Jihad

CHAPTER 34

“Fa-Shone!” Karr spread his arms wide as he approached the short man standing in front of the bubble-front helicopter. “Nice cap you got there, dude. Met fan, huh? You got a hangover, right?”

The pilot — his real name was Ray Fashona, though Karr pronounced it right perhaps one time out of ten — grunted and finished his walk around of the helicopter. A rather old though serviceable Bell 47, it had a towline at the rear with a banner advertising “Turkey No. I Tours” in Turkish and English.

“This part doesn’t say, ‘Hey, look at us, we’re spies,’ does it?” Karr asked, pointing at the banner as he followed Fashona around the rear of the aircraft.

“Wasn’t my idea,” said Fashona.

“Got a hangover, huh?” said Karr. “You drank that raki stuff, right? What is that, like licorice-flavored white lightning?”

“Make sure your seatbelt’s tight. If you fall out, I’m not picking you up.”

A pair of laptops were lashed to the dashboard in front of Karr’s seat on the right-hand side of the chopper. He opened the top unit and turned it on; ninety seconds later he was greeted by the opening screen of the program controlling a boost unit for the eavesdropping device implanted in Asad’s skull. The unit, mounted in the helicopter’s boom tail, was considerably more powerful than the ones they had left on the roof yesterday; even so, its range was only about five miles.

“Good to go,” Karr told Fashona, pulling on his headset.

“Yeah,” said the pilot, cranking his engine to life.

They took a pass about two miles from Asad’s house, confirming that the unit was working and allowing the Art Room to run a full set of diagnostics with the master receiving unit, which was a specially equipped 707 flying at forty-five thousand feet over the Sea of Marmara, ostensibly on a NATO training mission.

“Everything looks good, Tommy,” said Rockman, who’d just come back on duty in the Art Room. “Unit B is going off duty. You guys are it.”

“The A Team is ready,” Karr said, his voice booming over the engines.

“It sounds like Red Lion is getting ready to go for a ride. Remind Fashona he doesn’t have to get too close. We have plenty of tracking units scattered around the city now.”

“Okey-doke.”

“Asad has just woken up. We’ll keep you up to date.”

Karr zoomed the map showing the location of the sending unit.

“Where are we going today, Red Lion?” he said, overlaying a satellite photo on the grid. “What sights will we see?”

Asad listened as Katib recounted what had happened at the hospital. It took considerable discipline for Asad not to interrupt; he didn’t want to prejudice his chief bodyguard’s report by asking questions that might lead Katib to shade what he said.

“The Turks must have set up an ambush,” said Katib. “They were waiting in the room. Most likely they had moved the driver already.”

The official police theory — obtained through a third party Katib knew — was that this was the product of a feud between two dueling smuggling groups, possibly Syrian, who had connections to the Russian mafiya. What the Turks were really up to, however, was difficult to fathom. Their government was not sympathetic to the true cause of Islam, and while the intelligence service was preoccupied with the Kurds in the east, they were not to be taken very lightly. Asad had no doubt that that they had arranged an ambush at the hospital; the question was what the driver, Yorsi al-Haznawi, would have told them.

He didn’t know much, not even the location of this safehouse. Still, as a matter of prudence he would have to change locations.

To be truly safe, he would have to leave Istanbul completely. But he couldn’t do that; only he could initiate the wave of attacks. If he did not conduct his meetings over the next two days, the entire operation would have to be postponed. Better to move forward and risk failure than flee like a coward and accept defeat.

“I know this is my responsibility,” said Katib. “I will make amends, here in Istanbul.”

“We will speak of it later. This morning there is much to do.”

“We have new vehicles.”

“Then let us go to the mosque and pray.”

Lia DeFrancesca pulled down the top piece of the religious veil covering her head, adjusting the band so that it covered her eyebrows. The Fiat’s air conditioning was at full blast, but she was sweating anyway; she could feel beads of perspiration running down the sides of her neck. She had another full set of clothes on under the long dress and outer jilbab. She also had three pistols, her PDA, two satellite phones, six pin grenades, a dozen video bugs, and two dozen eavesdropping flies. And that didn’t begin to count the small booster units disguised as tourist gear and the clothing in the three bags she had in the car, or the extra clothes and gear stashed around the city. Nothing like traveling light.

“Coming in your direction,” said Rockman.

Lia reached to start the Fiat, then caught herself; she already had it on. The car was so quiet, it was hard to hear the engine.

“Go down two blocks and turn left,” said Rockman.

Lia put the car in gear and followed his directions, moving mechanically. Ordinarily she would have used the PDA to make her own way, but this morning she simply wanted to do what she was told, a robot moving through the narrow streets.

“They’re turning back onto the highway,” said Rockman.

Lia got on a few blocks ahead of them, driving slowly so they could catch up. They were in a white Mercedes — the terrorists seemed to have an endless supply of vehicles; no doubt they had a good deal with a used car lot somewhere nearby.

Dean parked a block from the Mercedes in the heart of the Sultanahmet district, the most popular tourist area in Istanbul and the center of the city for more than a thousand years. He could see the walls and minarets of the Blue Mosque just up the hill; beyond it to the right but out of view were the Haghia Sophia and the Sultan’s Palace. Literally thousands of people thronged through the area every day; Asad and his al-Qaeda contacts would be just so many needles in a massive haystack, their foreign faces as much a part of the scenery as Dean’s.

“Buggee is headed for the Blue Mosque. Must be doing the tourist thing,” said Rockman in Dean’s head as he pulled on his sunglasses and got out of the car.

Dean climbed up the hill, walking in the middle of the street. A man near the corner asked if he wanted to buy a rug; Dean smiled but said nothing. Yesterday, with thick stubble and slightly rouged face, he and his rumpled coat might have passed for a Turk as well as the Spanish doctor he was portraying. Today, clean-shaven, in a loud tourist shirt, he looked like a very different man. Which of course was the idea.

Built by Sultan Ahmet I, the Blue Mosque had scandalized many of the sultan’s subjects because its beauty and size rivaled Mecca’s own. The sultan was long gone, but the monument to his devotion and ego remained, drawing a steady stream of tourists as well as worshippers. Dean cut through the garden at the side, ignoring the old ladies hawking scarves and shoeshine men touting for work as he closed the distance between him and Red Lion.

“Just finished washing his feet,” said Rockman. “Going up into the courtyard.”

Only a few yards away now, Dean slowed down. The enclosed courtyard, constructed of massive marble squares and rounded by a high-columned portico, sat directly in front of the dome-topped prayer hall. Dean took a few steps to the side, as if admiring the cascade of domes while looking for his target.

It’d be so much easier if Asad was just a target and Dean was still a sniper. Set up, spot him, steady the gun.

Bam.

So much easier.

But that was what the idiot CIA jerk Pinchon had done yesterday, wasn’t it? Erase the problem. And in the process, lose the chance to find out what these slimes were really up to.

Asad led his three bodyguards to the line reserved for practicing Muslims at the center of the building. Both he and his men wore dark suit jackets; they could easily be visiting businessmen taking the morning off to see the sights.

Dean walked around to the side entrance, joining the line of tourists. He was given a bag for his shoes; slipping them inside, he walked into the cool interior of the mosque, his feet cushioned by thick Turkish rugs.

The massive dome and the high ceilings around it transformed the murmured prayers of the faithful and the hushed awe of the tourists into a low-pitched hum, a sound that harmonized with the blue light from the stained glass windows to create a holy, timeless space. Even Dean, who had not only been inside twice before but was hardly religious, felt the sensation. He stopped for a moment near the door, getting his bearings, then he walked along the rail dividing those praying from those simply admiring, looking for Asad.

The terrorist leader was prostrate near the mihrab, the stone indicating the direction of Mecca. Dean continued across the mosque, drifting in the direction of the modem rooms used for teaching and other mosque activities.

Dean was close enough to Asad’s group as he went outside to see that he didn’t stop at the table where donations were accepted. Maybe he figured he’d given enough at the office.

“Charlie, you don’t have to get too close,” said Rockman from the Art Room as Dean tagged along behind Asad, following through the park between the Blue Mosque and Haghia Sophia. “Don’t bug the buggee.”

You’re a barrel of laughs, Dean thought.

Asad walked through the park between the Blue Mosque and Haghia Sophia, then veered to the right, walking toward the entrance to Topkapi, the Sultan’s Palace. Dean stayed between fifteen and twenty yards behind, ducking into the middle of a Japanese tour group near the entrance to the palace grounds. Unlike the mosque, where the security people were subtle and largely out of sight, Turkish soldiers with submachine guns clustered around the gates and inner paths.

“He only bought the regular ticket,” Rockman told Dean. “Not interested in the harem. Our buggee never was one for the women.”

“Rockman, you’re starting to bug me,” said Dean.

“Hey, that’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.”

ASAD WALKED QUICKLY through the palace grounds, heading for the chamber of the holy relics. The Ottoman sultans had taken over as caliphs in the sixteenth century after conquering the Middle East. As powerful as their empire was, Asad believed the Turks had encouraged Islam’s decline, first by removing Arab wealth for their personal use and then, more fatally, by collaborating with the Crusaders. Decadence and weakness were the inevitable result.

Asad held his breath as he entered the building housing the relics. Unlike much of the palace, the structure was not ostentatious; this, it occurred to Asad, was fitting, as the Prophet, Peace be to Him, was not one for earthly riches or show.

The room containing the Prophet’s hair, tooth, and other relics was to the right of the entrance. Bowing his head slightly, Asad walked into the darkened room. The chanted verses of the Koran mesmerized him as he circled the large glass display at the center, awed by the simple display of Mohammed’s hair.

A window cut into the wall at the side allowed visitors to catch a glimpse of a cloak once worn by the Prophet. Standing before it, Asad felt faint; he had to put his hand against the glass to steady himself.

Conscious thought slipped away. He felt the touch of an angel on his shoulder, holding him upright.

“Are you all right, sheik?” asked Katib, the head of his bodyguards.

“Yes,” Asad whispered. “Filled with joy.”

He walked slowly from the room into the reception area, looking at the swords of the Prophet’s followers. A short man with Turkish features approached from across the room. Asad saw him out of the comer of his eye, but waited until he was about six feet away to turn toward him. When he did, the man stopped, nodded, and then abruptly left the pavilion.

“Come,” Asad told Katib. “They are ready.”

“Something’s up, Charlie,” Rockman told Dean as he pretended to read the sign outside the hall with the Islamic relics. “Asad just told his men to follow him. He’s moving toward you.”

Dean kept his eyes on the sign as Asad passed behind him, walking toward the lower courtyard. Dean let him get about ten yards ahead and then turned to follow as Asad and his men walked through the lower garden.

“Could be headed toward the Circumcision Pavilion,” said Rockman. “Yeah, looks like it.”

The small building stood at the side of a platform overlooking the nearby park and the Golden Horn, Istanbul’s ancient natural harbor. By the time Dean reached the pool next to it, Asad was on the other side, headed toward the Baghdad Pavilion, a large hall perched above a sheer drop at the very edge of the terrace. Dean had to slip through a large group of British tourists to follow; by the time he got through the throng Asad had disappeared.

“Charlie, can you see him?” asked Rockman.

“No,” said Dean.

“He’s in that big building in front of you, the Baghdad Pavilion. This is it. He just told one of his bodyguards to hang back.”

Dean spotted someone watching him from the wall near the building. The most inconspicuous thing to do was to keep walking toward it, going in the same general direction Asad’s party had taken. As he approached the steps under the arch, two men in Western-style suits came out from the side, holding up their hands and shaking their heads. He asked in English how he could visit the pavilion, but the men told him it was closed.

“Charlie, what’s going on?” Rockman asked.

“Two guys just waved me away from the door Asad used,” said Dean as he walked away. “They weren’t soldiers.”

“He’s still in the building,” said Rockman. “Set up some video bugs so we can see who comes in.”

“On it,” said Dean.