Jihad (21 page)

The taxi was coming down the block when Dean emerged from the back of the building. He gave the man the address in Turkish—few taxi drivers spoke more English than “hello” and “good-bye”—and sat silently as they drove over to the hotel. With the clerk napping in the small office behind the reception desk, Dean used his duplicate key to get into Dr. Ramil’s room. A half hour later, he arrived at the airport.

Lia was waiting in the seats at the far end of the building, across from the rows of check-in windows reserved for Western airlines. Ramil sat next to her, ramrod straight, face pale, hands vibrating.

“Hey, doc.” Dean squatted down in front of him. “You all right?”

Ramil turned his head toward him slowly.

“You okay?” repeated Dean.

Ramil shook his head slightly.

“He’s useless.” Lia scowled derisively.

“Lighten up,” Dean told her.

She got up. “I’m going to check in on Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, see if the Saudis have done anything. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I can do that,” said Dean.

“You and Pinchon don’t get along too well, Charlie. Better that I go.”

Dean, still angry at the way she’d treated Ramil, shrugged and watched her walk away. The sway of her hips made him regret his anger.

“What happened back there, doc?” Dean asked, turning to Ramil. “You okay?”

“I’m—I don’t know if I’m having a breakdown or something. I. . .”

His voice trailed off. Dean had seen guys fall apart under pressure before, younger, tougher men than Ramil. It was as if they’d taken some unknown poison that had gutted their intestines, left them hollow inside. Ramil had been a battlefield surgeon and manned aid stations in Vietnam, which you couldn’t do if you were a coward. But everyone had secret flaws, and age had a way of wearing down the things that kept them hidden. Wear was in Ramil’s face right now: haunted fatigue, not fear.

“You’re just tired,” Dean told him. “It happens.”

“I don’t know,” mumbled Ramil, so softly that Dean didn’t hear the words distinctly. Instead of repeating them, Ramil changed them. “I hope so.”

Dean saw a pair of American Airlines employees walking across the concourse toward the row of ticket booths. “Let’s go check you in. Get you an aisle seat.”

CHAPTER 61

DABIR WATCHED THE German helicopters training their spotlights on the docking area at the petroleum processing plant. Whoever had tipped the police off had obviously known the general target of his attack, though not the specifics of his plan. The German police were good—but not quite good enough to stop him. In ten minutes, the plant would be in flames.

Who was the traitor?

It couldn’t be the men he’d sent inside, who would have been able to identify their targets. It couldn’t be the chemist, either—if it had been, the man Dabir sent to get the oxygen tanks would have been arrested, or at least followed.

The only person Dabir could think of who knew the target but not the precise plan to strike it was Asad bin Taysr. As much as Dabir hated him, Asad was a steadfast supporter of the cause and it was inconceivable that he would do anything to betray it.

One of the helicopters passed nearby. Dabir got out of the car and popped the trunk. In his haste earlier he’d forgotten to put out the trunk light; the flood of yellow took him by surprise. He pulled the bicycle out, then slapped the trunk lid closed.

Asad had wanted to watch the refinery burn, but the helicopters had convinced him that was too much of a risk. With the success of his mission guaranteed despite the odds stacked against him, he began contemplating his next move. He got on the bike; one of the helicopters was swinging in the direction of the creek his men had used to infiltrate the facility.

The Germans were too late. But if it took the rest of his life, Dabir swore as he pedaled down the darkened road, he would find out who had betrayed him.

CHAPTER 62

KARR, FOLLOWING THE chopper’s searchlight as it swept along the creekside, spotted a shadow near a complex of buildings used for distilling naphtha, the very volatile lighter components of petroleum used for solvents.

“There!” he yelled to the pilot. “There’s someone there. Get your light there!”

Ground units were already scrambling nearby, running toward the pipelines connecting the two portions of the plant. Light erupted near it, so intense that Karr threw his hand up to shield his eyes. The chopper pirouetted away as a ball of fire shot into the air, so high that it exploded over the helicopter, an umbrella of red and yellow.

“Explosions,” said Karr, telling the Art Room what was going on. He cursed, angry that he hadn’t figured out what was going on sooner. He leaned back toward the window, trying to assess what was going on. The two tall cooling stacks—made of concrete, they looked like smoke stacks but were used to condense gases in the desulphurization unit—stood over the complex, twin sentinels.

A fly was climbing on one.

“That tower there,” he told the helicopter pilot. “The smokestack. There’s somebody on it. Knock him off.”

“Was?”
sputtered the pilot. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t have a gun. Get him off of there. He wants to blow the stack.”

Karr reached for the helicopter’s controls, threatening to do it if the pilot didn’t. It was a bluff—Karr had no idea how to fly the aircraft. But the pilot didn’t know that. He pitched the chopper forward, veering as close as he dared to the man climbing up the side of the large stack. The man tottered for a second, then began fiddling with a small pack at his belt. As the helo turned away, the wash knocked the terrorist off balance and sent him tumbling toward the ground.

He exploded about twenty feet from the pavement, obliterating himself, but failing to ignite a fire or destroy the stack, either of which could have touched off a much larger explosion.

“Do not interfere with the controls,” said Hess, leaning forward from the back. “You are a very dangerous man, Herr Magnor-Karr.”

“Not dangerous enough,” said Karr, still mad at himself for being a step behind the terrorists.

CHAPTER 63

AFTER SHE LEFT the airport, Lia drove back toward Istanbul, circling around the roundabouts several times to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Even though her back was clear, she took a circuitous route toward the Ceylan Inter-Continental Hotel, where the Saudis who had met with Asad were staying. She tracked through the sleeping business district, once more making sure she wasn’t being followed before parking across from the side entrance to the hotel.

The Ceylan Inter-Continental Hotel was one of the fanciest hotels in the world, let alone the city. The Saudis were ensconced in one of its well-appointed executive suites, proof that dedicated jihadists need not take a vow of poverty.

The CIA team had posted two men on the street, watching the main and back entrances, with a third handling communications and coordinating other members. The coordinator was working out of a panel truck around the block from the hotel, using a short-wave radio to talk to the lookouts and a satphone to stay in touch with the Art Room. Desk Three had tapped into the hotel’s security system and was monitoring the Ceylan’s video cameras.

The panel truck was exactly where Lia had left it several hours before. She went to the passenger side and rapped on the window.

“You should’ve moved,” she said.

“I just got here,” said Terrence Pinchon, leaning forward and opening the door for her.

“What happened to ReislerT’

“Went to get some beauty rest. It’s a lost cause, don’t you think?”

Lia could feel her heart race. It had nothing to do with the mission; she wished it had nothing to do with Pinchon.

“What are the Saudis doing?” she asked, shutting the door behind her.

“Far as we can tell, they’re snoozin’. Don’t have enough people to put somebody up on the floor.”

“You have plenty of people.”

“Eight. And some of them have to sleep. But you’re here now, right? The rest of us can go home.”

Lia reached to the back of her belt and flipped the com system off. Then she turned to Pinchon. His green eyes fixed on her own, boring through the wall that protected her.

He was handsome, there was no question about that; his face had the rugged look of a movie star. But his personality—he hadn’t been this much of a jerk when she’d known him. He couldn’t have been. And he hadn’t been a liar; she didn’t fall for liars. Maybe their relationship had been one of convenience and circumstance at the time, but even so, she wouldn’t have fallen that badly for an ass.

“What happened to you?” she asked him.

“Took a quick nap.”

“In Kyrgyzstan.”

“Nothing.”

“You were dead.”

“Obviously not.”

“Are you going to tell me the story?”

“No story to tell.”

Someone was talking on the radio. Pinchon pushed the earbud back into place; Lia tapped her com system to life.

“They’re in the elevator, coming down,” Sandy Chafetz said.

“We got a BMW 740 pulling around,” said the CIA agent near the entrance. “Blue. Here’s the plate.”

“All right. I’ll tag along,” said Pinchon. “You guys get in your cars.” He turned to Lia. “Comin’?”

“For a while.”

The BMW collected the Saudis in front of the hotel, then went directly down the hill, swinging toward the Bosporus.

“Probably headed toward the bridge,” said Pinchon, directing his team over the radio. “Bobby, get across it. I’ll trail. Steve, why don’t you jog right and head in the direction of the airport? That’s probably where they’re going.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” said Lia.

“I was doing just fine before you got here, thanks.”

“They’re going toward the ferry port,” said Lia as the BMW pulled left instead of going over the Galata Bridge as Pinchon had predicted. Reluctant to admit that he had been wrong, Pinchon nonetheless started to reposition his people. Still, they were the closest when the BMW stopped in front of the ferry entrance a few minutes later.

“I’ll stay with them until you park the car,” Lia told Pinchon, getting out.

The Saudis apparently had already bought tickets; they headed straight for the sea bus that went to the dock at Haydarpasa. the train station on the Asian side of the city. Lia, just to be sure, bought tickets for all of the destinations. The clerk rolled his eyes and took his time counting the change, shorting her a lira and smirking when she pointed it out. When he finally gave her the coin, Lia flipped it contemptuously into his booth.

She had to run to make the sea bus, hopping aboard as the ropes were tossed and the engines revved the ship from the dock. The boat wasn’t quite half full; Lia went forward, spotted the Saudis sitting on the starboard side, and took a seat across from them. The Art Room switched her com unit into the CIA network, and she heard Pinchon shifting his people. There was no quick way to get from Beyoglu to the Asian side of Istanbul; he sent one of his cars to the vehicle ferry and had another take the long detour to a bridge to the north. He was going to take the next sea bus across, in about twenty minutes.

Lia got up as the vessel neared the pier. One of the Saudis shot her a glance. They made eye contact she smiled, as if she were a semi-interested tourist reacting to a handsome foreigner. The Saudi was dressed like a businessman on vacation, trim black trousers and a casual shirt; he carried a canvas overnight bag, as did his partner. Lia got off ahead of the two men, but walked slowly so that they could overtake her; they did in short order, striding quickly toward the train station. The man who’d smiled earlier didn’t look at her.

“Are there video cameras in that station?” Lia asked Chafetz.

“Negative. You’re on your own. First train to leave is the
Süper Ekspresier
—the express Pullman for Ankara. It goes in five minutes. I doubt they’re going to take it, though—no way they’d cut it that close.”

“Where’s that reserve team?” Lia hissed, picking up her pace.

“About ten minutes away.”

The Saudis headed directly for the
Süper Ekspresier.
Lia, already guessing that they had timed their arrival so they wouldn’t have to wait long, ran to the window and got a ticket for Ankara, the end of the line.

“Lia, what’s going on?” asked Pinchon over the radio.

“The platform at the far end, on your left. I have your ticket,” she told him. The conductor was starting to shoo people aboard.

“I’m still on the boat,” he told her. “I can see the dock.”

“Well, get moving,” said Lia.

The Saudis weren’t on the platform. Lia got on the front car, walking through quickly to make sure they were there.

“Not in the first car,” she said.

“Lia—you have less than a minute to get off,” said Chafetz.

“Where are you, Pinchon?”

“We’re just pulling up to the pier.”

“All right. I have the train,” Lia told him. “Get somebody to the first stop.”

“We can’t make the first stop,” answered Chafetz. “It’s in Sincan, only eighteen minutes by train. There’s no way with the traffic.”

“Second stop, then.”

“That’s two and a half hours from now.”

“Peachy,” said Lia. “Terry, get in the station while I make sure they haven’t slipped off. I haven’t spotted them yet. If they’re not here, I’ll get off at the first stop.”

“I may make it,” said Pinchon, huffing.

“Relax,” said Lia, crossing into the second car.

The conductor yelled “all aboard” in English and Turkish. Stepping into the third car, Lia spotted the two Saudis sitting in a compartment on the right. She walked past, smiling at the man whom she’d seen before—a flirty smile, which she held until she took a seat in a compartment behind them on the opposite side.

“Car three,” she told Chafetz, as the train bumped from the platform. She turned and looked out the window, then folded her arms to watch the scenery.

CHAPTER 64

ASAD SLEPT WELL for two hours, then rose, his headache gone and the dizziness completely relieved. Whatever the doctor had done, Allah had surely been with him.