“What makes you so certain?” Chris asked.
“Because that’s what I would do if I wanted to get the sonofabitch responsible for my sister’s death.”
“She’s out of the loop,” Chris said.
“Officially,” Vanessa said, flashing on her own experience last fall when she’d been cut out of official ops. She’d nevertheless managed to convince Chris to meet her in London.
“It’s not that hard,” Vanessa said. “You of all people know that. I’m betting she found out from someone on the French side of the team that we were headed here and so was Fournier. It’s a no-brainer to get on a flight and hop over.”
“Canard,” Khoury said, setting his coffee cup down hard. “He’s got a thing for Aisha. He’s so obsessed he’d walk off a cliff for her.”
A voice filled the room: “Howdy from Headquarters.”
They all turned to see Zoe Liang’s face filling one monitor. She said, “I see the dastardly duo has arrived from Venice. Hi, David.”
“Hey, Zoe, good to see you.” Khoury flashed her a smile.
Vanessa said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“No shit,” Zoe said, the corners of her mouth stretching woefully down. “You guys are in the Four Seasons Istanbul and I’m stuck in my subterranean cave at CPD. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“That’s because you’ve got the brains,” Khoury joked.
Zoe raised her biceps into view and made a muscle. “I got the brawn, too.” She dropped the theatrics abruptly. “Rome Station sent me a photo of your attacker on a stainless-steel table from the morgue. His name is Hany Graiss, twenty-five years old, worked in Yemen, the Sana’a desert region. He looks a lot like the local Bedouins, probably because his ancestors were Yemenis, which is common in upper Egypt, where he was born. Today’s fun fact, there are many Copts—aka Coptic Christians—in Egypt’s Aswan-Luxor region, and they are persecuted by Muslims . . .”
Zoe gazed at them with narrowed eyes. “This is pertinent because of Hany’s six degrees of separation: he was employed by Eagle Enterprises and trained in demolitions; he wore a Jerusalem Cross, also worn by Jeffreys and other members of the Circle, apparently in homage to Godfrey of Bouillon, who wore one in the First Crusade; Hany spent time in the U.S. at the Circle’s summer camp for young male initiates.”
“That’s three degrees,” Hays said, munching on a thick bar of halva.
Zoe rolled her eyes. “His passport places him in Yemen at the same time the Eagle Enterprises Black Hawk exploded; he’s also a pretty decent match for the security cam reflections that we enhanced from La Défense, as well as a match for Bogdan’s Scarface who bought cesium for the dirty bomb; he spoke a Bedouin dialect of Arabic that matches the voice on the True Jihad videos; and, finally, he passed through Istanbul and Atatürk airport yesterday on his way to Venice, and Istanbul is where we think Eagle will pick up the missing suitcase nuke—so is that fucking good enough for you, Hays?”
Hays shrugged. “Not bad.”
Now another voice, with a French accent, filled the room. “Checking in,” Fournier said.
“We read you loud and clear,” Hays said.
Chris stepped in the middle of the group. “We have an expert from NEST in flight to Istanbul. This is a guy who knows how to disarm and oversee the containment of a nuclear device.”
“Even if it’s already ticking?” Vanessa asked faintly. CPD worked frequently with NEST, the Nuclear Emergency Support Team, manned by scientists, techs, and engineers who were trained to respond to any radiological incident anywhere in the world.
Fournier interrupted, “Eagle is on the move.”
Hays blinked back and forth between monitors, his face tightened by worry.
“Is he alone?” Vanessa asked.
“No sign of Baby Bird,” Fournier said, “but security’s clearing the way through the lobby and an SUV is pulling up out front.”
Hays quickly did his magic on the keyboard and the lobby security feed showed on his monitor. Vanessa sucked in air, surprised to discover the immediate shadow of rage she felt at the sight of Jeffreys as he passed through the doors and out of the hotel. He moved with the tight, springy energy of a middle-aged man well past his college jock days but still fit. “He’s got a briefcase,” she said.
“But it’s skinny,” Khoury said. “Definitely too small to hold a viable nuke, no matter now miniaturized they’ve made it.”
“What about Baby Bird?” Chris asked.
“Swimming laps, apparently for the rest of his life,” Hays said. “I’m watching him now.”
Fournier spoke up again: “Looks like Eagle and the security guard are heading your way in a dark green Mercedes-Benz SUV, and I’ll be right behind them in a white Jetta.”
“Don’t let the SOB out of your sight, Fournier,” Vanessa said, already slipping her feet back into her leather boots and reaching for her jacket. “Who’s got the keys?”
70
Jeffreys’s chauffeured SUV pulled out of Les Ottomans Hotel to turn southwest on Muallim Naci Caddesi, and Fournier followed.
Thirty seconds behind Fournier, Aisha pulled out in a rented Fiat Doblò that was the color of a ripe plum. Shifting quickly to second gear and then third, she was glad for her dark sunglasses that blocked the glare. The sky was covered with clouds, but occasionally the sun broke through; when it did, it glittered off the many ships traveling up and down the waters of the Bosphorus.
She had been up for more than thirty hours, and she was wired and running on empty except for the coffee and cigarettes she consumed nonstop, but she felt no fatigue. It was more like she felt nothing. When she noticed her hands on the steering wheel her fingers reminded her of bones.
The Mercedes-Benz passed the shoreline’s Cemil Topuzlu Parkı and would soon meet the Istanbul 0-1. At that point it could stay on Muallim Naci or follow the 0-1 across the Strait. Fournier kept the Jetta at a reasonable distance from his target. Aisha prepared to follow whatever way they went.
Yesterday, after she’d spoken to Khoury on the street in Paris, she’d gone to Canard for help.
She focused on the road ahead as the green SUV approached the entrance to 0-1.
It did not turn to cross the Strait. Instead, it stayed on Muallim Naci.
As the three vehicles passed the Marmara Esma Sultan and approached the Four Seasons, Aisha thought about Team Viper holed up in that elegant hotel with a pang of regret. She would be with them if she could, but she would have to go back far enough in time to hide Yasmin somewhere no one could hurt her.
She had her phone with her in the Doblò, but she’d removed its battery to evade tracking. Once, in the lost hours before dawn, she’d even thought about calling Khoury. Instead, she’d poured herself more coffee.
Aisha had made it to Istanbul thanks to Canard. He’d given her a place to sleep for a few hours when she couldn’t go back to her apartment. She didn’t like to use him, but in this case she had no choice. It was Canard who told her about the French special forces team killing the terrorist—and the young woman’s body, now confirmed as Yasmin.
An asset had given her the piece about the tinker. Word was out that he was holed up in Istanbul.
Through a friend in Turkish intelligence, Aisha learned the final piece of the puzzle—the Middle East peace accord that was to be held in secret at Les Ottomans would be led by none other than Allen Jeffreys.
The Mercedes-Benz was slowing and Fournier braked the Jetta in response. Aisha took her foot off the Doblò’s accelerator. The Mercedes with Jeffreys in the back and his security officer in front turned off to Feriye Lokantası, a restaurant housed in Feriye Palace, a complex of Ottoman imperial buildings near the Four Seasons. Aisha knew that a sultan who ruled the empire in the late 1800s had commissioned it.
Practicing normal tradecraft, Fournier continued past the restaurant. Aisha took the turn, but she avoided driving into the parking lot where the Mercedes now pulled up to the restaurant
’s ornate and massive façade.
Aisha parked far enough away so her vehicle would not attract attention, but close enough so she could see what needed to be seen.
It looked as if Jeffreys was going to enjoy a late lunch alone or with an unknown companion on the waterfront of the Bosphorus.
71
“Eagle is turning southeast off the highway, headed for the waterfront to something called Feriye Lokantası. Looks like an old palace.” Fournier’s voice through transmitters sounded tinny inside the Range Rover. To Vanessa his accent turned Jeffreys’s code name into “Hegle.”
The Turkish driver, Ali, informally on loan from Turkish intelligence, spoke up: “It is a palace, or it was. Now it’s a five-star restaurant.”
“Well, if a man’s gotta eat, might as well do it in a palace on U.S. taxpayer dollars,” Khoury said.
“For all we know it’s a meet and he’s there to get the nuke,” Vanessa said. She couldn’t stop squirming in the backseat. It had begun to drizzle and temperatures were in the mid-forties. Inside it felt too warm and stuffy, and she was breaking a sweat.
Khoury sat next to her, while the expert from NEST, a quiet, slender Indian engineer, sat shotgun beside the Turkish driver. They were parked in the lot of the Four Seasons, waiting to move and take over for Fournier as soon as they had eyes on Eagle. But Eagle had stopped. Chris and Hays were holding down the fort in the room.
“Tell me again why we don’t have visual, Hays?”
“Sorry, we’re not in Kansas anymore.” Now it was Hays who sounded tinny. “Unfortunately, I can’t just pick up a feed here like in London or Paris, but give me a few minutes, I’m working on it.”
“Lots of important people go to this restaurant,” Ali said. “I’m sure they have a camera or two, but VIPs sometimes prefer to meet where they can have privacy, so maybe not.”
“There goes Fournier,” Khoury said, tracking a white Jetta on the highway.
“I’m turning around,” Fournier said in response to Khoury.
“Okay, guys,” Hays said. “You should be able to communicate between vehicles now.”
Vanessa shifted consciously toward their vehicle’s radio transmitter. “Bonjour?”
“Oui,” Fournier said.
“Can you head back and find somewhere to park inconspicuously on the other side of the restaurant?”
“Oui, I should be able to do that. There’s a wharf and a park, some parking areas beyond the palace complex.”
Vanessa felt Ali’s eyes on her in the rearview mirror and Khoury asked her quietly, “You want to fill us in on what you’re thinking?”
She nodded. “We can move closer to the restaurant so we at least have visual of the front. Fournier can move so he’s not conspicuous, but he can easily pick up Eagle again when and if he heads back to Les Ottomans.”
Within minutes, Ali found a parking spot between the Four Seasons and Feriye Lokantası, where the Rover was discreet at the same time it offered a clear view with binoculars to the waterfront side of the restaurant.
Seated at a table by a window, Jeffreys was just visible through glass.
“Who’s he with?” Khoury asked Vanessa, who shifted to try to gain a clearer view. “Can’t see from here,” she said. “Hays?”
“Don’t know,” Hays said over the transmitter. He’d managed to gain access to two exterior security cams. The first camera surveilled the main entrance to the restaurant, the second overlooked two rear exits. “It almost looks a little bit like his security guard, but I can’t tell for certain.”
Now Chris spoke up, apparently off of his latest round of phone calls. “The Israelis have checked into Les Ottomans,” he said.
Vanessa hunched back in her seat. “Pretty soon we’ll have everyone and everything but the nuke.”
—
SEVENTY MINUTES LATER it was Vanessa who blurted out the news, “Eagle on the move again!”
The man from NEST sat up abruptly in the front seat and Hays confirmed Vanessa’s call by radio. “Roger that, got Eagle and his security guard on cameras, they are exiting through front doors.”
“Kahretsin,” Ali said with a groan. He started the Rover but stayed in place.
“Briefcase?” Vanessa asked. Even with the binoculars she could not get a full view of the front entrance.
“Eagle still has the briefcase,” Hays said. “And it’s still skinny.”
“Allo, are you hearing this?” Chris asked over the radio.
“Oui, got it,” Fournier said with a huff of air that sounded a lot like smoke exhalation to Vanessa. When this was all over, she told herself, she’d savor a few more cigarettes and then quit for good.
“We don’t know who he met for lunch . . .” she said, uneasily. “Hays, you still tracking his phone?”
“Yep. Signal loud and clear.”
“What if he dumps it?” Khoury asked.
“Then we will have eyes on him,” Hays said.
Just then Ali accelerated, guiding the Range Rover out to the highway. Vanessa felt a surge of anxiety. She wouldn’t be able to relax again until the op was completed.
Hays confirmed that Eagle’s green SUV was heading back toward Les Ottomans. Fournier chimed in that he would pick up their trail after giving them space to pass and stay ahead of him. Ali pulled out to follow, at least until they were sure Fournier had Eagle covered.
Vanessa couldn’t shake the queasy feeling in her abdomen. Details kept swirling through her thoughts. After a minute, one of them popped out at her.
“Hays—what did you say before about Eagle’s son? ‘Do they clone their young?’”
“Well, yeah,” Hays said, his voice crackling a bit through the transmission. “Because he looks just . . . shit.”
Chris jumped into the conversation now. “Get a camera on the pool, now, Hays.”
“I’m on it, but Baby Bird’s not there,” Hays said, his voice rising half an octave. “Maybe he’s in the sauna again?”
“Damn it!” Vanessa slapped the back of the NEST guy’s headrest and he jumped. “Baby Bird’s not in the pool or the sauna because he’s in the car. He’s in the SUV. It’s Baby Bird, not Eagle!”
Khoury turned toward her briefly, his gaze bullet hard. “They switched places at the restaurant. Phones, too.”
“I didn’t get a close-up of his face,” Hays said, almost moaning.
“Ali,” Vanessa pressed, “could there be another exit we didn’t know about? Underground? You said it’s an old palace—”
“It had concubine quarters,” Ali said, his voice dark. “Sultans often had tunnels built between their residence and other parts of the compound so they could move around and . . .”
Fournier’s radio had been silent for the past minute, but now he said, “I’ll track the SUV the rest of the way and see who gets out and where. You try to figure out how to pick up Eagle again.”
“Shit,” Chris said. “We’ve lost him.”
“Do we have Baby Bird’s cell phone?” Khoury asked, sounding as if he knew he was grasping at a straw. “Maybe Eagle took it with him?”
“No and no,” Hays said.
Vanessa buried her face in her hands. “He’s off the grid now and we let him walk away.”
72
The Galata Bridge, spanning Istanbul’s Golden Horn, which separated the old, historic center of Istanbul from the rest of the city, shimmered just ahead. To Aisha the vision was familiar and yet, time after time, it took her breath away.
Reluctantly, she returned her focus to the bright blue Ford Fiesta now driven by Jeffreys. He was slowly approaching the Golden Horn and the old city beyond. And actually, she had to admit he was doing a fair job of navigating Istanbul’s ubiquitous traffic jams.
She glanced over at her phone and loose battery on the passenger seat next to her. Abruptly compelled by the realization she might not be able to complete what she wanted to do on her own, she scooped them up and managed to clip them back together using her free hand.
When she pressed the power button the phone shivered to life and the bars showed a strong signal.
She opened her window to the cold and drizzle—the clouds had socked in, and the rain was turning to snow as the temperature dropped. She held up the phone and snapped a photo of the bridge ahead. Not allowing herself to waffle, she pulled up Dawood’s private number and sent him the photo. She disconnected the battery once more and tucked it into her pocket, along with her phone.
“As-salam alaykum . . . as-salam alaykum . . .” As Aisha whispered she nodded rhythmically, slowly. The simple chant kept her grounded. She did not let her thoughts move to Yasmin. She did not think any more about Dawood. She did not allow herself to dwell on the fate she desired for those responsible for hurting her sister.
She had learned many ways to get what she wanted.
And she had also learned that Allah had His own designs and she was no more than a grain of sand in His plan.
Aisha had no doubt that Jeffreys was a bad man with dangerous aims. Not after she witnessed his trick at the restaurant. Team Viper had missed it, but Aisha had seen it with her own eyes. And now she was so wired that she could not close her eyes, not even if somebody knocked her unconscious.
While waiting for Jeffreys outside the restaurant, she had used a trick of her own, a habit that served her well on surveillance ops. She stayed awake and focused by flicking her gaze between foreground and background—the primary and surrounding areas.
And so she’d immediately noticed the door in the building next to the restaurant nosing open just twenty-five meters or so away from where she was parked. Jeffreys emerged, sans his briefcase and sunglasses and jacket. He’d walked intently to the group of cars in the lot and he’d gotten behind the wheel of the blue Ford.
Even with her habit, luck played a huge part in spotting Jeffreys as he made his move. Aisha had thanked Allah at least two dozen times and remembered Yasmin—she was so devout she never missed a call to prayer, even during the worst bombings and shellings in their neighborhood.
Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) Page 28