"Hey, what the fuck!" Harold shouted.
"No, fuck you, GI," the one who had spoken said. He pulled a length of heavy black flex cable out of his sleeve and whipped the cable into Harold's face, cutting a 1/2 inch wide and four inch long welt across his left eye, nose and upper lip. Harold dropped his package and clutched at his face.
"Fuck!" he screamed.
The Turk continued to whip him with the cable. His heavier partner continued to kick Dyer, who fell to his knees and attempted to cover up from. Dyer clawed for his weapon, which he'd stuck loose in his waistband. The Sig fell out and clattered to the ground, where the Turk beating him saw it and shouted out, "Gun!"
The other Turk turned and when he did, Harold pulled his pistol out and fired blindly. The shot rang out and echoed in the alley. Through the roaring in his ears Harold heard breaking glass and running footsteps. He fired once more in the direction of the attackers, then wiped the blood out of his eyes. The two Turks sprinted away through the crowd forming at the mouth of the alley.
"Dyer, Dyer!" Harold screamed.
"Oh, fuck, oh fuck," Dyer said over and over. "They got my fucking gun, man. They got my fucking gun."
***
The US Department of State Regional Security Officer for Istanbul was a chubby, officious man named Greg McHacklin, a man consumed by self-importance and bureaucratic desire for promotion. He steepled his hands and stared across his desk at the two black and blue and bandaged air marshals, and considered how best to handle this particular incident so as to shed the best light on himself.
"So tell me again how it was you lost your weapon?" McHacklin said.
Dyer Shaw sighed, then winced. He had two broken ribs. The doctors at the embassy clinic had wanted to check him into a hospital for observation, but he was having nothing of it. "Like I told you, we were attacked, and in the fight my weapon fell out. I was under attack and when my partner drove them off, the gun was missing. I can only assume that one of the two muggers took the weapon."
"Two armed men, attacked by two men armed with a piece of cable and bare hands, and you both end up in the hospital with a gun missing. I thought you Air Marshals were supposed to be some kind of elite," McHacklin said. He saw how this was going to play: the incompetent feds, playing tourist shopper in a dangerous area of a dangerous city, too arrogant to check in with the RSO and get a briefing, get their asses thumped and their gun taken away. He laughed.
"And I thought you were supposed to be working on recovering that weapon," Harold snapped. He'd had it with this place. After getting the responding police to get the on-duty embassy officer involved, and then the interminable wait to get statements processed, and then the trip to the embassy clinic and then more waits for statements, calls to the FAA Comm Center and the Watch Officer, the incredible ass chewing he had taken from Simon Dinkey, 'He lost his fucking gun!', and then the pompous posturing of this arrogant Foggy Bottom wannabe was more than he could stand. It was almost five in the morning, and he had to get back to the hotel, checked out and meet his team at 0630.
"You do understand that the chance of us finding that weapon anytime in the near future is practically zero," McHacklin said silkily. "There's quite a black market in weapons in Istanbul, and a piece like that Sig is worth a small fortune to the man who took it."
"We've got a mission to continue," Harold said. "We need to get out of here."
"I understand. Of course, the Ambassador will have the final say as to whether you continue your mission or whether we hold you here. The Turkish authorities have made some inquiries about having you stay until they determine that no one was in fact hurt by the shots you fired."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Harold said in disbelief.
"You fired two shots in a heavily populated area. There was a broken window in an unoccupied building near you that appeared to have been broken by gunfire. There have been no reports of any injuries, but we won't be sure for a while yet."
"For crissakes, McHacklin, you're supposed to be on our side!" Dyer Shaw said. "If somebody was shot, the Istanbul police would know by now -- it's not like this is Detroit and somebody gets shot with a 9mm every night."
"Of course you can go. I'll get a driver and vehicle to take you back to the hotel. As a matter of fact, you can use the vehicle to transport you and your people to the airport," McHacklin said, ignoring Dyer's outburst. "If the Ambassador decides to have you stay, the driver will be informed by radio, and he'll bring you and your crew here."
"Whatever, McHacklin. I'm going to be talking to DC before I talk to anybody else if that goes down," Harold said.
"I'll see to your vehicle," McHacklin said. "You can wait outside." He picked up a phone, shooing them out of his office.
The two marshals left the office and slouched into chairs in the waiting room. A Marine guard sergeant said, "You the guys that got mugged?"
"What the fuck does it look like?" Dyer said.
"Why didn't you shoot them?" the sergeant asked.
"Jesus," Dyer said. "Why didn't you shoot them?" he mimicked savagely.
"Shut up, Dyer," Harold said. "Just please shut up, while I think."
***
ROME, ITALY:
Don and Ilona lingered in the lobby of her hotel. "Aren't you going to invite me up, beautiful Ilona?" Don said.
"No, Mr. Don, I am not. You will try something and I will have to tell you no. I will say good night now."
Don hung his head like a sheepish boy. "Ilona..."
"It is no use to plead with me, Mr. Don. Here, come here." She tilted Don's head to her face. Her pink tongue, pointed like a cats, licked out across Don's lips, and then she kissed him deeply. She pulled back and stared into Don's eyes from three inches away, the sea-green of her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Good night, Mr. Don," she said, turning away. "Good night! Thank you for a wonderful night," she said over her shoulder, as she entered the elevator.
Don stood there stunned. "Mother of God," he said. "I thinks I is in love. Donald Gene thinks he is in love!"
The night concierge looked strangely at him. "Do you need assistance, sir?" he asked.
"Hell, did you see that? I need a heart transplant after that, buddy. Whew! Lordy Jesus, Donald Gene is in love!" Don stepped out into the cool evening outside Ilona's hotel and pulled out a cigar. "I deserve a smoke after that," he said out loud.
He puffed his cigar into flame and strolled through the empty streets back to his hotel. What a woman, he thought. Donald Gene the Love Machine could be content with a woman like that. Lordy Jesus! He laughed out loud and blew a thick smoke ring and laughed again at how it disintegrated in the late night breeze. He walked a block before he noticed he wasn't alone. There were three men two-hundred yards behind him. His antenna went up; something about their bearing disturbed him. Unlike some other countries, Italy, with all its competing bureaucracies -- you had to deal with four different armed government organizations in the airport alone -- didn't allow the air marshals to carry their weapons off-duty. Despite the strict controls on their firearms, Donald never went unarmed. A collapsible ASP baton, a steel rod that telescoped out to 16 inches, was tucked in his hip pocket, and a small, razor sharp Gerber Mark I fighting knife was clipped under his shirt in the small of his back.
Don picked up his pace and heard the cadence of footsteps quicken behind him. His instincts told him that a confrontation was inevitable, so he sought out the best ground. There was no one else around, and his hotel was still eight to ten blocks away. He thought about running for it, but when he looked over his shoulder, he saw the men gaining on him and not bothering to pretend they were doing anything else. So he did what any self respecting SEAL with no firearm would do when faced with 3:1 odds: he spun on his heels, pulled his knife and baton, whipped the baton into full length and charged the three men, screaming "C'mon, motherfuckers!"
He was on them before they fully responded to the sudden reversal from hunter to hunted. He laid the ASP hard on the
greater peroneal nerve on the outside of the first man's leg, right in the "charley horse spot" that kids like to punch. The man's leg collapsed underneath him and Don added a boot under his nose as well. One down, two to go. Don snapped the steel baton into one of the other's outstretched fingers as he tried to grab at Don; he was rewarded with the satisfying crunch and snap of several broken fingers. That one whirled away, screaming, grabbing his one hand with the other. Don felt the back of his jacket bunched up in the other man's fist and slashed backward with the Gerber. He twisted around and kicked back, digging his heel into the man behind him. Crouched, the baton whirring figure eight's in front of him, Don saw the last man reaching into his jacket. Don feinted at his head with the baton, then lunged and cut deep into the man's bicep, twisting the serrated knife as it cut. The man screamed and dropped a Beretta .380 on the ground. Don kicked it neatly out of the man's reach, then kicked him sharply under his knee. Whipping the baton in big arcs to keep them back, he dropped the knife and picked up the .380. The three men took off running, stumbling, one dragging the other. Don held the pistol aimed at their backs, his breath whooping in and out. It was over. They vanished around a corner a block away and he was left with the pounding of blood in his ears. There was no one else on the street. He knelt and collapsed the baton by smacking it sharply on the pavement and tucked it into his pocket. He checked the Beretta and saw that it was fully loaded. The knife went back into it's sheath, the Beretta into his pocket, and he hurried towards his hotel. He was limping; one of them must have connected with a kick, though he didn't remember it. There was something else, though...he took the Beretta out again and checked the magazine, thumbing a bullet out. Winchester Silvertip .380 hollowpoint. That round was illegal in Italy, indeed in most of Europe for everyone except police or government agents. What the hell was going on?
***
Donald hobbled into the Sheraton and immediately called Ilona to make sure that she was all right. He spoke to the security director at her hotel and then made another call to a man who had lived outside of Rome since 1975 and the fall of Saigon. Gus Salvatore was an Italian-American SEAL who had married an Italian woman he'd met in Hawaii during R+R. After the war he had moved into her wealthy family's palazzo outside of Rome and settled into the lush lifestyle of the landowner. Occasionally he would do favors for Jed Loveless and other people. He knew Donald Gene from over the border ops in Viet Nam.
Gus Salvatore answered the phone with the lilt of a native Italian speaker. "Hello?"
"Brother, this is the Love Machine. You remember me?"
"Hell yes. Where are you?"
"Where we stay when we come to Rome."
"You just get in or what?"
"I got trouble, bro." Don cut to the chase. "I need somebody watched over for me and somebody to watch my back on our way out tomorrow. Can you do it?"
Gus thought for a moment. He had one of the chauffeurs well trained. "I got two of us. Who do you need watched?"
Don told him where Ilona was and what to look for.
"Jesus, Don, I can't be looking after your women."
"This is bad juju, bro. The guys that came after me were carrying Silvertips. That tell you anything?"
"Yeah." The only people who had ready access to that banned ammunition were either government intelligence operatives, counter-terrorist police, or terrorists. Period.
"Do this for me, Gus. I need you. Unlimited favors in the favor bank."
"Consider it done, Don. I'll see you at the airport."
Gus hung up the phone and went into his study. There was a large Browning gunsafe against one wall. He spun the dials and opened the safe, and removed two Beretta machine pistols with integral suppressers and two Beretta 92FS 9mm semiautos. Both weapons were banned for civilian ownership in Italy, but what's the use of having Mafioso family connections if you can't get what you need? He called down to the garage and woke Paolo and briefed him to be ready in twenty minutes. He passed the time loading magazines.
***
Donald Gene saw his angel when he came out to check the front of the Sheraton in the morning. Gus and another man were loitering across the street, leaning on the hood of a red Ferrari couple. Gus nodded and got into the car; the other man, carrying a nylon gym bag, came across the street.
"Good morning," Gus's chauffeur said, in good English.
"Good to see you. Did you guys take care of Ilona?"
"She is already at the airport, with the rest of her crew. The director of security has friends. They are watching over them."
Don shook the man's hand hard.
"I will be riding the bus this morning to the airport with you," Paolo said formally.
Don went back inside and got his crew together. They came out in a tight protective formation, eyes scanning far and wide, and loaded onto the bus: two in the front, two in the rear, near the doors. Paolo the chauffeur nodded pleasantly to the marshals and took a seat at the back of the bus, sitting sideways in the bench seat where he could look out the back window.
The ride to the airport was uneventful. Off to one side or another, the red Ferrari coupe paced them the whole way. At the airport, the marshals swept into the terminal quickly. Paolo followed them to the front doors and said, "This is where I get off, Mr. Nelson. I'll see you again, when you return to Rome. You need only call."
"Thanks, Paolo."
"It is nothing."
Don saw Gus chatting with one of the carbinieri officers inside the terminal. Gus broke off and waved good-bye to the carbinieri, and came over to Don. They shook hands.
"You're looking good, Gus."
"You look a little stressed, Donnie. That beautiful woman keep you up?"
"I wish. I'm damn glad that stuff went down when I was alone instead of with her."
"You would of dealt with it. She's okay. The crew is down in the ops center. There was nothing going on around her hotel; I don't think those guys paid any attention to her. They were focused on you."
"Yeah." Don looked at his crew, who had faded into the corners and against the walls, stretching an invisible net over the terminal.
Gus made the crew and commented, "Good bunch you got. That young gal is a real looker."
"Real shooter, too. I owe you, Gus."
"You don't owe me shit, Donald. Bring me a bottle of good whiskey, not that VO shit you drink, next time you come, and we'll drink and bullshit. Make sure you touch base with Jedi Jed when you get back to Frankfurt. Watch your ass on this flight, it's going to be full. You hear me?"
"Thanks, brother."
The two shook hands, and Don gathered his team around him.
"Joan, Butch, I want you two to work the counters, eyeball the pax, make sure the check-in screeners are applying the profile. Watch each other's backs. Jon and I will take care of ticketing, I'm gonna scramble our seat assignments around a little bit. Then we're going to go down and pre-brief the crew, and go with them out to the plane. I'll have the crew bus come back for you. Got it?"
Joan and Butch faded into the crowd, blending in.
"Let's go, little Jon. We got things to do," Don said.
***
WESTERN AIR FLIGHT #224, ROME TO FRANKFURT:
Donald Gene cornered Ilona in the first class galley. "When is this trip over for you, Ilona?" he said.
"We will have a rest break in Frankfurt, and then we will go back to New York. Then I am off for two weeks, about the time you will be coming back, yes?" she said.
"That's right," Don said. "In two weeks I'll be back. Will you fly down to DC to meet me?"
"Only if you promise to take me to the National Gallery. I very much like beautiful art."
"Consider it done, beautiful girl."
"You are a flatterer, I think, Mr. Don. Go, get out of my galley, I am busy." Ilona shooed him out the curtain. Don stood outside the cockpit door and looked down the length of the airplane at the rows of upturned faces. Rome was far behind them. They were over Hungary now, an hour or so out from
Frankfurt. He'd get with the rest of the team and find out what the hell was going on. Young Harold and Dyer would probably be sent back to the US of A in short order, which meant either a reshuffling of the current teams or some more augmentations.
Don was puzzled by the way things were coming together, though. It didn't make sense to attack the marshals in the way they'd been attacked unless the terrorists had intended to kidnap them and there hadn't been any indication of that. What those boys on the street in Rome seemed intent on was kicking his ass and hurting him good, maybe killing him. And what about all three teams getting hit at the same time? He figured Jed and Charley would have a good handle on it, maybe that sharp young John Bolen too. They'd see soon enough.
***
FRANKFURT, GERMANY:
Jed Loveless was shouting, and when Jed Loveless shouted, everybody looked for cover. Mad Max Onofrey and Warren Horton sat absolutely still and silent. The two NSA technicians excused themselves quickly and went down the hall to the coffee room to wait for things to blow over. John Bolen stood there and hung his head while the diatribe washed over him.
"In the motherfucking space of twelve motherfucking hours, I've had two marshals mugged, involved in a goddamn shooting on foreign soil and lost a fucking weapon, another marshal attacked by three muggers who are carrying illegal and unavailable fucking ammunition in the gun they're not supposed to have, and a fucking Syrian who has been made by another team show up dead with the fucking flight schedules of that marshal team in his fucking pocket! You want to tell me now that there isn't anything going on! You want to fucking tell me something now, John!"
John was silent.
Jed glared at him, his glazed eyes red and puffy. "There is something going down and we are right in the middle of it and we don't have a goddamn clue," Jed said in a suddenly calm and weary voice. "Get all your people in. Pull everybody. We working night and day on this till we're through."
"Understood," John said.
"I'm sorry," Jed said. "It's not your fault. Not any of your faults," he said, including Max and Warren in his apology. "We don't have a clue right now. We're going to do what we can do. Department of Transportation is meeting with State Department right now to see if they can get the marshals broader clearance to carry their weapons off duty. It's doubtful after what happened in Turkey. Those teams are going to be in the air shortly and I want all eyes on them."
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