by Adam LeBor
President Freshwater smiled. “Baghdad is just next door.”
“Precisely.”
It was nine o’clock on Monday evening. The president, Aldrich Utley, and several staffers were sitting in the lounge of the Marmara Suite at the Four Seasons Hotel in Sultan-ahmet. The room was tastefully decorated, the polished hardwood floor covered with pastel kilims, traditional woven Turkish rugs, the curved wooden sofa dotted with richly brocaded cushions. The hotel, a thick-walled former prison, was used to hosting VIPs. But the Secret Service advance security team had been deeply unhappy about the president’s choice of accommodation. The surrounding area was a jumble of narrow alleys and hidden courtyards, jammed with tourists from all over the world. The three balconies, each ablaze with flowers, had spectacular views over the Bosphorus and Sultanahmet. However, if the president could look out, others could look in, which was why thick curtains now blocked the windows. Secret Service agents were posted on each balcony, with a further contingent inside the suite, by the door, in the corridor, and in the lobby of the hotel. The presidential armored Cadillac, known as “the Beast,” was parked nearby. The Beast weighed a ton and a half, and its ceramic and titanium armor could withstand bullets, RPGs, and bomb blasts. Its doors were as heavy as those on a Boeing 757, and the tires were reinforced with Kevlar, able to run while flat. A supply of presidential blood, type O, was kept refrigerated in the trunk.
“Dave,” said Freshwater as she picked up her thimble-sized cup of Turkish coffee, “you already have me sitting here in the dark. I can’t move three feet without bumping into one of my Secret Service contingent.”
Reardon, a black, Bronx-born, stocky five-foot-eight ex-marine, veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, smiled. “We are in a near lockdown situation, ma’am.”
Freshwater sipped her coffee appreciatively. “This is good. We should have this in the White House.” Her voice turned serious. “We are in a flying-the-Stars-and-Stripes situation, Dave. The leader of the free world cannot be seen to be hiding in her hotel room. I want to go shopping. I want to bargain in the bazaar. I want to see where they shot From Russia with Love. We talked about this. It’s in the schedule.”
Reardon frowned. “That was a contingency plan, Madam President. Drawn up some time ago, before the bombs went off and before we got here. I walked over to the bazaar this morning. The place is a maze. Tiny narrow streets shooting off in all directions. Thousands, tens of thousands of people wandering around. I strongly recommend that we drop it.”
“And that is the plan I agreed to and want to stick to. I know how hard you are looking out for me, Dave, and I really don’t want to pull rank, but Zincirli Han is on the edge of the bazaar. It’s not like we would be stuck in the middle.” The han was a small, covered courtyard. Once a resting place for travelers and their horses, its living quarters had been converted to small artisan shops. Freshwater picked up her schedule from the table in front of her. “There it is. Grand Bazaar. Tuesday 11:10 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. Shopping for jewelry in the Zincirli Han. Aldrich, what do you think?” she asked, turning to her chief of staff.
Utley, like everyone else in the room, had come straight from the airport after a twelve-hour flight, but it didn’t show. He had changed into a fresh suit and looked as immaculate as ever. “I agree with Madam President. We can’t hide here and in the convention center all week. The Russians, the Chinese, the Brits, they will all be out and about, having photo ops, taking—what do you call those photographs—selfies. We need to show a presence.”
Reardon leaned back and thought for several seconds before he spoke. “Two helicopters. Two advance and two chase cars. Six plainclothes motorcycle outriders, three in front and three behind. Once we are inside the bazaar, twelve Secret Service agents, three in front, three behind, and three on either side. You wear a vest and we travel in the Beast.”
President Freshwater cradled her chin in her hands as she considered her reply. “I was thinking about walking.”
“I was thinking about resigning,” said Reardon.
“OK, we drive,” said Freshwater, laughing. “But no helicopters. One advance, one chase car. No motorcycle outriders, four Secret Service agents, two in front and two behind.”
“Two cars, two outriders, eight Secret Service agents, two in front, two on each side, and two behind, and you wear a vest. Ten minutes, maximum, once we are inside.”
“This is not Walmart, Dave. What can I do in ten minutes? I have to bargain with these guys. Drink a tea. Haggle.”
“Twelve. And no teas. Unless we bring our own,” rejoined Reardon, proffering his hand.
“Deal.” President Freshwater shook his hand. “Welcome to Istanbul.”
Yael leaned against the ship’s railing, pulled off her niqab, the black veil that covered her face, and stuffed it into her purse.
Yusuf’s eyes opened wide in alarm. “Yael! Please, you must keep covered up.”
“I will, I promise. Just give me a minute,” she said, grinning as she tried in vain to gather and tie up her windblown hair. There were few other passengers on the ferry from Üsküdar to Eminönü at this time of night, and none at all on the open top deck.
For a few moments she was a tourist, savoring the city. The Bosphorus rippled black and silver, and the breeze blew hard over the water, heavy with the smell of the sea. The coastline was studded with seafront cafés and restaurants, their colored lights a rainbow against the night. The şemsi Pasha Mosque, a few yards from Üsküdar port, shone white and yellow, its wide dome and stubby minaret shimmering on the water. It was 9:15, time for Yatsi, the nighttime prayer, and a legion of muezzins sounded up, one after another, their calls carrying so loud and clear over the water, they could surely be heard all the way to Galata.
As well as her niqab, Yael was dressed in the full-length, plain black robe, or abaya, of an observant Islamic woman from the Gulf. She sensed Yusuf watching the wind blow her robe back and forth, framing her body within the flapping fabric. Yusuf gave her a few seconds, then gently took her arm and guided her back inside. A white metal wall and large windows enclosed the front half of the top deck. New wooden benches stood in horizontal rows, their seats back to back, facing both the prow and the hull. Steel railings marked the staircases down to the lower decks—one in the front, one in the middle, and one at the back.
Yael sat next to Yusuf and put her niqab back on. To her surprise, she enjoyed wearing the coverall. The head scarf she previously wore had barely mattered—her vision was unencumbered, her face exposed. The niqab was very different. Nothing of her was visible except her eyes, which were already disguised by brown contact lenses. A separate piece of black cloth covered her mouth, loosely enough for her to breathe. Behind the fabric, she felt invisible. In an Islamic society, she was virtually untouchable.
She watched a tourist boat pass by, its lights bright in the darkness, tiny figures visible on deck—laughing, drinking, chatting. She turned David’s ring around on her finger. What information did Isis have?
Yael knew, as much as she knew anything, that there was a reason why peacekeepers had not been dispatched from the UN base at Kigali to save her brother and his colleagues. Fareed Hussein held the key to the answer, of that she was certain. She could still see the way his body stiffened whenever she pressed him on the subject, hear his voice become brittle. He was lying. There was a cover-up, one that reached back twenty years. But Hussein could not be the only one who knew the truth. There were files, she knew, files buried deep in Paris and London, Kigali and New York. As an American diplomat Isis might be able to access them. But why now? asked a small voice in Yael’s head. Wasn’t this strange timing, in the middle of the world’s most important diplomatic summit? Maybe it was, Yael answered herself, but Isis is my friend and she understands my determination to find out what happened to my brother. For now, there is no point worrying. She would meet Isis tomorrow, find out what she knew, and continue her quest.
The ferry ride from Üsküdar to Eminönü took aro
und fifteen minutes. From there they would take the tram to Sultanahmet, the heart of the old city. Yusuf’s plan was for them to spend the night in an apartment there owned by one of his many cousins. The narrow streets and alleys of Sultanahmet were crowded with shops, bars, and restaurants, home to a legion of tourists from across the world. Even the nosiest neighbors would take no notice of new arrivals coming and going.
Yael glanced ahead. The shore at Eminönü came into view, the fried-fish restaurant, now closed, bobbing on the waves like a seesaw. A cruise ship was docked nearby, seven stories high. Perhaps, once all this was over, she might stay in Istanbul for a couple of days, go shopping, finally get to see the sights. There was a vintage clothes shop, a giant emporium, just off İstiklal Caddesi, that she had read about. She looked at Yusuf. Maybe he would come shopping with her. She felt relaxed in his company. Yusuf was an attractive man, and unlike Sami and Eli, she had no history with him. Apart from his shooting her in the neck with a knockout dart, she thought, and started laughing.
Yusuf turned to her, smiling. “What’s so…,” he started to say, when two heavyset men in black leather jackets came up the staircase at the front of the deck and walked toward them.
Two more men came up the center staircase and a further two appeared at the top of the third staircase at the back of the deck. All six advanced on Yael and Yusuf. One sat next to Yael, another next to Yusuf; two sat on the facing bench, and the last pair split, one man standing at either end of the bench.
A seventh man, potbellied, with a wide face and dark brown hair, came up the staircase by the prow of the boat. He stood in front of Yael and Yusuf. A pistol was jammed in his belt.
“Funny,” finished Yusuf, completely unfazed.
Yael looked around, her heart racing, processing their situation, calculating potential angles of attack. All the men were armed. Four were carrying Uzi submachine guns; the remainder had pistols. She had nothing except her hands and feet. Yusuf had a pistol.
They would be mown down in seconds. Their best chance was to try and make a break for it when they disembarked at Eminönü. There would be a vehicle waiting there, she was sure. Getting the target into the vehicle was always the hardest point of any abduction. Once inside, it was virtually game over. If she and Yusuf created enough of a furor, if they could somehow involve passersby, if… Yael looked at Yusuf, wondering how to communicate this to him.
Yusuf glanced at her and smiled reassuringly. He stood up and shook hands with the potbellied man, then turned to Yael. “This is Mehmed. A colleague.”
Mehmed nodded at Yael in greeting. She frowned as she tried to process what was happening. Were she and Yusuf being arrested, or was this their security escort?
Mehmed reached into his pocket and took out two pairs of handcuffs. Yael sensed the six men with him tense. Her question, she realized, was answered.
Yusuf glanced at Mehmed. “In a minute,” he said. “Can I have a cigarette first?”
Mehmed gestured to one of his subordinates, who handed Yusuf a cigarette and lit it.
Yael watched Yusuf standing by the men, lazily blowing smoke rings.
Mehmed’s mobile rang. He pressed a button and spoke rapidly into the phone. “Yes, we have them. Both of them. Is the transport ready when we dock?”
He listened, nodded, and passed the phone to Yusuf. “It’s for you.”
“Good evening, patron,” said Yusuf. “How is Natalya?”
25
The instructor is a legend. Her black hair is shot through with silver, but she is still beautiful—her posture erect, her eyes clear and shining.
The other students speak about her in whispers, that she was used as bait, three times, to lure the architects of the Munich Olympics massacre. Once everything was in place, she was to leave and let others take over. But on each mission she finished the job herself.
“There are three rules when meeting a contact. What are they?” she asks the class.
Yael raises her hand. “One: be early.”
“Yes. And two?”
“Carry out anti-surveillance drills on the way and reconnaissance once you arrive. Check it’s not a trap. Work out contingency plans, map escape routes.”
“Good. And if your contact changes the plan at the last minute, wants to meet somewhere else?”
“Don’t go. You choose another location. Always make them come to you.”
The instructor nods and turns to the whiteboard. She writes, “Make Them Come to You.”
The Mercan Kapısı, the Coral Gate, had a dilapidated charm. A lesser-used entrance to the Grand Bazaar on its northern side, the gate was framed by two gray marble columns and a portico. The gate stood at the top of Tiǧcilar, a crowded, narrow alley flanked with shops that sloped down toward the waterfront at Eminönü and the Galata Bridge.
Yael leaned against the right-hand marble column while she checked her watch. It was 10:45 a.m. The weather had changed overnight, for the worse. The sky was dark and overcast; a light rain had fallen all morning, in fact was still falling, making the sidewalks slippery and greasy. The wind blew in hard, funneled along the alley. The rain spattered on Yael’s black baseball cap and wraparound Ray-Ban sunglasses. She shivered, suddenly cold in her thin cream jacket, as she ran though the events of the previous evening in her head.
Yusuf had handed the telephone back to Mehmed after saying the name Natalya. Mehmed had listened for some time, then put the handcuffs away and apologized to Yusuf. He and his men walked to the other end of the deck, out of earshot.
Yusuf then talked some more on the telephone. His voice was confident, as though he were explaining something. Among the torrent of Turkish, Yael picked out the words “Bank” and “Bernard.” Mehmed and his men returned as the boat docked. A white van was waiting for them, parked on the pavement a few yards from where passengers disembarked from the ferries. Mehmed had ushered them inside. Yael remained tense, despite the obvious change in atmosphere.
The van took them to the MI·T office in Sultanahmet. There, a man with a face carved from stone had introduced himself as Kemal Burhan and apologized profusely to Yael. A young woman, whom Yael recognized from the airplane, had brought endless trays of teas, coffees, plates of kebabs, rice, and salads, blushing fiercely every time she entered the room. Ravenous, Yael ate everything on offer.
Yusuf and Burhan had gone into another room. There had been a lot more talking, even some shouting, with more mentions of Bank Bernard, Geneva, Natalya, and Galata. Then the racket stopped suddenly. There were several seconds of silence. Yael was alert, until she heard loud laughter. The two men emerged, and Yusuf explained that his boss was going to call the Ministry of the Interior to have the arrest warrant for Yael lifted. In addition, all police officers were to aid her if she so requested. Burhan had ceremoniously presented her with an MI·T identity card, assuring her that it would extricate her from what he called “even the most delicate situation.”
They had spent the night in the apartment, Yael sleeping on the sofa bed and Yusuf on the floor in the room next door. In the morning Yusuf had gone back to work, and Yael had insisted on meeting Isis, ignoring the ever-louder question nagging inside her: Why had the information about David suddenly come up now?
Yael arrived at the Coral Gate just before nine o’clock. She had walked from the safe house in Sultanahmet. The journey would normally take fifteen minutes. Yael had spent almost two hours scouting out the area around the gate, doubling back on herself, taking last-minute turns, proceeding slowly through choke points—narrow alleys, underpasses, and gateways—always alert for the same face twice, or a familiar car. Members of a surveillance team could change their jackets, hats, glasses, sunglasses, even wigs. The best professionals even brought different shoes, but they still could not alter their faces in a hurry. There were two key giveaways that someone was watching: multiple sightings of the same person or people in the vicinity, and suspicious behavior. Talking when no mobile telephone was visible could mean a radio
earpiece; a hand always in a pocket could indicate a pressel—a small switch connected to a radio that an operative could use to tap out signals about the target’s movements, according to a prearranged code. So far, everything seemed clear, yet Yael’s unease was growing.
Yael took her UN mobile telephone from her purse and swiped through the menus until a plain gray icon appeared. She tapped on the image. A 3-D computerized image of the bazaar appeared. It revealed aspects of the complex that tourists never saw, the secret tunnels that dated back to the bazaar’s construction in the fifteenth century after the Ottomans conquered Constantinople, as the city was then known, from the Byzantines; long-abandoned storerooms, bricked-over doors; a network of narrow passageways that ran under the roof; and a map of passageways along the roof. Yusuf had given Yael the app, which was highly classified. He had been strongly opposed to Yael meeting Isis. If it all goes wrong, Yusuf had said, get up on the roof and we will come and find you. Yael was tracing a virtual path through the hidden passageways when her phone beeped.
It was a message from Isis.
On my way. Was stuck at work with summit BS. Good news about the Interpol warrant being lifted. Xxxx.
How did Isis already know that? Because she clearly had excellent contacts—the type of contacts that might know something about David, Yael told herself. Again. She stepped aside to let a young French couple pass by. The man had a goatee and a large mole on the side of his nose, the woman thin lips and short blond hair. They were both well dressed in stylish black woolen coats, holding hands and laughing. Yael instinctively checked the woman’s shoes: she wore a pair of black and pink Geox loafers.