Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

  We finally entered the city proper, and, as we passed a number of restaurants, the car filled with savory scents that caused a grumbling in my stomach. I glanced at my watch to see were approaching lunchtime and decided to check in with the group.

  “Anybody hungry?” I asked.

  “Starving, but don’t worry—I know of a nice little restaurant near the hotel where we’re staying, and, even better, it sits right on the water and has a spectacular view.”

  “Sounds nice,” I lied.

  I had always lived by my father’s credo that restaurants on the water usually charged for the view rather than the food, but I would be willing to give Ayala the benefit of the doubt—especially since the Agency was paying the bill. We traveled deeper into the city of Istanbul and navigated the warren of roads, people, and obstacles until reaching Kennedy Avenue, named, of course, after President John F. Kennedy. It seemed oddly ironic to have a street named after a western leader, considering the city had been renamed in honor of it being taken back by the eastern powers, and it made me wonder if the peculiarly named avenue was a kind of consolation prize for the west having lost the city. Either way, I’m sure John F. Kennedy would have been proud to be its namesake, for it was a beautiful stretch of road that ran right along the water and offered a spectacular view of the Bosphoros Strait.

  “That’s our hotel just up ahead,” Ayala said.

  “Sweet Bilbo Baggins’s ball sack!”

  The place was magnificent, painted a brilliant white, and at least four stories tall and, with its ornate eighteenth century style architecture, looked more like a royal residence than a hotel. We pulled into the small parking area and snagged one of two available spaces then grabbed our things and headed for the front door. The lobby carried on the same theme of grandeur with fine mosaic tiled floors, Persian rugs, and stately artworks on each wall. In the center of the room was a plaque that revealed our hotel had originally been an Ottoman mansion. This was certainly an unusual choice for the Agency, which tended to favor more modest accommodations for people like me. Sure, they would put case officers up in the nicest hotels, but agents on black ops usually stayed in the dives, so quaint and luxurious were rarely terms to describe one of my travel itineraries. In fact, it was a running joke amongst many of my fellow operators that we all shared the world’s worst travel agency—namely, the CIA. We continued on to the counter to find the front desk person was a man somewhere in his early thirties with the doughy physique of someone who apparently didn’t like to exercise.

  “Welcome to the Dersaalet Hotel. How may I help you?” he asked with a sincere smile.

  “We have a reservation under the name Emad,” Ayala said.

  He fiddled with the computer then handed us an envelope with three keys in it.

  “You have a master suite on the top floor. Do you need help with your luggage?”

  “We’re fine, thank you,” I said.

  A bellhop in his early twenties, standing near the elevator had overheard and sadly turned his gaze back to the front door. Ayala, whose bag was hardly bigger than her purse saw his expression and spoke up.

  “I could use some help.”

  The young man smiled and quickly came to her side and picked up the tiny bag and led us all to the elevator.

  “Hello, I am Seref. Please do not hesitate to call if you need anything,” he said, in excellent English.

  He was a shade under six foot, had brown hair, and took an instant liking to Ayala—as any sane man, boy, or person with a pulse would. She was looking particularly good in tight black stretch pants and an equally tight white cotton shirt that told the tale of her mountainous bosom region with exacting detail. I could understand, as I too had been admiring that bit of real estate myself for the last day and a half and would have loved to have taken a walk in those hills, but, sadly, I was adhering closely to Agency protocol, which frowned on hanky panky during a joint black op. Of course, they would have personally undressed me and put on my condom if I were about to bed an enemy dignitary’s wife, but such were the ironies of a life in the clandestine services.

  The elevator, one of those old fashioned models with a manual sliding metal screen door, stopped and dinged upon reaching the top floor. Seref slid open the door and motioned for Ayala to walk ahead. It was the polite and gentlemanly thing to do, yet I suspect it was also a potentially strategic move to get a better view of her lovely backside. My suspicions were immediately confirmed as not only Seref, but Farid and I also proceeded to stare in rapt attention at the visage of her swaying taught buttocks. Every step became a gift from God, and it was the kind of view that filled a man’s waking thoughts and haunted him in his dreams. The view was so good, in fact, that the three of us were caught completely unaware when she suddenly stopped at the door to our room and we piled into each other in an inglorious heap of male idiocy. Seref, with his professional pride slightly diminished, managed to free himself from the tangle and open the door and graciously invite everyone into the suite. Ayala went first, allowing Farid and me to follow a moment later.

  Stepping inside, I could see it certainly wasn’t the worst place I had ever stayed and was, in fact, a lot nicer and more spacious than I could have ever imagined—least of all on a covert operation. The suite was large and lavishly adorned with Persian rugs, Ottoman artworks, and the main lounge area had two large plush couches and a comfy looking chair. On one end of the room there was a stately fireplace, and above it hung a painting of the Ottoman leader, Sultan Selim III. He was dressed in a plush orange robe with a white leopard fur collar, and his expression was one of disdain as though he knew that one day two infidels and a Jew would be standing and admiring his visage. Opposite his majesty were three bedrooms, which meant everyone got their own bed—sadly. Seref seemed to like this fact, as it meant that Ayala was potentially single. He carried her bag to the room on the left before returning to the living room, where she walked him to the door and gave him a generous tip. He smiled and quietly slipped out, his libido likely in full swing as his balls shouted out in joy at the rapid growth of their lanky friend in the middle.

  “I must say—this place is beautiful!” Ayala said, as she took a seat on one of the couches.

  The sunlight was coming through the window behind her made her glow like an angel, and I found myself so entranced by her beauty that I couldn’t keep from blurting out a cheesy compliment.

  “Yeah, but it’s nowhere near as beautiful as one of its current occupants,” I said, as I sat down across from her.

  Ayala smiled and was about to respond, but Farid interrupted.

  “Thank you, I appreciate your kind words,” he said.

  “While you’re a good looking man and a fine farter, I’m afraid I was referring to Ayala when I said beautiful.”

  “Well, thank you, Finn. You’re not so bad yourself,” she responded.

  Farid, who had been at the window gazing out at the view of the harbor, walked over and sat beside me and made a chopping motion with his hand.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  “You karate chopping one of your farts in half?”

  “No, it’s actually me cutting through the sexual tension.”

  “Between you and me?” I asked.

  “No, obviously between you and Ayala. Now, seriously, I’ve been in a car with you two for the last twenty-four hours, and, honestly, I’ve never felt so much sexual tension. Why don’t you two do us all a favor and just kiss and get it over with.”

  “Farid, Seriously, we’re professionals and, therefore, well above any temptations of the flesh.”

  Farid looked skeptical as he stared at me with his arms crossed over his chest, as he obviously knew that I was completely full of shit.

  “Anyone ready for lunch?” I asked, in hopes of steering the conversation away from Farid’s awkward attempt at matchmaking.

  “Before or after you two have sex?”

  “Before,” Ayala said, getting up and walking towar
ds the door.

  Farid smiled and patted me on the shoulder.

  “You can thank me later,” he said.

  We headed back downstairs and out to the bustling boulevard, where Ayala put her arm through mine, and we started walking the half block towards the restaurant. Farid was beside us and looked over and smiled smugly.

  “Ah, love is in the air!” he said.

  “Clearly, you’re unfamiliar with the spy game. You see—this public display of affection is simply a part of our cleverly conceived cover.”

  “Which is?”

  “Obviously, we’re posing as a couple.”

  “So where do I fit in?”

  “You’re my awkward best friend who is so terrible with the ladies that I let you tag along on my dates in the hope that you might one day go on one of your own.”

  “No one would believe that, because I am way too charming and good looking.”

  Ayala cleared her throat to get our attention.

  “Boys, isn’t it about time we enjoyed this lovely afternoon?”

  Ayala was correct, as it was a pleasant seventy plus degrees outside, and it was nice to walk after having been in a car for the majority of the last twenty-four hours. Of course, it was also nice because I was walking arm in arm with Ayala and feeling more like a tourist than a spy at the moment. Soon, however, my training came into play, and I started scanning our surroundings to see if anyone was particularly interested in the three of us. First on my threat radar was a man in a rumpled suit at an outdoor cafe a short distance away. He was smoking a cigarette and had a newspaper in his hand, but his eyes were clearly focused in our direction. Next on my threat radar was a young man at the bus stop. He was probably in his middle twenties and also watching us very closely. I was getting a little nervous and started moving my hand towards my gun when it dawned on me that I was misreading the situation. Understanding body language was an important part of my job, and, as realization dawned, I quietly laughed to myself. Few people outside of psychologists or professional bodyguards knew that aggression and lust could look almost identical, and telling the two apart was a matter of context. Having usually operated alone, it took a moment for my knowledge to override my paranoia, so that I could see the reason behind all this attention was the result of having an unusually attractive person at my side—and I wasn’t referring to Farid. Ayala was the obvious source, which meant I could relax, lower my hand back to my side, and continue walking and enjoying this rare moment of joyful intimacy with a member of the opposite sex.

  Up on the right was a yellow awning with the name Shafaa Halal Restaurant. It was written in English, so it stood to reason that they must get a few infidels through their door. We went inside to find the place fairly crowded with late lunch diners, and, as the vast majority appeared to be locals, the food was probably good. You could dupe unwary tourists, but keeping a local following required a decent menu. A very pretty girl, a little on the plump side, warmly greeted us from the hostess stand at the front.

  “Welcome to Shafaa Halal,” she said, in accented English.

  “Thank you, it’s good to be here,” I responded.

  “Ah, just as I thought, you’re American!” she said.

  “Yeah, how’d you guess?”

  “Your beautiful blue eyes, of course.”

  “Not my powerful buttocks and biceps?” I joked.

  “No, but I did notice them,” she said, with a flirtatious smile, as she stepped out from behind the hostess stand and gave me a thorough appraisal that ended with a look at my backside.

  Now that she was completely in view, I could she that was indeed plump, but a lovely healthy plump, carrying her weight in all the right places—mainly her ample breasts and well-rounded backside. Her shirt was low-cut, tight, and it gave more than a hint of the great mounds of flesh that beckoned below its collar. She was a tall order of feminine charm and had those dark mischievous eyes that beckoned in a way that made schoolboy’s pants feel unusually tight in the crotch. She grabbed three menus, then showed us to a window table that looked out over the water.

  “Can I start you off with anything?” she asked, as she leaned towards me, the move bringing her breasts to hover only inches from my face.

  The term motor boating came to mind, but I instead asked for water, as I doubted that my present company, Farid excluded, would have found it very funny or appropriate. She left us, and we perused our menus, but Farid, however, was scoping the nearby table, which was occupied by a bevy of beautiful blond women. Judging by their complexion and hair color, they were likely Scandinavian, and Farid couldn’t help but stare unabashedly—a hungry longing in his eyes like that of a starving lion. He really did have a thing for blondes, though in this case he was justified. They were uniquely beautiful with their Nordic, almost elfin bone structure, light blue eyes, and shampoo commercial quality blond hair. It was rare to see this many similarly attractive looking people this far from their Nordic home, so it was my educated guess that they were in town for some kind of modeling shoot. Whatever the reason for their presence didn’t matter to Farid, for he was lost in his own private universe of amorous abandon and remained so even after our waiter appeared to take our order.

  “Hello, I am Kartal. Would you like to start with any kind of appetizer?”

  “I believe we’d like to go straight to the main meal,” Ayala said.

  “Very well, and for you sir,” the waiter asked, looking to Farid, who was sitting closest.

  Farid stared up at him blankly, as he had yet to look at his menu.

  “Um—what?” Farid asked.

  Ayala, sensing Farid’s attention was otherwise engaged, ordered for the entire table by choosing salad and Tavuc Durum, the latter being chicken wraps with lettuce, tomato, onions, and some kind of yogurt sauce. We had been eating a lot of lamb, which was practically the national meat of Turkey, and so we were ready for a change. Our waiter departed then, only minutes later, returned with the three salads, which were a refreshing blend of mixed greens and semi-sweet pickled carrots and cabbage. They were also served with a small loaf of bread, which was not too surprising, as every meal in Turkey thus far had come with some kind of bread. Clearly, Dr. Atkins, of the now fading Atkins diet fad, was not of Turkish decent and would have been turning over in his meaty grave if he had faced so many carbs. I was a serial omnivore, however, and never went in for fad diets and was therefore perfectly happy with the abundance of bread. I loved it, and it loved me.

  Our main course arrived, and I dug in and enjoyed the chicken wraps—so much so, that I had to make a point of commending Ayala on her excellent meal choice. We soon emptied our plates, then the waiter came and cleared our table, giving us a moment to quietly digest and reflect on lunch. Farid groaned, stood up, and excused himself and walked towards the bathroom, which coincidentally took him past the gaggle of blonds. He delivered a casual smile to the girls then continued on to the bathroom. A moment later, he reappeared and stopped at the girl’s table, where I was damn well sure that he was delivering some of his best lines. He was a good looking guy and clearly a ladies man, and I couldn’t help but fear what consequences a decadent life in the West might bring. He would be a veritable fox in the henhouse. Suddenly, laughter erupted from the table, and, a moment later, one of the girls whispered in Farid’s ear. He kissed her hand, then turned and walked back to us with his smile so big that it could barely be contained by his jaw.

  “What the hell was all that about?” I asked.

  “Nothing—just made a little date for later and guess what?” he asked, barely able to contain his excitement.

  “What?”

  “They’re models, and they’re all staying at our hotel!”

  Farid was glowing, and I suspected the heat emanating from the growing excitement of his penile region was probably enough to melt a glacier.

  “Well, don’t forget that we’re under cover at the moment.”

  “Yes! And if all goes well, I might end up
under their covers tonight.”

  “I hate to tell you this, sex machine, but the number one rule when you’re out in the field is that you don’t trust anyone. Think of those models as clever temptations to lead you astray from the path to your new life in America. You must remain strong and not succumb to the pleasures of the flesh.”

  “I’m thinking I could really use a little succumbing at the moment.”

  “Maybe you should work one off in the bathroom.”

  “Come on, we’re in the historic city of Istanbul, and it’s my first night of freedom.”

  “And it could easily be your last.”

  “I seriously doubt those women pose any threat.”

  I looked over at the girls then back to Farid.

  “Your mother and I will have to discuss this. Honey, what are your thoughts?” I asked Ayala.

  She looked over at Farid and could see the yearning in his expression and relented.