Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2)

by Plame, Valerie

  Sweet Yasmin, okhti al-jamila, beautiful sister.

  Along with a constant stream of other vehicles, the Ford Fiesta crossed the bridge over the Golden Horn and Aisha followed not far behind, alert for her target’s next move in the dense traffic. She would not make the same mistake as Team Viper.

  Jeffreys continued as quickly as the dense, sometimes stop-and-go, traffic would allow onto Ragıp Gümüs¸pala Caddesi. She did, too. The cold penetrated the car. She loosened her scarf but left it draped around the neck of her leather jacket. Not visible beneath the jacket, the small holster and the Glock pressed against the small of her back. It had been easy to get—one call to a man who knew a man.

  The Ford Fiesta turned onto S¸eref Efendi Sokak and slowed to almost nothing. Traffic throughout the city was a nightmare of manic drivers and incessant honking.

  Although they were still about 1.5 kilometers away, Aisha knew Jeffreys’s destination: Büyük Çars¸ı, the Grand Bazaar. With more than sixty covered, winding streets and alleys, and three thousand shops and stalls, and secretive hans, it was the perfect place to covertly hand off a package.

  By the time he led her to Tavuk Pazarı Sokak, they were only paces from the bazaar.

  Jeffreys managed to park on a side street between Tavuk Pazarı and Çars¸ıkapı.

  Not as lucky, Aisha left her vehicle double-parked in a driveway about seventy-five meters away. As she crossed the street, she imagined the car would be ransacked and towed before she returned. Had she locked the doors? She didn’t remember—she was determined she would not lose him in the crowd.

  Carrying the thin briefcase, Jeffreys entered the market, moving with surprising speed through the tall, imposing gate called Çars¸ıkapı.

  Aisha pulled the scarf over her head and wrapped it loosely around her hair, and she passed beneath the gate into the dark, cool world of the Grand Bazaar.

  For a moment, while she adjusted to the change in light, she thought that she had lost him. But then she saw that he had turned right on a street famous for its jewelry. He stood half a head taller than most of the local men. She followed, using the top of his head as a beacon. He took another turn, heading down a smaller street filled with fur and leather stands. Hanging back so she would not get made, Aisha followed.

  She realized with surprise that she was holding the phone in her pocket as she moved. She pulled it out along with its battery. As she walked, she slipped the battery into the back of the phone and clicked the cover into place.

  When she pressed the green button, her phone whirred on.

  Jeffreys slowed ahead, staring at a shop that sold shoes and boots.

  He picked up speed again, and Aisha did the same. He glanced around and over his shoulder several times, and she wondered if he now sensed her presence. More than once, she pulled back, ducking into an alcove to avoid detection. He turned again, cutting left for a minute, then right, and he continued this way so it seemed at times he was leading her in circles. She kept up, moving with him into increasingly dark and remote sections of the mazelike market.

  Suddenly she felt vulnerable and uncertain. What if she couldn’t stop him? Without another thought, she selected her most recent call and clicked resend.

  He picked up almost instantly and Aisha felt a pang of emotion at the sound of his voice. “Dawood, I stayed on his trail after you lost him at the restaurant.”

  He inhaled sharply. “I got your photo and I’m on my way. Where are you now?”

  “The Grand Bazaar. Go in through Çars¸ıkapı. Follow the street where they sell all the leathers. Keep moving toward the middle of the bazaar.”

  “What are you doing, Aisha? Don’t make it worse.”

  “Pass the big street with all the flat woven carpets, Halıcılar, and look for Acı Çes¸me Sokak—”

  “We’re already over the bridge, and will be there soon. Please wait for us.”

  “Just listen. He’s right ahead of me. I think he’s headed for the Zincirli Han. Swear you’ll get him for me, and for Yasmin.”

  “I swear,” he said. “Just stay safe, we’ll be there soon. It will be okay.”

  “No . . .” She shook her head, forgetting he couldn’t see her. “But I will get justice and you will get the bomb.”

  And then she clicked off, sliding the Glock from its holster, following Jeffreys around a sharp turn that led into the narrow, tree-lined interior of Zincirli Han—with its old and beautiful two-story building of red plaster and tile.

  She was just in time to see him follow a dark, very heavyset man into one of the rooms at the opposite end of the main courtyard. The tinker. She knew him only by description and by a handful of poor-quality photographs, but he was very distinctive.

  She moved around the covered walkway, making her way less directly to the same doorway. She now held the Glock ready, in both hands. When she was in position to see what was going on, she inched her head around the edge of the door.

  The heavyset man was squatting beside a large case about the size of a medium suitcase. He opened it as if he were offering up great treasure. He seemed to look to Jeffreys for his approval.

  Aisha took a quick, cold breath. From what she could see, the case held a device encased in dark metal. It was roughly the size of three shoeboxes set side by side. She recognized the spark gap—it was the same as pictures she’d seen from La Défense.

  The device itself resembled the schematics Khoury had shown Team Viper.

  She was staring at the suitcase nuke.

  Her shoulder pressed to the wall, a small chip of plaster fell to the ground. Both the heavyset man and Jeffreys looked simultaneously toward the doorway where she stood. The heavyset man pulled something dark and shiny from his boot and Aisha fired at him instinctively—just as she saw the dull metal of the gun in Jeffreys’s hand.

  73

  Vanessa leapt out into traffic before Ali could bring the Range Rover to a full stop.

  She tasted choking exhaust. Khoury called out to her, his words drowned out by screeching brakes, shrieking horns. She moved automatically, hollowing out so the oncoming truck missed her by centimeters. Light snow coated her skin, blurred her vision, but she saw the driver as a shadow waving his fists from behind his battered windshield. Then she was past him. Her boots slid on wet pavement. She dodged other vehicles and kept skidding toward Çars¸ıkapı and the Grand Bazaar.

  Just outside the bazaar, she spotted three guys who might have been security, self-appointed or semiofficial. No sign of any uniformed Turkish authorities, but she knew they were around. Someone clipped the back of her boot; someone else jostled against her, pushing her forward with the informal queue flowing through the gates.

  And then she was through and inside the vast covered market, another world, weaving her way around the press of buyers and sellers, some of whom were staring at her. Ignoring them, she cut right along the jewelry street, pulling her scarf over her hair as she moved, scanning the crowd for any sight of Jeffreys or Aisha. She was following the route Aisha had given Khoury as best as she could.

  But the world inside the bazaar was disorienting, almost overpowering with its assault on the senses: redolent with the smell of spices and incense, cooking grease and perfumed sweat. At the same time an undulating stream of Turkish music snaked out from speakers mounted in the dark recesses of the high, arched ceiling.

  Within minutes it seemed to Vanessa that she’d passed nearly twenty small streets and alleys branching off the main street she was following. Aisha had said to head toward the center of the bazaar—but where the hell was the center?

  Vendors came at her, some speaking Turkish, others using English:

  “Nice boots—are they Turkish leather?”

  “You lost? Can I help you?”

  “Hello European lady, I have a brother in UK.”

  “Have a cup of tea.”

  She brushed past them.

  The shifting light radiating from the few windows and skylights played tricks�
�casting stark shadows, failing to twilight, brightening to a milky haze.

  Aisha was only minutes ahead of her, and Vanessa found herself at a crossroads. The main corridor, with its vaulted ornate rooftop, stretched in front of her with no end point in sight. She glanced down one alley, blinking at the golden cast of hundreds of glowing enameled lamps. If she followed them she thought she would be heading more deeply into the market. But there was another lane, apparently preferred by cobblers, that led off to her left as well. To the right, a narrower corridor filled with spice and food stalls wound into shadow. For a moment she stood undecided. Two men passed her, slowing, their eyes filled with curiosity. A vendor from a food stall motioned to her, calling in Turkish.

  On instinct she pivoted left, diving into the narrow, winding alley. It quickly led into a wider street and then she saw the street filled with carpets. Maybe she was going in the right direction. Aisha had said to find Acı Çes¸me Sokak and the Zincirli Han. She couldn’t believe it—she’d reached a dead end. Panic welled inside and she felt time running out—on her, on Aisha, on the entire op to stop Jeffreys.

  Three fast, sharp cracks brought her up rigidly: the unmistakable sound of gunshots. They’d come from somewhere close, but the mazelike streets of the bazaar threw off sound and light and any sense of direction.

  She heard shouting. She rushed toward the noise, stumbling on the stones, falling. She braced herself for the impact with one arm, flinching at the anticipation of pain. Heat filled her head and burned behind her eyes. She stared blindly at the faces staring down at her. Then she saw the painted sign overhead the shape of a directional arrow—Zincirli Han.

  She rose instantly and followed the arrow, turning into the smallest alley yet, and around one curve and then another until she stepped through doors and back several centuries into the tree-shaded courtyard of Zincirli Han.

  There were half a dozen people in the courtyard, one woman, the rest men, all of them old and dressed in the clothes of locals. They stared at Vanessa as she entered.

  Vanessa saw movement behind them at the other end of the han. She took a few steps and then she could clearly see bodies—a very heavyset man sprawled akimbo. He looked dead.

  The other body was a woman and she was on the ground except for her head, which rested against the splintered wood of an old doorway. Her eyes were wide open and she stared back at Vanessa.

  Oh, God. Aisha.

  Vanessa was kneeling by her side in seconds, taking in as much as she could: the large amount of blood soaking through Aisha’s left pant leg and pooling thickly on the stones. For an instant, Vanessa was mentally transported back to the Louvre, the chaos of the bomb, the bleeding girl.

  “Go after him,” Aisha whispered to Vanessa hoarsely. “Jeffreys has the case . . . I saw it . . . armed . . .”

  Vanessa stood, frozen there for an instant. How far behind him was she? She couldn’t stay if there was a chance to catch him.

  “Go!” Aisha whispered roughly.

  Vanessa nodded. “Help is coming.” And then she turned and ran back the way she’d come. As she stepped through the arched entrance of the han, she almost collided with Khoury, who was on his way in.

  He said, “Thank God you’re all right.”

  “Aisha—she’s losing blood fast. I’m going after Jeffreys.”

  Khoury grabbed her arm, but she pulled away. “I have to—you can find me again. I’ve got my cell.”

  He called after her, “I’ll find you.”

  She didn’t look back.

  She retraced her steps to the main street and stopped. If she went left, she’d be going out via the exact same route she’d taken on her way in. Khoury had come that way and Jeffreys wouldn’t want to go back the same way he’d entered the bazaar, either. At least that was her best guess.

  That left the wide, crowded street ahead of her. She saw no sign of Jeffreys, but she went forward. People seemed to come at her as if she were caught in some surreal dream. She realized she’d gotten Aisha’s blood on her hands and on her sweater. She didn’t have time to look for one of the ornate water fountains in the bazaar. The blood would stay, and maybe it wasn’t a bad thing to carry the tangible mark of Jeffreys’s dark actions and even darker intentions.

  When the vendors moved into her path she pushed past them almost blindly. Her focus was on finding Jeffreys in the crowd.

  She still hadn’t spotted him and she was fast approaching a huge main street that led off in two directions. The sign overhead told her that if she turned left she would eventually be back at Çars¸ıkapı; if she chose to turn right, she would quickly arrive at Örücüler Gate and the outside world.

  Vanessa turned right sharply but stopped. She turned back left. Then right again.

  If she chose wrong, they lost Jeffreys.

  And then she caught a glimpse of a man carrying a large metal case almost the size some musicians carry to hold their instruments.

  It was Allen Jeffreys.

  He had stopped at one of the market’s public fountains to scrub his hands together and splash water on his face. Vanessa couldn’t believe his vanity. She saw him just as he walked away, shaking water off his free left hand, hefting the case with his right.

  He had chosen to turn right toward Örücüler Gate.

  She could see the light from the street in the distance. She gauged the gate was roughly 150 meters away.

  She followed, her eyes boring into his back like bullets. At the same time she pulled her phone out and dialed Khoury.

  Shit. No answer.

  But Jeffreys hadn’t spotted her yet. He was moving quickly, wasting no time. She guessed she was about ten meters behind him.

  He glanced at his watch. Was he heading to a meeting point where someone, his son maybe, would pick him up with the suitcase? Or was there some way he might hand it off to someone if he felt threatened?

  She dialed again, praying for Khoury to answer this time, just as Jeffreys stopped abruptly in the middle of the crowded street.

  Her heart lurched. Had he sensed her behind him?

  He turned, scanning the crowd, and then his eyes met hers.

  He flinched—a frisson of shock at the sight of her? Of course, he’d believed she was dead.

  She stood still, waiting.

  He shook his head.

  “You won’t get away with it,” Vanessa said.

  She thought she heard Khoury’s voice coming from her cell.

  But she ignored her phone because Jeffreys was speaking to her. “You’re going to stop me?” He shook his head, incredulous. “From what? I’m not doing anything. I’m here on official business.” His sneer was almost cartoonish, but it held true venom. “You can’t do a thing to stop what’s coming.”

  Jeffreys began to back away from her toward the gate. He was sweating and Vanessa could see the beads dripping onto his collar. She prayed Khoury was hearing some of this and would stay on the line until she could give him her location.

  “You’ve betrayed your country,” Vanessa said, loudly enough so people turned to stare at her curiously. She matched step with Jeffreys, who was walking backward.

  “Even if you did stop me this time—” He stopped speaking when a vendor barked an insult at Jeffreys, who had pushed into him.

  “Even if we stop you?” Vanessa prodded.

  And Jeffreys’s features transformed entirely with a look that Vanessa believed might be described as peaceful. She felt sick to her stomach.

  “There is an entire army that will come in my place,” he said, his voice rising. He raised his left hand, and his fingers closed tightly on the Jerusalem cross around his neck. “End Times are coming, you stupid girl—and Jesus is simply waiting for our signal.”

  Vanessa had been increasing her pace incrementally toward him. She said, “Give me the case and we can help you. You’ve got a family—”

  He barked at her: “You don’t understand! You’re a nonbeliever. I have eternal life while you will go to hell
.” He smiled.

  Was he laughing?

  Her skin pricked. A small sound from her phone reminded her that Khoury might still be on the line. Jeffreys was less than fifty meters from the gate now. He could get away once he was outside.

  She raised the phone close to her mouth, calling out, “Örücüler Gate, now!”

  Jeffreys heard her, and that seemed to set him loose. He swung around and Vanessa started after him, but he turned to face her again, pointing a gun.

  She skidded on the smooth stones.

  Anger resurfaced inside her, bringing with it everything she hated about men like Jeffreys and Bhoot: their hubris, their arrogance, their complete absence of compassion.

  She lunged at Jeffreys. “You stupid bastard, you think your gun will stop me?”

  He struggled to aim but she yanked on his arm, throwing him off balance. They circled around, almost like children, except this was no game.

  Vanessa lunged, just barely gripping the handle of the case with her left hand, and she tightened her fingers so hard she thought they might break. She felt it crushing through her—the desire to kill Jeffreys with her bare hands if she had to.

  He dragged her with the case until they were just a few meters from the gates. People were staring and shouting. Traders and tourists blurred together. Jeffreys refused to loosen his grip on the handle, and the gun went clattering across stone—past a trader in a flowing blue gallibaya and a white tarboosh and a startled boy on a scooter. Pain streaked through Vanessa’s shoulder as the case seesawed between them wildly. It felt like her joint might pop loose.

  “Vanessa!”

  She heard Khoury’s voice coming from behind her and her minute shift in focus gave Jeffreys his one chance to escape. With a loud grunt he pulled the case toward him and then pushed it back at her—

  And Vanessa raised her knee and kicked Jeffreys in the groin.

  He contracted, stumbling backward across the threshold of the massive gate, but he held on to the case. Vanessa had one more move and she took it—lowering her head to charge toward Jeffreys so he flew backward, stumbling and finally releasing the case.