Days of Rage (14 page)

A
kinbo hung up the phone and studied the instructions the Russian had given him. He ran his fingers down a tourist map, tracing the road from his hotel and seeing it was close to a mile away. A long way to walk, but finding a taxi from here would be difficult, something he’d learned yesterday.

After eight hours traveling the Bulgarian and Turkish countryside, he’d arrived in Istanbul near midnight, only to find it might take him longer than that to go the short distance to his hotel, with not a soul speaking English once the bus stopped. He’d exited through the metro platform and been assaulted by the general chaos, a throbbing mass of people competing with bleating vehicle horns for attention even at that late hour.

He’d eventually found a taxi driver that at least pretended to speak English and presented an address to a hotel in the Kadirga district. They’d set out and Akinbo had prayed that he wasn’t getting primed for a robbery. After thirty minutes, he’d complained, demanding to know their location, and the driver reassured him, pointing vaguely through the windshield, saying, “Two minutes. Two minutes.”

Traveling down a narrow street with barely enough room for a single car, he was dropped off in front of a tired, crumbling brick building on the European side of the Bosphorus Strait. As they pulled up to the hotel, his mind shifted from nefarious actions of the cabdriver to the general dilapidation of the surrounding area. He was clearly in a district with little wealth, and he worried about his mission. He wondered why his spiritual advisor had recommended this place. He was on the verge of telling the cabbie to continue moving when he saw two men exit, both of African descent.

He’d decided to stay. At the front desk he’d learned that the area was filled with African illegals looking to springboard into Europe. It was the perfect place to disappear, but not the easiest to find a taxi on the spur of the moment. He’d be forced to walk to his meeting, but that was fine by him. He wanted to get out and explore.

He would have worried about leaving his belongings in the room, as it was spartan to say the least, with a simple knob lock on a flimsy door, but he had nothing to steal. He’d left all of that in Bulgaria, fleeing like a rat from a supposed boogeyman out to get him. The thought still aggravated him.

The meeting spot was adjacent to a large section on the map labeled
GRAND
BAZAAR
, and he assumed it was a shopping area. He left the hotel much earlier than necessary, intent on spending the Russian’s money on some new clothes.

Going north on the narrow street, the walk was steadily uphill, the buildings of three and four stories on either side adorned with clothes hanging to dry and satellite television dishes. They crowded right up to the street, forcing him to hop into doorways to allow traffic to pass. In short order he was winded, the hill stretching inexorably in front of him, never ending, the road winding to and fro, branching off into alleys like the roots of a tree.

He continued north until he broke out of the cloistered neighborhood into a shopping district. He crossed a four-lane road with a tram rail in the middle, the boulevard lined with modern retail stores and restaurants. He passed a metro stop and saw a string of buses near what appeared to be a cluster of awnings. He vectored toward them and found himself outside a stone portal leading to the Grand Bazaar, which, true to its name, appeared to sell everything from jewelry to clothes.

He entered and spent thirty minutes wandering the maze, looking to replenish his wardrobe but not wanting to purchase a belly-dancing costume. He passed a grill, the smell of the Turkish kabobs making his stomach grumble and reminding him of how long it had been since his last meal. He checked his phone to see if he had time and was startled to see how long he’d been roaming inside. His shopping would have to wait. He’d been late once and didn’t want to repeat the displeasure he’d experienced at the hands of the old Russian.

Using a cheap tourist map, he pressed through the bazaar, trying to find the northern gate numbered sixteen. Just outside of it, on a street called Tigcilar, was a café where he was to meet his Russian contact, but he was beginning to realize that locating the gate wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be. In his village in Nigeria, the directions the Russian had given him would have been easy to follow, but now he understood he’d made a mistake. This place was a nightmare of confusing alleys and streets.

He bumped into what he thought was the northern side and found a gate. The number on the stone was nineteen. He looked at his tourist map, seeing he’d marched all the way across to the eastern side, covering the entire bazaar and missing his gate to the north. He spun the map around, disoriented, sure he was wrong.

He glanced around for something to identify, and saw the same view stretched out before him, like two mirrors had been placed across from each other, showing an endless row of merchants selling goods. He felt the first tendrils of anxiety. Every alley looked like the alley before it, every stall looked like the stall next to it. There was nothing to anchor against to find his way.

He raced in a direction he thought was north, eventually hitting another wall and seeing the exit number fourteen. Across a shopping lane of leather goods was a stairwell leading up and what looked like a minbar—the pulpit of a mosque—attached to the wall.

The sight gave him pause.
An anchor
. He went toward it, then up the stairs, his speed increasing with each step. He found a shoe shelf at the top. It
was
a mosque.

He removed his shoes and entered. He stopped the first person he could find, the man looking alarmed at Akinbo’s black skin and nervous manner. Akinbo gave a traditional Arabic greeting, and the man relaxed. Akinbo said something in English, his Arabic exhausted, and the man shook his head. Akinbo showed him his map and pointed to the location of gate sixteen. The man smiled and motioned for him to follow.

T
he Turk walked through the maze of the bazaar at a good clip, dodging pedestrians and slipping between booths to access the hidden lanes behind. Akinbo kept up, recognizing the stalls he had passed earlier in his wandering for the mythical gate sixteen. In seconds, they were in front of a stone portal, sunshine spilling through and competing with the artificial lighting of the bazaar. Outside was nothing more than a narrow brick lane leading away, congested with pallets, buckets, and sidewalk vendors on each side. The man pointed above them and Akinbo saw Turkish words next to the numeral for sixteen.

He thanked the Turk profusely, then took off at a trot, looking for the small outdoor café. He passed some food stalls, but nothing he would call a café. He hit an intersection and stopped, debating. Alleys led off left and right, both only wide enough for a motorcycle, the walls lined with boxes and stinking of garbage left too long in the sun. He considered asking someone else for help when his phone rang.

He answered and heard a voice he didn’t recognize, but the accent was unmistakable.
Russian
.

“Where are you?”

“I’m outside the bazaar. Outside gate sixteen, just like instructed. Trying to find the café, but it’s not on this street.”

“Did you pass a mosque?”

Too late, Akinbo remembered the detail he’d overlooked. “Not yet.”

“Then keep moving down the street.”

Akinbo heard the contempt come through louder than the instructions. In thirty seconds he passed the mosque on his right. He saw tables ahead, and picked up his pace. He reached a restaurant with an interior the size of a large closet, holding only three tables, the rest of the room overtaken by cooking appliances. In the corner a man carved lamb off of a rotating spit.

He swiveled about and noticed that the majority of seating was outside, in an area fenced off by rough lumber that had been painted to look like ancient wood. The section stretched thirty feet left and right of the door, with three tables on either side.

A Caucasian man sat at the table farthest away, staring at him. There was an open newspaper on the table and a jacket draped over the back of his chair.
The meeting signal.
But he didn’t recognize the man. It wasn’t the old Russian. This person was much younger and fit. The man picked up a cell phone and dialed, still looking at him. Akinbo felt his phone vibrate. He answered, keeping his eyes on the Caucasian.

“What are you waiting on? Come here.”

He did so. When he reached the table he said, “I was looking for the older man.”

“You were told to look for a signal, not a man. If the man you’d met before had been here there would have been no need for a signal. Not only are you late, but you can’t seem to follow simple instructions.”

Akinbo bristled and said, “Who are you, and where is the old man? I don’t like being tricked.”

“You may call me Jarilo. I’m the one who will facilitate the meeting. The ‘old man,’ as you call him, is not able to meet without drawing the attention of others. I’ll be his go-between. As for being tricked, you’ll meet here again, using the same signals. That man will also be someone you don’t know. That’s why we sent you here today. Practice. And it looks like it was necessary.”

“Why won’t you be here?”

“I have my reasons, but that’s irrelevant. The man will give you further instructions on where to get the weapon, what precautions are necessary, and how it can be detonated. We believe it’s an artillery shell, but we’re not sure. After he has passed his information, call me. I will meet you and we will discuss what he said.”

“What about my target? Where am I going with the weapon?”

“That depends on a lot of factors. We’ll discuss after you talk to the man. Remember, tomorrow’s meeting is after dark. Will that cause you problems? Can you still find this place?”

“Yes. Of course I can. I’m not stupid.”

Akinbo received a patronizing smile for the comment. “Okay. Do not be late tomorrow. The man you are meeting will not have your phone number, and will not be as accommodating as I have been. He’ll leave.”

Akinbo nodded.

“One other thing. Tomorrow morning, at ten, I want you to call your group.”

He passed across a folded sheet of paper. “Tell them what’s written here verbatim. Do not, under any circumstance, tell them anything but what is on that paper.”

Akinbo read it and saw it was for another meeting, the day after tomorrow, at a different place and time.

“Why? What’s this about? I was told I couldn’t use this phone to contact them. The old man told me that specifically because of the Americans.”

“He’s changed his mind, but it
is
because of the Americans.”

Akinbo started to say something else when Yuri cut him off, passing across another cell phone. “Make that call and keep the phone on you. This cell is now the new operational phone. You understand what that means? ‘Operational phone’?”

“Yes. No calling friends.”

Yuri nodded at him and said, “That’s right. Only call us on that phone. Go. You have your instructions. Don’t worry about why. Let us do the worrying.”

Akinbo rose without another word.

 • • • 

Yuri watched Akinbo’s back until he turned the corner, then dialed Vladimir.

“It didn’t go as well as we’d hoped. Akinbo is not trained nor prepared for operational work. He showed up late, then ignored the bona fides. Are you sure you don’t want me here for the meeting?”

“No, for the same reasons I’m only leaving the consulate for coffee. The Turks know my position in the FSB, so anyone I meet in public will be connected to me as a person of interest. I have no idea how competent the Syrian is, but he’s also an intelligence operative. He might be known to MIT as well. If so, I don’t want them linking to you. Akinbo is a risk we have to take. If he gets picked up, so be it.”

Yuri said, “Okay, sir. But I’d recommend letting my team cover the site. Just to watch. Provide countersurveillance.”

Yuri heard nothing but the hoarse rattle of Vlad’s breath, the strangled wheeze making him involuntarily want to cough. Finally, Vlad said, “Okay. That makes sense. But loosely. Just observe for our protection, not theirs. Did you tell him about the call?”

“Yes, sir. He’ll do it, I’m sure. My only worry is that he won’t stick to the script, and instead tell other savages what’s really going on.”

“Doesn’t matter. If he talks about the real meeting there’s no way the Americans can react in time. They’re still in Bulgaria, floundering for a lead. They’ll take the bait and be at the second meeting. They can’t help it. It’s their nature. And true to your nature, you will kill them.”

T
he hose jetted water, splashing the sidewalk in a tepid spray, but Bekir Kemal wondered if what was coming out was any cleaner than the splattered mess he was attempting to clean. The leftovers of a dead bird, or maybe the vomit of a drunk passerby, it needed to be removed before the nighttime rush came in for a meal.

As he had every day for the past two years, he’d come to the small café grateful to have work. Three years out of the university, he, like many young people around the world, couldn’t find a job equal to the degree he held. He didn’t mind, with the exception of wearing the ridiculous Turkish costume. Being near the tourist magnet of the Grand Bazaar had its hazards. Even so, others who had graduated with him were literally wondering where their next meal would come from.

He doused the pavement with the fetid water, then scrubbed the offending stain with a push broom. It did no good. He quit, aggravated, knowing he’d have to use a wire brush on his hands and knees. Disgusted at the thought.

The head cook—which is to say the only cook—shouted at him from inside, amused at the dilemma. Bekir leaned through the door and aimed the hose, as if he was about to unleash the foul water on the interior tables. The cook held up his hands, blubbering something to get him to stop.

He lowered the hose, and they both laughed. A small bit of camaraderie on a tiny street at a café that had struggled to survive every minute it had been open. One more night in an endless parade of them, each as mundane as the one before. The sun began to set, and the shadows grew longer.

Bekir had had ideas of grandeur while in school. Thoughts of changing the world, of being the next Kemal Atatürk. Those dreams had buoyed him through college, as it had for all of his university friends. Now, as a busboy with a college degree, he understood it was nothing more than an expensive myth. His place in life was limited, as was that of everyone else he knew. He would do no grand thing. He believed he was just an ant on a cog of the giant machine called earth, one of the thousands of little people who had no capacity to alter the course of human events.

He was wrong.

As he and the cook prepared for the rush of nighttime patrons, a mind-numbing task they had both done for years, they had no way of knowing that their little café was about to become ground zero for actions that had the potential to alter the balance of power among nation-states on a global scale.

Opening a caustic bottle of liquid soap that wouldn’t be allowed to see the light of day in the west, Bekir splashed the stain. He knew the film he created was dangerous to leave unattended, as he’d slipped more than once using it, but it would also save him some elbow grease. He told the cook he was going to let it soak for a bit, but that he would have it up before the nighttime crowds.

He dribbled a thin line out, then decided more was better, dumping half of the container onto the street, coating the offending blemish. He watched the tendrils of soap seek lower ground, crossing the road to the shop across the way. He feared the storekeep would complain, forcing him to clean it up before it had done its job.

The merchant would not, and Bekir would have patrons much earlier than was customary, preventing him from fulfilling the promise he’d told the cook. It wouldn’t be until later, after the smell of cordite had disappeared and the bodies had been removed, that Bekir would remember the soap he’d spilled on the street.

 • • • 

My earpiece chirped early, startling me. I maintained my stone face for anyone who might be watching, listening as Jennifer relayed that she had eyes on Chiclet. Hearing the words, I worked hard to keep the grin off of my face. I believed that we’d eventually find him, but I was in the minority. Knuckles and Kurt both thought chasing Chiclet was a waste of time, but I didn’t see it that way. As long as we were sitting around waiting on the trigger of the thumb drive mission, I was willing to give it a go. Turbo and Radcliffe demanded it.

There was a risk that whoever was protecting Chiclet would recognize Jennifer, but I didn’t think that would happen. As far as they knew, she was dead, having fallen off a cliff and exploded in a ball of fire.

Even so, she’d dyed her hair brunette and wore contacts that changed her gray eyes to a mundane brown. To add to the mix, I’d paired her up with Decoy instead of myself, the teammate Knuckles had given me. The two together projected a different signature, but truthfully, my greatest fear at this point was Decoy himself.

He was a notorious man-whore, and I wasn’t sure he could conduct a mission profile with Jennifer on his arm without becoming focused on her other “assets.” He was solid in a gunfight, about as good as I’d ever seen, but he’d been partial to Jennifer since I’d known him. Always making lewd comments and coming on to her. Which, I’m sure, was why Knuckles had given him to me. A way to get a little payback after the last videoconference with Kurt.

I’d acquiesced to the new chain of command, and things had been awkward for about thirty minutes, but I’d finally convinced Knuckles that I was good with it, let him have the helm, and begun working the hacking cell like Kurt had said I could.

Using the ISP in the e-mail header, we found out that the e-mail from Chiclet had been sent from an Internet provider for the Turkish Metro bus line, so I knew my instincts had been correct. He had fled.

While they worked for more information, Knuckles alerted our pilots and we drove back to Sofia, intent on flying to Istanbul for the stupid thumb drive mission. Kurt had also sent over the intelligence that was so controversial, but in my mind it was just a bunch of shit from the dustbin of history. Who really cared today about Black September in 1972? So the Russians had facilitated the murder of Israelis and we’d known in advance. That was worth all the hubbub? It was like reading the conspiracy theories about the grassy knoll: interesting to a select few, but old news to everyone else. Well, in my mind, anyway.

By the time we got to the plane, the hacking cell had necked down the MAC address of the Wi-Fi Chiclet had used. It was a mobile router on an actual bus. Something that worked on the cell towers but translated as a Wi-Fi hot spot to the passengers. I gave them orders to locate which vehicle, hoping that buried in the web architecture of the bus company was some sort of inventory that the hacking cell could find. Basically, neck down that mobile router X was located in bus Y. From there, I could find out where bus Y was headed.

We’d taken off for Istanbul, and by the time we’d landed, they had an answer. Well, they had a bus number. It took me about thirty minutes of calling the Metro bus line before I finally reached a person that spoke English. I gave her the information, along with a bogus story about trying to find a lost niece who’d run away, and asked where that bus was going. She told me the answer, even with the puzzlement in her voice over how I knew so much about her company. When she asked a pointed question about my knowledge, I hung up and gave Knuckles the good news: Chiclet was on a bus to Istanbul, and we’d actually beaten him to the city.

He was aggravated to say the least, but I was elated. I called Kurt, telling him what I had and demanding to put Chiclet’s selectors back on the target deck. While the Taskforce was pretty damn powerful, we still had to prioritize assets, and with multiple operations ongoing around the world, Kurt had put Chiclet on the back burner. Now that we were both in the same city, I asked to have anything associated with him turned back on. He agreed, and this morning, it pinged.

A Chiclet associate—a bigwig in Boko Haram—had received a phone call from a number located in Istanbul. It was an unknown handset, but the connection was too coincidental, especially since the phone had a Russian country code. I’d begged Kurt for permission to investigate and asked him to dedicate assets to geolocate the new cell. He’d reluctantly agreed, with the caveat that if anything broke on the thumb drive, we were to redirect immediately. I promised, and then had asked Knuckles for some manpower.

With a grin, he’d given me Decoy, claiming that Brett would draw too much attention as an African American. I understood the real reason: Knuckles knew Decoy would come on to Jennifer, and he would enjoy the fireworks.

As we left he’d said, “You find Chiclet and I’ll buy you a case of beer.”

With Jennifer’s call, I was debating whether to charge him a case of microbrew or live with the Pabst Blue Ribbon he’d buy on his own.

I keyed my radio. “I’m outside of gate seven. Can I enter?”

Not wanting to be anywhere near Chiclet due to potential compromise, I’d settled for acting as surveillance chief, although with only one element in the field, the position wasn’t really necessary. Jennifer and Decoy could do fine on their own.

Decoy said, “He’s exiting out the north right now, so yeah, you can enter. No threat. Give him some time before you penetrate to the far side.”

I gave him a roger and entered the Grand Bazaar, immediately getting accosted by the stall owners to my left and right. According to Jennifer’s little history blurb, this thing was the largest and oldest covered bazaar on earth, and had been continuously running for centuries. It was the perfect place to lose surveillance, and it hadn’t surprised me at all when the handset geolocation had entered inside. Chiclet probably thought he was giving some unknown surveillance fits by roaming the bazaar, but he couldn’t beat technology. He could run around inside this maze all damn day and we’d sit back waiting. Unless he ditched his traitorous phone, we could always find him again.

But we couldn’t determine what he was doing.

And that, in a nutshell, was the dilemma I was facing. I could follow the phone trace all day long on a computer, but that didn’t really tell me it was
him
. It could be Chiclet, or it might be someone else. On top of that, I wanted to know what he was up to, see if he met some potential Russians, which required physical eyes on. All the phone did was tell me a location, not give me a description of what had occurred at that location, but you couldn’t beat the technology as a fail-safe. No more lost contact drills. All we had to do was pull back and get a lock, then reengage.

I stopped outside a stall selling leather handbags and, strangely, John Cena wrestling T-shirts, and called Jennifer on the cell, off of the group chat. Yeah, it was weak of me, but I wanted to talk to Jennifer without Decoy hearing.