The Solomon Effect

31

Izmir, Turkey: Tuesday 27 October 7:35 A.M. local time

Serene and sun-kissed, the city of Izmir stretched out in a graceful arc around its wide Aegean bay. Once, the city had been called Smyrna, birthplace of Homer and site of more than three thousand years of Greek civilization. Then came the devastation and ethnic cleansing that followed World War I, and this new city, Izmir, had risen from the ashes as a symbol of modern Turkey, with wide tree-lined avenues and-for more than half a century now-a strong U.S. military presence.

As they circled in for their landing, Jax was aware of October leaning forward beside him, her shoulders set in a straight, tense line as she stared out the window.

“For some reason, I thought your father was a petroleum engineer,” he said, watching her.

She shook her head, her gaze still on the city wedged between the mountains and the sparkling blue sea below them. “My stepdad’s in the oil industry. My real father was in the Navy.”

“Then if he was stationed at Izmir, he must have been in intelligence.”

She turned to look at him. “How did you know that?”

“Maybe I’m psychic,” he said teasingly.

She wrinkled her nose at him, and he laughed and said, “Most Americans stationed in Izmir are Air Force personnel assigned to the air base. But there’s also a huge listening station here that’s been operational since the fifties. So if your dad was in the Navy, and here, I figured he must have been in intelligence.”

“Ah.”

“How long was he stationed in Turkey?”

“Two years.” She was silent a moment, then said, “He died here. His plane crashed in the Aegean.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’s strange is that your buddy Andrei mentioned my dad when we were in Kaliningrad.”

“Andrei is not my buddy.”

A glint of amusement lit her eyes, but all she said was, “How could he have known about my dad?”

“The Russians have always kept files on U.S. military officers, especially intelligence personnel. They get their information from everything from open sources like the Army Times to reports fed back to them by their own people.”

“But my dad died when I was a kid.”

Jax shrugged. “Andrei started out in the KGB. They might have run into each other.”

She fell silent, her gaze returning to the city that now rushed toward them, its whitewashed walls turned to gold by the light of the rising sun.

They stepped off the plane into a soaring, ultra-modern glass-and-steel airport terminal to find a tall, lanky man in a United States Air Force uniform waiting for them.

He had the short-cropped sandy hair, tight jaw, and rigid bearing of a career military man. “Jax Alexander?” he said, assessing Jax with a flinty gaze and obviously finding him wanting. “Rita Catalano suggested I meet you.”

“Ah. Dear Petra,” said Jax.

The Captain frowned. “Petra?”

“Never mind.”

The Captain’s gaze slid past Jax to October, and an amazing transformation came over his face. His eyes widened. His sneer faded. Jax squinted at her, trying to see her through the Captain’s eyes. Sure, she was an attractive woman. But after two long flights and a day spent being chased around Russia, she was looking more than a little ragged.

“You’re Ensign Guinness?” said the Captain, shaking her hand with cheerful enthusiasm. “I’m Lowenstein. Tom Lowenstein. I’ve got a car waiting for us out front. If you’ll follow me, your bags should already be on their way down.”

He ushered them toward a nearby stairwell, where a uniformed guard toting a machine gun stepped forward menacingly. Lowenstein flashed his ID. The guard saluted and stepped back.

“It’s always so nice operating in countries where the military keeps a tight hand on the reins,” said Jax as their footsteps echoed down the enclosed stairwell. “Little things like customs and immigration are just inconveniences, easily dispensed with in the right circumstances.”

Lowenstein’s eyes narrowed. “Catalano wasn’t kidding about you, was she?”

“Why? What did she say?”

But Lowenstein turned his back on Jax and said to Tobie, “Is this your first time in Turkey?”

She shook her head. “I was here as a kid.”

He gave her a smile that showed two rows of straightened white teeth. “So you travel a lot, do you?”

Jax turned a snicker into a cough and buried it in his fist.

They walked out of the air-conditioned terminal into a blast of dry heat just as a black Mercedes driven by a Turkish policeman slipped in next to the curb and stopped. Jax drew up short.

“This is your car?”

“That’s right. I’ve already arranged an appointment for you with the owner of the shipbreaking yard up in Aliaga. He’s expecting us this morning.”

“Us? Hang on. I don’t suppose it occurred to you that Mr. Erkan might be a lot more open to talking to the Ensign and me if we arrive without a uniformed policeman and a U.S. Air Force captain as escorts?”

“Maybe. But it’s not happening. Things aren’t as cozy between Washington and Ankara as they used to be. The last thing we need is some cowboy coming in here scattering dead bodies all over the place. I have orders from the station chief not to let you out of my sight.” He opened the back door for Tobie and said to Jax over his shoulder, “You can have the front seat.”

Jax indulged in a fantasy that involved wringing Petra Davidson’s neck and tossing her lifeless body in the wine-dark Aegean Sea. Then he slid into the seat beside the driver.

The driver’s name turned out to be Mustafa. He was lean and short, with the bushy dark mustache that seemed a requisite badge of manhood in this part of the Middle East. As they swung in an arc around the city’s sweeping bay and headed north, he chain-smoked a series of short, foul Turkish cigarettes that made Jax’s eyes water.

In the backseat, Lowenstein leaned in closer to October and said, “Do you ski?”

“Some.”

“We have a great trip planned to Oberammergau this-”

“The shipbreakers yard,” said Jax, slewing around in the seat so he could face him. “Tell me about it.”

There was a moment’s pained silence, then Lowenstein said, “It’s owned by a man named Kemal Erkan. His cousin is the Minister of the Environment, which is how he gets away with what he does. You usually see operations like this in places like India or China. They used to do it in Europe, but the costs of meeting health and safety standards got too high. Workers here have no health and safety standards, no Tyvek suits or breathing apparatus. Asbestos, dioxin-you name it, it doesn’t matter to these guys.”

“It’s a big business?” said October.

“It’s huge. Thanks to the Chinese, there’s a boom in the world’s steel industry. Only about two thirds of today’s steel comes from iron ore; the rest is recycled from stuff like cars and washing machines-and ships. You can get over a million dollars out of an end-of-life vessel.”

“So this guy’s rich.”

“You better believe he’s rich.”

Jax said, “Does he do much business in pre-1945 steel?”

“It’s one of his specialties.”

They were driving along the coast now, through dry rocky hills covered with fragrant olive groves and rows of grapevines withering with the shortening of the days. Many of the villages along this part of the Aegean had become tourist destinations, attracting overseas visitors to their sandy beaches and clear blue waters. Not Aliagra.

They came upon the shipbreaking yard just before the outskirts of town, its dirty gravel beach dominated by the looming half-dismantled hulk of what looked as if it might once have been a cruise ship. Jax eyed the mustachioed Turkish driver beside him. “How about the two of you stopping at a taverna for a raki, and letting the ensign and me take it from here?”

“Not a chance,” said Lowenstein as the Turk turned in through the gates and drew up next to a pile of rusty barrels and stained old urinals. “I’ll stay with the car. But I’m not letting you out of my sight until I put you back on that plane.”