Blue Mosque and Haghia Sophia. “Don’t bug the buggee.”

  You’re a barrel of laughs, Dean thought.

  Asad walked through the park between the Blue Mosque and Haghia Sophia, then veered to the right, walking toward the entrance to Topkapi, the Sultan’s Palace. Dean stayed between fifteen and twenty yards behind, ducking into the middle of a Japanese tour group near the entrance to the palace grounds. Unlike the mosque, where the security people were subtle and largely out of sight, Turkish soldiers with submachine guns clustered around the gates and inner paths.

  “He only bought the regular ticket,” Rockman told Dean. “Not interested in the harem. Our buggee never was one for the women.”

  “Rockman, you’re starting to bug me,” said Dean.

  “Hey, that’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.”

  ASAD WALKED QUICKLY through the palace grounds, heading for the chamber of the holy relics. The Ottoman sultans had taken over as caliphs in the sixteenth century after conquering the Middle East. As powerful as their empire was, Asad believed the Turks had encouraged Islam’s decline, first by removing Arab wealth for their personal use and then, more fatally, by collaborating with the Crusaders. Decadence and weakness were the inevitable result.

  Asad held his breath as he entered the building housing the relics. Unlike much of the palace, the structure was not ostentatious; this, it occurred to Asad, was fitting, as the Prophet, Peace be to Him, was not one for earthly riches or show.

  The room containing the Prophet’s hair, tooth, and other relics was to the right of the entrance. Bowing his head slightly, Asad walked into the darkened room. The chanted verses of the Koran mesmerized him as he circled the large glass display at the center, awed by the simple display of Mohammed’s hair.

  A window cut into the wall at the side allowed visitors to catch a glimpse of a cloak once worn by the Prophet. Standing before it, Asad felt faint; he had to put his hand against the glass to steady himself.

  Conscious thought slipped away. He felt the touch of an angel on his shoulder, holding him upright.

  “Are you all right, sheik?” asked Katib, the head of his bodyguards.

  “Yes,” Asad whispered. “Filled with joy.”

  He walked slowly from the room into the reception area, looking at the swords of the Prophet’s followers. A short man with Turkish features approached from across the room. Asad saw him out of the comer of his eye, but waited until he was about six feet away to turn toward him. When he did, the man stopped, nodded, and then abruptly left the pavilion.

  “Come,” Asad told Katib. “They are ready.”

  * * *

  “Something’s up, Charlie,” Rockman told Dean as he pretended to read the sign outside the hall with the Islamic relics. “Asad just told his men to follow him. He’s moving toward you.”

  Dean kept his eyes on the sign as Asad passed behind him, walking toward the lower courtyard. Dean let him get about ten yards ahead and then turned to follow as Asad and his men walked through the lower garden.

  “Could be headed toward the Circumcision Pavilion,” said Rockman. “Yeah, looks like it.”

  The small building stood at the side of a platform overlooking the nearby park and the Golden Horn, Istanbul’s ancient natural harbor. By the time Dean reached the pool next to it, Asad was on the other side, headed toward the Baghdad Pavilion, a large hall perched above a sheer drop at the very edge of the terrace. Dean had to slip through a large group of British tourists to follow; by the time he got through the throng Asad had disappeared.

  “Charlie, can you see him?” asked Rockman.

  “No,” said Dean.

  “He’s in that big building in front of you, the Baghdad Pavilion. This is it. He just told one of his bodyguards to hang back.”

  Dean spotted someone watching him from the wall near the building. The most inconspicuous thing to do was to keep walking toward it, going in the same general direction Asad’s party had taken. As he approached the steps under the arch, two men in Western-style suits came out from the side, holding up their hands and shaking their heads. He asked in English how he could visit the pavilion, but the men told him it was closed.

  “Charlie, what’s going on?” Rockman asked.

  “Two guys just waved me away from the door Asad used,�
�� said Dean as he walked away. “They weren’t soldiers.”

  “He’s still in the building,” said Rockman. “Set up some video bugs so we can see who comes in.”

  “On it,” said Dean.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 35

  Marie Telach knelt down next to the technician’s station, looking at his screen.

  “See, these sines are diminishing,” said the radio expert, pointing at a series of waves on the screen. “It’s gotta mean they’re going underground. Thing is, we’re going to lose him if he goes much deeper.”

  “Can you boost it?”

  “We’re at maximum power now. You have to bring the booster units in closer. Your only option.”

  Telach straightened and walked down to the front of the room, where Rockman was running the mission.

  “He’s in here somewhere,” said Rockman, pointing to the comer where Asad had disappeared. “Below the building with the relics of Prophet Mohammed. That’s where we lost the signal. But he came from this direction over here. There must be a set of stairs that aren’t on our maps.”

  “Do we know what’s on the basement level of the palace?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but if we’re not picking him up, he’s got to be at least one floor below it, right? Or maybe two or three,” said Rockman.

  A message appeared on the translation screen: SIGNAL LOST.

  “Have Lia go into the palace with the portable booster units,” Telach said, stifling a curse. “Put them as close to this area as possible. In the meantime, I’ll talk to Mr. Rubens.”

  * * *

  The shriek of the phone woke Rubens with a start and he jerked out of bed. He turned and saw his clock—4:03 A.M. He’d overslept.

  He reached over to the side of the bed, picking up the phone that connected to the Art Room.

  “Hello, Marie,” he said. “What’s the situation?”

  “It looks like Red Lion is meeting someone in the Topkapi Palace,” she told him. “Probably in a basement area. We don’t have a definitive map. I’d like to have the U-2 Senior Project overfly the area with its penetrating radar.”

  “Do it.”

  “We’re having technical difficulties because of the building,” Telach continued. “We need to put boosters closer to the source. That may involve going into the palace itself, possibly into the Pavilion of the Holy Mantle where Mohammed’s cloak is kept. Charlie’s already gone through the security screen and we’re confident we can get a unit in without it being detected.”

  Rubens took a slow breath, contemplating the situation. The president — against Rubens’ advice — had already decided against bringing the boosters inside any of the mosques; if the device were discovered, the act would be considered sacrilegious and would have considerable repercussions. The Pavilion of the Holy Mantle was not a mosque — but in some ways it was even more sensitive. The discovery of one of the units in the palace, an official government building, might embarrass an important ally.

  Would definitely embarrass them.

  “Do what is necessary to accomplish our mission,” said Rubens. “But do not leave one of the units unattended in the building with the relics. Have Lia or Dean bring it and stay with it, if needed.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m sorry I overslept, Marie. I was up late with George Hadash’s daughter last night, helping her make arrangements for her father’s funeral. I’ll be in shortly.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “Are you sure you’re entitled to wear white?”

  Lia spun around, caught off-guard though the Art Room had told her Dean was nearby.

  “You’d know,” she told him, smoothing the sides of her long outer dress. “And the color is cocoa, not white. Off-white. What’s the setup?”

  “Asad went into that corner building and they lost the signal. He’s downstairs somewhere. They’re getting a radar plane to map the basement.”

  “You sure he hasn’t slipped out?”

  “Once he’s outside they’ll hear him.”

  “Can we get inside?”

  “They want to try and map it first.” Dean turned toward the building Asad had gone into. “They want to put a booster as close to the building as possible.”

  “All right. I’ll go over to that bench.” Lia slipped out one of the pseudo-eyeglass case booster units.

  “Give me some,” Dean told her. “I’ll walk into the Pavilion of the Holy Mantle with them. They don’t want us to leave any equipment in there, but I’ll find out if there’s a signal at least.”

  Lia gave him the one in her hand and reached into her bag for another.

  “Take the fake cameras,” she told him. “One for a backup.”

  The fake camera looked like an early-model digital camera and could actually take two photos. But unlike the eyeglass case, anyone spotting it on the ground would probably take it with them.

  “Smile,” said Dean, pretending to take her picture. “See you up there.”

  * * *

  “Not getting anything, Charlie. We think now he might have moved to the west toward the water,” Telach told him. “Take a turn around the hall and then go back outside.”

  Dean held the fake camera in his hands, pretending to be angling for a picture of the swords that belonged to Mohammed’s followers. A security guard waved frantically at him from the side.

  “You’re not allowed to use your flash,” said the man. Dean nodded.

  “No flash,” insisted the man.

  “I understand,” said Dean, walking away.

  “Charlie, the radar plane’s above you now,” said Rockman. “We found a passage you can use to get into the subbasement. It’s in the second building on your left as you come out. They use it for maintenance. You should be able to slip in.”

  Dean worked his way toward it, pausing every so often to snap a picture. Finally he backed against the doors, reached his hand around and found that they were locked.

  He turned and knelt before it, checking to see how the lock was oriented before reaching behind his belt buckle and pulling out the pick and the tension wrench. He slid the pick all the way to the back of the lock, then began teasing the pressure to undo the lock.

  For a split second he thought of Lia, who was so much better at this than he was. He pushed the thought away, concentrated on what he was doing.

  When the tumblers clicked into place, Dean pushed down on the handle and the latch moved with a heavy crunch.

  “Go to your right.” said Rockman. “You should come to a set of stairs on your left.”

  Dean found the steps and descended to an open landing. Dean paused on the steps, listening. The stone block walls and smooth tile floor meant sound should echo a considerable distance.

  “There should be some sort of passage down a few yards to your left,” said Rockman.

  “Some sort?” whispered Dean.

  “We’re working with a radar map, Charlie, doing this on the fly. You need to go down at least two levels.”

  Dean started down the hall, treading as lightly as possible. In contrast to the ornate displays in the buildings above, this section of the palace appeared to be used for nothing more than storage. A pile of cardboard boxes sat in a haphazard pyramid a few paces ahead of him, covered with dust. Just beyond them, Dean found an open door and a set of steps; he listened, then descended slowly, pausing every second or third tread to listen. There were no lights in the passage itself, but a dim yellow haze filtered up from the landing, which Dean estimated was a good thirty feet down.

  He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, listening. When he heard nothing he swung out into a large open space lit by a single overhead bulb, forty watts at the most. Stacked cardboard boxes formed a maze of walls about waist high.

  “Okay, Charlie. There should be another set of steps about fifty feet in front of you.”

  Dean threaded his way through the piles of boxes, moving slowly, his eyes not completely adjusted to the dimness.

  �
�Are you going to lose my com system?” he asked.

  “If you go down another twenty feet, probably. But we think we can route you through the booster units. We’re working on the setup for that. It’ll be done soon.”

  “How close am I to Asad?”

  “We’re still not sure where he is. You’re almost directly under the door where you went into the building. The next passage will take you to a set of stairs for an underground cavern — well, it looks like a cavern — that extends to the west. It may have been a water holding area, or just a big storage hall. It looks like it’s the only way Asad could have gone.”

  Dean walked toward the shadows at the far end of the room. Boxes were stacked along the wall, and it took him a few moments to find the door Rockman had said would be there. He had to move three stacks of boxes before he could open it, the hinges squealing.

  A rush of dank, cold air greeted him.

  “All right, I have the steps,” said Dean. “I’m going down.”

  “We’re with you, Charlie.”

  Yeah, right behind me, thought Dean.

  * * *

  Lia gazed out over the nearby park toward the city, admiring the view as she waited for a knot of tourists to leave so she could stick the transmitter under the bench without being seen. When they finally left, she slipped the hard case down next to her, pushing on the outside hinge of the hard case to activate it. Then she got up and, as if looking pensively toward the mosaic on the building, prepared to drop it behind the marble bench.

  “We’re not picking up anything, Lia. Don’t bother leaving it,” said Rockman about three seconds after she’d dropped it.

  “Peachy,” she growled, stooping to retrieve it. As she did, she saw a man in a suit watching her a few feet away.

  Lia fished out the glass case, patting it against her hand as if it had been bad. Then she walked deliberately away, the bodyguard’s stare burning a hole in the back of her head. Lia didn’t stop until she reached the restaurant, which was located on the other side of the grounds overlooking the Bosporus. She circled around the outdoor dining area before choosing a table, making sure she wasn’t being followed.