Jihad (17 page)

Half of the faces in the room dropped when he said that.

“Problem?” Karr asked.

“Marid Dabir took a flight from Berlin to Baden an hour ago,” Hess told him. “Baden is about thirty miles from MiRO, the largest petroleum refinery in Western Europe.”

CHAPTER 47

DEAN GRABBED A four-hour nap between two and six A.M., then was back on Asad’s trail as the terrorist organizer once more played tourist, beginning his day with a visit to the New Mosque near the Eminönü waterfront. From there, Asad walked around the corner to the Spice Market, an indoor bazaar that featured mostly food items, including large bags of piquant-smelling spices.

“Buy something nice for me,” Lia told Dean, who was on the far side of the building.

“I’ll get you a rug.”

“Handwoven.”

Asad walked through slowly and came out behind the mosque. Lia took up the tail while Dean doubled back through the bazaar.

“Going underground,” said Lia as Asad headed toward a walkway that went under the heavily trafficked highway near the waterfront. The passage was filled with shops and vendors who spread their wares on blankets and rugs, hawking them to the crowds coming off the bridge or the nearby tram station.

“This is probably it,” said Rockman. “We have the U2 ready today; if he goes underground, we’ll have a map available in seconds.”

A gaggle of Japanese tourists pressed into the narrow hallway at the front of the Spice Bazaar as Dean tried to get out. He nudged his way through and began trotting toward the passage. Another flood of people, this one from a tram that had just stopped nearby, clogged the steps as he descended, and he was caught in a steamy mangle of bodies.

“Lia?” he said.

“He’s heading for the ferries. Pier Three. He just bought a ticket. I’ll stay with him. Relax, Charlie Dean.”

ABOUT AN HOUR and a half later, Asad got off the ferry at a small fishing village cum tourist trap called Anadolu Kavagi just south of the Black Sea. Lia watched him go ashore before following herself. When he went into a restaurant just off the pier, she found another nearby. She went up to the second floor, looking down through the open windows at the corner of his table.

“So what’s he saying?” she asked the Art Room a half hour later.

“That the red mullet isn’t that fresh.”

“Pity,” said Lia.

An hour passed without anything happening. Finally Asad left the restaurant and headed up the road in the direction of an old fortress. Lia followed, but stayed a half mile back; Fashona was flying above and had the area under surveillance. She found a small grocer and bought a bottle of water, then camped in the shade below the ruins. More than likely, she thought, he’d hold a meeting in some underground cavern like yesterday, but a flyover by the U2 failed to turn up any hidden chambers, and within forty-five minutes Asad was headed back to the village.

“Where are you, Charlie?”

“Still offshore. You want me to come in?”

She did, but not for anything work related.

“Asad’s going back toward the dock. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks.”

DEAN WATCHED FROM the small boat as the ferry approached across the strait. It was the last one of the day; if Asad was going to return to Istanbul, he’d have to board it.

Or not. A boat could easily be waiting nearby.

The ferry moved in slow motion toward the dock. Dean, tired from the mission and convinced that Asad wasn’t going to do anything important today, pulled his cap down over his eyes; shade was a poor substitute for sleep, but it was the best he could do for now. A faint odor of rotting fish hung over his boat, normally used for fishing; between that and the unsteady rocking of the waves whenever a large tanker passed nearby, Dean’s stomach felt queasy.

“Looks like he’s going to get on this one,” Lia told him. “He’s moving toward the dock. I’ll get on after him.”

“No, go ahead and get aboard first thing,” said Marie Telach. “If he stays ashore, Charlie can go in and follow him, and we’ll have one of the backup units come closer.”

Lia didn’t answer, which Dean knew meant she didn’t agree but would go along anyway. A few minutes after the ferry docked, she reported that Asad was in the bow with his bodyguard.

“I’m going to plant some video bugs,” she added.

Rockman gave her the usual cautions. Dean had his boat’s captain—a one-time army special forces soldier who’d retired to Turkey about a decade before—turn the craft toward the opposite shore, where the ferry’s next stop would be.

It wasn’t until two stops later that a pair of Middle Eastern businessmen drew near Asad. One of them called him
sheik.

“Hey, here we go,” said Rockman. “Oh, yeah. Hang on while we see if we can ID these guys. Charlie, we’re going to download the video from the fly to your PDA so you can get a look at them, too.”

Dean took out his handheld computer and flipped into the feed from the Art Room. The slightly blotchy picture showed Asad sitting with two bearded men in tan suits.

“The guy on the far teft—we’ve just ID’d him as Tariq Asam,” said Rockman. “He’s a Saudi. We don’t know the other guy, not yet. We want to follow them.”

“I’ll get on at the next stop.”

“We have somebody there already, Charlie. They’ll get on and trail the Saudis. You stay with the boat.”

“NOT YOU AGAIN,” said Lia, walking next to Pinchon at the food bar on the ferry.

“Funny. I thought the same thing.”

“The two guys with the tan suits in the bow are Saudis. You can’t miss them—they’re the only ones who have jackets on. They’re yours. Don’t lose them.”

“Where’s Grandpa?”

“Pinchon, just do your job, okay?”

“Baby, I thought you’d never ask.”

Lia ordered a bottled water, trying hard to ignore Pinohon as he walked away.

CHAPTER 48

“IT LOOKS LIKE the Saudi and his partner are going to get off at Bebek,” Telach told Rubens. “Asad is staying put.”

Rubens stepped over to one of the consoles and keyed up a map of the greater Istanbul area. Bebek was a small town north of the city on the European side, a relatively well-to-do area that might be compared to some of the Gold Coast towns near Miami. As he had with the others, Asad had spoken sparingly to the men, but it was clear that they were part of the same offensive he was coordinating ; he gave them a date only four days away, which Rubens assumed was the date for whatever attack they were planning.

“Should I have Lia get off with them?” asked Telach.

“No. Continue as planned,” said Rubens. “Let the CIA people stay with them. She can check in on them later. Have they said anything?”

“Nothing useful, but he did give them a Koran. Maybe it contains a message.”

“Tell Mr. Karr about that, in case it’s of use to him.”

Telach nodded. “What time are you leaving?”

Rubens glanced at his watch. He was supposed to be at the Capitol for George Hadash’s lying in state no later than eleven; he should leave within the next half hour.

“As soon as we are sure that Asad is getting off at Eminönü and going back to his safe house,” said Rubens, deciding Hadash would have wanted it that way.

WHILE HE HAD appeared on his share of news shows, George Hadash was not a political superstar, and Rubens wondered if the two hours designated for his lying in state would prove to be too long. But there was a long queue of people waiting outside hours before the doors were even opened, and as Rubens escorted Irena Hadash through the vestibule, he realized that two hours would not be enough. That was as it should be, he thought: better to have a surplus of grief than not enough.

Art Blanders, the secretary of defense, was standing nearby; he caught Rubens’ eye and started toward them. Rubens introduced Irena, along with her little girl. The kindergartener seemed perplexed by everything, but Rubens thought it was good that she was there; it gave her mother something to focus on besides grief.

“You’ve heard of Secretary Blanders, I’m sure,” said Rubens. “He’s been with the president for years, and was his chief of staff before going to the Pentagon. Your father often spoke highly of him.”

More than that: Hadash was the reason Blanders had the job; he’d personally lobbied the president to pick the former Naval officer, who at forty-five was the youngest cabinet member by at least a decade.

Still, Rubens worried that he sounded like a flatterer, or worse. He resolved to say nothing more, to do absolutely nothing that could be misinterpreted as using the death of his friend for personal gain. And, he would introduce Donna Bing in the most positive way; give her no room for complaint.

President Marcke swept in with his characteristic energy, a controlled firestorm charging up everyone around him. He wrapped his arm around Irena and led her a few feet away, her small frame practically disappearing in his. Left alone, Irena’s daughter Julia grabbed for the nearest familiar hand, which turned out to be Rubens’. Her small fingers gripped his tightly.

By the time Irena was her daughter’s age, her father and President Marcke—probably a congressman then, thought Rubens—had been friends for many years. How strange it must be to see a man who bounced you on his knee become president.

“And you, little girl, I hope you are well.” The president had returned and now stooped down to one knee, addressing Hadash’s granddaughter face-to-face. “Do you remember me?”

“You’re Gran’pa’s friend,” said the girl.

“Absolutely, Your grandpa was an important man. A great man who helped many people, including me. He’s with God now.”

“Mommy told me we have to share him.”

“Yes. Share him with God.” Marcke nodded solemnly. “Now he’s with all of us.”

Rubens felt a twinge of jealousy as the president escorted them inside. Other emotions—grief, mostly, but also concern about the Deep Black operation—mingled with his remembrances of Hadash. There was no man he’d learned more from, no better person to argue with, no one more generous with support and encouragement.

There was a brief ceremony near the casket. When it was done, the president bent over again and told Irena something, then turned and nodded to everyone before leaving. Rubens found himself next to Irena, part of what turned into a kind of reception line as she accepted the condolences of senators, congressmen, foreign dignitaries, and high-ranking administration officials. Some of them, he realized, might think he was more than just a friend.

The idea made him feel guilty, as if he’d intruded on Irena’s grief. But when he started to ease away, she reached for him, and so he stayed.

“Mr. Rubens,” said Donna Bing, materializing in the line.

“Dr. Bing.”

“When you have a moment today, we should speak. I would like an update on the matter we’ve been discussing.”

“Certainly.” Braced by the national security advisor’s undisguised animosity, Rubens straightened and stared ahead, looking at the long line of people who had come to pay his friend and mentor their last respects.

CHAPTER 49

LIA FOLLOWED ASAD off the ferry, staying close until he got into a taxi near the pier. The taxi was a new development, but it was apparently just a part of Asad’s precautions; it took him only a mile away where a new vehicle was waiting. From there, he was driven to a house on the eastern end of town where he hadn’t stayed before. She set up a surveillance net, working with Dean but never close enough to see him, before retreating.

When the Art Room decided that Asad was staying in for the night, Lia arranged to meet Charlie in a restaurant nearby, ostensibly to divvy up the overnight duties, though really just because she wanted to see him.

What bothered her even more than finding Terry Pinchon alive was finding that she still felt something for him—that there was emotion there, a real attraction she couldn’t deny. It scared her, not just because it cut against any logic—clearly he didn’t care for her, clearly he was a jerk, clearly any attraction was a mistake, no more than skin deep—but because it made her unsure what she felt for Dean.