Kadikoy, Istanbul
Present Day, Before the Jerusalem Assassinations
Zeb wore a balding man’s disguise on the day of the grab. Dark shirt, stained, dark trousers, comfortable shoes on his feet. A linen bag in one hand, he was the picture of a man heading home after grocery shopping. No one paid any attention to him. There were millions of men like him in the city. He was invisible.
He reached the café several hours before and checked it out by ordering a tea. Hussain wasn’t present. Neither was Shahi. Meghan said the two met around noon, the previous times. It was ten am. There was no sign of the Mossad kidon, either. That didn’t worry him. The operatives would be planning, and it wouldn’t surprise him if one of them was watching the café.
The regulars came in an hour later, the chess players. They occupied their usual table, greeted the owner and placed their order. One of them laid out a chess board and they began. Zeb had followed two of them previously and knew they were harmless. No lethal operative among any of them.
He put his drink down and rose hastily, mumbling to his server that he had forgotten an item on his list. His wife would kill him.
He departed, turned a corner and circled back. Entered the street at the far end and walked behind a family. Checked out the cars parked on the streets, testing their doors discreetly. One opened. He slid inside. No keys anywhere. That was okay. He wasn’t planning on driving it.
If the owner turned up, he would look apologetic. Say that the door was open and he had taken the opportunity to rest his legs. Who would begrudge an old man his respite?
He peered through the windscreen. Good view of the café and its approach.
Forty-five minutes later, he lumbered to the establishment. Settled heavily into a vacant seat and placed his bag down. He mopped his brow and checked his shopping against a list he produced from his pocket.
The chess players looked at him and clicked their tongues in sympathy when he grumbled about his wife. The universal brotherhood of harried husbands at play.
The server came, placed his tea on the table and headed back inside. Zeb took a sip and smacked his lips loudly in appreciation. Did the mopping thing again. Looked around. Spotted a newspaper on another table that someone had left.
Grabbed it and sat back in his seat with a sigh.
A few customers drifted in and out. Noon arrived. Half an hour later, Uzair Hussain came.
He was alone, in his black suit. Scuffed shoes. A worn leather satchel in hand. He occupied an empty table and looked around. His gaze passed over the pensioners and the man with the newspaper. He didn’t seem to sense any threat. He waved his hand to the server and placed his order.
Zeb had his head bowed, a finger tracing the column he was reading, his lips moving silently. He was watching from the corners of his eyes, the Glock snug in his shoulder holster.
Hussain checked his phone. Looked around impatiently and shifted in his seat.
Twenty minutes later, Kamran Shahi walked up briskly.
Hussain rose, hugged the man and exchanged greetings with him. The two men sat opposite each other, and when the new arrival’s drink appeared, they conversed softly.
Zeb didn’t attempt to overhear them.
His eyes were on two men who had accompanied the Iranian.
They wore short-sleeve shirts left untucked. Jeans. Combat boots, and when a breeze drifted through the street, their shirts flattened against their chests and revealed the angular outlines of the weapons at their waists.
Shahi hadn’t come alone, this time.
He had heavies with him.