Jihad

CHAPTER 67

“We admire Americans here in Turkey, truly admire them,” Istanbul’s deputy police chief told Charlie Dean when he showed up to brief the police on the information the Art Room had gleaned from its bug in Asad’s skull. “I myself have been to New York and San Francisco several times. And Washington, D.C.”

Dean glanced at the head of the Terrorism Section, who was nodding briskly. It was obvious that neither man really believed him.

“My government wouldn’t have sent me to talk to you if they didn’t think it was a credible threat,” Dean said. “I realize that the information is sketchy, but it’s derived from a conversation between two al-Qaeda members. Something is going to happen in Istanbul, probably at noon, probably at Taksim Square or nearby.”

“And you can’t identify the sources?”

“We only have a photo of the person we believe involved. He’s a Syrian. He uses the name Abd Katib Muhammad. He may be working with one or two other people whom he knows.”

Desk Three had forwarded video captures of Katib, along with other information about him and a transcript of the conversation regarding the attack. While the information had been sent through normal high-level channels, Rubens had ordered Dean to talk to the “people on the frontline” to make sure it arrived in time to do some good.

“How do you even know this man is in Turkey?” asked the deputy chief.

“We believe he is,” said Dean, treading carefully because he couldn’t acknowledge the Red Lion operation.

“We have been very aggressive against extremists here,” said the terror chief. “Even before your 9/11. I myself took part in the raids at Beykoz, striking the heart of the Hezbollah conspiracy.”

“I’m sure you do a very good job,” said Dean. “That’s why I know you’ll take this seriously.”

“We are always watching Taksim Square,” said the deputy police chief. His English had a vaguely American accent. “There are many businesses nearby, and tourists on Istikal Caddesi. A car or truck bomb — it will not get close, I assure you.”

“That’s a good start.”

“We will increase the police presence and take precautions,” added the deputy chief, rising to dismiss him. “We appreciate your personal attention. Perhaps tonight you will be my guest for dinner?”

“I’d like that,” said Dean. “But I’m supposed to head back.”

“You came just to tell us this?”

“It’s why I’m here,” hedged Dean.

The terrorism supervisor gave him a wry smile, indicating that he suspected there was considerably more to the story but wouldn’t press as a matter of professional courtesy.

“I don’t think they believe me,” Dean told Marie Telach a few minutes later. He’d gotten into a taxi and was pretending to use a cell phone.

“They do believe you, Charlie. The Interior Ministry has issued an alert,” she told him. “They’re sending more police over to the area and a bomb detection unit from the airport. Your job there is done; we’ve done all we can. Your plane’s waiting — please proceed.”

Dean brooded about the situation all the way back to his hotel. There was certainly more that they could do — all of Desk Three’s surveillance apparatus could be turned loose on the area. But the Art Room was focused on Asad bin Taysr, tracking him on the flight to America.

It was eleven-thirty when Dean checked out of the hotel and got into the cab for the airport. Taksim Square was about a mile away.

Almost on the way.

He leaned forward from the backseat. “Take me to Taksim Square first, okay?” he said in English.

The driver said something in Turkish. Dean’s com system was off, so he didn’t have a translation. But he didn’t figure he needed one.

“Taksim Square,” he said again, dropping a fifty-lira note on the front seat, about twice the normal fare to the airport. “And wait. Keep the meter going. I’ll pay two times what it says.”