Authors: Cliff Ryder
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.
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.
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?