Jihad

CHAPTER 43

Lia spent the next two hours tailing Asad as the al-Qaeda leader zigzagged around Istanbul’s old city, having lunch in a restaurant a few blocks from the Blue Mosque, then visiting the Tomb of Sultan Ahmet I and the Haghia Sophia. She changed her clothes twice, following along dutifully, making sure that what the Art Room was hearing jibed with what he was doing.

“Don’t get too close,” her runner Sandy Chafetz told her as she tagged along into the Haghia Sophia. “We have everything under control.”

Right, thought Lia. You have everything under control. She liked Chafetz better than Rockman, but even she succumbed to Art Room Ego, thinking she knew all and controlled all just because she had a half-dozen computer screens in front of her.

When the Haghia Sophia—“the church of holy wisdom”—was built in the sixth century as a Christian church, it was one of the wonders of the world, its walls glittering with gold and elaborate mosaics of Christ and the saints. Sacked during the Crusades, it was turned into a mosque during the fifteenth century, and the mosaics and other art were removed or plastered over. Some of the plaster had been removed from the walls in the western gallery, and a mosaic of Christ and the Emperor Constantine IX peeked out from the whitewash. Raised as a Roman Catholic by her parents, the desecration sent a vicious shock through Lia when she walked onto the second floor, and for a few seconds she remained fixed to the spot, absorbed by the image and the violence it implied.

When she lowered her gaze, she realized Asad stood less than ten feet away, a smirk on his face.

Lia was dressed as a tourist now, and Asad had been doped when he saw her yesterday. Still, she had gotten closer than she wanted. She’d let her emotions interfere with her actions.

Slowly, she turned to the side and wandered off to a group of schoolchildren who were inspecting some of the recent restoration work. When she looked back in Asad’s direction, she saw that he was heading for the stairway.

“He’s outside,” said Rockman a few minutes later.

She kept her distance after that.

Around five, Asad went to a house on the northern outskirts of the city, apparently abandoning the one he had used earlier. Lia set up another surveillance net and then moved back, the intercepts indicating that Asad had no plans to go out. The Art Room decided it was a good time for a conference and Lia began trolling the area, looking for a place where she could talk to herself without seeming out of place or being overheard. Finally she settled on a small park, taking out her satphone to pretend to talk to it. Lia had changed again, donning another conservative jilbab. This proved to be out of step with the neighborhood, as she realized when a middle-aged woman passed by and gave her an odd, disapproving glance.

“We’re all comfortable?” asked Telach.

“I’m not,” said Karr. “I’m starving.”

“You’re always hungry,” said Dean. Lia could hear the helicopter in the background when he spoke; he’d changed places with Karr.

“The operation has been quite successful,” said Rubens, coming onto the line. “You’ve all done very well.”

“But,” said Lia.

“There is no but, Lia.”

Baloney, thought Lia. There was always a “but” with Rubens. No matter how perfectly a mission went, he found something to object to.

A young woman with a double stroller passed nearby. Lia watched as she stooped to fuss over the two children, lifting one out of the carriage and then the other. Wearing jeans and a blouse, the woman could have been anywhere in Europe, or America for that matter.

“The man Red Lion met with last night is an al-Qaeda operative who was previously believed to be dead,” said Rubens. “He took a flight to Germany a few hours ago and we now believe he heads a network of terrorists there. Mr. Karr will travel to Germany to work with German intelligence.”

“Bundesnachrichtendienst,” said Karr brightly in a mock German accent.

“Thank you, Mr. Karr,” said Rubens. “I’m sure we’re all well aware of the proper name for German intelligence.”

“How’s my accent?”

Rubens, who could be very indulgent with Karr, ignored him. “In the meantime, Lia and Mr. Dean will continue tracking Red Lion. The CIA teams will take up any slack—”

“Not either of the clowns who ‘helped’ us yesterday,” said Dean.

“We have to work with the assets available,” said Rubens, his voice even more priggish than usual. “Unless, Mr. Dean, you have additional information about what happened.”

“I already told Marie what happened.”

“Lia?” said Rubens.

“They thought he was escaping,” Lia said. “It wasn’t the best decision. They did fine in the hospital.”

“I don’t trust them,” said Dean. “They’re not under control.”

Was Dean right? Or was she?

Why was she defending Pinchon?

Did she still feel something for him?

God help her.

No, she didn’t. She couldn’t. But she had to be fair. Fair.

“I believe your judgment may be a little harsh, Mr. Dean,” said Rubens. “But if you don’t believe you can work with them, I will request that they make reassignments.”

Dean didn’t answer. Lia pictured him in her mind, his jaw set, debating. But instead of his face, she saw Pinchon’s.

“Whoever we work with has to understand they work for us, not the other way around,” said Dean. “We don’t need no cowboys.”

“Yee-ha!” shouted Karr. “Not even me, pardner?”

“Not even you, Tommy,” snapped Dean. “Just make sure they understand that.”