Black Widow
Black Widow
Cliff Ryder
Espionage takes to the twenty-first-century playing fields, where rules are broken–and remade–outside the reach of governments and the law. Agents recruited for the clandestine organization known as Room 59 play hard, play for keeps…or die trying. But now new Room 59 agent Ajza Manaev, a top MI-6 operative, discovers just how high the stakes really are when she goes undercover inside Chechnya's terrorist training camps, where bitter young widows harness their hate as suicide bombers. Ajza doesn't know she's being manipulated by many sides of a deadly game. Her mysterious Room 59 handler has his own agenda, while the secret, silent mastermind behind a global destabilization plot hopes to push Ajza's loyalties to the breaking point. And in a game where the ground is always shifting, Ajza is inducted by hellfire into Room 59's harsh reality: she's on her own.
Ajza knew about the shahidka
They’d been given the name because their husbands had been killed fighting the Russian army. Some said that the shahidka were cursed, born into trouble and bad luck, and death to any man who took their hand in marriage.
Of course, there was no way anyone could tell if a woman was shahidka. There was no test, and they weren’t marked by God until after they’d lost their husbands.
Women in Chechnya married young, sometimes as early as thirteen or fourteen. The men they married weren’t much older, and they became soldiers the instant someone thrust a rifle into their hands.
Unable to afford mercy to the young troops, the Russian military often killed them. Those deaths doomed the women as well. In their culture, a woman belonged to a man. When a woman’s husband died, she became the property of her husband’s family. She could be separated from her children, have her house taken and be left out on the street—or sold to another.
Or she could end up a Black Widow.
Black Widow
Cliff Ryder
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.
Black Widow
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Moscow
“I don’t want you to die because of me,” he pleaded.
Maaret looked at her husband through tears as they stood in the cold wind that whipped through Patriarshiye Ponds. His plea touched her heart and she saw the pain in his blue eyes. He was so young, so full of life and joy despite the darkness and fear that stained his soul. She didn’t know how she had missed seeing those other things. But she’d been so much in love with him that she had only seen the good.
The thing that hurt the most was how much she still loved him.
He wasn’t Russian except by blood, but he should have been. In addition to the light eyes, he had soft blond hair that always managed to look unkempt. More than the looks, though, guilt and despair filled him. Those things made him truly Russian.
As she looked at him, her cheeks numb in the freezing temperature, Maaret wondered if his soul had been as tortured before he had come to her country, lied to her and fathered their child.
Unconsciously Maaret ran a hand over her swollen stomach. That the child should die was the most hurtful thing of all. She had created her baby with the love she had for her husband.
“Please, Maaret,” he whispered just strongly enough to be heard above the wind. “Please forget this madness and come away with me.”
She smiled sadly and touched his lips with her cold fingers. Even with her glove off, she no longer felt his flesh beneath her. The distance she felt from him scared her, and that distance grew with each gray breath.
“No,” she said simply. “It is too late.”
“It isn’t too late.” His stubbornness overrode the fear. “I can save you from this.” His hand touched her stomach, then slid to the belt of explosives she wore around her hips.
“It is too late,” she insisted. She took his hand in hers. “They watch us even now.”
He shook his head. At times, he was so like a child. She thought, even then as she faced her death, that he would have made a wonderful father.
If he had stayed.
And if he had stayed and been found out, he would have been killed.
People passed them as they stood there. Older couples gave them knowing smiles, undoubtedly thinking that this was a spat between a young husband and wife. Those people didn’t have many concerns. They lived in an affluent part of Moscow where the night was held back by bright lights and fences protected the pond and the tall apartment buildings. Snow dusted the boughs of the mighty pine and spruce trees, and swirled between the naked branches of tall oaks.
In addition to wealthy Russians, Americans and Europeans lived there, as well. That was why the area had been targeted.
“I…I…” Her husband’s voice broke, and his obvious pain and confusion and desperation fueled her own. “I can fix this, Maaret. I swear.”
She knew, though, that his promise was hollow. He had masters and allegiances just as she had. Neither of them could escape their fates.
“You can’t,” she told him.
“There must be a way.”
“No.” She shook her head. “They have found you out, my love. They know what you truly are.”
The tears that tracked his face glistened like diamonds in the streetlights. Like a child, he wiped them away with his sleeve. Then he glared across the walkway that wound through the residential area. A few of the nearby windows held Christmas ornaments and lights.
“Are they here?” he asked hoarsely.
“I don’t know,” Maaret said.
“Did Taburova bring you here?”
“Yes.”
Her husband seized her arms. “Maaret, please listen to me. I have friends.”
She knew he had friends. They posed danger to him and to her. And to the child.
“I can take you from here,” he said.
Here wasn’t Moscow. This was the first time she’d ever been to Moscow. Her country lay to the north. It was all she’d ever known. She’d been born in a small house there, and she’d always believed she would be buried in one of the small graveyards.
“I don’t want to leave my home,” she told him. “When you married me, you promised you wouldn’t take me from my home.”
“I love you, Maaret. I would have promised you anything.”
“So you lied?”
He flinched painfully at her words, but still clung to her. He no longer met her gaze.
“I did what I had to,” he whispered.
“You didn’t have to marry me. You didn’t have to father our child. All you had to do was inform your masters about the heroes of my country and their efforts to free us from the Russian dictators.”
“It’s not like that.” His protest sounded weak.
“Then why spy in my homeland? Surely you could have found other women in—” Maaret faltered because she suddenly realized she didn’t even know what country her husband was from. Everything about him had been a fabrication, a dream that continued to evade her.
He held her at arm’s length and gazed into her eyes. “I love you, Maaret. And I love our child. I want us to be together. I want us to be happy.”
She believed him. God help her, she believed him. The weight of the explosives strapped to her body suddenly felt like concrete blocks. They crushed her. And they threatened her baby. She felt him—she’d never doubted the sex of her unborn child—move within her. He shifted, as restless as his father.
“You must go,” she told him. “This is not a safe place.” She breathed the cold air into herself and turned her body and her heart numb. She pushed him away.
“No, Maaret,” he said more forcefully. “I won’t allow you to do this.”
“You won’t allow me?” Maaret’s anger stabbed through her. The child within her moved again. She swept her arms against his and broke his hold on her. If only his hold on her heart broke so easily.
“I am your husband,” he told her.
“You are a liar!” Her viciousness amazed her.
“I love you. I never lied about that.”
Maaret saw the knife in his hand too late. Even then, she didn’t fear him, only what he meant to do. He leaned in and kissed her. She wanted to slap him and push him off her. Instead, she took his face in her hands and returned the kiss with a hunger only he caused within her.
It wasn’t until he drew away that she realized the weight of the explosives had vanished. He held the six packages of plastic explosives—Semtex—still strung on the belt, but the belt was severed.
“No!” Maaret gasped. She fumbled in her coat pocket for the detonator Taburova had provided her when he’d strapped the explosives on her. “You can’t!”
Her hand searched her empty pocket.
He opened his fingers and showed her the detonator. He’d stolen it without her knowledge.
“You can’t do this!” she shouted loudly enough to draw the attention of passersby.
“I can’t let you die, Maaret. Nor can I let my child die.” His face was grim. “Taburova and the others are homicidal hate-mongers. They’re not the patriotic heroes you believe them to be.”
Maaret lunged for the explosives.
He pulled them away easily.
“I’m not doing this for them,” she pleaded. “I’m doing it for me. And for our child. If I die striking back at our enemies, all my sins will be washed away. Our child will die, but he will be reborn without sin.”
“Our child,” he said, “is already without sin. And I want his mother to live because I love her more than my life.”
He turned and ran through the falling snow, threading through the bystanders and passersby. Some of them saw the belt of explosives dangling from his hand, but none of them recognized them.
Maaret tried to pursue him, but the new snow made the footing treacherous. She skidded and slipped, and finally realized she couldn’t catch him.
He fled without a backward look, intending to reach the pond only a few feet away. He halted at the fence and drew the belt back to throw.
The explosion was devastating.
The concussive force slammed into Maaret and knocked her off her feet. Her first thought was the baby. It took so little to trigger a miscarriage. She’d been surprised that the stress of the past few days hadn’t triggered an end to her pregnancy.
Deafened by the blast and temporarily blinded by the light, Maaret rolled over and pushed herself to her feet. She stood, finally, and swayed as she looked at where she’d last seen her husband.
The fence leaned precariously and powder burns stained the snow black. One of the massive pines lay broken and leaning against the side of an apartment building. Many windows stood empty of glass, and tattered curtains shifted in the breeze. Pedestrians who’d survived the blast climbed back to their feet. Several people remained down, and more than one twisted, bloodied body offered mute testimony of death and severe injury.
Screams penetrated the cottony pressure in Maaret’s ears. Warmth covered her right cheek. When she touched her face, her fingers came away stained crimson.
Blood, she realized. But it wasn’t hers. It was his.
Maaret joined in the screaming. Earlier, when she’d accepted her own death and that of her son, she had known she would never see her husband again. But she hadn’t planned on being alive to have to deal with that.
Instead, he was gone.
She stumbled toward the blast area. She was the only one who walked in that direction. All the others fled, running and limping away as quickly as they could.
“Maaret.”
The man’s cold, hard voice came from behind her. She didn’t turn because she didn’t wish to deal with his harsh remonstrations. It wasn’t her fault that her husband had come there. He could only have found her through the man who called her name now. She’d been the bait in a malicious trap.
A powerful grip seized her left upper arm. “Maaret.”
She faced him then because she had no choice.
Mayrbek Taburova glared at her with his one good blue eye. His other eye, the right one, was covered by a black leather patch. Fine scars showed around the edges of it. His curly black hair peeked from beneath his wool cap. Powdered snow clung to his fierce goatee. He was in his forties, more than twice her age.
“Come with me, child,” he ordered.
“I failed,” she said.
Amazingly he smiled at her. “No,” he said, “you didn’t. This was as it was meant to be. His sacrifice was given in love. Your sins, and those of your child, have been cleansed.”
Maaret was dumbfounded for a moment, then she realized Taburova thought her husband had detonated the explosives on purpose. She knew better than that, though. He would not have killed himself, and he would not have killed the others who lay unmoving on the ground. That wasn’t his way.
“Come,” Taburova said. He pulled gently on her arm.
Numb to the cold and the horror around her, Maaret went. She glanced over her shoulder at the blackened spot that stained the ground by the pond. The falling snow worked to knit a fresh white blanket to cover the damage, the mangled bodies that lay scattered over the area.
If not for her husband, Maaret knew she would have walked into one of the apartment buildings and set off the explosives she had worn. The damage and the death toll would have been much worse. The man who had outfitted her with the explosives had told her how much destruction the explosion would cause, as if she should take joy in that knowledge.
She hadn’t.
And she hadn’t thought of the lives she would have ended. If she’d done that, she wouldn’t have been able to carry the explosives into the building. Children lived there, as well, though she’d been told the apartments she was supposed to target were dwellings without children.
Maybe it was the truth.
She’d gotten to the point where she no longer recognized the truth.
“You did well, Maaret,” Taburova said as he quickly guided her through the alleys. “I’m very proud of you.”
Maaret said nothing. She covered her bulging belly with her free hand to protect her child, but she knew she would never possess the power to completely protect him. She wept for her child, for her dead husband, and for herself.
1
Istanbul, Turkey
“Get up!”
Ajza Manaev woke instantly at the command but too late to avoid the slap to the back of her head. She recognized Fikret’s growl as her hand closed on the 9 mm Tokarev pistol under her pillow. Her natural anger suited the role she currently played, so she let the emotion take her.
Fikret obviously expected her to react to his rude awakening. He tightened a fist in her hair and tried to control her.
Ignoring the blazing pain at the back of her scalp, Ajza twisted in the small bed and rammed the pistol into Fikret’s underarm. She twisted and raked the sight across the nerves clustered there.
With a squall of pain, Fikret released his hold and stepped back. He was a bear of a man, thick and heavy with fat, but incredibly strong. A thick mustache bisected his round face. Stubble covered his cheeks.
He cursed at her as he yanked his jacket and shirt back to check his armpit for a wound of some kind.
“I ought to kill you!” he screamed. He released his jacket and shirt, and turned his gaze back to Ajza. His huge hand drew back automatically to deliver a blow.
Ajza held the pistol in both hands and aimed it squarely between Fikret’s eyes. “Touch me again,” she told him coldly, “and I’ll kill you.”
“I tried to wake you,” he protested. “You wouldn’t wake.”
“I always wake,” Ajza said. “You only tried to wake me once. Then you hit me. If we didn’t need you today, I would kill you for that alone.”
Fikret lowered his hand and looked over his shoulder at the other men in the small apartment. “Tell her,” he exhorted. “Tell her that I tried to wake her. Tell her that she is hard to wake.”
Nazmi shoved his foot into a worn work boot and laced it. He was young and lean. Long black hair grazed his shoulders, shoulders that bore tattoos of American rock bands.
“She’d didn’t look that hard to wake, Fikret,” Nazmi said with a big grin. “You told her to wake at about the same time you hit her. She woke pretty fast and offered to kill you.” He shrugged. “If she was hard to wake, I think you would have gotten out of the way in time.”
Fikret scowled and jabbed a big finger in Nazmi’s direction. “Maybe I should kick your ass, too, you young pup.”
A knife appeared in Nazmi’s hands like magic. An easy smile framed his face. “Anytime you wish to try, you fat oaf, you are most welcome.”
Ajza watched the exchange with a wary eye. The animosity between Fikret and Nazmi had existed from the beginning. In fact, most of the team avoided the big man because he struck quickly with verbal abuse and with his hands. This morning was the first day he’d tried that with her.
“Get away from my bed,” Ajza ordered.
Fikret scowled. “This is a very small room.”
“Then go outside.”
Angrily Fikret stomped outside.
“I don’t think you made him very happy.” Nazmi reached for his other boot.
“I’m not getting paid to do that.” Ajza sat on the bed and watched the others getting ready. The fact that so much activity going on hadn’t woken her surprised her. In a way, Fikret had been right. She had been hard to wake.
You’ve pushed this operation too long, she told herself. You should have been pulled a month ago.
But every time they’d gotten ready to retrieve her from the field, one more piece of the puzzle dropped into place. That slow trickle of crucial information had been the most exasperating of all.
If not for the cloud of doubt clinging to Ilyas’s death…
Resolutely, as she had done for two years, Ajza pushed away her pain and confusion over her younger brother’s death. Those feelings proved hard to bear. She missed Ilyas. Whenever she spent time at home with their parents, she felt the gaping hole left by his death.
“I think of making Fikret angry as a bonus,” Nazmi told her. “I’m just glad they’re not charging me for the privilege.”
Ajza looked at the younger man. At twenty-nine, though they thought her younger, she felt like the old person among them.
“Is this for real?” she asked. “Or is this another false alarm?”
Nazmi shrugged and smiled. “I don’t know.”
“I hate getting up early when there’s no reason.”
“But you miss so much of the day when you sleep late.” Nazmi stood and stomped his work boots into a better fit. “I will make you a deal. If this is another false alarm, I will buy you breakfast at the market. Okay?”
The crush Nazmi had on her had been apparent from the start. Given another time and place, Ajza might have let the attraction between them develop. Still, having a friend to cover her back when the bullets started flying was a good thing.
“All right,” she said.
Nazmi gazed at her. “Aren’t you going to get dressed?”
Ajza got out of bed with the Tokarev in her hand. She wore sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt. “Not in here,” she said.
“Get dressed in here and I will buy you two breakfasts,” Nazmi suggested. He made no move to get out of her way.
“Maybe I will shoot you in the head and take your money, then buy myself as many breakfasts as I want.” Ajza smiled sweetly as she looked up at him.
“You know,” Nazmi said, “I almost think you would do such a thing.”
Ajza knew that he had no idea of what she had done in the past or was prepared to do now.
“You know that Mustafa doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” Nazmi said.
“Tell him to leave. I’ll catch up.” Ajza pushed Nazmi aside and went to the bathroom.
Inside the small bathroom with the rust-coated shower and toilet, she turned on the water and undressed. Then she knelt, reached behind the toilet and pressed a section of the wall. The section slid away and she took out the micro-miniature burst transmitter.
“This is Calico,” she said quickly, in a voice that—thanks to the running water—couldn’t be heard outside the thin walls of the room. “The meeting is on.”
She pressed send and watched as the transmitter encrypted the message, compressed it and beamed it in a split second. Somewhere in England’s MI-6 offices, someone should receive the message.
If they didn’t, she knew she might be dead within the next hour with no one the wiser.
Just like her brother.
2
New York City
“Does he follow you everywhere?”
Kate Cochran looked at her companion and smiled. “Are you referring to my bodyguard?”
“I am,” Gunter Hirschvogel admitted. He claimed to be in his late forties, but Kate knew from his file that he was in his early sixties. However, trim and fit as he was, tanned and dark-haired, he got away with the lie almost effortlessly.
His suit was handmade Italian. The plastic surgery didn’t show except for a little around the eyes, which no one would have faulted him for. Eyes were important. Especially for someone who’d made their wealth by getting other people to trust him.
“He goes with me most places,” Kate responded. She knew she looked elegant in her dark blue evening gown. Her wrap pulled everything together, and she’d turned heads most of the night. That had been enjoyable.
“When we get to my apartment,” Hirschvogel said, “where will he be then?”
“Comfortable, I hope,” Kate answered.
Hirschvogel laughed. “Perhaps we could send him down to the bar.”
Kate looked over her shoulder at Jacob Marrs, the man they were discussing. “I don’t think he’d like being that far away from me. He takes his job very seriously.”
“I don’t see how any man would want to be far from you,” Hirschvogel said.
“Thank you,” Kate said as if flattered by the comment. Only the years of doing espionage work in the field kept her in character. She detested men like Hirschvogel.
“However, I do have another possible solution.” Hirschvogel removed his electronic keycard from inside his jacket. “Perhaps we could put him with my security people.”
Kate glanced back at the two men who had accompanied Hirschvogel to the museum earlier. Older than Jake, both wore cruelty and dispassion like armor.
“It’s a shame one of us doesn’t have another bodyguard,” Kate said. “Then they’d have a fourth for bridge.”
“Actually, I have a houseman.” Hirschvogel opened the door, stepped inside and waved toward another man standing just inside the apartment foyer.
Kate cursed silently. Events could get very dicey in the apartment. If Hirschvogel found out who she was, and who and what she represented, he would probably try to kill her.
“Good evening, Mr. Hirshvogel.” The houseman was in his late forties. No emotion showed in his pale blue eyes. “Good evening, miss.” He didn’t offer to take her wrap or his employer’s coat. That would have slowed his reflexes and filled his hands.
“I have him,” the calm voice of Kate’s support technician reported. “Friedrich Moews. This guy’s a killer, Kate.”
The transmission came from the receiver/transmitter built into Kate’s left earring. It was state-of-the-art, complete with encryption encoding. Agents had wired a repeater inside the building earlier that afternoon. The delicate necklace at the hollow of her throat held a wireless camera.
Jake wore an earring that made him privy to the same communications stream Kate received. The top button on his jacket concealed a tiny camera.
Kate tapped her bracelet once for yes to let everyone know she’d heard the message. When switched on, the bracelet doubled as a Morse-code key and held a wide-angle lens for scanning documents and transmitting via wireless Internet.
Hirschvogel turned to Jake. “While I’m entertaining Ms. Danvers, perhaps you’d like to spend your time with my security staff.”
Jake shifted his gaze to Kate and lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Go,” Kate said. “Enjoy yourself. If I need anything, you’ll know.”
“She won’t need anything I can’t give her,” Hirschvogel said lasciviously.
“Wow,” tech support said. “Is this guy confident or what?”
Only Kate noticed the twitch of Jake’s lips that betrayed a stillborn grin. He nodded and followed the other men through another doorway.
“You have a big apartment,” Kate said appreciatively as Hirschvogel led her into the living room, with its obviously expensive furniture and artwork. A large plasma-screen television hung inert on the wall.
“I have forty-five hundred square feet,” Hirschvogel bragged as he took her elbow and walked her to the wet bar in the corner. “Would you like wine?” He pulled open a door. “I have a selection.”
“White, please. I’ll trust your judgment.” Kate left his side and wandered around the big room. She tried to map the apartment’s interior in her mind. There was a master bedroom and two smaller bedrooms to house the security guards. In addition to the four in the apartment now, Hirschvogel had four others who worked rotating shifts to give himself a constant human shield.
Hirschvogel poured wine and brought a glass to her.
With a twist of her wrist, Kate tapped her bracelet, sending out a string of Morse code to Jake. They were up against the clock. Events were already in motion in Istanbul, and if they didn’t find the information they needed, a lot of people were going to be dead within the hour.
“So,” Hirschvogel said smoothly, “what line of business are you in?”
Kate smiled at him. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Hirschvogel guffawed. “You’re a fan of spy movies?”
“Somewhat,” Kate admitted. She looked at Hirschvogel.
Suddenly gunfire cracked in the other room. He started to go forward, but stopped immediately when Kate reached under her dress and pulled out the small, two-shot derringer she’d holstered to her thigh. At first his attention was caught by the expanse of thigh she flashed, but then he quickly focused on the pistol in her fist.
“Don’t move,” she told him as she aimed at the center of his chest.
3
London, England
Samantha Rhys-Jones pulled her Jaguar XKE to a stop in front of the office building and looked around. The neighborhood was an old one, but it had been given several face-lifts since it had first been built. The unadorned buildings stood like regimental soldiers.
Back in its heyday, Fleet Street served as home to London’s journalists. These days law offices, temp agencies and pubs that serviced the needs of both populated the area.
Comings and goings at all hours of the day kept the neighborhood busy. That alone proved sufficient reason to choose the neighborhood for the meet.
Headlights flashed at the end of the street as a decrepit cargo van rounded the corner and came toward her. With her eyes on the van, Samantha pressed a hidden release on the console between the seats. A panel popped open to reveal a Walther P99 chambered in .40 caliber. She favored the weapon because it was easy to conceal, fit her hands well and had good knock-down power.
She took the gun from its hiding place and placed it in her lap. Despite her experience, she found her heart rate elevated and her mouth dry. She was nervous, but not panicked.
“Indigo,” tech support called over the earwig she wore.
“Yes,” Samantha said calmly.
“Clockwork has a visual on you.”
The van flashed its lights on and off.
“Understood,” Samantha said. “I’ll talk to you again once we’re inside.” She dropped the Walther into her coat pocket and switched off the Jaguar’s engine. Then she climbed out to meet the van’s occupants.
Five of them got out of the vehicle—three women and two men. The mix surprised Samantha, but not the age. All of them were in their early twenties. They wore gray coveralls with RALEIGH’S CLEANERS stenciled across the back.
One of the women placed thin magnetic signs on the sides of the van while one of the men changed the front and back license plates. For the next few minutes, any police check on the licensed van of a cleaning service by that name would exist, complete with work history and referrals.
Shortly after that, the computer files and the magnetic signs would disappear as if they’d never existed.
“Hey,” a lanky Indian youth with long black hair and a goatee greeted her.
“Hey,” Samantha said. She recognized him because she’d worked with him before, but she didn’t remember his name. Of course, there was always the possibility he’d never given it. She never gave hers. “New crew?”
He nodded and grinned, flashing white teeth. “Breakin’ ’em in. Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you.” He fished equipment cases from the van’s cargo area.
“Do you need help with anything?”
“The door,” the guy said. “You get that, we’ve got the rest of this.”
“Your security card is set to run,” tech support said.
Samantha walked to the back of the Jaguar and opened the trunk. A hidden compartment held a wireless Internet-equipped magnetic strip printer. She took a security card from her pocket and ran it through the slot.
“You’re good to go,” tech support said.
Samantha walked to the door. Dressed in slacks, a plain blouse and her trench coat, she looked like a barrister rousted out of bed to handle a client who’d called from jail.
She glanced at the “cleaning” crew. All of them stood with cases in hand.
Samantha swiped the key card through the reader on the door. A second later the lock released. She opened the door and went through the dimly lit hallway. Although the building had been refurbished with new paint and new carpet, the dimensions remained as confining as they had two hundred years ago. There was only room for one person at a time up the stairs.
It would not be, she reflected, a good place to get caught.
“Indigo,” Kate Cochran said.
“Yes.” Samantha slid the card through the next security checkpoint. She breathed a little easier when the lock opened.
“We’re secure.”
Samantha knew that meant Kate had control of Hirschvogel in New York. “Understood. But I still don’t like the idea of your involvement.”
“Duly noted,” Kate replied.
Kate’s permanently unruffled demeanor irritated Samantha slightly. Kate appeared always calm, cool and collected. But that was also why she was director of Room 59. That, and the fact that when it came to it, she didn’t hesitate to get her hands bloody. Even when the blood was that of their agents.
“If there’d been another way to crack this,” Kate went on, “I would have been all for it. There wasn’t. I was the best call.”
“I still don’t have to like it.”
“It’s your op. You know I’ll always help out in whatever capacity I can. And I told you I’d cover this leg of the mission.”
“Not till it was impossible to find anyone else to do it.”
“No one could have done this as easily as I did.”
“Ego much?” Samantha asked, and she was only halfway teasing.
“Confident,” Kate countered.
A SECURITY CAMERA mounted on the wall ahead tracked back to Samantha. “Support, did we know about the on-site video security?” she asked.
“We now own the on-site video security,” the woman replied. “Wave at the camera and I’ll get you some prints ready for Christmas cards. ’Tis the season for breaking and entering.”
Samantha smiled. “Brilliant,” she said sarcastically.
“I can do them up nice. Santa and his little elves standing in the background.”
“I’ll pass.” Samantha waved at the video camera. She slid the card through the next reader and entered the foyer on the fourth floor.
She walked quickly to the third office on the left. The card got her through that door, as well, and they entered a conference room.
“All right, people,” the young computer wizard said as he put the cases he carried on the big table. “Let’s get clandestine.” He cracked his knuckles theatrically.
As Samantha watched, the five techs quickly assembled a mission-control station made up of various computers, monitors and miniature satellite receivers. Tech support monitored the communications, but they were going live on the mission they were currently involved in. Once they had all the satellite links in place, Room 59 would be operational.
The designation Room 59 described the virtual command post that could be set up anywhere. Once it was live, it pulled in significant espionage satellite links that could be traced back by various international intelligence agencies. MI-6, the British watchdog of the international scene, would immediately begin sniffing them out. So would MI-5, their domestic equivalent.
Other international spy groups, if interested in what took place in Istanbul at the moment, would also try to find them if they were noticed. Every time Room 59 was alive and active, it could be a cat-and-mouse game. Not all of the international community was willing to let the personnel and invisible agents of the clandestine espionage group operate unchallenged.
“Have you asked your guest about the business taking place in the target area?” Samantha asked Kate.
“No. I’ve been waiting to get confirmation of a green light.”
Samantha silently agreed. There was no reason to make Hirschvogel aware that they knew about his operations. If their campaign didn’t pan out, they didn’t want to give away their source of information or interest.
“I’ll let you know the minute we’re green,” Samantha said. “How bad is the situation there?”
“We’re intact,” Kate said, “but there are three losses.”
Meaning that Jacob Marrs had killed the three security men. When it came to protecting Kate, Samantha knew Jake never hesitated.
“Will you need cleanup there?”
“Negative. Our guest is used to cleaning up after himself, and he’ll be properly motivated to do a good job of it.”
Okay, that was a point in their favor. Now if everything happened correctly in Istanbul, it was going to be a good evening’s work.
4
Istanbul
Ajza sat in the back seat of the cargo van and tried not to look nervous. She thought about the cargo they planned to pick up and how cruelly Turkish laws dealt with criminals regarding drugs. Considering the fact that she was more or less on her own—except for the exfiltration team she hadn’t talked to in weeks—she thought she was holding up pretty well.
As it had been for hundreds of years, the marketplace was a gathering place for merchants, local buyers and tourists. Only a few of the tourists walked through the aisles, along with those in search of early-morning bargains. Mostly the hawkers and buskers pursued the regular customers, people who’d come to market early to buy fresh vegetables for meals.
Ajza loved the Anatolian side of Istanbul. The city stood proudly, the only one in the world to straddle two continents. As a result, throughout history, armies and peacemakers of the East and the West met there to do battle and to reach trade agreements.
The Bosphorus Strait cut the city in two. The brown water flowed into the green Sea of Marmara in the harbor—not far from the prearranged meeting place. Fishermen already plied the waters, their sails brave and full against the azure sky. Motorboats filled the immediate vicinity with noise.
Bookshops and antique dealers butted up against coffeehouses and cinemas, the constant mix of the old and the new that shaped the city. At least this side of it.
When she’d had time on her own, which hadn’t been often, Ajza loved roaming through the bookstores. Spying in the field was lonely work. Reading helped pass the time and occupy the mind so it didn’t constantly dredge up everything that could go wrong.
Besides that, bookstores often held gems of information, lost books and maps that had histories and locations within whatever city she was posted. These had, on rare occasions, helped her keep her cover story intact and saved her life.
“Are you thinking about breakfast?” Nazmi asked.
She didn’t look at him. She’d already given him far too much encouragement. Getting close to someone, especially someone she might have to kill or who might try to kill her, was foolish. She’d already been down that road once and it hadn’t worked out well.
“No,” she answered.
“Then what?” Nazmi demanded. “You’re not worried, are you?”
“Should I be?”
“No.” Nazmi put a hand on the stock of the AK-47 assault rifle he carried. “We’re here for show. Just to keep the honest men honest.” He shrugged. “When you’re dealing with drugs, the people involved aren’t always trustworthy.”
Ajza knew that. Spies working for money or for political conviction proved much easier to work with than drug dealers. The drug dealers lived on paranoia and killed at the drop of a hat. The only reason spies and terrorists dealt with those people was because the commodity they sold translated more readily into influence across international borders than cash or gold. Drugs represented money in any currency.
“I know,” Ajza said. The feeling that something was off haunted her. “We’ve never made an early-morning pickup like this.”
Nazmi shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe these people came in during the night and haven’t been to bed yet.”
That, Ajza decided, seemed even worse. Paranoia and insomnia wasn’t a good combination.
“Here comes Mustafa.” Nazmi nodded at the leader of the group Ajza had infiltrated.
Mustafa was broad and powerful-looking. Early in his life, he’d been a stevedore, one of the young, strong backs that eked out a living shifting freight for the cargo ships. His mustache was fierce. His loose shirt hid the pistol he carried in his waistband. He also carried a briefcase that Ajza knew immediately was going to the drug dealers.
“Out of the van,” Mustafa ordered. He rapped the knuckles of one hand against the glass beside Ajza. “Stay ready.”
Watching the man, Ajza decided he was more ready for the coming encounter than in his previous calls to action. He walked briskly to the designated meeting area. Anyone watching him would think he didn’t have a care in the world.
Nazmi placed the assault rifle into a long duffel bag that he slung over one shoulder as he stood. Although the canvas material was heavy, Nazmi could get to his weapon in record time. Slits in the sides allowed him to reach inside and fire the rifle from within if he needed to.
Ajza shoved her pistol into the holster at the back of her waistband. Then she followed Nazmi and the other men out. All of them trailed Mustafa to a waiting delivery truck.
A group of men stood in front of the truck. They wore loose robes that concealed the weapons Ajza knew they carried. All of them looked hard and dangerous, covered in scars and made distrustful by the dangerous lives they led.
“Mustafa,” one of the men greeted. He was thin and pockmarked.
Ajza’s mental mug file identified the man before Mustafa gave voice to his name.
“Hasan, my good friend,” Mustafa replied.
The two men embraced, then walked together to take shade under the canopy of a jewelry merchant busy laying out his wares. The merchant seemed about to protest the use of his canopy. Then he looked at the men and decided to ignore them.
Ajza’s nerves stayed tight. The problem with meeting in the marketplace was that there were so many bystanders. She adjusted the sunglasses she wore and looked at the rooftops of the nearby buildings. Surely MI-6 had someone there.
But she saw no one.
“You had a safe journey?” Mustafa asked Hasan.
Ajza knew he wasn’t asking just to be polite or to make conversation. If authorities had taken an interest in Hasan, Mustafa wanted to know about it.
“Safe enough,” Hasan replied. “The trip was relatively uneventful.”
“Oh?” Mustafa raised his eyebrows. “Tell me more.”
Hasan shrugged and spat into the sand at their feet. “A thief in my house. Nothing more.” He grinned evilly. “He now sleeps at the bottom of the sea. I am a man of standards, you know.”
And a bloodthirsty one, Ajza remembered. MI-6 kept a thick file on Hasan but had never succeeded in getting close enough to him to take him out.
With snipers on the rooftops today, she thought, it could be done.
“You have the goods?” Mustafa asked.
Hasan spread his arms. “Of course. If you have the money.”
Mustafa gestured. Fikret and another man carried suitcases to Hasan. The drug dealer’s bodyguards stepped forward smoothly to intercept them.
Honor existed among thieves, Ajza thought, but precious little of it. The weight of the pistol at her back felt both comforting and threatening.
The bodyguards opened the suitcases a short distance away. Everyone knew the danger of satchel charges. If anyone died, it would be the bodyguards.
Both men looked relieved when the suitcases didn’t explode in their faces. They carried them back to Hasan to view the contents.
Ajza caught a brief glimpse of the stacks of money inside one of the suitcases. The cash came from the United States, Great Britain and France, perhaps other places, but she didn’t have time to see everything.
“You brought American money.” Hasan didn’t sound pleased.
“I had to,” Mustafa said. “It was all I had. I still do a lot of business with American buyers.”
“I don’t care for American money.” Hasan riffled through a few of the stacks of money. “It is far too easy to counterfeit. The Americans make their bills too much the same. No imagination.”
The merchant spotted the stacks of bills in Hasan’s callused hands. Aware that his life might be forfeit, he retreated to the back of his kiosk. He didn’t want anyone to think he was going to report what he’d seen. He busied himself making silver necklaces.
“None of that money is counterfeit,” Mustafa said. “I checked it myself.”
Hasan tossed the packets of American money back into the suitcase. The bodyguards closed the suitcases and stepped to one side.
“I choose to trust you, my friend,” Hasan said. “But in the future—”
“In the future,” Mustafa said, not to be browbeaten, “perhaps there might exist more time to prepare to take advantage of your good fortune.”
Hasan smiled. “It was good fortune. And now the good fortune is yours.”
“Only after you have taken your cut, my brother.”
“Merely the price of doing business.” Hasan waved Mustafa to the rear of the truck. “Come. I will show you what you have been so fortunate to purchase.”
Mustafa followed the other man to the rear of the truck. His bodyguards, including Ajza, trailed behind.
Hasan threw open the metal door to reveal wooden crates stacked inside. Ajza knew what the crates contained the instant she smelled the gun oil. This wasn’t a drug delivery, after all.
Panic rose in her. Drugs were one thing, but she couldn’t allow the munitions cargo in the back of the truck to get funneled to Mustafa’s buyers. She searched the rooftops again and saw nothing.
For a moment she thought she was going to be sick. Something had to be done.
5
London
“Okay,” the young man with the goatee said, “let’s bring Room 59 online and hook Indigo into the sat-links we’ve appropriated, people.”
As she paced around the room, Samantha watched the mini-satellite dishes power up and independently search for transmissions.
“Satellite Alpha has a lock,” one of the women said.
“Satellite Beta is streaming,” another man reported.
Diagnostics ran across the screens of the various laptops as everything came online. One of the women walked to the front of the room and pulled down a huge blank screen. Immediately different windows filled it. The designations for the computers occupied the lower-left quadrant of the individual monitors.
Samantha studied them, quickly memorizing the location and designation of the various computers. Even after years of being involved in cutting-edge technology designed for espionage, every time she took the command seat for Room 59, it still wowed her.
Kate Cochran served as the director of the clandestine agency, but whoever stood in Room 59 during an operation was captain of the ship. Kate kept everything moving, but Samantha knew she depended on the people she served with.
“Room 59 is live,” the man in the goatee said. His fingers were poised over the keyboard.
“Bring up Alpha and Beta,” Samantha said. “Side by side, please.”
Immediately, the two monitor views expanded and filled the screen. Beta showed Kate Cochran and Hirschvogel in the latter’s New York apartment.
“Orange,” Samantha said, referring to Kate by her designated call sign for the op, “I have a visual on your location.”
“Understood, Indigo.”
“Bring up Delta in the lower-right corner,” Samantha said.
Immediately the monitor screen with Kate and Hirschvogel shrank and became the same size as the new screen, which flipped through random images of Hirschvogel’s apartment building.
“I also have your back,” Samantha stated. One of the techs constantly kept an eye on the apartment building’s electronic security. If anything suspicious happened, the tech would alert her.
“Good,” Kate replied.
Samantha concentrated on the Alpha screen.
“Do any of the businesses in the area maintain closed-circuit security?” Samantha asked. Since 9/11, security cameras seemed to exist everywhere.
“Yes,” one of the women said.
“Can you access them?”
“I’m working on it. I think I can hack into a bank.” Her fingers clicked across the keyboard. “All right.” Satisfaction sounded in her voice. “I’m in. I’ve designated it as Epsilon.”
“Bring it up. Stack it on the right.” Samantha paced behind the operatives.
Another window opened up showing the back of the truck where the group under electronic surveillance milled about.
“Are we getting digital images?” Samantha asked.
“Every time I get a face,” another of the women said. “I’ve got fourteen so far.”
“Excellent job. Thank you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The young woman kept working, efficiently alternating between the mouse and the keyboard.
The computers instantly shot every scrap of information the team gathered to a secure holding area. Nothing remained on the machines operating Room 59.
Samantha continued studying the windows. Reading the body language of the men, the way they reacted to one another within the group, it became easy to tell who was with whom.
At that point Epsilon, which had a better straight-ahead view of the back of the truck, revealed the cargo.
“Freeze Epsilon,” Samantha ordered.
The image suspended.
“Can you magnify that?” Samantha walked to the pull-down screen and studied the image more closely. She could almost make out the image with her naked eye.
“Magnifying.”
“Can you clean up the image?”
“Somewhat.”
“Please do so.” Samantha remained conscious of the time passing, but if she was right about the item in the image, they’d made a significant—and unexpected—find. “Is Red Team in place?”
“Red is in place,” a strong male voice answered in her earpiece.
Samantha couldn’t immediately identify the agent. The possibility existed that she’d never worked with him. Room 59 was set up that way. Only Kate knew who all the players involved in an op were; she put the teams together.
“Good to have you, Red.”
“Affirmative. Good to be here. The troop size looks bigger than what we were told to expect.”
“Yes.”
“The backup plan is to destroy the contraband, not confiscate it. We are locked and loaded,” he said.
“Wait for my go, Red. We have an unexpected problem.”
“Affirmative. Red on standby. Can you identify the problem?”
“The cargo isn’t drugs,” Samantha answered. “It’s ordnance. Destruction of the contraband isn’t going to be possible at this point.”
The image on the wall screen smoothed out and clearly showed an M-4 assault rifle. That, Samantha knew, was an American-made weapon.
“Does someone want to tell me how the Yanks lost a truck full of weapons?” Samantha asked.
No one had an immediate answer.
6
Istanbul
Ajza stared at the M-4 assault rifle in Hasan’s hands. A shipment of drugs presented one problem. Customers only got harmed one at a time, and most of the time using the drug didn’t leave anyone dead.
Guns killed a lot of people at one time.
And the crates in the back of the truck promised to hold a lot of guns.
Mustafa smiled.
“You see?” Hasan asked. “My good fortune is now yours.”
Ajza knew that Mustafa had a buyer somewhere. If that was the case, he planned to get something back for his trouble. His group was already well equipped. They didn’t need the guns.
So who did?
“You are satisfied?” Hasan asked Mustafa. “That they are all here and in good shape?”
“I am. You would not betray me, Hasan.”
That was true, Ajza knew. If Hasan did, Mustafa would kill him. Mustafa would have no choice. As a broker and dealer in Istanbul, he couldn’t afford to let anyone get the better of him.
For the first time, Ajza regretted not having a wire or a radio on her person. Someone back at Home Office needed to know about this. The Americans needed to know about this.
Hasan jumped from the back of the truck and closed the door. “Then our business here is done, Mustafa. May your path prove fruitful.”
“And yours.”
Hasan and his group walked toward the harbor.
“Now,” Mustafa said as he turned to his men, “who can drive this truck?”
The men looked at one another. Most of them didn’t drive. They’d lived in the city all their lives and seldom went anywhere they couldn’t walk. Cars were too expensive, and the Turkish authorities kept track of vehicles.
“I can.” Radiating arrogance, Fikret strode to the truck, opened the door and pulled himself up into the cab.
Ajza watched helplessly, uncertain what to do. Mustafa wouldn’t let them know where the weapons were going. He maintained his secrets from the rest of the group. Once those weapons disappeared, she wouldn’t know where they were.
Fikret started the truck. The big engine rumbled and Fikret smiled broadly at the others. However, Ajza could tell that the revs were too high.
When Fikret let out the clutch too quickly, the truck lurched forward, snorted belligerently and died with a shudder. He tried twice more, and the results didn’t change.
“It’s this truck.” Fikret banged the steering wheel with a big fist. “It is an abominable beast. There is something wrong with it.”
Mustafa wasn’t happy. “There’s nothing wrong with the truck.”
“There is, I tell you.” For the moment in his embarrassment, Fikret had forgotten himself. But he recalled his station almost immediately. His face blanched. “Forgive me. I spoke in haste.”
Mustafa turned back to face the others. “Can anyone drive this truck?”
Heart beating too fast, Ajza stepped forward. “I can.” Her pulse throbbed in her neck and at her temple.
“You?” Mustafa studied her with hard eyes.
“Yes.” Ajza had been among them for almost three months. She’d gotten in as a thief, run afoul of one of Mustafa’s operations and sold her services to him. The chauvinistic culture of Turkey precluded women from holding many positions of importance in the community, but crime was an equal-opportunity employer. Mustafa recognized that women’s capabilities—in some areas—outdid men’s. That line of thinking had placed Ajza in the op in the first place.
A woman’s ability to drive a truck, however, obviously hadn’t occurred to him.
“I learned to drive my father’s truck,” Ajza said. That was almost the truth. Her father had taught her to drive, but that was in Leicester, not in one of the towns along the Syrian border as she’d claimed. “He had no sons. What he needed done when he could not, I did.”
Mustafa still stared at her.
“Perhaps letting her try would not be so bad,” Nazmi suggested. “Surely she can do no worse than Fikret. And we can’t leave the truck sitting here.”
Fikret cursed Nazmi from the truck cab. This only made the other men laugh.
Mustafa gestured toward the truck. “Go.”
Ajza climbed onto the running board and opened the door. Fikret didn’t relinquish the wheel. He glared at her and breathed his sour breath over her.
“Let her drive,” Mustafa commanded.
“Another time,” Fikret promised her in a quiet voice no one else heard, “you and I will even the score between us.”
A quiver of fear spasmed through Ajza’s stomach. There were few days in her job when she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t know what it was about herself that continued to draw her to the spy business. There had to be something wrong with her.
Whatever it was, though, had infected Ilyas, as well. She suspected it had something to do with their parents, how fiercely her mother and father loved their new country and the opportunities England provided for them.
She didn’t answer Fikret’s challenge, but she didn’t look away from him, either.
Cursing again, Fikret surrendered the steering wheel and slid over to the passenger side. He rolled down the window and spat in disgust.
Behind the wheel, Ajza took her pistol from her waistband and shoved it between her thigh and the seat. She started the engine, put the truck into a lower gear than Fikret had and let out the clutch. The truck lurched forward, but it kept moving.
The men, led by Nazmi, cheered. Ajza caught sight of the young man in the long side mirror and smiled a little at the celebration taking place behind her.
A moment later Nazmi ran up beside her and clung to the door while he stood on the running board. “Mustafa says you should follow the car.” He pointed at a dust-covered sedan so old and rusty that Ajza couldn’t identify the make.
“All right,” Ajza said.
“I will still buy you breakfast.”
Fikret cursed foully.
“We’ll see,” she said.
“But we must celebrate your great success. Even Fikret has to agree that your skills are important today. If not for you, the truck might sit there until Mustafa hired a driver.”
Ajza checked the rearview mirror. “Unless you plan on hanging on to the truck the whole way, you’d better get in one of the cars.”
Nazmi dropped away and went back to join the others. They all climbed back into the cars they’d arrived in.
Ajza followed the sedan, but her mind raced. Where was the backup team that was supposed to be shadowing her?
7
London
“Do you have an image of the woman?” Samantha asked as she watched the convoy take shape in Istanbul.
“Yes. I’m running it against the databases now.”
Samantha watched the truck roll through the narrow streets. The presence of the woman hadn’t startled her. There were others within the group, but very few of them. To survive in such an environment, women had to be harder and more calloused than the men.
But where had this one learned to drive big trucks?
The attention to detail, the way she subconsciously filed away pieces that didn’t fit, made Samantha Rhys-Jones invaluable to MI-6. She’d quickly gone from light fieldwork to intel gathering and processing. Those skills had drawn the attention of Room 59.
“Indigo,” the Red Team leader said, “do we intercept the convoy?”
“Yes. But only if it leaves town. If they stash the cargo inside the city limits, we’ll take care of it later. I don’t want any collateral damage on this one,” Samantha said.
“Understood.”
Samantha never wanted collateral damage. The deaths of bystanders weighed heavily on her. During her career, it sometimes happened—just as she’d sometimes lost agents she minded—but she worked hard to prevent that.
“Ma’am, I’ve identified the woman. She belongs to MI-6.”
That was unexpected.
Samantha walked over to the woman’s computer. She studied the face on the screen but didn’t recognize it.
According to the file, Ajza Manaev held a position as a field agent with considerable experience for someone so young. Evidently she performed well at what she did.
“Orange,” Samantha said.
“Yes,” Kate replied.
Samantha watched the convoy thread through the winding streets of the Kadikoy district. More people were up and starting to fill the sidewalks, streets and cafés. The potential for unplanned losses was increasing exponentially.
“We have a problem,” Samantha said.
8
New York
“Remove his gag,” Kate said.
Without a word, Jacob Marrs hooked a finger in the sock he’d used to silence Hirschvogel. The German sat tied to a chair near his desk. He spat when the gag was clear, then cursed Kate.
While Hirschvogel vented so colorfully, obviously given some courage about being held captive for nearly an hour but not killed outright, Jake casually reached out and backhanded him in the face. The blow silenced Hirschvogel immediately.
“That’s not how you talk to a lady,” Jake stated affably.
Shocked, Hirschvogel glared at Jake. “If I ever meet you again, you’re a dead man.”
Jake smiled and spoke softly. “Just one more reason to heave you over the balcony before I leave. I didn’t much care for you before you decided to make this personal. But promising to be a threat in the future?” He shook his head.
Visibly afraid, perhaps remembering that Jake had killed three of his bodyguards without breaking a sweat, Hirschvogel looked to Kate for support.
“Tell me about the weapons in Istanbul,” Kate said.
Hirschvogel licked his lips nervously. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “I know nothing.”
“If you don’t know anything about them,” Kate said conversationally, “you’re not worth anything to me.”
“Balcony’s looking better and better all the time,” Jake said.
“What do you want to know?” Hirschvogel asked.
“I know you regularly supply Hasan with drugs that he sells to Mustafa in Istanbul,” Kate said. Her primary objective had been to shut down the supply route and break the bank of the terrorists Hirschvogel supplied. The man held a position as a mover and shaker in the black market with drugs and weapons. “Normally you sell drugs to Hasan, which he transports to Istanbul and sells again.”
“Yes,” Hirschvogel admitted. “You realize that you can’t try me here in the United States for that? I’ve committed no crime here.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Kate told him. In fact, she knew it wasn’t true. Hirschvogel sold merchandise everywhere there was a market.
“Are you with the government?” Hirschvogel asked.
Jake slapped him again.
Hirschvogel cursed, but tears of pain coursed down his cheeks.
“Where did you get the weapons?” Kate asked.
“American military shipments in Turkey,” Hirschvogel said. “A recent resupply. I arranged for it to go missing.”
“Not without help.”
Hirschvogel shrugged. “I have some contacts within the army’s civilian support agencies. I knew when the shipment would arrive by truck. I had a team take the weapons.”
Kate hadn’t heard anything about that, but no one liked admitting he’d been made a fool of. The United States military had their own investigative bodies. She made a mental note to go through channels and contact the army’s criminal-investigative division regarding the stolen shipment.
“Why did you sell them to Hasan?” she asked.
“I’d heard Mustafa was looking for weapons. Particularly American weapons.”
“Why?”
Hirschvogel glanced at Jake and flinched as he answered. “I don’t know.”
Jake didn’t move.
“He believes you,” Kate said. “So do I. But I’m going to need to know who your contacts were in the military.”
Hirschvogel scowled. The side of his face still glowed red from the slaps. “Those contacts have proven very expensive.”
“And profitable,” Kate said.
“Perhaps we could negotiate.”
“All right.” Kate folded her arms. “Give me the names of the men who helped you arrange the theft, and I won’t let my friend throw you over the balcony.”
Defeated, Hirschvogel gave her the names.
When he was finished, Kate nodded at Jake.
He took a spray from his pocket and squirted it into Hirschvogel’s face. The German tried not to breathe, obviously afraid of being poisoned, but the spray worked on mere contact, as well. He fought the effects of the drug, then his head slumped forward.
“Personally I think it would be better if I dropped him over the balcony,” Jake said. “Guy like this, he’s gonna be a problem somewhere down the line.”
“No,” Kate said. “We’ll let him run and keep a leash on him. Taking out Hasan and Mustafa will help shut down his organization, but there’s still a lot of information we can discover.”
She looked around the apartment to make sure they hadn’t left anything behind. Both of them were too professional for that. But always checking was part of being professional.
“Indigo, are we clear?” Kate asked.
“Affirmative. We show you clear.”
Kate left the apartment and headed for the elevator.
“What’s being done with the young woman driving the truck?” Jake asked.
“For the moment,” Kate said, “we’re going to let her run.”
“One of Red Team’s snipers could take her out. Even on the fly. Don’t have to kill her.”
“She’s MI-6. We have to check and see if they’ve got a play in place.”
“I’m thinking grabbing everybody at the buy would have been a good strategy,” Jake said.
“That’s where I would have done it,” Kate agreed.
“MI-6 doesn’t always get it right,” Jake commented.
“Nobody does. That’s why they have us.”
Jake chuckled. “They have us when they want to take the gloves off and throw the rulebook out the window.”
Kate smiled.
“So what if everything’s snafued in Istanbul?” Jake asked.
“We improvise.”
9
Istanbul
Desperate, Ajza ran through her options. If she drove the truck where Mustafa wanted it, she’d know where it was for a while, but she didn’t doubt that the weapons would be quickly moved. Or she could depend on her support team suddenly materializing and getting her out of the current situation. But it didn’t seem like that was about to happen.
She was sweltering in the growing heat of the day and had to work hard to keep the truck headed straight. The steering had a lot of play, which necessitated constant attention.
She didn’t like the possibility of parking the weapons somewhere and losing them. The question of who was going to be using them and for what purpose never left her mind. Over the past few years she’d seen firsthand the kind of carnage left by al-Qaeda and other terrorists.
“I could have driven the truck,” Fikret complained from the passenger side.
Ajza looked around and got her bearings. She was only a few blocks from the harbor. A desperate plan formed in her mind.
“All I needed was another chance,” Fikret went on. He glared at Ajza. “There’s nothing you can do that I can’t.”
Traffic came to a halt. Ajza studied the cross street ahead. It was one of the major ones. She was certain the harbor area was nearly a straight shot down it. At least, as straight a shot as the streets of the old city allowed.
“You should not have volunteered,” Fikret said. “You only did so to make me look bad.”
Ajza couldn’t be quiet any longer. “If you could have driven the truck, you would not have looked bad. If you had not volunteered, you would not have looked bad. You brought this on yourself.”
“I could have driven the truck. I only needed a little more time to figure out how to do it better.”
Slowly traffic started forward again. The sedan she was following powered through the intersection.
Gripping the wheel, knowing her next action would put her life on the line, Ajza turned right and jammed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The truck responded immediately. She swung out wide around the corner and momentarily crossed bumpers with a panel truck waiting in the oncoming lane. Metal grated as she broke free and kept going.
“What are you doing?” Fikret demanded. He held on to the door. “You weren’t supposed to turn.”
Ajza straightened the wheels and sped down the street. The heavy traffic looked problematic. She shifted gears and gained speed. A taxi stopped in front of her to pick up a fare. Ajza pulled to the left and narrowly avoided it. The truck’s bumper scraped the side of a car, setting off a cascade of car horns.
“Stop!” Fikret roared. “Stop the truck now!” He reached for the steering wheel.
Ajza grabbed the pistol from under her thigh and clubbed the big man in the face with it. Blood spouted from his nose and he drew back, cursing in pain and anger.
“Get out,” Ajza commanded. She pointed the pistol at him.
“What?”
“Get out of the truck.” Ajza glanced in the side mirrors and saw that the rest of the convoy were hot on her heels. They closed the gap rapidly.
Fikret didn’t move. He had one massive hand clamped to his nose. He reached for his rifle with the other.
Ajza fired her pistol and missed the big man’s head by inches. The bullet slammed into a building at the side of the street.
“Get out!” she shouted over the ringing din of the pistol report. “Or I put the next one through your head.”
Fikret swung the door open and turned to leap out. Fear held him frozen.
Ajza turned in the seat, raised a leg and shoved her foot hard between Fikret’s shoulder blades. He grunted as his breath left his lungs. He lost his grip on the door frame and tumbled out.
In the next instant the open door collided with a parked truck. The window shattered and glass fragments peppered the inside of the truck. The impact slammed the door shut with a metallic screech.
Ajza’s heart pounded as she looked at the side mirror. The two vehicles tailing her pulled up alongside. Their occupants, men with whom she had eaten dinner the night before, brandished guns. A couple of them fired their weapons, and bullets ricocheted from the truck’s cab and tore through the body.
Wrenching the wheel, Ajza slammed into the lead car. The truck’s greater bulk shoved the car sideways. The car plowed through an outdoor café, narrowly missing the few patrons sitting there with coffee and breakfast. The car crashed into the corner of the next building.
Ajza hoped that Nazmi wasn’t in the car. She liked him. She focused on her driving and spotted a police vehicle at the light ahead of her. Two police officers occupied the vehicle, but neither of them noticed the wreck Ajza left in her wake.
She tapped the brake and pulled to the left again. But she allowed her front bumper to scrape across the police vehicle’s back bumper. Although she’d tried to keep the collision to a minimum, the force spun the police car halfway around.
“All right,” Ajza said, glancing in the side mirror as she passed the police car, “come get me.”
The police car’s lights came on and the siren screamed to life. Two cars bearing Mustafa’s men roared past it.
Traffic became more difficult the closer she got to the harbor area. She braked and downshifted almost constantly to avoid smashing into vehicles. The truck’s transmission groaned as she kept up the pace. Bullets smacked into the truck’s rear.
Ajza’s gut twisted as she thought about the explosion waiting to erupt if anything especially potent in the crates got hit. She took evasive action, swinging wildly across the street to block the cars zooming up behind her.
She tried to push one of them into a nearby building, but the driver pulled back and she only rammed into the building herself. Something fell in the truck’s cargo area. Ajza waited for the detonation. Nothing happened.
Lying on the horn as she powered into the last intersection, she headed for the pier. She didn’t know where she was, but the broad expanse of gray-green water in front of her told her she’d reached the harbor. Ships and boats sat at anchorage.
The large cranes and forklifts marked the area as one of the commercial districts. Men dodged out of the way as she barreled through. Another blistering hail of bullets raked the back of the truck. The side mirror on her door suddenly shattered and flew away. The metal housing came loose and battered the door.
The truck roared across the pier. Ajza continued to lean on the horn. One man abandoned a forklift and left it in her path. She swerved and tried not to hit it full on.
The impact strained Ajza’s seat belt. The stiff material bit into the flesh of her hips and upper body. Crates in the back rushed forward and smashed against the cab.
Ajza screamed a curse. The forklift slid away in pieces and she continued down the pier. The right front tire pulled at the steering. The wobble told her that the collision had deflated the tire or ripped it to shreds. Her arms ached with the effort of holding the truck on course.
She aimed for the end of the pier and never lifted her foot from the accelerator. The image in the rearview mirror of Mustafa and the others bearing down on her guaranteed the lack of choice.
Ajza unfastened the seat belt and kept her foot on the accelerator. She prayed that God still watched over fools as the sounds of gunfire and police sirens filled her ears.
10
London
“She did not just do that,” tech support said in Samantha’s ear.
Samantha couldn’t believe the woman survived the collision with all the munitions in the back of the truck.
“That is one gutsy bird,” the head computer programmer said as he stared at the screen with a big grin. “I think I’m in love.”
They all stared at the screen as the truck and Ajza disappeared into the ocean.
“My God,” Samantha breathed.
“What?” Kate asked.
Knowing Kate lacked visual access while she left the apartment in New York, Samantha ignored the request for information for the moment.
“Later,” she said. “Red Team?”
“We’re here, Indigo.”
“Are you mobile?”
“Since the convoy started up.”
That was good, Samantha told herself. She looked at the lead computer operator. He nodded and tapped on a keyboard.
Almost immediately the satellite view split on the wall screen. One side stayed with the white-capped wake that remained from the truck’s plunge into the sea. The other shifted to a street scene. A yellow spotlight circled an SUV.
“Hold your position,” Samantha said.
“Did she make it?” the Red Team Leader asked.
“So far. Are you prepared for an exfiltration?”
“Affirmative. Red Team is ready to rock and roll. Especially for that hard-driving lady.”
Yanks, Samantha thought. All of them had showoff tendencies.
“If she survived, I’d like to try to get her home in one piece,” she said.
On the wall screen, she saw Mustafa’s men bring their vehicles to a halt. The police car slid in behind them, then realized their mistake when Mustafa’s gunners opened fire on them. The driver of the police car reversed and hastily backed away.
“The harbor roads stretch in two directions,” Samantha told the Red Team leader. “Once I see which direction she’s going to choose, I’ll let you know. We’ll coordinate the rendezvous from here.” Out of habit, she checked the time. Their window of opportunity was closing quickly.
“We can get out fast,” the lead computer tech said.
Samantha nodded and quickly brought Kate up to speed. “I’ve asked Red Team to try to pull her out of there.”
“I heard,” Kate replied. “I would have done the same thing.”
Samantha felt a little better about that. Room 59’s policies emphasized maintaining a low profile. At this point they hadn’t been exposed, but her decision would press that possibility.
But letting the brave young woman die needlessly put her off.
Come on, she thought, staring at the water as Mustafa’s men spread out along the pier and searched.
“How deep is the harbor?” Samantha asked.
“At this time of year in that location, twenty-seven feet,” tech support said.
More than enough depth to sink a truck, Samantha decided. She admired the young agent’s strategy. The chance of recovering some of the weapons intact remained, but not without getting caught by the local police.
The water remained relatively smooth. No one surfaced.
Come on, Samantha urged.
“I have her,” one of the female computer techs announced.
“Where?” Samantha shifted her gaze to the screen.
“That’s my girl,” the male computer operator said enthusiastically. “I really gotta give her props. You don’t meet many like her.”
“Don’t wee all over yourself in your excitement,” the other female said sarcastically.
“She’s here,” the first woman said.
On the screen, Samantha spotted Ajza Manaev hauling herself from the water. Unfortunately Mustafa’s men did, too. Ajza threw herself to the ground as bullets chopped into the ground only a few feet from her. Immediately Mustafa’s men took up pursuit, some of them on foot and others taking time to get back into the cars.
“Red leader,” Samantha said.
“Here,” the man replied.
“I’ve found her. So has the competition.”
“That’ll just make it more interesting.”
Samantha smiled slightly. She knew British soldiers who spoke just as cheekily, as if they were invincible. But there was something about that Yank accent that just sounded so certain.
“We’ll bring you to her,” he said.
Istanbul
BENT OVER and staying low to the ground, her fingertips grazing the hot pavement, Ajza ran. Bullets cut the air overhead and smashed into a vendor’s cart next to her. Spicy beef kebabs flew into the air and splattered to the ground. The young vendor screamed and ran for cover.
Ajza glanced over her shoulder. Mustafa’s gunmen—all of whom she knew by name—seemed split between chasing her on foot and climbing into cars. In her present shape, hurting and winded, eluding even the ones on foot might prove impossible.
She dashed through an opening in a chain-link fence and ran across the hot tarmac. She stayed behind vehicles and heavy equipment.
“Get down! Get down!” she ordered the dockworkers. When they didn’t move fast enough, she hauled her pistol from her waistband and waved it around. She waited to fire, not knowing if the water had completely cleared the barrel.
The dockworkers moved quickly, but they ran for their lives when bullets ripped through the chain-link fence and ricocheted off the cars and heavy equipment.
Only a short distance ahead of her, a young man straddled a motorcycle. Ajza ran toward him, rammed him in the back with an elbow and knocked him off the bike. She caught the motorcycle before it fell over—she didn’t know if she had the strength to right it if it went down. She shoved her pistol back into the waistband holster.
Hurrying, trying to remain calm, she threw a leg over the motorcycle, slammed the gearshift into low, twisted the throttle and let out the clutch. The rear tire grabbed traction at once and she shot forward. Bullets chased her, peppering vehicles and the road.
One of Mustafa’s cars braked ahead of her. Men spilled from the car and drew their weapons, taking aim at once.
Out of options, Ajza steered across the road, double-clutched and downshifted, then powered the motorcycle’s front tire into the air. She hit the road’s edge and went airborne.
Panic churned through her as she felt the heavy motorcycle fighting the jump. The ground came up faster than she anticipated. When she landed, she struggled for control and barely managed to keep the motorcycle upright as the rear tire churned through the loose earth. She threw her body violently to the side and managed to stay on.
Her knee, dropped far outside to aid in balance, struck the ground, the material of her pants ripping. The exposed flesh burned hotly. She didn’t know how badly she was hurt because the impact, after an initial burst of pain, made her knee go numb.
The drop hid her from the view of the gunners. For a moment she thought she’d lost them. Then she heard the racing engine paralleling her route and knew they hadn’t given up.
The soft ground of the slope Ajza drove over proved treacherous as loose soil tore free under the motorcycle’s tires. She nearly lost control twice and knew that the bike was too heavy for the off-road conditions. Desperate, she angled upward, hoping to somehow get by her pursuers.
A low-slung sedan roared out of nowhere and slammed into the car pursuing her. The collision forced the car off the road and it briefly sailed through the air over the embankment. A moment later the car landed in the trees and rolled. A man’s broken body tumbled from one of the windows.
Ajza hoped it wasn’t Nazmi just before thoughts of survival consumed her again. She steered up the embankment, standing on the pegs as the motorcycle bucked and heaved beneath her.
The car that had smashed Mustafa’s pursuit vehicle jerked into motion just as she passed it. Armed men sat inside, but none of them seemed interested in her.
A third party? Ajza couldn’t imagine anyone who would want to take part in the confrontation going on. Everything that existed to fight over was lying at the bottom of the harbor.
It might have been the MI-6 backup team she’d waited on.
They hadn’t identified themselves, though, and she couldn’t take that chance. She accelerated and raced through the motorcycle’s gears again. No one stayed with her this time. But she still didn’t feel safe.
11
London
“Okay,” Samantha said as she watched the motorcycle race back into the heart of the city, “she’s away.”
“Pretty resourceful,” Kate commented.
“I’d have to agree. We weren’t set up to deal with a cache of weapons.”
“And if you’d known for sure they were there?”
Samantha didn’t hesitate. “The only option we’d have had was the same one Ajza exercised.”
“I agree. If we’d thought of it as quickly. I have to admit, she was ahead of me. As you said, we weren’t set up to handle weapons.”
“Intel assured us that Mustafa doesn’t deal in weapons. We were there to target a drug shipment and take it out to disrupt the finances we’d uncovered.”
“I want to track down both ends of this operation,” Kate said. “Those were American weapons. They were a special order. I’ll handle things from this end. Maybe you could have someone take a look at Mustafa’s business and find out where those weapons were going. He’s not an end-user for something like that.”
“Agreed. Nor is he set up to piece a shipment like that off. He was acting as a middleman for a buyer.”
“I want to find out who that buyer is,” Kate said.
Samantha watched the car Red Team had used to run blocker for Ajza Manaev. The driver fought with the steering but finally got the vehicle back on solid ground. He drove away, but from the looks of the smoke billowing out from under the hood, the car wasn’t destined to go far.
“We have Red Team in the field,” Samantha said.
“How exposed are they?” Kate asked.
Samantha considered. “Provided they can get cleanly out of this, they should be fine.”
“Are there any undercover operatives among them?”
“No one we can put on the ground here.”
“What about local assets?” Kate asked. “Can we exploit those?”
“Yes. But we’re going to take a chance on burning them.”
“With Mustafa.”
“Yes.”
“When we’re finished here, let’s take Mustafa off the board,” Kate said.
Samantha was surprised by the decision. Kate Cochran didn’t casually order someone’s execution. Yet that was exactly what the Room 59 director had just done. “All right,” she said. She knew it was the right decision.
“Mustafa is too good at what he does,” Kate went on. “I don’t want to risk him expanding his business. His departure should trigger a power struggle that one of the intelligence agencies can take advantage of.”
“I think so, too. I know my agency will be interested in keeping an eye on things there.” Samantha consulted the wall screen again.
Turkish military vehicles had arrived on the scene. Fishermen, cargo handlers and tourists were all being pushed back from the area where the truck had gone into the water. Another group converged on the wrecked car Red Team had taken out.
“Are you ready to wrap this?” Kate asked.
“Yes.”
“Get a report to me immediately. Let’s work through debrief quickly and establish the next leg of this project.”
“Will do.” Samantha cut Kate out of the communication loop. Then she contacted Red Team and ordered them to pull back, too. “Where’s Manaev?”
“She headed back into the city,” the lead computer-tech support answered. “We lost her in the crowd.”
Smart girl, Samantha thought. “Support?”
“Yes.”
“Get me a full background and a deep jacket on Ajza Manaev. I want it at my workstation in an hour.”
“I’ll have it there.”
Samantha turned to the computer crew on-site. “Box it up.”
Quickly and efficiently, the computer crew stowed their gear back in the protective cases. In minutes it was like they’d never been there.
“Do you think she’ll get out of Istanbul all right?” the lead computer specialist asked when they reached the sidewalk outside.
Samantha looked at the man and smiled a little. “Smitten?”
He shrugged. “She’s pretty brill. Gotta give her that. I thought that bloody lot had her a couple of times.”
“But they didn’t.”
The man frowned. “I’ve worked ops where things didn’t turn out so well.”
Samantha had, too. “As talented as she is, she’ll have a bolt-hole.”
“Even if her mates didn’t show up to cover her back?”
“When you’re out in the field,” Samantha replied, “you always keep two escape plans. One that your handlers know about and another that no one knows about.”
The man nodded. “Hope so. Well, then, we’re off.” He grinned. “Thanks again for another exciting time.”
“You, too,” Samantha said. She turned and walked into the shadows. Stifling a yawn, she reflected on the fact that she wasn’t going to get any sleep.
By the time she put the car in gear and pulled out onto the street, she was already organizing her report to Kate Cochran in her head.
12
Istanbul
Mustafa stared at the bloody man sitting in the straight-backed chair in the center of the shipping container on the dock. A single battery-operated light hung over the man’s head, but the angle left the man’s face in shadows. His rasping breath filled the close confines of the container.
“Someone leaked information about the transaction I had a few days ago,” Mustafa said.
“It wasn’t me,” the wounded man gasped. “Please, please, it wasn’t me.”
“Only a handful of people knew what we were doing that morning. You were one of those, Hamid.”
“I only did as you ordered.”
“You handled the money,” Mustafa said. “You knew who I was dealing with and when I was going to do the deal.”
The man cried. His shoulders jerked as the hoarse sobs tore from his dry throat. Bloody drool dripped onto his shirt. Two broken teeth caught the light and gleamed on his chest.
“I would not betray you,” the man insisted.
“You would do anything for money. Even sell your own mother.” Mustafa knew that because he was no different.
“Please. I beg you. I did not betray you.”
Mustafa sighed. He knew that discovering how the transaction was sabotaged was a long shot, but he’d felt compelled to try it. The immediate avenue to explore was the financial one. He was confident Hasan wouldn’t have betrayed him.
“I have lost the weapons and my money,” Mustafa said. It wasn’t all his money, of course. His buyer had put up half the amount, but if things went badly and the man didn’t understand the circumstances, Mustafa would have to pay that back, as well.
“I did not cause that to happen.”
“Sadly, my friend, I believe you.”
The man raised his head tentatively. Hope dawned in his swollen eyes. He made an immense effort to smile, but the result looked forced and false.
“We are friends, Mustafa. I have told you this many times. What is good for you is good for me.” The man’s mouth and jaw barely worked after the beating, but he tried to fill his words with sincerity.
“I know. We have had a satisfactory arrangement. You’re very skilled. I hate the thought of losing you.”
“But you don’t have to lose me. I will still work for you.” Fear drowned the hope in the man’s gaze.
“I believe you,” Mustafa said. “For a while, perhaps. But you’ve been badly beaten, Hamid. Soon, too soon, you will desire your pound of flesh for all that I have put you through. It is only human. Were I in your shoes, I would do the same.”
The man shook his head desperately. “That’s not true. I understand why you did this to me.”
“One day you will not feel so understanding.” Mustafa took a breath and gestured to one of the men standing beside him. The man handed him a slim black pistol. “Also, until I find the person truly responsible for my loss, I have to let others know that I am no fool. And that I will not suffer betrayal easily.”
“Please, Mustafa. I beg you. Don’t do this.” The man wept openly now. His voice shrilled.
“I must. Someone must be punished. Even if it’s not the right person. I have to kill someone.” Mustafa pointed the silenced pistol at the man’s head. “But I will miss you. I also promise you that I will kill whoever is responsible for your death.”
Hamid tried to jerk in the chair, but it was bolted to the floor and the rope bound him too tightly.
Mustafa shot the prisoner in the face. The round didn’t kill Hamid immediately, and Mustafa had to shoot the man twice more to get the job done.
“Clean this up,” Mustafa said to the men as he handed the pistol back. “Leave his body where it can be found.”
MUSTAFA PUNCHED numbers on his cell phone while he sat in the luxury of his private car. Two bodyguards sat with him and the driver. Bulletproof glass made the night outside the windows seem darker. Despite the additional weight of the armor, the sedan rode low and smooth and moved powerfully.
The connection rang twice.
“Yes,” a deep voice with a Russian accent answered.
“I have found our leak,” Mustafa announced. Later, when he found the true leak, he could simply claim that person had acted in collusion with Hamid.
“That’s good, but it’s too late to save my shipment. This is a big disappointment to me.”
Mustafa held back a curse. He couldn’t blame the other man for feeling as he did, but he still didn’t want to carry the blame.
“I’m hoping to replace your shipment very soon,” Mustafa said. “As a matter of fact, I have leads now that should—”
“No.”
Mustafa controlled his anger, fear and frustration. He wasn’t used to being told no. “I don’t understand.”
“Your services are no longer required.”
That wasn’t what Mustafa wanted to hear. He wasn’t a domestic servant who could be casually dismissed. He silently cursed his bad luck and promised a horrible death to whoever had betrayed him.
“Don’t be hasty. You’re not going to find anyone else who can deliver the goods you need.”
“It’s already been arranged.”
Mustafa tried to think of something to say.
“I want the money that I gave you in advance,” the man said.
“I have already given the money to my contact,” Mustafa said.
“Then get it back from him.”
“He blames me for the loss of the goods.”
“As do I.”
Mustafa hardened his voice. “We all risked in this venture. The loss should be shared.”
“The loss should never have happened. Because I know that you have suffered a hardship, I will give you ten days to get my money back to me.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I hope, for your sake, that getting the money back to me isn’t impossible.”
“I can’t do it in ten days.” Mustafa’s first recourse in any money matter was to buy more time. After a little more time, he was certain he could renegotiate the deal—or at least pass his losses on to others. His driver suddenly swerved to the right. The bodyguard seated beside Mustafa pulled his sidearm. On the left side of the car, a truck sped forward and slammed into them. Mustafa’s driver cursed as the car wobbled, then cursed again as the truck in front of them suddenly stopped. The sedan driver applied his brakes, but it was no use. The sedan slammed into the back of the truck.
“Get us out of here!” Mustafa bellowed. “That was no accident.”
His driver tried to get away, but there was no room to maneuver.
Three men bailed out of the truck. They carried stubby submachine guns and moved professionally.
“Now!” Mustafa shouted.
The bodyguard beside him raised his pistol.
“Do not shoot,” Mustafa ordered. “That’s bulletproof glass. The ricochet will hit us.”
The man held the pistol ready all the same.
Frantic, Mustafa’s driver shoved the car into reverse. The car bucked and moved back a foot or so.
Headlights suddenly flared in the back window as another vehicle roared up from behind. Mustafa stared helplessly and held on to his cell phone. He disconnected from the Russian and punched in another number as the third vehicle smashed into his sedan and drove it into the stopped truck.
Mustafa’s head jerked painfully. He told himself that everything would be all right. The car was armor-plated and protected enough to save him until help arrived.
The driver struggled with the wheel and shifted gears. He was trapped, unable to go forward or backward. Rubber shrilled on the street.
The bodyguard on the passenger side tried to open his door, but it moved outward only a few inches before being blocked by the wall. He barely got his hand and pistol out.
“Shut the door,” Mustafa said. “We’ll be safe in here. This car was designed to withstand a tank round.” He didn’t know if that was true, but the man who sold him the car had claimed that. It felt good to remind himself of that now.
The three men outside stopped. Two men flanked the third as he removed a high-powered, battery-operated drill from a canvas bag he carried. Without a word, he placed the drill bit against the bulletproof glass, pulled up the safety goggles hanging around his neck and initiated the drill.
The bit chewed smoothly through the glass. Setting the drill back into the bag, the man took out a canister attached to a rubber hose. He threaded the rubber hose through the hole created by the drill. In the next instant, liquid propelled by compressed air filled the sedan’s interior.
The sweet, unmistakable aroma of gasoline filled Mustafa’s nostrils. On the other side of the bulletproof glass, the man flipped open a lighter and ignited the flame. The yellow and blue fire danced.
“Wait!” Mustafa shouted, pressing his face against the window. “We need to talk!”
“Speak English,” the man said in that tongue.
Mustafa’s hopes rose. If the men were willing to talk, there was room for negotiation. At least it would allow his other security team to arrive.
“Can’t we make a deal?” he pleaded.
The man waited a moment, as if processing the offer. “I want your phone.”
Mustafa hesitated. The lighter flame danced but didn’t waver. The smell of gasoline grew stronger.
“All right,” he agreed. The phone contained a lot of information that might prove damaging to him, but he had no doubt the man would kill him if he didn’t hand it over.
Mustafa lowered the window a little over an inch. He didn’t want the man to just shoot him out of hand. He slid the cell phone through the space.
The man plucked the phone from his fingertips and shoved it into a pocket.
“That’s what you wanted, right?” Mustafa said. “The phone?”
“No,” the man said. The headlights of the truck behind the sedan revealed the man’s features. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed with a chiseled jaw.
Realizing what the man intended to do, Mustafa grabbed the pistol from his bodyguard’s hand and tried to shove the barrel through the space.
Without flinching from Mustafa’s pistol, the man touched the flame to the hole in the bulletproof window. The gasoline vapor and liquid caught fire at once.
Horrified, Mustafa watched as the flames spread over his arm, then crawled along the seat and covered his body. The liquid whoosh of the accelerant’s ignition filled his ears. Then he felt the painful charring of his flesh.
Abandoning his efforts to shoot the man, Mustafa gripped the lock release and tried to open the door. The man outside the car leaned against the door and jammed it.
“No!” Mustafa howled. He drew in his breath, sucking in the gasoline vapor, and the flames crawled inside him. Death claimed him almost at once.
13
Kate looked at the glowing icon on her notebook computer screen and pressed it.
Immediately a videophone link opened up and revealed Samantha on the other end of the connection. The call was heavily encrypted.
“I got the notice that you wanted to speak to me.” Curiosity showed in Samantha’s dark gaze.
Kate leaned back in her chair. “We’ve had some developments.”
“I heard Mustafa was killed by a rival. Burned in his car,” Samantha said.
Kate didn’t like thinking about that. The man’s death had been horrible, but she wasn’t going to second-guess an agent’s work in the field. Especially not when it concerned a murderer like Mustafa.
“More than that,” Kate said. “Have you heard of a man named Mayrbek Taburova?”
“No. Should I have?”
“MI-6 seems to have been poking around in his business over the last few years.” Kate tapped the keyboard. “I’m sending you some files. Overview for the moment. But I’ll be sending more-developed records to you later.”
“I assume I’m going to get to know a lot more about Taburova,” Samantha said.
“We all are.” Kate entered the last necessary keystroke and sent the document package she’d pieced together.
Instantly the open frame containing Samantha’s face pushed over to the side of the large plasma monitor. An image of a man with a square jaw took shape. His blue eyes showed cruelty, but his full lips promised passion. He wore his dark hair swept backward, and it curled slightly over his ears and at the back of his neck. Dressed in a dark blue turtleneck and a gray shooting jacket, he carried a shotgun over his shoulder and stood in an open field.
“Intriguing,” Samantha said. “Looks like a poster boy of some kind.”
“He is,” Kate agreed. “According to the intel I’ve received, Taburova is one of the current leaders of the Chechen rebels. He’s lost an eye since this picture was taken.”
“I thought we’d agreed to stay out of that nasty bit of business for the time being.”
“We had. Fighting a civilian war in the Russian Caucasus Mountains would be impossible. Russian military forces haven’t had much luck with that.”
“So why are we interested in Taburova?”
“Because Mustafa bought those weapons for Taburova,” Kate said.
“American weapons?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make much sense.”
“I thought we’d take a longer look at him and his involvement in this.”
Samantha frowned. “That seems like something we—or another intelligence agency—should have known.”
“Someone may have. Taburova was one of the founding members of the Islamic International Peacekeeping Brigade.”
“You say peacekeepers. I say terrorists.”
Kate nodded. “Some of the intel I have states that Taburova was with one of the leaders when he was ambushed and killed.”
“I suppose he carries a grudge,” Samantha said.
“Since the ambush, Taburova has stayed out of sight, but sources believe Taburova has moved higher in the hierarchy of separatists,” Kate said. “We’ve tied Taburova to Mustafa and the weapons. I know that Mustafa got the payment from straw banks in Russia.” Kate tapped the keyboard, flashing image after image to Samantha.
Several images passed by. They were taken by Russian agents and military sources, and all of them showed Taburova in action. The man obviously had a charmed life. A number of times he’d been in the thick of battle with men lying dead all around him. Those images, Kate knew, were the kind that created legends and heroes.
“What was Taburova going to do with the weapons?” Samantha asked. “Why not give information anonymously to the Russians and let them handle it?”
“Taburova managed to move millions of dollars through Russian banks without their security service knowing about it. I’d like to know what else they’re unaware of,” Kate said.
Samantha remained quiet for a moment. “It goes against agency protocol to discuss information with anyone not directly involved in mission parameters.”
“Yes,” Kate said.
“I think we can both agree that I’m not qualified to send in-field into Moscow,” Samantha said.
“This would be into the Caucasus Mountains ultimately.”
“Even more reason not to go. So, you have me curious. What do you have in that devious mind?”
“I want a better look at Taburova, and I want to take a better look at Ajza Manaev.”
“Manaev? Why?”
“For possible recruitment,” Kate said.
Samantha arched an eyebrow. “I can see the attraction. She thinks quickly on her feet, doesn’t get easily put off her game, and she keeps her eyes on the mission.”
“That bit of work sabotaging the weapons without backup impressed me,” Kate admitted.
“It impressed me, too. I’ve already had her files pulled.”
“Great minds think alike.”
Samantha smiled a little. “I also happen to think that her reaction was risky and far too violent. She was like a bull in a china shop.”
“She got the job done.”
“And wreaked havoc with the civilians.”
“Have you had time to review her file?” Kate asked.
“Not thoroughly. Too many other things have interfered, I’m afraid.”
“Manaev had a brother who was also an intelligence agent.” Kate brought up the young man’s picture.
Ilyas Manaev had dirty-blond hair and blue eyes. Dark stubble on his lower jaw. His mouth looked too wide for his face, and his features were too regular to make him stand out in a crowd. He was almost instantly forgettable. It was a good trait for a field operative.
“Had?” Samantha repeated.
“Ilyas is dead. He died in Moscow while on a mission.”
“Who did he belong to?” Samantha asked.
“MI-6. The same as his sister.”
“Family business?”
“No. From what I gather, their parents have no idea about the careers their children chose.”
“You don’t exactly come home from college and tell your parents you’ve become a spy. At least, I didn’t,” Samantha said.
“No.” Kate returned Samantha’s smile. “There’s something in the rules about that.” She paused. “The interesting thing is that Ilyas was killed in Moscow a couple of years ago.”
“What was he doing there?”
“Spying on the Chechen rebels for MI-6.”
Samantha took a measured breath and let it out. “Does Ajza Manaev know this?”
“I find it hard to believe that she wouldn’t know,” Kate said.
“Who killed her brother?”
Kate shook her head. “I don’t have an answer for that one.”
“It was either the Russians or the rebels.”
“Or someone who was suspicious or jealous of him. Personal lives develop while out in the field, as well,” Kate said.
Samantha paused for a long moment. “I don’t think you should even entertain the notion of sending Ajza into this.”
“I thought you’d feel that way, but she’s a good bet, Samantha. Her parents were from Chechnya.”
“Only just. They moved to Britain when they were in their early twenties.”
Kate didn’t miss the fact that Samantha used Ajza’s first name. Evidently she’d already developed something of a fondness for the young agent.
“According to the background I’m looking at,” Kate said, “Ajza Manaev speaks the language. So did her brother. They know the old ways of the culture.”
“Probably one of the reasons MI-6 shoved Ilyas over into Russia.”
“Yes.”
“If someone made her brother while he was on assignment there,” Samantha said, “they could just as easily make Ajza.”
“I hope they don’t. And we’ve got an agent in place who should be able to help out. If he’s needed. He’s spent time in Chechnya as a soldier. He knows the terrain and the people.”
“Ajza’s young.”
“All the best operatives are. You know that. An experienced agent is usually one who’s also known to the opposition.”
“I know.”
That was one of the hard-core truths about espionage. Only the young ones remained truly invisible out on the playing field. Their greatest vulnerability, their inexperience, was also their greatest asset. Unfortunately when the assets no longer helped, that lack of experience got agents killed.
Samantha returned Kate’s level gaze with her own. “You want me to bring her in.”
“Let’s keep an eye on her for a few days,” Kate said. “Give her a few days of downtime while I try to find some leverage we can use. Then if the situation warrants, we’ll bring her in and see what she has to say.”
Samantha nodded. “Let me know when you want me to make contact.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Kate touched the screen and broke the connection.
Turning her attention to her files, Kate ran through the operations Room 59 was currently working on and the ones in development. They were stretched thin.
But we’re making a difference, she told herself, and clung to that. She struggled not to think of the young woman and how she’d lost her brother, or the fact that—if everything went as planned—she’d soon be asking her to step into harm’s way.
She opened Mayrbek Taburova’s file again and stared at the picture of the man. A cold shiver ran up Kate’s spine as she studied the blue eyes. They belonged to a predator. She had no doubt about that.
14
Grozny
When the explosion sounded, Mayrbek Taburova threw himself against the apartment-building wall and reached into his jacket for his pistol. Hunkered against the building, he drew strength from the solid stone. It had stood against such explosions in the past, and there was no reason to believe it would do otherwise in this instance.
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Cliff Ryder
Espionage takes to the twenty-first-century playing fields, where rules are broken–and remade–outside the reach of governments and the law. Agents recruited for the clandestine organization known as Room 59 play hard, play for keeps…or die trying. But now new Room 59 agent Ajza Manaev, a top MI-6 operative, discovers just how high the stakes really are when she goes undercover inside Chechnya's terrorist training camps, where bitter young widows harness their hate as suicide bombers. Ajza doesn't know she's being manipulated by many sides of a deadly game. Her mysterious Room 59 handler has his own agenda, while the secret, silent mastermind behind a global destabilization plot hopes to push Ajza's loyalties to the breaking point. And in a game where the ground is always shifting, Ajza is inducted by hellfire into Room 59's harsh reality: she's on her own.
Ajza knew about the shahidka
They’d been given the name because their husbands had been killed fighting the Russian army. Some said that the shahidka were cursed, born into trouble and bad luck, and death to any man who took their hand in marriage.
Of course, there was no way anyone could tell if a woman was shahidka. There was no test, and they weren’t marked by God until after they’d lost their husbands.
Women in Chechnya married young, sometimes as early as thirteen or fourteen. The men they married weren’t much older, and they became soldiers the instant someone thrust a rifle into their hands.
Unable to afford mercy to the young troops, the Russian military often killed them. Those deaths doomed the women as well. In their culture, a woman belonged to a man. When a woman’s husband died, she became the property of her husband’s family. She could be separated from her children, have her house taken and be left out on the street—or sold to another.
Or she could end up a Black Widow.
Black Widow
Cliff Ryder
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.
Black Widow
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Moscow
“I don’t want you to die because of me,” he pleaded.
Maaret looked at her husband through tears as they stood in the cold wind that whipped through Patriarshiye Ponds. His plea touched her heart and she saw the pain in his blue eyes. He was so young, so full of life and joy despite the darkness and fear that stained his soul. She didn’t know how she had missed seeing those other things. But she’d been so much in love with him that she had only seen the good.
The thing that hurt the most was how much she still loved him.
He wasn’t Russian except by blood, but he should have been. In addition to the light eyes, he had soft blond hair that always managed to look unkempt. More than the looks, though, guilt and despair filled him. Those things made him truly Russian.
As she looked at him, her cheeks numb in the freezing temperature, Maaret wondered if his soul had been as tortured before he had come to her country, lied to her and fathered their child.
Unconsciously Maaret ran a hand over her swollen stomach. That the child should die was the most hurtful thing of all. She had created her baby with the love she had for her husband.
“Please, Maaret,” he whispered just strongly enough to be heard above the wind. “Please forget this madness and come away with me.”
She smiled sadly and touched his lips with her cold fingers. Even with her glove off, she no longer felt his flesh beneath her. The distance she felt from him scared her, and that distance grew with each gray breath.
“No,” she said simply. “It is too late.”
“It isn’t too late.” His stubbornness overrode the fear. “I can save you from this.” His hand touched her stomach, then slid to the belt of explosives she wore around her hips.
“It is too late,” she insisted. She took his hand in hers. “They watch us even now.”
He shook his head. At times, he was so like a child. She thought, even then as she faced her death, that he would have made a wonderful father.
If he had stayed.
And if he had stayed and been found out, he would have been killed.
People passed them as they stood there. Older couples gave them knowing smiles, undoubtedly thinking that this was a spat between a young husband and wife. Those people didn’t have many concerns. They lived in an affluent part of Moscow where the night was held back by bright lights and fences protected the pond and the tall apartment buildings. Snow dusted the boughs of the mighty pine and spruce trees, and swirled between the naked branches of tall oaks.
In addition to wealthy Russians, Americans and Europeans lived there, as well. That was why the area had been targeted.
“I…I…” Her husband’s voice broke, and his obvious pain and confusion and desperation fueled her own. “I can fix this, Maaret. I swear.”
She knew, though, that his promise was hollow. He had masters and allegiances just as she had. Neither of them could escape their fates.
“You can’t,” she told him.
“There must be a way.”
“No.” She shook her head. “They have found you out, my love. They know what you truly are.”
The tears that tracked his face glistened like diamonds in the streetlights. Like a child, he wiped them away with his sleeve. Then he glared across the walkway that wound through the residential area. A few of the nearby windows held Christmas ornaments and lights.
“Are they here?” he asked hoarsely.
“I don’t know,” Maaret said.
“Did Taburova bring you here?”
“Yes.”
Her husband seized her arms. “Maaret, please listen to me. I have friends.”
She knew he had friends. They posed danger to him and to her. And to the child.
“I can take you from here,” he said.
Here wasn’t Moscow. This was the first time she’d ever been to Moscow. Her country lay to the north. It was all she’d ever known. She’d been born in a small house there, and she’d always believed she would be buried in one of the small graveyards.
“I don’t want to leave my home,” she told him. “When you married me, you promised you wouldn’t take me from my home.”
“I love you, Maaret. I would have promised you anything.”
“So you lied?”
He flinched painfully at her words, but still clung to her. He no longer met her gaze.
“I did what I had to,” he whispered.
“You didn’t have to marry me. You didn’t have to father our child. All you had to do was inform your masters about the heroes of my country and their efforts to free us from the Russian dictators.”
“It’s not like that.” His protest sounded weak.
“Then why spy in my homeland? Surely you could have found other women in—” Maaret faltered because she suddenly realized she didn’t even know what country her husband was from. Everything about him had been a fabrication, a dream that continued to evade her.
He held her at arm’s length and gazed into her eyes. “I love you, Maaret. And I love our child. I want us to be together. I want us to be happy.”
She believed him. God help her, she believed him. The weight of the explosives strapped to her body suddenly felt like concrete blocks. They crushed her. And they threatened her baby. She felt him—she’d never doubted the sex of her unborn child—move within her. He shifted, as restless as his father.
“You must go,” she told him. “This is not a safe place.” She breathed the cold air into herself and turned her body and her heart numb. She pushed him away.
“No, Maaret,” he said more forcefully. “I won’t allow you to do this.”
“You won’t allow me?” Maaret’s anger stabbed through her. The child within her moved again. She swept her arms against his and broke his hold on her. If only his hold on her heart broke so easily.
“I am your husband,” he told her.
“You are a liar!” Her viciousness amazed her.
“I love you. I never lied about that.”
Maaret saw the knife in his hand too late. Even then, she didn’t fear him, only what he meant to do. He leaned in and kissed her. She wanted to slap him and push him off her. Instead, she took his face in her hands and returned the kiss with a hunger only he caused within her.
It wasn’t until he drew away that she realized the weight of the explosives had vanished. He held the six packages of plastic explosives—Semtex—still strung on the belt, but the belt was severed.
“No!” Maaret gasped. She fumbled in her coat pocket for the detonator Taburova had provided her when he’d strapped the explosives on her. “You can’t!”
Her hand searched her empty pocket.
He opened his fingers and showed her the detonator. He’d stolen it without her knowledge.
“You can’t do this!” she shouted loudly enough to draw the attention of passersby.
“I can’t let you die, Maaret. Nor can I let my child die.” His face was grim. “Taburova and the others are homicidal hate-mongers. They’re not the patriotic heroes you believe them to be.”
Maaret lunged for the explosives.
He pulled them away easily.
“I’m not doing this for them,” she pleaded. “I’m doing it for me. And for our child. If I die striking back at our enemies, all my sins will be washed away. Our child will die, but he will be reborn without sin.”
“Our child,” he said, “is already without sin. And I want his mother to live because I love her more than my life.”
He turned and ran through the falling snow, threading through the bystanders and passersby. Some of them saw the belt of explosives dangling from his hand, but none of them recognized them.
Maaret tried to pursue him, but the new snow made the footing treacherous. She skidded and slipped, and finally realized she couldn’t catch him.
He fled without a backward look, intending to reach the pond only a few feet away. He halted at the fence and drew the belt back to throw.
The explosion was devastating.
The concussive force slammed into Maaret and knocked her off her feet. Her first thought was the baby. It took so little to trigger a miscarriage. She’d been surprised that the stress of the past few days hadn’t triggered an end to her pregnancy.
Deafened by the blast and temporarily blinded by the light, Maaret rolled over and pushed herself to her feet. She stood, finally, and swayed as she looked at where she’d last seen her husband.
The fence leaned precariously and powder burns stained the snow black. One of the massive pines lay broken and leaning against the side of an apartment building. Many windows stood empty of glass, and tattered curtains shifted in the breeze. Pedestrians who’d survived the blast climbed back to their feet. Several people remained down, and more than one twisted, bloodied body offered mute testimony of death and severe injury.
Screams penetrated the cottony pressure in Maaret’s ears. Warmth covered her right cheek. When she touched her face, her fingers came away stained crimson.
Blood, she realized. But it wasn’t hers. It was his.
Maaret joined in the screaming. Earlier, when she’d accepted her own death and that of her son, she had known she would never see her husband again. But she hadn’t planned on being alive to have to deal with that.
Instead, he was gone.
She stumbled toward the blast area. She was the only one who walked in that direction. All the others fled, running and limping away as quickly as they could.
“Maaret.”
The man’s cold, hard voice came from behind her. She didn’t turn because she didn’t wish to deal with his harsh remonstrations. It wasn’t her fault that her husband had come there. He could only have found her through the man who called her name now. She’d been the bait in a malicious trap.
A powerful grip seized her left upper arm. “Maaret.”
She faced him then because she had no choice.
Mayrbek Taburova glared at her with his one good blue eye. His other eye, the right one, was covered by a black leather patch. Fine scars showed around the edges of it. His curly black hair peeked from beneath his wool cap. Powdered snow clung to his fierce goatee. He was in his forties, more than twice her age.
“Come with me, child,” he ordered.
“I failed,” she said.
Amazingly he smiled at her. “No,” he said, “you didn’t. This was as it was meant to be. His sacrifice was given in love. Your sins, and those of your child, have been cleansed.”
Maaret was dumbfounded for a moment, then she realized Taburova thought her husband had detonated the explosives on purpose. She knew better than that, though. He would not have killed himself, and he would not have killed the others who lay unmoving on the ground. That wasn’t his way.
“Come,” Taburova said. He pulled gently on her arm.
Numb to the cold and the horror around her, Maaret went. She glanced over her shoulder at the blackened spot that stained the ground by the pond. The falling snow worked to knit a fresh white blanket to cover the damage, the mangled bodies that lay scattered over the area.
If not for her husband, Maaret knew she would have walked into one of the apartment buildings and set off the explosives she had worn. The damage and the death toll would have been much worse. The man who had outfitted her with the explosives had told her how much destruction the explosion would cause, as if she should take joy in that knowledge.
She hadn’t.
And she hadn’t thought of the lives she would have ended. If she’d done that, she wouldn’t have been able to carry the explosives into the building. Children lived there, as well, though she’d been told the apartments she was supposed to target were dwellings without children.
Maybe it was the truth.
She’d gotten to the point where she no longer recognized the truth.
“You did well, Maaret,” Taburova said as he quickly guided her through the alleys. “I’m very proud of you.”
Maaret said nothing. She covered her bulging belly with her free hand to protect her child, but she knew she would never possess the power to completely protect him. She wept for her child, for her dead husband, and for herself.
1
Istanbul, Turkey
“Get up!”
Ajza Manaev woke instantly at the command but too late to avoid the slap to the back of her head. She recognized Fikret’s growl as her hand closed on the 9 mm Tokarev pistol under her pillow. Her natural anger suited the role she currently played, so she let the emotion take her.
Fikret obviously expected her to react to his rude awakening. He tightened a fist in her hair and tried to control her.
Ignoring the blazing pain at the back of her scalp, Ajza twisted in the small bed and rammed the pistol into Fikret’s underarm. She twisted and raked the sight across the nerves clustered there.
With a squall of pain, Fikret released his hold and stepped back. He was a bear of a man, thick and heavy with fat, but incredibly strong. A thick mustache bisected his round face. Stubble covered his cheeks.
He cursed at her as he yanked his jacket and shirt back to check his armpit for a wound of some kind.
“I ought to kill you!” he screamed. He released his jacket and shirt, and turned his gaze back to Ajza. His huge hand drew back automatically to deliver a blow.
Ajza held the pistol in both hands and aimed it squarely between Fikret’s eyes. “Touch me again,” she told him coldly, “and I’ll kill you.”
“I tried to wake you,” he protested. “You wouldn’t wake.”
“I always wake,” Ajza said. “You only tried to wake me once. Then you hit me. If we didn’t need you today, I would kill you for that alone.”
Fikret lowered his hand and looked over his shoulder at the other men in the small apartment. “Tell her,” he exhorted. “Tell her that I tried to wake her. Tell her that she is hard to wake.”
Nazmi shoved his foot into a worn work boot and laced it. He was young and lean. Long black hair grazed his shoulders, shoulders that bore tattoos of American rock bands.
“She’d didn’t look that hard to wake, Fikret,” Nazmi said with a big grin. “You told her to wake at about the same time you hit her. She woke pretty fast and offered to kill you.” He shrugged. “If she was hard to wake, I think you would have gotten out of the way in time.”
Fikret scowled and jabbed a big finger in Nazmi’s direction. “Maybe I should kick your ass, too, you young pup.”
A knife appeared in Nazmi’s hands like magic. An easy smile framed his face. “Anytime you wish to try, you fat oaf, you are most welcome.”
Ajza watched the exchange with a wary eye. The animosity between Fikret and Nazmi had existed from the beginning. In fact, most of the team avoided the big man because he struck quickly with verbal abuse and with his hands. This morning was the first day he’d tried that with her.
“Get away from my bed,” Ajza ordered.
Fikret scowled. “This is a very small room.”
“Then go outside.”
Angrily Fikret stomped outside.
“I don’t think you made him very happy.” Nazmi reached for his other boot.
“I’m not getting paid to do that.” Ajza sat on the bed and watched the others getting ready. The fact that so much activity going on hadn’t woken her surprised her. In a way, Fikret had been right. She had been hard to wake.
You’ve pushed this operation too long, she told herself. You should have been pulled a month ago.
But every time they’d gotten ready to retrieve her from the field, one more piece of the puzzle dropped into place. That slow trickle of crucial information had been the most exasperating of all.
If not for the cloud of doubt clinging to Ilyas’s death…
Resolutely, as she had done for two years, Ajza pushed away her pain and confusion over her younger brother’s death. Those feelings proved hard to bear. She missed Ilyas. Whenever she spent time at home with their parents, she felt the gaping hole left by his death.
“I think of making Fikret angry as a bonus,” Nazmi told her. “I’m just glad they’re not charging me for the privilege.”
Ajza looked at the younger man. At twenty-nine, though they thought her younger, she felt like the old person among them.
“Is this for real?” she asked. “Or is this another false alarm?”
Nazmi shrugged and smiled. “I don’t know.”
“I hate getting up early when there’s no reason.”
“But you miss so much of the day when you sleep late.” Nazmi stood and stomped his work boots into a better fit. “I will make you a deal. If this is another false alarm, I will buy you breakfast at the market. Okay?”
The crush Nazmi had on her had been apparent from the start. Given another time and place, Ajza might have let the attraction between them develop. Still, having a friend to cover her back when the bullets started flying was a good thing.
“All right,” she said.
Nazmi gazed at her. “Aren’t you going to get dressed?”
Ajza got out of bed with the Tokarev in her hand. She wore sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt. “Not in here,” she said.
“Get dressed in here and I will buy you two breakfasts,” Nazmi suggested. He made no move to get out of her way.
“Maybe I will shoot you in the head and take your money, then buy myself as many breakfasts as I want.” Ajza smiled sweetly as she looked up at him.
“You know,” Nazmi said, “I almost think you would do such a thing.”
Ajza knew that he had no idea of what she had done in the past or was prepared to do now.
“You know that Mustafa doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” Nazmi said.
“Tell him to leave. I’ll catch up.” Ajza pushed Nazmi aside and went to the bathroom.
Inside the small bathroom with the rust-coated shower and toilet, she turned on the water and undressed. Then she knelt, reached behind the toilet and pressed a section of the wall. The section slid away and she took out the micro-miniature burst transmitter.
“This is Calico,” she said quickly, in a voice that—thanks to the running water—couldn’t be heard outside the thin walls of the room. “The meeting is on.”
She pressed send and watched as the transmitter encrypted the message, compressed it and beamed it in a split second. Somewhere in England’s MI-6 offices, someone should receive the message.
If they didn’t, she knew she might be dead within the next hour with no one the wiser.
Just like her brother.
2
New York City
“Does he follow you everywhere?”
Kate Cochran looked at her companion and smiled. “Are you referring to my bodyguard?”
“I am,” Gunter Hirschvogel admitted. He claimed to be in his late forties, but Kate knew from his file that he was in his early sixties. However, trim and fit as he was, tanned and dark-haired, he got away with the lie almost effortlessly.
His suit was handmade Italian. The plastic surgery didn’t show except for a little around the eyes, which no one would have faulted him for. Eyes were important. Especially for someone who’d made their wealth by getting other people to trust him.
“He goes with me most places,” Kate responded. She knew she looked elegant in her dark blue evening gown. Her wrap pulled everything together, and she’d turned heads most of the night. That had been enjoyable.
“When we get to my apartment,” Hirschvogel said, “where will he be then?”
“Comfortable, I hope,” Kate answered.
Hirschvogel laughed. “Perhaps we could send him down to the bar.”
Kate looked over her shoulder at Jacob Marrs, the man they were discussing. “I don’t think he’d like being that far away from me. He takes his job very seriously.”
“I don’t see how any man would want to be far from you,” Hirschvogel said.
“Thank you,” Kate said as if flattered by the comment. Only the years of doing espionage work in the field kept her in character. She detested men like Hirschvogel.
“However, I do have another possible solution.” Hirschvogel removed his electronic keycard from inside his jacket. “Perhaps we could put him with my security people.”
Kate glanced back at the two men who had accompanied Hirschvogel to the museum earlier. Older than Jake, both wore cruelty and dispassion like armor.
“It’s a shame one of us doesn’t have another bodyguard,” Kate said. “Then they’d have a fourth for bridge.”
“Actually, I have a houseman.” Hirschvogel opened the door, stepped inside and waved toward another man standing just inside the apartment foyer.
Kate cursed silently. Events could get very dicey in the apartment. If Hirschvogel found out who she was, and who and what she represented, he would probably try to kill her.
“Good evening, Mr. Hirshvogel.” The houseman was in his late forties. No emotion showed in his pale blue eyes. “Good evening, miss.” He didn’t offer to take her wrap or his employer’s coat. That would have slowed his reflexes and filled his hands.
“I have him,” the calm voice of Kate’s support technician reported. “Friedrich Moews. This guy’s a killer, Kate.”
The transmission came from the receiver/transmitter built into Kate’s left earring. It was state-of-the-art, complete with encryption encoding. Agents had wired a repeater inside the building earlier that afternoon. The delicate necklace at the hollow of her throat held a wireless camera.
Jake wore an earring that made him privy to the same communications stream Kate received. The top button on his jacket concealed a tiny camera.
Kate tapped her bracelet once for yes to let everyone know she’d heard the message. When switched on, the bracelet doubled as a Morse-code key and held a wide-angle lens for scanning documents and transmitting via wireless Internet.
Hirschvogel turned to Jake. “While I’m entertaining Ms. Danvers, perhaps you’d like to spend your time with my security staff.”
Jake shifted his gaze to Kate and lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Go,” Kate said. “Enjoy yourself. If I need anything, you’ll know.”
“She won’t need anything I can’t give her,” Hirschvogel said lasciviously.
“Wow,” tech support said. “Is this guy confident or what?”
Only Kate noticed the twitch of Jake’s lips that betrayed a stillborn grin. He nodded and followed the other men through another doorway.
“You have a big apartment,” Kate said appreciatively as Hirschvogel led her into the living room, with its obviously expensive furniture and artwork. A large plasma-screen television hung inert on the wall.
“I have forty-five hundred square feet,” Hirschvogel bragged as he took her elbow and walked her to the wet bar in the corner. “Would you like wine?” He pulled open a door. “I have a selection.”
“White, please. I’ll trust your judgment.” Kate left his side and wandered around the big room. She tried to map the apartment’s interior in her mind. There was a master bedroom and two smaller bedrooms to house the security guards. In addition to the four in the apartment now, Hirschvogel had four others who worked rotating shifts to give himself a constant human shield.
Hirschvogel poured wine and brought a glass to her.
With a twist of her wrist, Kate tapped her bracelet, sending out a string of Morse code to Jake. They were up against the clock. Events were already in motion in Istanbul, and if they didn’t find the information they needed, a lot of people were going to be dead within the hour.
“So,” Hirschvogel said smoothly, “what line of business are you in?”
Kate smiled at him. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Hirschvogel guffawed. “You’re a fan of spy movies?”
“Somewhat,” Kate admitted. She looked at Hirschvogel.
Suddenly gunfire cracked in the other room. He started to go forward, but stopped immediately when Kate reached under her dress and pulled out the small, two-shot derringer she’d holstered to her thigh. At first his attention was caught by the expanse of thigh she flashed, but then he quickly focused on the pistol in her fist.
“Don’t move,” she told him as she aimed at the center of his chest.
3
London, England
Samantha Rhys-Jones pulled her Jaguar XKE to a stop in front of the office building and looked around. The neighborhood was an old one, but it had been given several face-lifts since it had first been built. The unadorned buildings stood like regimental soldiers.
Back in its heyday, Fleet Street served as home to London’s journalists. These days law offices, temp agencies and pubs that serviced the needs of both populated the area.
Comings and goings at all hours of the day kept the neighborhood busy. That alone proved sufficient reason to choose the neighborhood for the meet.
Headlights flashed at the end of the street as a decrepit cargo van rounded the corner and came toward her. With her eyes on the van, Samantha pressed a hidden release on the console between the seats. A panel popped open to reveal a Walther P99 chambered in .40 caliber. She favored the weapon because it was easy to conceal, fit her hands well and had good knock-down power.
She took the gun from its hiding place and placed it in her lap. Despite her experience, she found her heart rate elevated and her mouth dry. She was nervous, but not panicked.
“Indigo,” tech support called over the earwig she wore.
“Yes,” Samantha said calmly.
“Clockwork has a visual on you.”
The van flashed its lights on and off.
“Understood,” Samantha said. “I’ll talk to you again once we’re inside.” She dropped the Walther into her coat pocket and switched off the Jaguar’s engine. Then she climbed out to meet the van’s occupants.
Five of them got out of the vehicle—three women and two men. The mix surprised Samantha, but not the age. All of them were in their early twenties. They wore gray coveralls with RALEIGH’S CLEANERS stenciled across the back.
One of the women placed thin magnetic signs on the sides of the van while one of the men changed the front and back license plates. For the next few minutes, any police check on the licensed van of a cleaning service by that name would exist, complete with work history and referrals.
Shortly after that, the computer files and the magnetic signs would disappear as if they’d never existed.
“Hey,” a lanky Indian youth with long black hair and a goatee greeted her.
“Hey,” Samantha said. She recognized him because she’d worked with him before, but she didn’t remember his name. Of course, there was always the possibility he’d never given it. She never gave hers. “New crew?”
He nodded and grinned, flashing white teeth. “Breakin’ ’em in. Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you.” He fished equipment cases from the van’s cargo area.
“Do you need help with anything?”
“The door,” the guy said. “You get that, we’ve got the rest of this.”
“Your security card is set to run,” tech support said.
Samantha walked to the back of the Jaguar and opened the trunk. A hidden compartment held a wireless Internet-equipped magnetic strip printer. She took a security card from her pocket and ran it through the slot.
“You’re good to go,” tech support said.
Samantha walked to the door. Dressed in slacks, a plain blouse and her trench coat, she looked like a barrister rousted out of bed to handle a client who’d called from jail.
She glanced at the “cleaning” crew. All of them stood with cases in hand.
Samantha swiped the key card through the reader on the door. A second later the lock released. She opened the door and went through the dimly lit hallway. Although the building had been refurbished with new paint and new carpet, the dimensions remained as confining as they had two hundred years ago. There was only room for one person at a time up the stairs.
It would not be, she reflected, a good place to get caught.
“Indigo,” Kate Cochran said.
“Yes.” Samantha slid the card through the next security checkpoint. She breathed a little easier when the lock opened.
“We’re secure.”
Samantha knew that meant Kate had control of Hirschvogel in New York. “Understood. But I still don’t like the idea of your involvement.”
“Duly noted,” Kate replied.
Kate’s permanently unruffled demeanor irritated Samantha slightly. Kate appeared always calm, cool and collected. But that was also why she was director of Room 59. That, and the fact that when it came to it, she didn’t hesitate to get her hands bloody. Even when the blood was that of their agents.
“If there’d been another way to crack this,” Kate went on, “I would have been all for it. There wasn’t. I was the best call.”
“I still don’t have to like it.”
“It’s your op. You know I’ll always help out in whatever capacity I can. And I told you I’d cover this leg of the mission.”
“Not till it was impossible to find anyone else to do it.”
“No one could have done this as easily as I did.”
“Ego much?” Samantha asked, and she was only halfway teasing.
“Confident,” Kate countered.
A SECURITY CAMERA mounted on the wall ahead tracked back to Samantha. “Support, did we know about the on-site video security?” she asked.
“We now own the on-site video security,” the woman replied. “Wave at the camera and I’ll get you some prints ready for Christmas cards. ’Tis the season for breaking and entering.”
Samantha smiled. “Brilliant,” she said sarcastically.
“I can do them up nice. Santa and his little elves standing in the background.”
“I’ll pass.” Samantha waved at the video camera. She slid the card through the next reader and entered the foyer on the fourth floor.
She walked quickly to the third office on the left. The card got her through that door, as well, and they entered a conference room.
“All right, people,” the young computer wizard said as he put the cases he carried on the big table. “Let’s get clandestine.” He cracked his knuckles theatrically.
As Samantha watched, the five techs quickly assembled a mission-control station made up of various computers, monitors and miniature satellite receivers. Tech support monitored the communications, but they were going live on the mission they were currently involved in. Once they had all the satellite links in place, Room 59 would be operational.
The designation Room 59 described the virtual command post that could be set up anywhere. Once it was live, it pulled in significant espionage satellite links that could be traced back by various international intelligence agencies. MI-6, the British watchdog of the international scene, would immediately begin sniffing them out. So would MI-5, their domestic equivalent.
Other international spy groups, if interested in what took place in Istanbul at the moment, would also try to find them if they were noticed. Every time Room 59 was alive and active, it could be a cat-and-mouse game. Not all of the international community was willing to let the personnel and invisible agents of the clandestine espionage group operate unchallenged.
“Have you asked your guest about the business taking place in the target area?” Samantha asked Kate.
“No. I’ve been waiting to get confirmation of a green light.”
Samantha silently agreed. There was no reason to make Hirschvogel aware that they knew about his operations. If their campaign didn’t pan out, they didn’t want to give away their source of information or interest.
“I’ll let you know the minute we’re green,” Samantha said. “How bad is the situation there?”
“We’re intact,” Kate said, “but there are three losses.”
Meaning that Jacob Marrs had killed the three security men. When it came to protecting Kate, Samantha knew Jake never hesitated.
“Will you need cleanup there?”
“Negative. Our guest is used to cleaning up after himself, and he’ll be properly motivated to do a good job of it.”
Okay, that was a point in their favor. Now if everything happened correctly in Istanbul, it was going to be a good evening’s work.
4
Istanbul
Ajza sat in the back seat of the cargo van and tried not to look nervous. She thought about the cargo they planned to pick up and how cruelly Turkish laws dealt with criminals regarding drugs. Considering the fact that she was more or less on her own—except for the exfiltration team she hadn’t talked to in weeks—she thought she was holding up pretty well.
As it had been for hundreds of years, the marketplace was a gathering place for merchants, local buyers and tourists. Only a few of the tourists walked through the aisles, along with those in search of early-morning bargains. Mostly the hawkers and buskers pursued the regular customers, people who’d come to market early to buy fresh vegetables for meals.
Ajza loved the Anatolian side of Istanbul. The city stood proudly, the only one in the world to straddle two continents. As a result, throughout history, armies and peacemakers of the East and the West met there to do battle and to reach trade agreements.
The Bosphorus Strait cut the city in two. The brown water flowed into the green Sea of Marmara in the harbor—not far from the prearranged meeting place. Fishermen already plied the waters, their sails brave and full against the azure sky. Motorboats filled the immediate vicinity with noise.
Bookshops and antique dealers butted up against coffeehouses and cinemas, the constant mix of the old and the new that shaped the city. At least this side of it.
When she’d had time on her own, which hadn’t been often, Ajza loved roaming through the bookstores. Spying in the field was lonely work. Reading helped pass the time and occupy the mind so it didn’t constantly dredge up everything that could go wrong.
Besides that, bookstores often held gems of information, lost books and maps that had histories and locations within whatever city she was posted. These had, on rare occasions, helped her keep her cover story intact and saved her life.
“Are you thinking about breakfast?” Nazmi asked.
She didn’t look at him. She’d already given him far too much encouragement. Getting close to someone, especially someone she might have to kill or who might try to kill her, was foolish. She’d already been down that road once and it hadn’t worked out well.
“No,” she answered.
“Then what?” Nazmi demanded. “You’re not worried, are you?”
“Should I be?”
“No.” Nazmi put a hand on the stock of the AK-47 assault rifle he carried. “We’re here for show. Just to keep the honest men honest.” He shrugged. “When you’re dealing with drugs, the people involved aren’t always trustworthy.”
Ajza knew that. Spies working for money or for political conviction proved much easier to work with than drug dealers. The drug dealers lived on paranoia and killed at the drop of a hat. The only reason spies and terrorists dealt with those people was because the commodity they sold translated more readily into influence across international borders than cash or gold. Drugs represented money in any currency.
“I know,” Ajza said. The feeling that something was off haunted her. “We’ve never made an early-morning pickup like this.”
Nazmi shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe these people came in during the night and haven’t been to bed yet.”
That, Ajza decided, seemed even worse. Paranoia and insomnia wasn’t a good combination.
“Here comes Mustafa.” Nazmi nodded at the leader of the group Ajza had infiltrated.
Mustafa was broad and powerful-looking. Early in his life, he’d been a stevedore, one of the young, strong backs that eked out a living shifting freight for the cargo ships. His mustache was fierce. His loose shirt hid the pistol he carried in his waistband. He also carried a briefcase that Ajza knew immediately was going to the drug dealers.
“Out of the van,” Mustafa ordered. He rapped the knuckles of one hand against the glass beside Ajza. “Stay ready.”
Watching the man, Ajza decided he was more ready for the coming encounter than in his previous calls to action. He walked briskly to the designated meeting area. Anyone watching him would think he didn’t have a care in the world.
Nazmi placed the assault rifle into a long duffel bag that he slung over one shoulder as he stood. Although the canvas material was heavy, Nazmi could get to his weapon in record time. Slits in the sides allowed him to reach inside and fire the rifle from within if he needed to.
Ajza shoved her pistol into the holster at the back of her waistband. Then she followed Nazmi and the other men out. All of them trailed Mustafa to a waiting delivery truck.
A group of men stood in front of the truck. They wore loose robes that concealed the weapons Ajza knew they carried. All of them looked hard and dangerous, covered in scars and made distrustful by the dangerous lives they led.
“Mustafa,” one of the men greeted. He was thin and pockmarked.
Ajza’s mental mug file identified the man before Mustafa gave voice to his name.
“Hasan, my good friend,” Mustafa replied.
The two men embraced, then walked together to take shade under the canopy of a jewelry merchant busy laying out his wares. The merchant seemed about to protest the use of his canopy. Then he looked at the men and decided to ignore them.
Ajza’s nerves stayed tight. The problem with meeting in the marketplace was that there were so many bystanders. She adjusted the sunglasses she wore and looked at the rooftops of the nearby buildings. Surely MI-6 had someone there.
But she saw no one.
“You had a safe journey?” Mustafa asked Hasan.
Ajza knew he wasn’t asking just to be polite or to make conversation. If authorities had taken an interest in Hasan, Mustafa wanted to know about it.
“Safe enough,” Hasan replied. “The trip was relatively uneventful.”
“Oh?” Mustafa raised his eyebrows. “Tell me more.”
Hasan shrugged and spat into the sand at their feet. “A thief in my house. Nothing more.” He grinned evilly. “He now sleeps at the bottom of the sea. I am a man of standards, you know.”
And a bloodthirsty one, Ajza remembered. MI-6 kept a thick file on Hasan but had never succeeded in getting close enough to him to take him out.
With snipers on the rooftops today, she thought, it could be done.
“You have the goods?” Mustafa asked.
Hasan spread his arms. “Of course. If you have the money.”
Mustafa gestured. Fikret and another man carried suitcases to Hasan. The drug dealer’s bodyguards stepped forward smoothly to intercept them.
Honor existed among thieves, Ajza thought, but precious little of it. The weight of the pistol at her back felt both comforting and threatening.
The bodyguards opened the suitcases a short distance away. Everyone knew the danger of satchel charges. If anyone died, it would be the bodyguards.
Both men looked relieved when the suitcases didn’t explode in their faces. They carried them back to Hasan to view the contents.
Ajza caught a brief glimpse of the stacks of money inside one of the suitcases. The cash came from the United States, Great Britain and France, perhaps other places, but she didn’t have time to see everything.
“You brought American money.” Hasan didn’t sound pleased.
“I had to,” Mustafa said. “It was all I had. I still do a lot of business with American buyers.”
“I don’t care for American money.” Hasan riffled through a few of the stacks of money. “It is far too easy to counterfeit. The Americans make their bills too much the same. No imagination.”
The merchant spotted the stacks of bills in Hasan’s callused hands. Aware that his life might be forfeit, he retreated to the back of his kiosk. He didn’t want anyone to think he was going to report what he’d seen. He busied himself making silver necklaces.
“None of that money is counterfeit,” Mustafa said. “I checked it myself.”
Hasan tossed the packets of American money back into the suitcase. The bodyguards closed the suitcases and stepped to one side.
“I choose to trust you, my friend,” Hasan said. “But in the future—”
“In the future,” Mustafa said, not to be browbeaten, “perhaps there might exist more time to prepare to take advantage of your good fortune.”
Hasan smiled. “It was good fortune. And now the good fortune is yours.”
“Only after you have taken your cut, my brother.”
“Merely the price of doing business.” Hasan waved Mustafa to the rear of the truck. “Come. I will show you what you have been so fortunate to purchase.”
Mustafa followed the other man to the rear of the truck. His bodyguards, including Ajza, trailed behind.
Hasan threw open the metal door to reveal wooden crates stacked inside. Ajza knew what the crates contained the instant she smelled the gun oil. This wasn’t a drug delivery, after all.
Panic rose in her. Drugs were one thing, but she couldn’t allow the munitions cargo in the back of the truck to get funneled to Mustafa’s buyers. She searched the rooftops again and saw nothing.
For a moment she thought she was going to be sick. Something had to be done.
5
London
“Okay,” the young man with the goatee said, “let’s bring Room 59 online and hook Indigo into the sat-links we’ve appropriated, people.”
As she paced around the room, Samantha watched the mini-satellite dishes power up and independently search for transmissions.
“Satellite Alpha has a lock,” one of the women said.
“Satellite Beta is streaming,” another man reported.
Diagnostics ran across the screens of the various laptops as everything came online. One of the women walked to the front of the room and pulled down a huge blank screen. Immediately different windows filled it. The designations for the computers occupied the lower-left quadrant of the individual monitors.
Samantha studied them, quickly memorizing the location and designation of the various computers. Even after years of being involved in cutting-edge technology designed for espionage, every time she took the command seat for Room 59, it still wowed her.
Kate Cochran served as the director of the clandestine agency, but whoever stood in Room 59 during an operation was captain of the ship. Kate kept everything moving, but Samantha knew she depended on the people she served with.
“Room 59 is live,” the man in the goatee said. His fingers were poised over the keyboard.
“Bring up Alpha and Beta,” Samantha said. “Side by side, please.”
Immediately, the two monitor views expanded and filled the screen. Beta showed Kate Cochran and Hirschvogel in the latter’s New York apartment.
“Orange,” Samantha said, referring to Kate by her designated call sign for the op, “I have a visual on your location.”
“Understood, Indigo.”
“Bring up Delta in the lower-right corner,” Samantha said.
Immediately the monitor screen with Kate and Hirschvogel shrank and became the same size as the new screen, which flipped through random images of Hirschvogel’s apartment building.
“I also have your back,” Samantha stated. One of the techs constantly kept an eye on the apartment building’s electronic security. If anything suspicious happened, the tech would alert her.
“Good,” Kate replied.
Samantha concentrated on the Alpha screen.
“Do any of the businesses in the area maintain closed-circuit security?” Samantha asked. Since 9/11, security cameras seemed to exist everywhere.
“Yes,” one of the women said.
“Can you access them?”
“I’m working on it. I think I can hack into a bank.” Her fingers clicked across the keyboard. “All right.” Satisfaction sounded in her voice. “I’m in. I’ve designated it as Epsilon.”
“Bring it up. Stack it on the right.” Samantha paced behind the operatives.
Another window opened up showing the back of the truck where the group under electronic surveillance milled about.
“Are we getting digital images?” Samantha asked.
“Every time I get a face,” another of the women said. “I’ve got fourteen so far.”
“Excellent job. Thank you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The young woman kept working, efficiently alternating between the mouse and the keyboard.
The computers instantly shot every scrap of information the team gathered to a secure holding area. Nothing remained on the machines operating Room 59.
Samantha continued studying the windows. Reading the body language of the men, the way they reacted to one another within the group, it became easy to tell who was with whom.
At that point Epsilon, which had a better straight-ahead view of the back of the truck, revealed the cargo.
“Freeze Epsilon,” Samantha ordered.
The image suspended.
“Can you magnify that?” Samantha walked to the pull-down screen and studied the image more closely. She could almost make out the image with her naked eye.
“Magnifying.”
“Can you clean up the image?”
“Somewhat.”
“Please do so.” Samantha remained conscious of the time passing, but if she was right about the item in the image, they’d made a significant—and unexpected—find. “Is Red Team in place?”
“Red is in place,” a strong male voice answered in her earpiece.
Samantha couldn’t immediately identify the agent. The possibility existed that she’d never worked with him. Room 59 was set up that way. Only Kate knew who all the players involved in an op were; she put the teams together.
“Good to have you, Red.”
“Affirmative. Good to be here. The troop size looks bigger than what we were told to expect.”
“Yes.”
“The backup plan is to destroy the contraband, not confiscate it. We are locked and loaded,” he said.
“Wait for my go, Red. We have an unexpected problem.”
“Affirmative. Red on standby. Can you identify the problem?”
“The cargo isn’t drugs,” Samantha answered. “It’s ordnance. Destruction of the contraband isn’t going to be possible at this point.”
The image on the wall screen smoothed out and clearly showed an M-4 assault rifle. That, Samantha knew, was an American-made weapon.
“Does someone want to tell me how the Yanks lost a truck full of weapons?” Samantha asked.
No one had an immediate answer.
6
Istanbul
Ajza stared at the M-4 assault rifle in Hasan’s hands. A shipment of drugs presented one problem. Customers only got harmed one at a time, and most of the time using the drug didn’t leave anyone dead.
Guns killed a lot of people at one time.
And the crates in the back of the truck promised to hold a lot of guns.
Mustafa smiled.
“You see?” Hasan asked. “My good fortune is now yours.”
Ajza knew that Mustafa had a buyer somewhere. If that was the case, he planned to get something back for his trouble. His group was already well equipped. They didn’t need the guns.
So who did?
“You are satisfied?” Hasan asked Mustafa. “That they are all here and in good shape?”
“I am. You would not betray me, Hasan.”
That was true, Ajza knew. If Hasan did, Mustafa would kill him. Mustafa would have no choice. As a broker and dealer in Istanbul, he couldn’t afford to let anyone get the better of him.
For the first time, Ajza regretted not having a wire or a radio on her person. Someone back at Home Office needed to know about this. The Americans needed to know about this.
Hasan jumped from the back of the truck and closed the door. “Then our business here is done, Mustafa. May your path prove fruitful.”
“And yours.”
Hasan and his group walked toward the harbor.
“Now,” Mustafa said as he turned to his men, “who can drive this truck?”
The men looked at one another. Most of them didn’t drive. They’d lived in the city all their lives and seldom went anywhere they couldn’t walk. Cars were too expensive, and the Turkish authorities kept track of vehicles.
“I can.” Radiating arrogance, Fikret strode to the truck, opened the door and pulled himself up into the cab.
Ajza watched helplessly, uncertain what to do. Mustafa wouldn’t let them know where the weapons were going. He maintained his secrets from the rest of the group. Once those weapons disappeared, she wouldn’t know where they were.
Fikret started the truck. The big engine rumbled and Fikret smiled broadly at the others. However, Ajza could tell that the revs were too high.
When Fikret let out the clutch too quickly, the truck lurched forward, snorted belligerently and died with a shudder. He tried twice more, and the results didn’t change.
“It’s this truck.” Fikret banged the steering wheel with a big fist. “It is an abominable beast. There is something wrong with it.”
Mustafa wasn’t happy. “There’s nothing wrong with the truck.”
“There is, I tell you.” For the moment in his embarrassment, Fikret had forgotten himself. But he recalled his station almost immediately. His face blanched. “Forgive me. I spoke in haste.”
Mustafa turned back to face the others. “Can anyone drive this truck?”
Heart beating too fast, Ajza stepped forward. “I can.” Her pulse throbbed in her neck and at her temple.
“You?” Mustafa studied her with hard eyes.
“Yes.” Ajza had been among them for almost three months. She’d gotten in as a thief, run afoul of one of Mustafa’s operations and sold her services to him. The chauvinistic culture of Turkey precluded women from holding many positions of importance in the community, but crime was an equal-opportunity employer. Mustafa recognized that women’s capabilities—in some areas—outdid men’s. That line of thinking had placed Ajza in the op in the first place.
A woman’s ability to drive a truck, however, obviously hadn’t occurred to him.
“I learned to drive my father’s truck,” Ajza said. That was almost the truth. Her father had taught her to drive, but that was in Leicester, not in one of the towns along the Syrian border as she’d claimed. “He had no sons. What he needed done when he could not, I did.”
Mustafa still stared at her.
“Perhaps letting her try would not be so bad,” Nazmi suggested. “Surely she can do no worse than Fikret. And we can’t leave the truck sitting here.”
Fikret cursed Nazmi from the truck cab. This only made the other men laugh.
Mustafa gestured toward the truck. “Go.”
Ajza climbed onto the running board and opened the door. Fikret didn’t relinquish the wheel. He glared at her and breathed his sour breath over her.
“Let her drive,” Mustafa commanded.
“Another time,” Fikret promised her in a quiet voice no one else heard, “you and I will even the score between us.”
A quiver of fear spasmed through Ajza’s stomach. There were few days in her job when she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t know what it was about herself that continued to draw her to the spy business. There had to be something wrong with her.
Whatever it was, though, had infected Ilyas, as well. She suspected it had something to do with their parents, how fiercely her mother and father loved their new country and the opportunities England provided for them.
She didn’t answer Fikret’s challenge, but she didn’t look away from him, either.
Cursing again, Fikret surrendered the steering wheel and slid over to the passenger side. He rolled down the window and spat in disgust.
Behind the wheel, Ajza took her pistol from her waistband and shoved it between her thigh and the seat. She started the engine, put the truck into a lower gear than Fikret had and let out the clutch. The truck lurched forward, but it kept moving.
The men, led by Nazmi, cheered. Ajza caught sight of the young man in the long side mirror and smiled a little at the celebration taking place behind her.
A moment later Nazmi ran up beside her and clung to the door while he stood on the running board. “Mustafa says you should follow the car.” He pointed at a dust-covered sedan so old and rusty that Ajza couldn’t identify the make.
“All right,” Ajza said.
“I will still buy you breakfast.”
Fikret cursed foully.
“We’ll see,” she said.
“But we must celebrate your great success. Even Fikret has to agree that your skills are important today. If not for you, the truck might sit there until Mustafa hired a driver.”
Ajza checked the rearview mirror. “Unless you plan on hanging on to the truck the whole way, you’d better get in one of the cars.”
Nazmi dropped away and went back to join the others. They all climbed back into the cars they’d arrived in.
Ajza followed the sedan, but her mind raced. Where was the backup team that was supposed to be shadowing her?
7
London
“Do you have an image of the woman?” Samantha asked as she watched the convoy take shape in Istanbul.
“Yes. I’m running it against the databases now.”
Samantha watched the truck roll through the narrow streets. The presence of the woman hadn’t startled her. There were others within the group, but very few of them. To survive in such an environment, women had to be harder and more calloused than the men.
But where had this one learned to drive big trucks?
The attention to detail, the way she subconsciously filed away pieces that didn’t fit, made Samantha Rhys-Jones invaluable to MI-6. She’d quickly gone from light fieldwork to intel gathering and processing. Those skills had drawn the attention of Room 59.
“Indigo,” the Red Team leader said, “do we intercept the convoy?”
“Yes. But only if it leaves town. If they stash the cargo inside the city limits, we’ll take care of it later. I don’t want any collateral damage on this one,” Samantha said.
“Understood.”
Samantha never wanted collateral damage. The deaths of bystanders weighed heavily on her. During her career, it sometimes happened—just as she’d sometimes lost agents she minded—but she worked hard to prevent that.
“Ma’am, I’ve identified the woman. She belongs to MI-6.”
That was unexpected.
Samantha walked over to the woman’s computer. She studied the face on the screen but didn’t recognize it.
According to the file, Ajza Manaev held a position as a field agent with considerable experience for someone so young. Evidently she performed well at what she did.
“Orange,” Samantha said.
“Yes,” Kate replied.
Samantha watched the convoy thread through the winding streets of the Kadikoy district. More people were up and starting to fill the sidewalks, streets and cafés. The potential for unplanned losses was increasing exponentially.
“We have a problem,” Samantha said.
8
New York
“Remove his gag,” Kate said.
Without a word, Jacob Marrs hooked a finger in the sock he’d used to silence Hirschvogel. The German sat tied to a chair near his desk. He spat when the gag was clear, then cursed Kate.
While Hirschvogel vented so colorfully, obviously given some courage about being held captive for nearly an hour but not killed outright, Jake casually reached out and backhanded him in the face. The blow silenced Hirschvogel immediately.
“That’s not how you talk to a lady,” Jake stated affably.
Shocked, Hirschvogel glared at Jake. “If I ever meet you again, you’re a dead man.”
Jake smiled and spoke softly. “Just one more reason to heave you over the balcony before I leave. I didn’t much care for you before you decided to make this personal. But promising to be a threat in the future?” He shook his head.
Visibly afraid, perhaps remembering that Jake had killed three of his bodyguards without breaking a sweat, Hirschvogel looked to Kate for support.
“Tell me about the weapons in Istanbul,” Kate said.
Hirschvogel licked his lips nervously. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “I know nothing.”
“If you don’t know anything about them,” Kate said conversationally, “you’re not worth anything to me.”
“Balcony’s looking better and better all the time,” Jake said.
“What do you want to know?” Hirschvogel asked.
“I know you regularly supply Hasan with drugs that he sells to Mustafa in Istanbul,” Kate said. Her primary objective had been to shut down the supply route and break the bank of the terrorists Hirschvogel supplied. The man held a position as a mover and shaker in the black market with drugs and weapons. “Normally you sell drugs to Hasan, which he transports to Istanbul and sells again.”
“Yes,” Hirschvogel admitted. “You realize that you can’t try me here in the United States for that? I’ve committed no crime here.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Kate told him. In fact, she knew it wasn’t true. Hirschvogel sold merchandise everywhere there was a market.
“Are you with the government?” Hirschvogel asked.
Jake slapped him again.
Hirschvogel cursed, but tears of pain coursed down his cheeks.
“Where did you get the weapons?” Kate asked.
“American military shipments in Turkey,” Hirschvogel said. “A recent resupply. I arranged for it to go missing.”
“Not without help.”
Hirschvogel shrugged. “I have some contacts within the army’s civilian support agencies. I knew when the shipment would arrive by truck. I had a team take the weapons.”
Kate hadn’t heard anything about that, but no one liked admitting he’d been made a fool of. The United States military had their own investigative bodies. She made a mental note to go through channels and contact the army’s criminal-investigative division regarding the stolen shipment.
“Why did you sell them to Hasan?” she asked.
“I’d heard Mustafa was looking for weapons. Particularly American weapons.”
“Why?”
Hirschvogel glanced at Jake and flinched as he answered. “I don’t know.”
Jake didn’t move.
“He believes you,” Kate said. “So do I. But I’m going to need to know who your contacts were in the military.”
Hirschvogel scowled. The side of his face still glowed red from the slaps. “Those contacts have proven very expensive.”
“And profitable,” Kate said.
“Perhaps we could negotiate.”
“All right.” Kate folded her arms. “Give me the names of the men who helped you arrange the theft, and I won’t let my friend throw you over the balcony.”
Defeated, Hirschvogel gave her the names.
When he was finished, Kate nodded at Jake.
He took a spray from his pocket and squirted it into Hirschvogel’s face. The German tried not to breathe, obviously afraid of being poisoned, but the spray worked on mere contact, as well. He fought the effects of the drug, then his head slumped forward.
“Personally I think it would be better if I dropped him over the balcony,” Jake said. “Guy like this, he’s gonna be a problem somewhere down the line.”
“No,” Kate said. “We’ll let him run and keep a leash on him. Taking out Hasan and Mustafa will help shut down his organization, but there’s still a lot of information we can discover.”
She looked around the apartment to make sure they hadn’t left anything behind. Both of them were too professional for that. But always checking was part of being professional.
“Indigo, are we clear?” Kate asked.
“Affirmative. We show you clear.”
Kate left the apartment and headed for the elevator.
“What’s being done with the young woman driving the truck?” Jake asked.
“For the moment,” Kate said, “we’re going to let her run.”
“One of Red Team’s snipers could take her out. Even on the fly. Don’t have to kill her.”
“She’s MI-6. We have to check and see if they’ve got a play in place.”
“I’m thinking grabbing everybody at the buy would have been a good strategy,” Jake said.
“That’s where I would have done it,” Kate agreed.
“MI-6 doesn’t always get it right,” Jake commented.
“Nobody does. That’s why they have us.”
Jake chuckled. “They have us when they want to take the gloves off and throw the rulebook out the window.”
Kate smiled.
“So what if everything’s snafued in Istanbul?” Jake asked.
“We improvise.”
9
Istanbul
Desperate, Ajza ran through her options. If she drove the truck where Mustafa wanted it, she’d know where it was for a while, but she didn’t doubt that the weapons would be quickly moved. Or she could depend on her support team suddenly materializing and getting her out of the current situation. But it didn’t seem like that was about to happen.
She was sweltering in the growing heat of the day and had to work hard to keep the truck headed straight. The steering had a lot of play, which necessitated constant attention.
She didn’t like the possibility of parking the weapons somewhere and losing them. The question of who was going to be using them and for what purpose never left her mind. Over the past few years she’d seen firsthand the kind of carnage left by al-Qaeda and other terrorists.
“I could have driven the truck,” Fikret complained from the passenger side.
Ajza looked around and got her bearings. She was only a few blocks from the harbor. A desperate plan formed in her mind.
“All I needed was another chance,” Fikret went on. He glared at Ajza. “There’s nothing you can do that I can’t.”
Traffic came to a halt. Ajza studied the cross street ahead. It was one of the major ones. She was certain the harbor area was nearly a straight shot down it. At least, as straight a shot as the streets of the old city allowed.
“You should not have volunteered,” Fikret said. “You only did so to make me look bad.”
Ajza couldn’t be quiet any longer. “If you could have driven the truck, you would not have looked bad. If you had not volunteered, you would not have looked bad. You brought this on yourself.”
“I could have driven the truck. I only needed a little more time to figure out how to do it better.”
Slowly traffic started forward again. The sedan she was following powered through the intersection.
Gripping the wheel, knowing her next action would put her life on the line, Ajza turned right and jammed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The truck responded immediately. She swung out wide around the corner and momentarily crossed bumpers with a panel truck waiting in the oncoming lane. Metal grated as she broke free and kept going.
“What are you doing?” Fikret demanded. He held on to the door. “You weren’t supposed to turn.”
Ajza straightened the wheels and sped down the street. The heavy traffic looked problematic. She shifted gears and gained speed. A taxi stopped in front of her to pick up a fare. Ajza pulled to the left and narrowly avoided it. The truck’s bumper scraped the side of a car, setting off a cascade of car horns.
“Stop!” Fikret roared. “Stop the truck now!” He reached for the steering wheel.
Ajza grabbed the pistol from under her thigh and clubbed the big man in the face with it. Blood spouted from his nose and he drew back, cursing in pain and anger.
“Get out,” Ajza commanded. She pointed the pistol at him.
“What?”
“Get out of the truck.” Ajza glanced in the side mirrors and saw that the rest of the convoy were hot on her heels. They closed the gap rapidly.
Fikret didn’t move. He had one massive hand clamped to his nose. He reached for his rifle with the other.
Ajza fired her pistol and missed the big man’s head by inches. The bullet slammed into a building at the side of the street.
“Get out!” she shouted over the ringing din of the pistol report. “Or I put the next one through your head.”
Fikret swung the door open and turned to leap out. Fear held him frozen.
Ajza turned in the seat, raised a leg and shoved her foot hard between Fikret’s shoulder blades. He grunted as his breath left his lungs. He lost his grip on the door frame and tumbled out.
In the next instant the open door collided with a parked truck. The window shattered and glass fragments peppered the inside of the truck. The impact slammed the door shut with a metallic screech.
Ajza’s heart pounded as she looked at the side mirror. The two vehicles tailing her pulled up alongside. Their occupants, men with whom she had eaten dinner the night before, brandished guns. A couple of them fired their weapons, and bullets ricocheted from the truck’s cab and tore through the body.
Wrenching the wheel, Ajza slammed into the lead car. The truck’s greater bulk shoved the car sideways. The car plowed through an outdoor café, narrowly missing the few patrons sitting there with coffee and breakfast. The car crashed into the corner of the next building.
Ajza hoped that Nazmi wasn’t in the car. She liked him. She focused on her driving and spotted a police vehicle at the light ahead of her. Two police officers occupied the vehicle, but neither of them noticed the wreck Ajza left in her wake.
She tapped the brake and pulled to the left again. But she allowed her front bumper to scrape across the police vehicle’s back bumper. Although she’d tried to keep the collision to a minimum, the force spun the police car halfway around.
“All right,” Ajza said, glancing in the side mirror as she passed the police car, “come get me.”
The police car’s lights came on and the siren screamed to life. Two cars bearing Mustafa’s men roared past it.
Traffic became more difficult the closer she got to the harbor area. She braked and downshifted almost constantly to avoid smashing into vehicles. The truck’s transmission groaned as she kept up the pace. Bullets smacked into the truck’s rear.
Ajza’s gut twisted as she thought about the explosion waiting to erupt if anything especially potent in the crates got hit. She took evasive action, swinging wildly across the street to block the cars zooming up behind her.
She tried to push one of them into a nearby building, but the driver pulled back and she only rammed into the building herself. Something fell in the truck’s cargo area. Ajza waited for the detonation. Nothing happened.
Lying on the horn as she powered into the last intersection, she headed for the pier. She didn’t know where she was, but the broad expanse of gray-green water in front of her told her she’d reached the harbor. Ships and boats sat at anchorage.
The large cranes and forklifts marked the area as one of the commercial districts. Men dodged out of the way as she barreled through. Another blistering hail of bullets raked the back of the truck. The side mirror on her door suddenly shattered and flew away. The metal housing came loose and battered the door.
The truck roared across the pier. Ajza continued to lean on the horn. One man abandoned a forklift and left it in her path. She swerved and tried not to hit it full on.
The impact strained Ajza’s seat belt. The stiff material bit into the flesh of her hips and upper body. Crates in the back rushed forward and smashed against the cab.
Ajza screamed a curse. The forklift slid away in pieces and she continued down the pier. The right front tire pulled at the steering. The wobble told her that the collision had deflated the tire or ripped it to shreds. Her arms ached with the effort of holding the truck on course.
She aimed for the end of the pier and never lifted her foot from the accelerator. The image in the rearview mirror of Mustafa and the others bearing down on her guaranteed the lack of choice.
Ajza unfastened the seat belt and kept her foot on the accelerator. She prayed that God still watched over fools as the sounds of gunfire and police sirens filled her ears.
10
London
“She did not just do that,” tech support said in Samantha’s ear.
Samantha couldn’t believe the woman survived the collision with all the munitions in the back of the truck.
“That is one gutsy bird,” the head computer programmer said as he stared at the screen with a big grin. “I think I’m in love.”
They all stared at the screen as the truck and Ajza disappeared into the ocean.
“My God,” Samantha breathed.
“What?” Kate asked.
Knowing Kate lacked visual access while she left the apartment in New York, Samantha ignored the request for information for the moment.
“Later,” she said. “Red Team?”
“We’re here, Indigo.”
“Are you mobile?”
“Since the convoy started up.”
That was good, Samantha told herself. She looked at the lead computer operator. He nodded and tapped on a keyboard.
Almost immediately the satellite view split on the wall screen. One side stayed with the white-capped wake that remained from the truck’s plunge into the sea. The other shifted to a street scene. A yellow spotlight circled an SUV.
“Hold your position,” Samantha said.
“Did she make it?” the Red Team Leader asked.
“So far. Are you prepared for an exfiltration?”
“Affirmative. Red Team is ready to rock and roll. Especially for that hard-driving lady.”
Yanks, Samantha thought. All of them had showoff tendencies.
“If she survived, I’d like to try to get her home in one piece,” she said.
On the wall screen, she saw Mustafa’s men bring their vehicles to a halt. The police car slid in behind them, then realized their mistake when Mustafa’s gunners opened fire on them. The driver of the police car reversed and hastily backed away.
“The harbor roads stretch in two directions,” Samantha told the Red Team leader. “Once I see which direction she’s going to choose, I’ll let you know. We’ll coordinate the rendezvous from here.” Out of habit, she checked the time. Their window of opportunity was closing quickly.
“We can get out fast,” the lead computer tech said.
Samantha nodded and quickly brought Kate up to speed. “I’ve asked Red Team to try to pull her out of there.”
“I heard,” Kate replied. “I would have done the same thing.”
Samantha felt a little better about that. Room 59’s policies emphasized maintaining a low profile. At this point they hadn’t been exposed, but her decision would press that possibility.
But letting the brave young woman die needlessly put her off.
Come on, she thought, staring at the water as Mustafa’s men spread out along the pier and searched.
“How deep is the harbor?” Samantha asked.
“At this time of year in that location, twenty-seven feet,” tech support said.
More than enough depth to sink a truck, Samantha decided. She admired the young agent’s strategy. The chance of recovering some of the weapons intact remained, but not without getting caught by the local police.
The water remained relatively smooth. No one surfaced.
Come on, Samantha urged.
“I have her,” one of the female computer techs announced.
“Where?” Samantha shifted her gaze to the screen.
“That’s my girl,” the male computer operator said enthusiastically. “I really gotta give her props. You don’t meet many like her.”
“Don’t wee all over yourself in your excitement,” the other female said sarcastically.
“She’s here,” the first woman said.
On the screen, Samantha spotted Ajza Manaev hauling herself from the water. Unfortunately Mustafa’s men did, too. Ajza threw herself to the ground as bullets chopped into the ground only a few feet from her. Immediately Mustafa’s men took up pursuit, some of them on foot and others taking time to get back into the cars.
“Red leader,” Samantha said.
“Here,” the man replied.
“I’ve found her. So has the competition.”
“That’ll just make it more interesting.”
Samantha smiled slightly. She knew British soldiers who spoke just as cheekily, as if they were invincible. But there was something about that Yank accent that just sounded so certain.
“We’ll bring you to her,” he said.
Istanbul
BENT OVER and staying low to the ground, her fingertips grazing the hot pavement, Ajza ran. Bullets cut the air overhead and smashed into a vendor’s cart next to her. Spicy beef kebabs flew into the air and splattered to the ground. The young vendor screamed and ran for cover.
Ajza glanced over her shoulder. Mustafa’s gunmen—all of whom she knew by name—seemed split between chasing her on foot and climbing into cars. In her present shape, hurting and winded, eluding even the ones on foot might prove impossible.
She dashed through an opening in a chain-link fence and ran across the hot tarmac. She stayed behind vehicles and heavy equipment.
“Get down! Get down!” she ordered the dockworkers. When they didn’t move fast enough, she hauled her pistol from her waistband and waved it around. She waited to fire, not knowing if the water had completely cleared the barrel.
The dockworkers moved quickly, but they ran for their lives when bullets ripped through the chain-link fence and ricocheted off the cars and heavy equipment.
Only a short distance ahead of her, a young man straddled a motorcycle. Ajza ran toward him, rammed him in the back with an elbow and knocked him off the bike. She caught the motorcycle before it fell over—she didn’t know if she had the strength to right it if it went down. She shoved her pistol back into the waistband holster.
Hurrying, trying to remain calm, she threw a leg over the motorcycle, slammed the gearshift into low, twisted the throttle and let out the clutch. The rear tire grabbed traction at once and she shot forward. Bullets chased her, peppering vehicles and the road.
One of Mustafa’s cars braked ahead of her. Men spilled from the car and drew their weapons, taking aim at once.
Out of options, Ajza steered across the road, double-clutched and downshifted, then powered the motorcycle’s front tire into the air. She hit the road’s edge and went airborne.
Panic churned through her as she felt the heavy motorcycle fighting the jump. The ground came up faster than she anticipated. When she landed, she struggled for control and barely managed to keep the motorcycle upright as the rear tire churned through the loose earth. She threw her body violently to the side and managed to stay on.
Her knee, dropped far outside to aid in balance, struck the ground, the material of her pants ripping. The exposed flesh burned hotly. She didn’t know how badly she was hurt because the impact, after an initial burst of pain, made her knee go numb.
The drop hid her from the view of the gunners. For a moment she thought she’d lost them. Then she heard the racing engine paralleling her route and knew they hadn’t given up.
The soft ground of the slope Ajza drove over proved treacherous as loose soil tore free under the motorcycle’s tires. She nearly lost control twice and knew that the bike was too heavy for the off-road conditions. Desperate, she angled upward, hoping to somehow get by her pursuers.
A low-slung sedan roared out of nowhere and slammed into the car pursuing her. The collision forced the car off the road and it briefly sailed through the air over the embankment. A moment later the car landed in the trees and rolled. A man’s broken body tumbled from one of the windows.
Ajza hoped it wasn’t Nazmi just before thoughts of survival consumed her again. She steered up the embankment, standing on the pegs as the motorcycle bucked and heaved beneath her.
The car that had smashed Mustafa’s pursuit vehicle jerked into motion just as she passed it. Armed men sat inside, but none of them seemed interested in her.
A third party? Ajza couldn’t imagine anyone who would want to take part in the confrontation going on. Everything that existed to fight over was lying at the bottom of the harbor.
It might have been the MI-6 backup team she’d waited on.
They hadn’t identified themselves, though, and she couldn’t take that chance. She accelerated and raced through the motorcycle’s gears again. No one stayed with her this time. But she still didn’t feel safe.
11
London
“Okay,” Samantha said as she watched the motorcycle race back into the heart of the city, “she’s away.”
“Pretty resourceful,” Kate commented.
“I’d have to agree. We weren’t set up to deal with a cache of weapons.”
“And if you’d known for sure they were there?”
Samantha didn’t hesitate. “The only option we’d have had was the same one Ajza exercised.”
“I agree. If we’d thought of it as quickly. I have to admit, she was ahead of me. As you said, we weren’t set up to handle weapons.”
“Intel assured us that Mustafa doesn’t deal in weapons. We were there to target a drug shipment and take it out to disrupt the finances we’d uncovered.”
“I want to track down both ends of this operation,” Kate said. “Those were American weapons. They were a special order. I’ll handle things from this end. Maybe you could have someone take a look at Mustafa’s business and find out where those weapons were going. He’s not an end-user for something like that.”
“Agreed. Nor is he set up to piece a shipment like that off. He was acting as a middleman for a buyer.”
“I want to find out who that buyer is,” Kate said.
Samantha watched the car Red Team had used to run blocker for Ajza Manaev. The driver fought with the steering but finally got the vehicle back on solid ground. He drove away, but from the looks of the smoke billowing out from under the hood, the car wasn’t destined to go far.
“We have Red Team in the field,” Samantha said.
“How exposed are they?” Kate asked.
Samantha considered. “Provided they can get cleanly out of this, they should be fine.”
“Are there any undercover operatives among them?”
“No one we can put on the ground here.”
“What about local assets?” Kate asked. “Can we exploit those?”
“Yes. But we’re going to take a chance on burning them.”
“With Mustafa.”
“Yes.”
“When we’re finished here, let’s take Mustafa off the board,” Kate said.
Samantha was surprised by the decision. Kate Cochran didn’t casually order someone’s execution. Yet that was exactly what the Room 59 director had just done. “All right,” she said. She knew it was the right decision.
“Mustafa is too good at what he does,” Kate went on. “I don’t want to risk him expanding his business. His departure should trigger a power struggle that one of the intelligence agencies can take advantage of.”
“I think so, too. I know my agency will be interested in keeping an eye on things there.” Samantha consulted the wall screen again.
Turkish military vehicles had arrived on the scene. Fishermen, cargo handlers and tourists were all being pushed back from the area where the truck had gone into the water. Another group converged on the wrecked car Red Team had taken out.
“Are you ready to wrap this?” Kate asked.
“Yes.”
“Get a report to me immediately. Let’s work through debrief quickly and establish the next leg of this project.”
“Will do.” Samantha cut Kate out of the communication loop. Then she contacted Red Team and ordered them to pull back, too. “Where’s Manaev?”
“She headed back into the city,” the lead computer-tech support answered. “We lost her in the crowd.”
Smart girl, Samantha thought. “Support?”
“Yes.”
“Get me a full background and a deep jacket on Ajza Manaev. I want it at my workstation in an hour.”
“I’ll have it there.”
Samantha turned to the computer crew on-site. “Box it up.”
Quickly and efficiently, the computer crew stowed their gear back in the protective cases. In minutes it was like they’d never been there.
“Do you think she’ll get out of Istanbul all right?” the lead computer specialist asked when they reached the sidewalk outside.
Samantha looked at the man and smiled a little. “Smitten?”
He shrugged. “She’s pretty brill. Gotta give her that. I thought that bloody lot had her a couple of times.”
“But they didn’t.”
The man frowned. “I’ve worked ops where things didn’t turn out so well.”
Samantha had, too. “As talented as she is, she’ll have a bolt-hole.”
“Even if her mates didn’t show up to cover her back?”
“When you’re out in the field,” Samantha replied, “you always keep two escape plans. One that your handlers know about and another that no one knows about.”
The man nodded. “Hope so. Well, then, we’re off.” He grinned. “Thanks again for another exciting time.”
“You, too,” Samantha said. She turned and walked into the shadows. Stifling a yawn, she reflected on the fact that she wasn’t going to get any sleep.
By the time she put the car in gear and pulled out onto the street, she was already organizing her report to Kate Cochran in her head.
12
Istanbul
Mustafa stared at the bloody man sitting in the straight-backed chair in the center of the shipping container on the dock. A single battery-operated light hung over the man’s head, but the angle left the man’s face in shadows. His rasping breath filled the close confines of the container.
“Someone leaked information about the transaction I had a few days ago,” Mustafa said.
“It wasn’t me,” the wounded man gasped. “Please, please, it wasn’t me.”
“Only a handful of people knew what we were doing that morning. You were one of those, Hamid.”
“I only did as you ordered.”
“You handled the money,” Mustafa said. “You knew who I was dealing with and when I was going to do the deal.”
The man cried. His shoulders jerked as the hoarse sobs tore from his dry throat. Bloody drool dripped onto his shirt. Two broken teeth caught the light and gleamed on his chest.
“I would not betray you,” the man insisted.
“You would do anything for money. Even sell your own mother.” Mustafa knew that because he was no different.
“Please. I beg you. I did not betray you.”
Mustafa sighed. He knew that discovering how the transaction was sabotaged was a long shot, but he’d felt compelled to try it. The immediate avenue to explore was the financial one. He was confident Hasan wouldn’t have betrayed him.
“I have lost the weapons and my money,” Mustafa said. It wasn’t all his money, of course. His buyer had put up half the amount, but if things went badly and the man didn’t understand the circumstances, Mustafa would have to pay that back, as well.
“I did not cause that to happen.”
“Sadly, my friend, I believe you.”
The man raised his head tentatively. Hope dawned in his swollen eyes. He made an immense effort to smile, but the result looked forced and false.
“We are friends, Mustafa. I have told you this many times. What is good for you is good for me.” The man’s mouth and jaw barely worked after the beating, but he tried to fill his words with sincerity.
“I know. We have had a satisfactory arrangement. You’re very skilled. I hate the thought of losing you.”
“But you don’t have to lose me. I will still work for you.” Fear drowned the hope in the man’s gaze.
“I believe you,” Mustafa said. “For a while, perhaps. But you’ve been badly beaten, Hamid. Soon, too soon, you will desire your pound of flesh for all that I have put you through. It is only human. Were I in your shoes, I would do the same.”
The man shook his head desperately. “That’s not true. I understand why you did this to me.”
“One day you will not feel so understanding.” Mustafa took a breath and gestured to one of the men standing beside him. The man handed him a slim black pistol. “Also, until I find the person truly responsible for my loss, I have to let others know that I am no fool. And that I will not suffer betrayal easily.”
“Please, Mustafa. I beg you. Don’t do this.” The man wept openly now. His voice shrilled.
“I must. Someone must be punished. Even if it’s not the right person. I have to kill someone.” Mustafa pointed the silenced pistol at the man’s head. “But I will miss you. I also promise you that I will kill whoever is responsible for your death.”
Hamid tried to jerk in the chair, but it was bolted to the floor and the rope bound him too tightly.
Mustafa shot the prisoner in the face. The round didn’t kill Hamid immediately, and Mustafa had to shoot the man twice more to get the job done.
“Clean this up,” Mustafa said to the men as he handed the pistol back. “Leave his body where it can be found.”
MUSTAFA PUNCHED numbers on his cell phone while he sat in the luxury of his private car. Two bodyguards sat with him and the driver. Bulletproof glass made the night outside the windows seem darker. Despite the additional weight of the armor, the sedan rode low and smooth and moved powerfully.
The connection rang twice.
“Yes,” a deep voice with a Russian accent answered.
“I have found our leak,” Mustafa announced. Later, when he found the true leak, he could simply claim that person had acted in collusion with Hamid.
“That’s good, but it’s too late to save my shipment. This is a big disappointment to me.”
Mustafa held back a curse. He couldn’t blame the other man for feeling as he did, but he still didn’t want to carry the blame.
“I’m hoping to replace your shipment very soon,” Mustafa said. “As a matter of fact, I have leads now that should—”
“No.”
Mustafa controlled his anger, fear and frustration. He wasn’t used to being told no. “I don’t understand.”
“Your services are no longer required.”
That wasn’t what Mustafa wanted to hear. He wasn’t a domestic servant who could be casually dismissed. He silently cursed his bad luck and promised a horrible death to whoever had betrayed him.
“Don’t be hasty. You’re not going to find anyone else who can deliver the goods you need.”
“It’s already been arranged.”
Mustafa tried to think of something to say.
“I want the money that I gave you in advance,” the man said.
“I have already given the money to my contact,” Mustafa said.
“Then get it back from him.”
“He blames me for the loss of the goods.”
“As do I.”
Mustafa hardened his voice. “We all risked in this venture. The loss should be shared.”
“The loss should never have happened. Because I know that you have suffered a hardship, I will give you ten days to get my money back to me.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I hope, for your sake, that getting the money back to me isn’t impossible.”
“I can’t do it in ten days.” Mustafa’s first recourse in any money matter was to buy more time. After a little more time, he was certain he could renegotiate the deal—or at least pass his losses on to others. His driver suddenly swerved to the right. The bodyguard seated beside Mustafa pulled his sidearm. On the left side of the car, a truck sped forward and slammed into them. Mustafa’s driver cursed as the car wobbled, then cursed again as the truck in front of them suddenly stopped. The sedan driver applied his brakes, but it was no use. The sedan slammed into the back of the truck.
“Get us out of here!” Mustafa bellowed. “That was no accident.”
His driver tried to get away, but there was no room to maneuver.
Three men bailed out of the truck. They carried stubby submachine guns and moved professionally.
“Now!” Mustafa shouted.
The bodyguard beside him raised his pistol.
“Do not shoot,” Mustafa ordered. “That’s bulletproof glass. The ricochet will hit us.”
The man held the pistol ready all the same.
Frantic, Mustafa’s driver shoved the car into reverse. The car bucked and moved back a foot or so.
Headlights suddenly flared in the back window as another vehicle roared up from behind. Mustafa stared helplessly and held on to his cell phone. He disconnected from the Russian and punched in another number as the third vehicle smashed into his sedan and drove it into the stopped truck.
Mustafa’s head jerked painfully. He told himself that everything would be all right. The car was armor-plated and protected enough to save him until help arrived.
The driver struggled with the wheel and shifted gears. He was trapped, unable to go forward or backward. Rubber shrilled on the street.
The bodyguard on the passenger side tried to open his door, but it moved outward only a few inches before being blocked by the wall. He barely got his hand and pistol out.
“Shut the door,” Mustafa said. “We’ll be safe in here. This car was designed to withstand a tank round.” He didn’t know if that was true, but the man who sold him the car had claimed that. It felt good to remind himself of that now.
The three men outside stopped. Two men flanked the third as he removed a high-powered, battery-operated drill from a canvas bag he carried. Without a word, he placed the drill bit against the bulletproof glass, pulled up the safety goggles hanging around his neck and initiated the drill.
The bit chewed smoothly through the glass. Setting the drill back into the bag, the man took out a canister attached to a rubber hose. He threaded the rubber hose through the hole created by the drill. In the next instant, liquid propelled by compressed air filled the sedan’s interior.
The sweet, unmistakable aroma of gasoline filled Mustafa’s nostrils. On the other side of the bulletproof glass, the man flipped open a lighter and ignited the flame. The yellow and blue fire danced.
“Wait!” Mustafa shouted, pressing his face against the window. “We need to talk!”
“Speak English,” the man said in that tongue.
Mustafa’s hopes rose. If the men were willing to talk, there was room for negotiation. At least it would allow his other security team to arrive.
“Can’t we make a deal?” he pleaded.
The man waited a moment, as if processing the offer. “I want your phone.”
Mustafa hesitated. The lighter flame danced but didn’t waver. The smell of gasoline grew stronger.
“All right,” he agreed. The phone contained a lot of information that might prove damaging to him, but he had no doubt the man would kill him if he didn’t hand it over.
Mustafa lowered the window a little over an inch. He didn’t want the man to just shoot him out of hand. He slid the cell phone through the space.
The man plucked the phone from his fingertips and shoved it into a pocket.
“That’s what you wanted, right?” Mustafa said. “The phone?”
“No,” the man said. The headlights of the truck behind the sedan revealed the man’s features. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed with a chiseled jaw.
Realizing what the man intended to do, Mustafa grabbed the pistol from his bodyguard’s hand and tried to shove the barrel through the space.
Without flinching from Mustafa’s pistol, the man touched the flame to the hole in the bulletproof window. The gasoline vapor and liquid caught fire at once.
Horrified, Mustafa watched as the flames spread over his arm, then crawled along the seat and covered his body. The liquid whoosh of the accelerant’s ignition filled his ears. Then he felt the painful charring of his flesh.
Abandoning his efforts to shoot the man, Mustafa gripped the lock release and tried to open the door. The man outside the car leaned against the door and jammed it.
“No!” Mustafa howled. He drew in his breath, sucking in the gasoline vapor, and the flames crawled inside him. Death claimed him almost at once.
13
Kate looked at the glowing icon on her notebook computer screen and pressed it.
Immediately a videophone link opened up and revealed Samantha on the other end of the connection. The call was heavily encrypted.
“I got the notice that you wanted to speak to me.” Curiosity showed in Samantha’s dark gaze.
Kate leaned back in her chair. “We’ve had some developments.”
“I heard Mustafa was killed by a rival. Burned in his car,” Samantha said.
Kate didn’t like thinking about that. The man’s death had been horrible, but she wasn’t going to second-guess an agent’s work in the field. Especially not when it concerned a murderer like Mustafa.
“More than that,” Kate said. “Have you heard of a man named Mayrbek Taburova?”
“No. Should I have?”
“MI-6 seems to have been poking around in his business over the last few years.” Kate tapped the keyboard. “I’m sending you some files. Overview for the moment. But I’ll be sending more-developed records to you later.”
“I assume I’m going to get to know a lot more about Taburova,” Samantha said.
“We all are.” Kate entered the last necessary keystroke and sent the document package she’d pieced together.
Instantly the open frame containing Samantha’s face pushed over to the side of the large plasma monitor. An image of a man with a square jaw took shape. His blue eyes showed cruelty, but his full lips promised passion. He wore his dark hair swept backward, and it curled slightly over his ears and at the back of his neck. Dressed in a dark blue turtleneck and a gray shooting jacket, he carried a shotgun over his shoulder and stood in an open field.
“Intriguing,” Samantha said. “Looks like a poster boy of some kind.”
“He is,” Kate agreed. “According to the intel I’ve received, Taburova is one of the current leaders of the Chechen rebels. He’s lost an eye since this picture was taken.”
“I thought we’d agreed to stay out of that nasty bit of business for the time being.”
“We had. Fighting a civilian war in the Russian Caucasus Mountains would be impossible. Russian military forces haven’t had much luck with that.”
“So why are we interested in Taburova?”
“Because Mustafa bought those weapons for Taburova,” Kate said.
“American weapons?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make much sense.”
“I thought we’d take a longer look at him and his involvement in this.”
Samantha frowned. “That seems like something we—or another intelligence agency—should have known.”
“Someone may have. Taburova was one of the founding members of the Islamic International Peacekeeping Brigade.”
“You say peacekeepers. I say terrorists.”
Kate nodded. “Some of the intel I have states that Taburova was with one of the leaders when he was ambushed and killed.”
“I suppose he carries a grudge,” Samantha said.
“Since the ambush, Taburova has stayed out of sight, but sources believe Taburova has moved higher in the hierarchy of separatists,” Kate said. “We’ve tied Taburova to Mustafa and the weapons. I know that Mustafa got the payment from straw banks in Russia.” Kate tapped the keyboard, flashing image after image to Samantha.
Several images passed by. They were taken by Russian agents and military sources, and all of them showed Taburova in action. The man obviously had a charmed life. A number of times he’d been in the thick of battle with men lying dead all around him. Those images, Kate knew, were the kind that created legends and heroes.
“What was Taburova going to do with the weapons?” Samantha asked. “Why not give information anonymously to the Russians and let them handle it?”
“Taburova managed to move millions of dollars through Russian banks without their security service knowing about it. I’d like to know what else they’re unaware of,” Kate said.
Samantha remained quiet for a moment. “It goes against agency protocol to discuss information with anyone not directly involved in mission parameters.”
“Yes,” Kate said.
“I think we can both agree that I’m not qualified to send in-field into Moscow,” Samantha said.
“This would be into the Caucasus Mountains ultimately.”
“Even more reason not to go. So, you have me curious. What do you have in that devious mind?”
“I want a better look at Taburova, and I want to take a better look at Ajza Manaev.”
“Manaev? Why?”
“For possible recruitment,” Kate said.
Samantha arched an eyebrow. “I can see the attraction. She thinks quickly on her feet, doesn’t get easily put off her game, and she keeps her eyes on the mission.”
“That bit of work sabotaging the weapons without backup impressed me,” Kate admitted.
“It impressed me, too. I’ve already had her files pulled.”
“Great minds think alike.”
Samantha smiled a little. “I also happen to think that her reaction was risky and far too violent. She was like a bull in a china shop.”
“She got the job done.”
“And wreaked havoc with the civilians.”
“Have you had time to review her file?” Kate asked.
“Not thoroughly. Too many other things have interfered, I’m afraid.”
“Manaev had a brother who was also an intelligence agent.” Kate brought up the young man’s picture.
Ilyas Manaev had dirty-blond hair and blue eyes. Dark stubble on his lower jaw. His mouth looked too wide for his face, and his features were too regular to make him stand out in a crowd. He was almost instantly forgettable. It was a good trait for a field operative.
“Had?” Samantha repeated.
“Ilyas is dead. He died in Moscow while on a mission.”
“Who did he belong to?” Samantha asked.
“MI-6. The same as his sister.”
“Family business?”
“No. From what I gather, their parents have no idea about the careers their children chose.”
“You don’t exactly come home from college and tell your parents you’ve become a spy. At least, I didn’t,” Samantha said.
“No.” Kate returned Samantha’s smile. “There’s something in the rules about that.” She paused. “The interesting thing is that Ilyas was killed in Moscow a couple of years ago.”
“What was he doing there?”
“Spying on the Chechen rebels for MI-6.”
Samantha took a measured breath and let it out. “Does Ajza Manaev know this?”
“I find it hard to believe that she wouldn’t know,” Kate said.
“Who killed her brother?”
Kate shook her head. “I don’t have an answer for that one.”
“It was either the Russians or the rebels.”
“Or someone who was suspicious or jealous of him. Personal lives develop while out in the field, as well,” Kate said.
Samantha paused for a long moment. “I don’t think you should even entertain the notion of sending Ajza into this.”
“I thought you’d feel that way, but she’s a good bet, Samantha. Her parents were from Chechnya.”
“Only just. They moved to Britain when they were in their early twenties.”
Kate didn’t miss the fact that Samantha used Ajza’s first name. Evidently she’d already developed something of a fondness for the young agent.
“According to the background I’m looking at,” Kate said, “Ajza Manaev speaks the language. So did her brother. They know the old ways of the culture.”
“Probably one of the reasons MI-6 shoved Ilyas over into Russia.”
“Yes.”
“If someone made her brother while he was on assignment there,” Samantha said, “they could just as easily make Ajza.”
“I hope they don’t. And we’ve got an agent in place who should be able to help out. If he’s needed. He’s spent time in Chechnya as a soldier. He knows the terrain and the people.”
“Ajza’s young.”
“All the best operatives are. You know that. An experienced agent is usually one who’s also known to the opposition.”
“I know.”
That was one of the hard-core truths about espionage. Only the young ones remained truly invisible out on the playing field. Their greatest vulnerability, their inexperience, was also their greatest asset. Unfortunately when the assets no longer helped, that lack of experience got agents killed.
Samantha returned Kate’s level gaze with her own. “You want me to bring her in.”
“Let’s keep an eye on her for a few days,” Kate said. “Give her a few days of downtime while I try to find some leverage we can use. Then if the situation warrants, we’ll bring her in and see what she has to say.”
Samantha nodded. “Let me know when you want me to make contact.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Kate touched the screen and broke the connection.
Turning her attention to her files, Kate ran through the operations Room 59 was currently working on and the ones in development. They were stretched thin.
But we’re making a difference, she told herself, and clung to that. She struggled not to think of the young woman and how she’d lost her brother, or the fact that—if everything went as planned—she’d soon be asking her to step into harm’s way.
She opened Mayrbek Taburova’s file again and stared at the picture of the man. A cold shiver ran up Kate’s spine as she studied the blue eyes. They belonged to a predator. She had no doubt about that.
14
Grozny
When the explosion sounded, Mayrbek Taburova threw himself against the apartment-building wall and reached into his jacket for his pistol. Hunkered against the building, he drew strength from the solid stone. It had stood against such explosions in the past, and there was no reason to believe it would do otherwise in this instance.
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Cliff Ryder
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Шпионские детективы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Espionage takes to the twenty-first-century playing fields, where rules are broken–and remade–outside the reach of governments and the law. Agents recruited for the clandestine organization known as Room 59 play hard, play for keeps…or die trying. But now new Room 59 agent Ajza Manaev, a top MI-6 operative, discovers just how high the stakes really are when she goes undercover inside Chechnya′s terrorist training camps, where bitter young widows harness their hate as suicide bombers. Ajza doesn′t know she′s being manipulated by many sides of a deadly game. Her mysterious Room 59 handler has his own agenda, while the secret, silent mastermind behind a global destabilization plot hopes to push Ajza′s loyalties to the breaking point. And in a game where the ground is always shifting, Ajza is inducted by hellfire into Room 59′s harsh reality: she′s on her own.