Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

  “It’s just one night,” she said.

  “Yes!” Farid exclaimed, as he smiled.

  I had an uneasy feeling about Farid’s date, but I was hoping it was just a little indigestion, or perhaps the rumblings of an afternoon dump. A half an hour later, we were back in our hotel room, and Ayala and I were sacked out on the couches. It was nice to have some time to decompress after two long days on the road, and now the sounds of Istanbul were slowly fading out of my awareness as I slipped into a well deserved nap.

  I awoke an hour or so later when I was startled by a mild nightmare in which I had been stuck in a public restroom without any toilet paper. I had decided, for some unknown reason, to try and climb into the next stall in hopes of finding some quilted two-ply salvation, but my foot slipped, and I fell into the toilet. It sent a blast of ice cold shit water up my leg, and it caused me to literally jump awake. Ayala was reading across from me and asked if I was all right. I told her it was just an old war dream and abstained from telling her any of the real details, as I considered it prudent to leave my whole bathroom neurosis out of our relationship for the moment.

  I sat up and looked at my watch to see that we were approaching the dinner hour, which meant our Persian Casanova would soon be heading off to meet with his models. As if on cue, Farid’s door opened, and he came strolling into the room wearing black dress pants and a stylish silky black shirt. He looked freshly showered and smelled as though he had just lost a fight with a Drakkar Noir fragrance model. Thankfully none of us smoked, for, if he had been within ten feet of an open flame, there was a pretty good chance he would have set the entire room ablaze.

  “Somebody wants to get laid tonight,” I said.

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Good point.”

  “The ladies are waiting.”

  “Well look here, swinger. If you really want to risk your life for a night with a gaggle of models, then we’ll have to set some ground rules. First, no leaving the hotel. Second, you have to have your new cell phone on you at all times, because I’m going to randomly call you just to make sure that you’re OK.”

  “No problem.”

  “Also, we’ll need to know what room you’ll be in.”

  “Now, you two really are acting like my parents.”

  “Yep, and we’re only being cautious because we love you.”

  “Fine, dad. It’s just down the hall—room sixteen.”

  “OK, go have your fun, but don’t sprain your dick. Try and save something for America.”

  Farid gave us an enthusiastic wave, then exited the suite, prompting Ayala to look over at me with a conspiratorial smile.

  “I guess it’s just the two of us for dinner,” she said.

  At just after seven Ayala walked out of her room and stood before me, looking beautifully stunning in a black form fitting summer dress and Roman style sandals. She was wearing makeup consisting of red lipstick and a touch of eye shadow, and her hair, which I’d only seen in a ponytail, was styled and hung all the way down to her tempting cleavage. I was already attracted to her, but seeing her looking so sultry and sexy, made it pretty clear I was aboard the Boner Express on my way to Bonerville.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Shit. What’s the rule on premature ejaculation on a joint covert operation?”

  “It’s highly frowned upon,” she said, with a smile.

  “Well then, I guess I’ll just have to make a point of looking away from you every couple of minutes until my excitement subsides.”

  “Maybe we’ll both have to.”

  I stood up, and we headed downstairs and back to the Shafaa Halal restaurant. It was a warm night, and we walked arm in arm along the street until entering the restaurant, which was now aglow with lovely flickering candlelight. The place was crowded, but, after a short wait, we managed to get the same table from earlier and had the same view, only now we could see the lights of the harbor and the various vessels plying the busy Bosphorus waterway. Again, Ayala ordered for us, and soon we were enjoying yet another exotic Turkish meal, which started with a lovely salad called a Coban Salatasi. Salad was apparently one of the staples of the Turkish diet, and this one consisted of tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, green peppers, and parsley. After that, came a round of Raki, a Turkish aniseed based alcoholic beverage, which some people diluted with water, but we had straight over ice. It was 40% alcohol, which meant we had a pretty good buzz on by the time the beef kabobs arrived. They were delicious and, combined with the liquor, made for one of the least likely, though most enjoyable, dinner dates I’d had in years. We talked, ate, and partook of an amazing evening, finishing up with a baklava for desert and another round of Raki. Sated and thoroughly buzzed, we decided we should pay the check and take an after dinner walk to clear our heads.

  “Should we call Farid?” I asked.

  “Nah, let him have fun.”

  We exited the restaurant and walked through the throngs of people until eventually making a right turn and heading out to a quiet pier that afforded a spectacular view of the water and the lights on the other side of the Bosphorus. It was a ridiculously romantic spot, and we stood at the railing and held hands until Ayala turned and looked into my eyes.

  “Well? Are we going to kiss and prove Farid right?” she asked.

  I didn’t necessarily want to prove Farid right, but I desperately wanted to kiss Ayala, and sometimes a man had to swallow his pride for the greater good. I leaned forward and, for the first time in my life, kissed an agent of the Mossad. Her lips were soft, warm, and still tasted of the sweet Raki we had drunk only minutes earlier. Her mouth opened shortly thereafter, and I followed suit and brought my tongue to hers in a great collision of interagency cooperation. My heart started to pound, and I felt a surging tide of blood flowing south into my manhood—the result being that I was now lost to my growing desire. I instinctively reached out and took her into my arms and felt her melt into my body—all the sexual tension and feelings of attraction between us funneling into direct action. As I momentarily broke free to kiss her neck, she slid her hand down my chest and gave an already hard Tag Junior and exploratory squeeze.

  “Should I be worried about this thing going off?” she joked, her words a reference to my earlier comment about premature ejaculation.

  “Hopefully not, but don’t worry, I’ll warn you before it does,” I said, as I reached up, slid my hands under her shirt, and took hold of her breasts.

  I ran my fingertips over her hard nipples, and she let out a soft little moan of pleasure then pulled me back to her lips, so that we continue to entwine our tongues. As our kisses became more passionate, she began stroking my manhood, and it inspired me to slip my right hand down into her pants, so that I could make delicate circles of her clitoris. We were both now getting ever closer to release, so it was only a matter of time before practicality overruled lust, and we paused to consider how best to proceed.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked.

  “Yeah, assuming you’re thinking that we should get back to the hotel and finish what we’ve started.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “Oh, such a shame—I’m thinking something completely different,” came a voice from behind us.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Saturday Night Fever

  AYALA AND I turned to see three men standing between us and the street. The man in the middle, obviously the person in charge, was probably in his middle fifties, wore a grey business suit, and stared at us with a cold calculating cruelty in his eyes that existed in stern contrast to the smile on his face. His two bearded henchmen also had cold eyes but seemed to lack their boss’s intelligence, and I’d seen plenty like them during the course of my unusual career. They were enforcers, or, more accurately, thugs, with basic thug sensibilities, and they were the type of men who took pleasure in other people’s pain. Tell them to kill and they killed, without a second thought or remorse, and it wasn’t very
reassuring to see that these two had the bonus of being well-armed with silenced 9mm SIG Sauers. To complete their portrait of menace, they even had distinctive bad guy marks—thug one’s being a large mole on his cheek, and thug two’s being an obligatory scar on his forehead.

  “I see we have Mole and Scar, so who the fuck are you?” I asked, looking at the man in charge.

  Of course, I was lying, for I had studied his file in great detail before taking on this assignment and already knew that the man between Mole and Scar was Ebrahim Mahdi, a brilliant senior chief of Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence and National Security, and therefore not a person to underestimate.

  “I imagine you probably already know the answer to that question, Mr. Finn, but either way, it’s none of your concern,” he said.

  Fuck, that fucker somehow knew my name, which meant that he was every bit as good at his job as I’d been led to believe.

  “I don’t know—you know my name, and you’re pointing guns at us. That seems to demand a certain amount of concern.”

  “I don’t give a shit, now be quiet and place your hands on top of your heads.”

  Ayala and I looked at each other then did as instructed while the two underlings came over and expertly searched us and took our weapons before walking back to stand beside Mahdi.

  “All right then. Where is Farid?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Yeah, how should the man who brought him all the way from Tehran know?”

  Suddenly, the sound of a large group of people talking on the street caught Mahdi’s attention, and he looked over his shoulder then turned back around to quietly speak to his men before returning his cold gaze back to us.

  “I believe we should follow your earlier suggestion and take this discussion back to your hotel, so we can have a little more privacy.”

  “We can talk all you want, but it’ll be useless. Farid is long gone—thousands of miles from here. You’re too late.”

  “We’ll see. Now, start walking.”

  We walked past Mahdi, and Scar and Mole reached out and gave us an unfriendly push as they herded us back towards the street.

  “If you make any attempt to escape, the woman gets the first bullet.”

  “Ahh—ladies first. You’re a real gentleman,” I responded.

  Mole hit me in the back of the head, and, while It wasn’t a particularly hard hit, I suspected that it was intended to be more of a psychological blow to show us who was in charge at the moment. That’s fine, I would pay Mole back later with a real punch—to his face. We joined the crowd and moved with the flow, and no one paid any attention to the three thugs leading the couple down the street. I had to say that the walk back wasn’t nearly as romantic with the looming threat of death walking just a few steps behind. Life sure could change quickly.

  Just after we crossed the final street, there was a break in the foot traffic, and I turned my head slightly left then right in order to use my peripheral vision to get a good idea of the position of our adversaries. They were staying just out of arm’s reach, which was a smart move on their part, because it meant we couldn’t get close enough to grab one of their weapons before the other could shoot us. Oh well, I’d just have to wait for an opening. People all made mistakes, and now it was a matter of waiting for them to make one. We entered our hotel lobby and walked past Seref the valet, and he smiled at Ayala. He seemed to sense her unease, however, and his expression changed to concern, but I hoped he didn’t do anything stupid, as there was no need to drag an innocent into this mess. We crowded into the elevator, and I thought it might be a good time to make a move except the close proximity would make collateral damage too likely and, therefore, an unnecessary risk for the moment.

  “What floor?” Mahdi asked.

  “You don’t know?” I responded.

  Mole punched me in the stomach, but I was ready for just such a dick move and tensed my muscles and exhaled at the moment of impact thereby lessening the blow and taking all the steam out of the gesture. It hurt a little, but it was probably a lot more painful to Mole’s ego.

  “Top floor,” I said without the slightest hint of discomfort.

  Scar pressed the fourth floor button, and we started climbing, though now the rickety mechanical sounds of the elevator were more pronounced with a full load of passengers. Riding in a crowded elevator with strangers could be uncomfortable, but standing alongside hostile foreign agents in such a tight space was an entirely worse experience. We were shoulder to shoulder, and I could literally smell the last twenty-four hours of food, coffee, and cigarettes on their clothes and in their breath. They had been in hot pursuit, living on the go and unable to partake of the usual daily niceties, first and foremost being sleeping, bathing, or brushing their teeth. While unpleasant, it gave me some real insight into their emotional and physical state. Their exhaustion meant they would act impulsively and be more likely to make mistakes. Perfect.

  We reached the top floor, and Scar opened the door, bringing in the sweet relief of fresh air to dilute the foul smelling stench of our companions. Mole pushed us ahead, herding us down the hall and past room sixteen, where I hoped Farid would stay put until Ayala and I figured a way out of this mess. We reached our door, and Mahdi told me to open it. I told him I didn’t have a key, and Mole hit me in the head—again. He definitely had a mean streak, but I planned to knock that out of him when I got the chance.

  “Still can’t find your key?” Mahdi asked.

  Mole hit me yet again.

  “Oh wait, here it is—in my pocket. Imagine that,” I said.

  “Yes, imagine that. Now, hurry up and open the door.”

  I unlocked the door, and we all walked into the living room, and Mahdi told us to take a seat on the couch while he sat opposite us in the chair with Mole and Scar standing at his sides like a couple of obedient guard dogs.

  “So, anyone for coffee?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Tea?”

  “No.”

  “Board game?”

  “No.”

  “How about truth or dare?”

  “Sure, truth—tell me where Farid is.”

  “Was that a joke—coming from the Terror of Tehran? I’m impressed.”

  Mahdi sincerely smiled, for I had made a direct reference to one of his lesser know titles, and that implied that he was good enough at his job that an agent of the CIA would know, not only his existence, but his favored alias.

  “Ahh—you flatter me, but look, friend—we don’t have a lot of time here, so things are going to get ugly very quickly, and I assume you know that we will start with the woman.”

  “Still the consummate gentleman.”

  “Always.”

  “Is it OK if I go to the bathroom?”

  “No.”

  “What if I shit my pants?”

  “Then you shit your pants.”

  Fuck, I needed some time to think, and Mahdi wasn’t giving me a lot of options. I was hoping a bathroom trip might give me a little window of opportunity, but he obviously wanted to keep the situation fully locked down. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and I prayed that it wasn’t Farid. It was unlikely, however, as he had a key, and I doubted that he had already tired of partying with the models. The person knocked again then we heard a voice. It was Seref.

  “Get rid of him,” Mahdi said.

  Ayala stood up, and Mole followed her and took up residence just behind the door. She opened it a crack and spoke to Seref.

  “Hello,” Ayala said.

  “Um—hello. I couldn’t help noticing that you looked a little uncomfortable just now as you entered the hotel. Is everything OK?”

  “Oh yes, we’re just hanging out with some old friends.”

  “They didn’t look like friends.”

  Ayala peered back inside at Mahdi, and he nodded for Mole to be ready to take care of the young man. The goon cocked his pistol, and stared menacingly at Ayala, who turned back to Seref and tried her b
est to dissuade him from any further concern.

  “I appreciate you coming to check on me, but everything is just fine. I really should get back to our company. Good night.”

  Just as she attempted to close the door, Seref charged in but paused when he took in the scene.

  “What the…”

  Before he could finish his sentence, Mole grabbed him and threw him against the wall and punched him in the stomach. Seref was young and fit, however, and immediately came back, shoving Mole and almost knocking him off his feet. Mole became enraged and bared his teeth as he pointed his gun at the young man’s head. Fortunately, Mahdi spoke up, and his calm authoritative voice placated his angry henchman.

  “Enough, bring them over here.”

  Mole dragged them over to the couch and forced them to take a seat beside me, then Mahdi turned his undivided attention to Seref.

  “Young man—what is your name?”

  “Seref.”

  “And you’re the valet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You obviously know these people and, therefore, know what their friend looks like.”

  “Not really, I only saw him for a minute when they checked in.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not,” he said, nervously.

  “Face it, you Middle Eastern folks all kind of look alike,” I interjected just to annoy our unwelcome guests.

  “Be quiet!” Mahdi growled, before turning his attention back to the valet.

  “Well, Seref, any idea where their friend might be?”

  Seref looked at me, and I nodded my head back and forth very subtly, hoping he would understand that it was best if he pretended to feign ignorance. Seref nervously looked back to Mahdi.

  “No idea. I assumed he was in the room,” he said.

  “Again, I think you are lying.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Strike the woman,” Mahdi said, to Mole.

  He stepped over and hauled back his hand and struck Ayala just above her ear with his pistol. It must have hurt, but she gave no reaction, as she was obviously a professional, and trained to deal with assholes of this magnitude. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same for Seref, as he was an innocent civilian in this situation and therefore the weak link.