The Cyprus Coverup

by Ethan Jones

  Justin tried another time to cross through the oncoming traffic. He was able to make it onto the first lane, taking advantage of a gap in the stream of vehicles. Then he sped across the second lane.

  Almost lucky.

  The Chevy was nearly out of the lane when the honking BMW sedan came crashing into the Chevy’s side. It spun around, completing a one-hundred-and-eighty turn. Justin struggled to regain control of the vehicle. He straightened the wheel and stepped on the gas, driving on the sidewalk and out of the way of a large cement truck barreling down the lane.

  On the sidewalk, his foot found the brakes. He turned his head, looking for the silver SUV. His eyes locked onto it as the SUV driver attempted to cross the two lanes of traffic at the same time.

  Big mistake.

  The front of the cement truck plowed into the back of the SUV. The force of the impact tossed the SUV around like a toy. It rolled onto the side, spinning onto the sidewalk and crashing through the front of a store. A moment later, a huge explosion rocked the area. Smoke came billowing out of the store.

  Justin drew in a sigh of relief. He glanced at the crowd of onlookers that had begun to form around the accident site. Then he steered slowly through the sidewalk, avoiding pedestrians, and turned onto the first available street.

  He sighed again and looked over his shoulder. No one was following him. Sharp ambulance or police sirens sounded in the distance. Someone will report to them about a white Chevy wreaking havoc. Time to ditch the car.

  He drove a few more blocks toward the south until he came to a small bazaar. A stream of people had lined up along both sidewalks. They were looking at the heaps of fruit, clothes, shoes, electronics, and other merchandise littering the stalls and half the sidewalks and were haggling with the vendors. Justin parked nearby and waited until no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. He stepped out of the Chevy and left it running with the keys in the ignition. With a little bit of luck, someone would swipe it in no time.

  Justin turned toward the west and walked the block. He was not expecting anyone to be on his tail, but he still checked every now and then. He switched from one sidewalk to the other but did not notice anyone giving him more than a casual glance.

  When he was on Zübeyde Hanim Avenue, he reached into his jacket pocket for his phone and called Reza. He replied only after the third call. “Hey . . . Justin . . . how . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Reza, I can’t hear you.”

  “Yes . . . I . . . I’m driving, so the connection is bad. Is it better now?”

  “Yes, better. Where are you?”

  “On the European side of the city. I’ll be at our meeting place on time.”

  “Any news?”

  “Yes, good news. You’ll be amazed at the findings.”

  “What can you tell me on the phone?”

  “I’d rather not, but the United Bank of Cyprus is involved.”

  “Cyprus? Why Cyprus?”

  “Because of its location. Strategically positioned between Europe and the Middle East.”

  Justin nodded. “Yes, the weapons’ final destination.”

  “Precisely. But we’ll talk more when we meet. And I have a lot of files to confirm the neck-deep involvement of Prince Al Khater.”

  “That’s excellent, Reza. See you.”

  “Yes, take care, Justin.”

  “You too.”

  Justin smiled to himself and began to look for a taxi. A couple raced by, and he flagged them, but they did not stop. Then he came near a fancy-looking restaurant with a large dark wood-and-glass door. A yellow taxi was parked near the door, but there was no one inside.

  Justin stood near the Fiat taxi and glanced around for the driver. “Taxi, taxi?” he shouted, then tapped his hand over the taxi’s roof.

  A young man rushed out of a small bakery across the street. He spoke to Justin in Turkish, but he shook his head. “You speak English?”

  “Yes, you need a taxi?” The young man had a very slight accent.

  “Yes. Can you take me to Hagia Sophia Museum?”

  “Of course, I can take you anywhere in Istanbul.”

  “The museum would be fine.”

  The young man nodded, then brushed his wavy hair to the side. He unlocked the taxi, then gestured to Justin. “Front seat, if you want.”

  Justin shook his head. “I’ll take the back.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you mind avoiding Kennedy Avenue? There was an accident.”

  “Really? I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Around Novotel. So let’s not go near that area.” Justin buckled the seatbelt.

  “Sure, I can do that.”

  He drove along Demirhane Avenue heading east and then northeast. The driver was quiet and did not speed. He obeyed most traffic signs, although he only slowed down when they came to stop signs, and made a couple of illegal turns.

  Justin was not about to complain. After the rough ride in the previous taxi and the following chases, he was glad to enjoy a few moments of peace. He turned his head and checked behind the taxi only a couple of times. No surveillance.

  When they were a few blocks away from the Hagia Sophia Museum, Justin paid the driver and gave him a good tip. It was enough to indicate appreciation for the good service, but not enough for the driver to remember Justin, in the unlikely event the Turkish intelligence services’ long arm reached out and found the driver.

  Justin walked toward Hagia Sophia, which meant “holy wisdom.” The basilica had served as the seat of the Orthodox Patriarch of Constantinople, and a meeting place for Christian worshipers for almost a millennium. After the Islamic conquest of the city, it was converted into a mosque, and then became a museum in 1935. Justin would have loved to enjoy a guided tour of the world-renowned landmark, often called the eighth Wonder of the World because of its grandiose architecture. It would have to be another time. Maybe I can come with Karolin one of these days, when the MIT isn’t chasing me. Does she like architecture? I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask her.

  He shook his head along with the tender thoughts of his girlfriend, trying to stay focused on the task at hand. On Yerebatan Avenue, he found a clothing store. It seemed to be more suitable for a younger crowd, perhaps teenagers or men in the early twenties. He thought he could pull off a younger look.

  When he stepped out thirty minutes later, he was wearing a dark blue Abercrombie & Fitch jacket, along with a gray hoodie and a pair of slim straight blue jeans ripped at the knees. He felt a bit strange and more aware of people’s glances. I wonder what Reza will say.

  Justin continued toward the meeting point with his Iranian contact, which was a café a block away from Sultanahmet Camii, or the Blue Mosque with its famous six minarets that was perhaps the most famous landmark in all of Istanbul. He walked by a small hotel called Noah’s Ark, wondering if the establishment was pet friendly. It was next to the White House Hotel, whose only resemblance to the residence of the President of the United States of America was the white color.

  When he came to the Arasta Bazaar on Torun Street, on the east side of the mosque, Justin glanced at the café. It was on the second floor of a three-story building. He was early, so he spent a few minutes looking at the hand-woven silk scarves, the well-crafted Persian carpets and kilims, Turkish rugs, and an endless array of cheap souvenirs. A lot of them were made in China, but there were some authentic-looking wood carvings and beautiful gold and silver necklaces, bracelets, and rings. Justin purchased a couple of scarves for Karolin, hoping she would like the light blue and brown combination.

  At about fifteen minutes prior to their meeting time, Justin circled the block, making sure no one was following him or surveilling the café. He noticed no one suspicious. Tourists strolled through the area, vendors peddled their products, and only one police car offered a visible security presence.

  Upon his return to the café, Justin climbed the stairs. Reza had not arrived yet, and Justin found that strange and slightly u
nnerving. Reza was punctual, often arriving with plenty of time to scout the area for agents of the opposition. Some crisis must have delayed him.

  Justin found a seat near the window and ordered a cup of coffee. He studied the faces of a handful of men and a couple of women sitting at the other tables. One couple appeared to be tourists, considering their gaudy clothes and hats and loud voices. The others looked local, conversing in hushed tones.

  He sipped the coffee and tried to avoid glancing at his wristwatch every couple of minutes. Reza was late, and that was unusual. Why isn’t he calling? Maybe I should call him? But he refrained from doing so. He decided to give Reza ten minutes and then call him.

  As the watch’s minute hand reached the numeral two, Justin sighed, then picked up his phone. He dialed Reza and took a breath of relief at the tone of the clear signal. No one picked up for a moment, then he heard the busy signal. It sounded as if the call had been diverted.

  Justin tried again.

  This time, he heard only the busy signal. After about fifteen seconds, a recorded voice began to talk to Justin in what he assumed was Farsi, probably urging him to leave a message.

  What’s going on? Where are you, Reza?

  Justin glanced around the café, then out the window. He dialed Reza’s number a third time. He was met again by the indifferent busy signal.

  Something’s wrong.

  He tried to curb the uneasiness gnawing at the pit of his stomach. His gut feeling told him something had gone seriously sideways. Otherwise, Reza would have contacted Justin to inform him of the delay and the change of plans.

  Justin paid for his coffee and headed out. He did not want to be inside the café, in case Reza had been captured and tortured to give up their meeting place. Justin glanced over his shoulder and made sure no one followed him. He circled the block a couple of times and checked all the nearby cafés, in the faint hope that Reza had somehow misunderstood Justin and was waiting somewhere else.

  Reza was nowhere to be found.

  When it was one hour past their meeting time, Justin shook his head and admitted to himself the conclusion he had been denying up to that point. Something has happened to Reza. Something bad, really bad.

  Chapter Thirteen

  February 11

  Atmeydani Avenue

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Justin sat at a bench in the Sultan Ahmet Park and glanced at the stream of tourists flowing through the square, the sidewalks, and spilling onto the streets. Some of them held up cameras or phones as they took pictures of the mosque or selfies. Others held hands or strolled at leisure.

  He could not enjoy the view or the peacefulness of the surroundings. Reza had disappeared, most likely captured, or possibly killed. Justin’s operation and perhaps his life were in danger.

  What now?

  He glanced at the phone and thought about calling Reza one last time. But if he had not answered the first few times, nothing was going to change. But I can call Carrie, see if she can help me make sense of this situation.

  Justin stood up and walked further inside the park. He stood about twenty yards from the nearest tourists—an old couple meandering about—and beyond their earshot. Then he dialed Carrie’s number from memory.

  She answered after the first ring. “Justin, how are you?”

  “Eh, I’ve been better.”

  “You okay? What happened?”

  “Yes, I’m all right. But Reza’s gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean?”

  Justin briefed Carrie about the course of events, starting with the warehouse escape, followed by the car chase, and culminating with Reza’s no-show.

  When he was finished, Carrie said, “All right. It’s almost certain something terrible has happened to Reza. An accident; nabbed by MIT, another intel agency, or the police.”

  “Yes.” Justin nodded. Carrie’s words confirmed his fears. “This is not a case where his phone’s battery died, or he got a flat tire.”

  “No, nothing of that sort.”

  “I’m reluctant to call Esmail.”

  Esmail was another one of Justin’s contacts in the Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Guard.

  “Yes, that would be a dangerous move. We’re not sure Esmail knows about your rapport with Reza. Plus, even if he does, Esmail may not know about Reza’s unofficial op. What if Reza didn’t tell anyone he was headed to Turkey?”

  “Yes, that would complicate the situation.”

  “I know this is not the answer you want, but there isn’t much to do at this point,” Carrie said in a soft, warm tone. “Unless the Turks or the Iranians report about Reza’s capture or killing, we’re in the dark.”

  “Yes, and I’m the one who drew Reza to Istanbul.”

  “Justin, don’t even go there.” Carrie’s voice was still soft, but it became firm. “This may have nothing to do with you. Reza works for the Iranian intel service. Bad blood runs between them and the Turks, and it has for years.”

  “Still, it brings me no comfort.”

  “It’s not supposed to. But this isn’t your fault. Even if the Turks traced your calls—which is extremely unlikely—and somehow intercepted Reza, he’s a skilled operative. He has been in hostile situations before, and he knows how to handle himself.”

  Justin shrugged and drew in a deep breath. “Maybe Reza sensed the danger and has gone dark.”

  “That’s a possibility.”

  “But he would have informed me.”

  “If he could.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  Carrie thought about her answer for a long moment. “Well, we need to think this through. We have no other contacts in the Quds Force, and, as in the case with Esmail, even if we did or could find another contact, we might be causing more harm than good.”

  “I agree.”

  “We can inquire with the MIT and other Turkish ‘partner agencies.’ But after the chase and the crash, I doubt they would be forthcoming.”

  “Yes, and that would be admitting our role in running an unsanctioned op in Turkey.”

  “Without the knowledge of our ally, that would be a scandal in the making.”

  Justin snorted. “After the way they treated me, I doubt I’d use the word ‘ally.’”

  “You’re right, and you need to get out of there. With Reza gone and the Turks knowing about you . . .”

  Justin nodded. Carrie did not need to finish her thought. “Yes, I’ll have to arrange for transport to Bulgaria. I’m thinking Svilengrad. It’s just across the border with Turkey and Greece.”

  “Not getting in touch with our local station?”

  “No, why cause more problems for them? In this way, they’ll have complete deniability.”

  “Good call. They already have to deal with the aftermath.”

  “Yes, now, we’ve talked to death about my op. How are things going with you?”

  “Things are okay. I’m almost finished in Dubai and should be able to leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Back to Vienna?”

  “Unless I receive other orders.”

  “Good. I’ll call our boss and give him an update. Then I’ll reach Svilengrad.”

  “Okay, and what about the next steps with this op?”

  Justin frowned. He had thought about it and did not like the next obvious option. Reza’s disappearance had left him no choice. He sighed, then said, “I’ll give a call to Eliakim and see what they might have.” He dragged out his words as if he was about to begin a Herculean task.

  “I understand, Justin. After what they did to us in the Tehran operation, I’d rather not get involved with Mossad. But . . . we have to.”

  “Yes, but the cost . . . I don’t think our boss has calculated the true cost of sharing a bed with Mossad.”

  A brief pause, then Carrie said, “He’ll have to deal with that, when it comes up. We can do what we can, Justin.”

  “Yes, yes, I hear you, Carrie. After I’ve heard from Mossad, I’ll give you a call. I�
�m sure Eliakim or another operative would like to meet and provide us their intel, if they have any. I’ll push for a meeting somewhere in Europe, but it will depend on their availability.”

  “Sure, let me know how it goes. Then, I’ll make travel plans.”

  “All right. Anything else?”

  “No, stay safe, Justin.”

  “Yes, you too, Carrie.”

  He tapped the End key and sighed. Yes, Mossad, the monster I was trying to stay away from. He shook his head. I have no choice. He sighed again and dialed Eliakim’s number.

  Chapter Fourteen

  February 12

  Svilengrad, Bulgaria

  Justin reached the small town of Svilengrad in southeast Bulgaria after midnight. The border control had gone without a glitch. Justin had used his second Canadian passport, under a different name. The sleepy border officers only cast a cursory glance at his passport, neglecting to notice the lack of a Turkish entry stamp. Even if they had detected it, sometimes officials forgot or omitted that part of the procedure, and that was the story Justin was going to tell them if it became necessary.

  In Svilengrad, Justin got off the bus and decided to hail a taxi. It was going to cost about two hundred and fifty dollars to reach Sofia, Bulgaria’s capital. It was money well spent, so he could make good time. In the early hours of the morning, he was catching a flight to Rome, Italy, to meet with Eliakim “Eli” Ben-David and Moshe Gerber, two Mossad operatives. Eli had very reluctantly agreed to look at any intelligence their agency might have on Prince Al Khater and his arms deals. The Israeli agent had made no promises, adding that he would be discussing specifics during their meeting.

  Justin’s past experience with Eli had made him extremely wary of Mossad. They always seemed to have an angle, a hidden agenda, and drove a hard bargain. Justin never felt he got a fair deal any time he dealt with the feared and revered Israeli spy agency.

  Justin picked a middle-aged driver, with a weather-beaten face and completely bald head. He was sipping a large cup of coffee and listening to music through a pair of earbuds, which he removed when Justin approached him. “Taxi, do you want a taxi, sir?” he asked in English with a heavy accent.