Jihad

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.