Chapter Twelve

 

 

February 11

Aksu Avenue

Istanbul, Turkey

 

Justin was lucky enough to squeeze into a gap between a small truck and a taxi. He yanked at the wheel and attempted to switch lanes.

He was a split second too late.

An oncoming SUV side-swiped the Chevy.

The minor crash was sufficient to send him toward an incoming van.

Justin stepped on the brakes, then swung the wheel. He drove over the dividing lane, banging against the nearest car and pushing it to the side. The maneuver secured him just enough space to avoid a head-on collision with the van. It zoomed passed to the left, smashing the side mirror.

Justin tried another time to cross through the oncoming traffic. He was able to make it onto the first lane, taking advantage of a gap in the stream of vehicles. Then he sped across the second lane.

Almost lucky.

The Chevy was nearly out of the lane when the honking BMW sedan came crashing into the Chevy’s side. It spun around, completing a one-hundred-and-eighty turn. Justin struggled to regain control of the vehicle. He straightened the wheel and stepped on the gas, driving on the sidewalk and out of the way of a large cement truck barreling down the lane.

On the sidewalk, his foot found the brakes. He turned his head, looking for the silver SUV. His eyes locked onto it as the SUV driver attempted to cross the two lanes of traffic at the same time.

Big mistake.

The front of the cement truck plowed into the back of the SUV. The force of the impact tossed the SUV around like a toy. It rolled onto the side, spinning onto the sidewalk and crashing through the front of a store. A moment later, a huge explosion rocked the area. Smoke came billowing out of the store.

Justin drew in a sigh of relief. He glanced at the crowd of onlookers that had begun to form around the accident site. Then he steered slowly through the sidewalk, avoiding pedestrians, and turned onto the first available street.

He sighed again and looked over his shoulder. No one was following him. Sharp ambulance or police sirens sounded in the distance. Someone will report to them about a white Chevy wreaking havoc. Time to ditch the car.

He drove a few more blocks toward the south until he came to a small bazaar. A stream of people had lined up along both sidewalks. They were looking at the heaps of fruit, clothes, shoes, electronics, and other merchandise littering the stalls and half the sidewalks and were haggling with the vendors. Justin parked nearby and waited until no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. He stepped out of the Chevy and left it running with the keys in the ignition. With a little bit of luck, someone would swipe it in no time.

Justin turned toward the west and walked the block. He was not expecting anyone to be on his tail, but he still checked every now and then. He switched from one sidewalk to the other but did not notice anyone giving him more than a casual glance.

When he was on Zübeyde Hanim Avenue, he reached into his jacket pocket for his phone and called Reza. He replied only after the third call. “Hey . . . Justin . . . how . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Reza, I can’t hear you.”

“Yes . . . I . . . I’m driving, so the connection is bad. Is it better now?”

“Yes, better. Where are you?”

“On the European side of the city. I’ll be at our meeting place on time.”

“Any news?”

“Yes, good news. You’ll be amazed at the findings.”

“What can you tell me on the phone?”

“I’d rather not, but the United Bank of Cyprus is involved.”

“Cyprus? Why Cyprus?”

“Because of its location. Strategically positioned between Europe and the Middle East.”

Justin nodded. “Yes, the weapons’ final destination.”

“Precisely. But we’ll talk more when we meet. And I have a lot of files to confirm the neck-deep involvement of Prince Al Khater.”

“That’s excellent, Reza. See you.”

“Yes, take care, Justin.”

“You too.”

Justin smiled to himself and began to look for a taxi. A couple raced by, and he flagged them, but they did not stop. Then he came near a fancy-looking restaurant with a large dark wood-and-glass door. A yellow taxi was parked near the door, but there was no one inside.

Justin stood near the Fiat taxi and glanced around for the driver. “Taxi, taxi?” he shouted, then tapped his hand over the taxi’s roof.

A young man rushed out of a small bakery across the street. He spoke to Justin in Turkish, but he shook his head. “You speak English?”

“Yes, you need a taxi?” The young man had a very slight accent.

“Yes. Can you take me to Hagia Sophia Museum?”

“Of course, I can take you anywhere in Istanbul.”

“The museum would be fine.”

The young man nodded, then brushed his wavy hair to the side. He unlocked the taxi, then gestured to Justin. “Front seat, if you want.”

Justin shook his head. “I’ll take the back.”

“All right.”

“Do you mind avoiding Kennedy Avenue? There was an accident.”

“Really? I didn’t hear anything.”

“Around Novotel. So let’s not go near that area.” Justin buckled the seatbelt.

“Sure, I can do that.”

He drove along Demirhane Avenue heading east and then northeast. The driver was quiet and did not speed. He obeyed most traffic signs, although he only slowed down when they came to stop signs, and made a couple of illegal turns.

Justin was not about to complain. After the rough ride in the previous taxi and the following chases, he was glad to enjoy a few moments of peace. He turned his head and checked behind the taxi only a couple of times. No surveillance.

When they were a few blocks away from the Hagia Sophia Museum, Justin paid the driver and gave him a good tip. It was enough to indicate appreciation for the good service, but not enough for the driver to remember Justin, in the unlikely event the Turkish intelligence services’ long arm reached out and found the driver.

Justin walked toward Hagia Sophia, which meant “holy wisdom.” The basilica had served as the seat of the Orthodox Patriarch of Constantinople, and a meeting place for Christian worshipers for almost a millennium. After the Islamic conquest of the city, it was converted into a mosque, and then became a museum in 1935. Justin would have loved to enjoy a guided tour of the world-renowned landmark, often called the eighth Wonder of the World because of its grandiose architecture. It would have to be another time. Maybe I can come with Karolin one of these days, when the MIT isn’t chasing me. Does she like architecture? I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask her.

He shook his head along with the tender thoughts of his girlfriend, trying to stay focused on the task at hand. On Yerebatan Avenue, he found a clothing store. It seemed to be more suitable for a younger crowd, perhaps teenagers or men in the early twenties. He thought he could pull off a younger look.

When he stepped out thirty minutes later, he was wearing a dark blue Abercrombie & Fitch jacket, along with a gray hoodie and a pair of slim straight blue jeans ripped at the knees. He felt a bit strange and more aware of people’s glances. I wonder what Reza will say.

Justin continued toward the meeting point with his Iranian contact, which was a café a block away from Sultanahmet Camii, or the Blue Mosque with its famous six minarets that was perhaps the most famous landmark in all of Istanbul. He walked by a small hotel called Noah’s Ark, wondering if the establishment was pet friendly. It was next to the White House Hotel, whose only resemblance to the residence of the President of the United States of America was the white color.

When he came to the Arasta Bazaar on Torun Street, on the east side of the mosque, Justin glanced at the café. It was on the second floor of a three-story building. He was early, so he spent a few minutes looking at the hand-woven silk scarves, the well-crafted Persian carpets and kilims, Turkish rugs, and an endless array of cheap souvenirs. A lot of them were made in China, but there were some authentic-looking wood carvings and beautiful gold and silver necklaces, bracelets, and rings. Justin purchased a couple of scarves for Karolin, hoping she would like the light blue and brown combination.

At about fifteen minutes prior to their meeting time, Justin circled the block, making sure no one was following him or surveilling the café. He noticed no one suspicious. Tourists strolled through the area, vendors peddled their products, and only one police car offered a visible security presence.

Upon his return to the café, Justin climbed the stairs. Reza had not arrived yet, and Justin found that strange and slightly unnerving. Reza was punctual, often arriving with plenty of time to scout the area for agents of the opposition. Some crisis must have delayed him.

Justin found a seat near the window and ordered a cup of coffee. He studied the faces of a handful of men and a couple of women sitting at the other tables. One couple appeared to be tourists, considering their gaudy clothes and hats and loud voices. The others looked local, conversing in hushed tones.

He sipped the coffee and tried to avoid glancing at his wristwatch every couple of minutes. Reza was late, and that was unusual. Why isn’t he calling? Maybe I should call him? But he refrained from doing so. He decided to give Reza ten minutes and then call him.

As the watch’s minute hand reached the numeral two, Justin sighed, then picked up his phone. He dialed Reza and took a breath of relief at the tone of the clear signal. No one picked up for a moment, then he heard the busy signal. It sounded as if the call had been diverted.

Justin tried again.

This time, he heard only the busy signal. After about fifteen seconds, a recorded voice began to talk to Justin in what he assumed was Farsi, probably urging him to leave a message.

What’s going on? Where are you, Reza?

Justin glanced around the café, then out the window. He dialed Reza’s number a third time. He was met again by the indifferent busy signal.

Something’s wrong.

He tried to curb the uneasiness gnawing at the pit of his stomach. His gut feeling told him something had gone seriously sideways. Otherwise, Reza would have contacted Justin to inform him of the delay and the change of plans.

Justin paid for his coffee and headed out. He did not want to be inside the café, in case Reza had been captured and tortured to give up their meeting place. Justin glanced over his shoulder and made sure no one followed him. He circled the block a couple of times and checked all the nearby cafés, in the faint hope that Reza had somehow misunderstood Justin and was waiting somewhere else.

Reza was nowhere to be found.

When it was one hour past their meeting time, Justin shook his head and admitted to himself the conclusion he had been denying up to that point. Something has happened to Reza. Something bad, really bad.