Jihad (2 page)

—
The Wall Street Journal

“Kept me strapped in the cockpit of the author’s imagination for a down-and-dirty novel.”

—
St. Louis Post-Dispatch

SAUCER

“A comic, feel-good SF adventure...[delivers] optimistic messages about humanity’s ability to meet future challenges.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“Tough to put down.”

—Publishers Weekly

Also in this series

Stephen Coonts’ Deep Black
(Stephen Coonts & Jim DeFelice)
Stephen Coonts’ Deep Black: Biowar
(Stephen Coonts & Jim DeFelice)
Stephen Coonts’ Deep Black: Dark Zone
(Stephen Coonts & Jim DeFelice)
Stephen Coonts’ Deep Black: Jihad
(Stephen Coonts & Jim DeFelice)

Novels by STEPHEN COONTS

The Traitor

Liars and Thieves

Liberty

Saucer

America

Hong Kong

Cuba

Fortunes of War

Flight of the Intruder

Final Flight

The Minotaur

Under Siege

The Red Horseman

The Intruders

Nonfiction books by STEPHEN COONTS

The Cannibal Queen

War in the Air

Books by JIM DEFELICE

Coyote Bird

War Breaker

Havana Strike

Brother’s Keeper

Cyclops One

With Dale Brown:

Dale Brown’s Dreamland
(Dale Brown & Jim DeFelice)

Nerve Center
(Dale Brown & Jim DeFelice)

Razor’s Edge
(Dale Brown & Jim DeFelice)

NOTE:
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

STEPHEN COONTS’ DEEP BLACK: JIHAD

Copyright © 2007 by Stephen Coonts.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 0-312-93699-0

EAN: 978-0-312-93699-0

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2007

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth

Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

AUTHORS’ NOTE:

In this work of fiction all of the characters, organizations and events portrayed are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. In particular, the National Security Agency, Central Intelligence Agency, Space Agency, Federal Bureau of Investigation, National Security Council, and Marines are, of course, real. While based on an actual organization affiliated with the NSA and CIA, Desk Three and all of the people associated with it in this book are fiction. The technology depicted here either exists or is being developed.

Some liberties have been taken in describing actual places and procedures to facilitate the telling of the tale. Details of some security procedures and apparatus at actual places have been omitted or recast as a matter of the public interest.

CHAPTER 1

THE LIGHT BLUE Mercedes came around the comer a bit too fast, tires squealing as the driver tucked around a tour bus parked near Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. Just then a cab spurted from the curb directly into the Mercedes’ path. The Mercedes veered to the left, but the way was blocked by another bus; before the driver could veer back, two of his tires blew. The car plowed into the side of a small panel truck, striking it so hard that the truck’s gas tank exploded with a gush of flames.

Or so it appeared from the Mercedes.

Most of the tourists and others nearby were too stunned to react, even to run away. But one devout woman who happened to be passing nearby saw the accident and rushed toward the flames, her long dress and chador fluttering in the wind as she ran. Dodging a vehicle that just slammed on its brakes, she ran to the Mercedes. As she reached it, a fireball rose from the tour bus, exploding above with a boom that shook the entire block.

“So far, so good,” said Jeff Rockman, watching the disaster unfold on the large screen at the front of Desk Three’s op center, commonly known as the Art Room.

“We have a considerable distance to go, Mr. Rockman,” replied William Rubens, who as the number two man in the National Security Agency ran Desk Three, colloquially known as Deep Black. “Please direct your attention to Ms. DeFrancesca and keep your color commentary to yourself.”

CHAPTER 2

LIA DEFRANCESCA THREW her hand against the window of the Mercedes, slamming what looked like a large cookie into the comer of the glass near the driver. She twisted her palm against the device and let go, jerking back as flames from the nearby bus erupted above her. The heat from the fireball drove her to her knees. There, she reached her right hand into her left sleeve and pulled out what looked like a fabric eyeglass case with a metallic nipple at the top. She rammed the nipple into the center of the cookie, which by then had drilled a hole through the glass window. Black smoke furled around her, so thick that Lia had trouble seeing the brown swatch at the side of the case she had to press. She worked her fingers across the canvas exterior, feeling for the button; when she found it, she pressed twice without feeling the click of the spring beneath her thumb. Finally a third touch solicited a loud
swoosh,
as the compressed gas in the canister inside the bag was released into the car through a hole drilled by the cookie. Still on her knees, Lia reached into her right sleeve and took a cell phone from its elastic holding spot. She flipped the phone open and punched the green button; rather than dialing a number, the phone sent a code to the car’s master computer, unlocking the doors. By the time she got up, the device she’d placed on the window had already done its job: all four of the car’s occupants were unconscious.

“The security team is out of the vehicles,” said a voice in Lia’s head. It belonged to Rockman, the runner back in the Art Room monitoring the mission. “You have thirty seconds.”

Lia pulled the gas device from the window and kicked it under the car. Opening the rear passenger door, she removed a switchblade from her sleeve and hacked through the seatbelt of the passenger nearest her, then tucked her shoulder down and lifted him from the car. She’d just gotten him to the ground when a beefy set of fingers grabbed her right arm and threw her to the pavement.

CHAPTER 3

TOMMY KARR WINCED as his left leg was jammed toward his neck. The man looming over him began pummeling his back, pounding the muscles senseless. Without warning he grabbed Karr’s head and pushed it to the side, first left then right, rocking back and forth with sharp jerks.

A beating had never felt so good.

“You like?” asked the
tellak,
a combination attendant, masseuse, and scrubber in the exclusive Turkish bath.

“Gave me goose bumps,” said Karr.

“We move on when you’re ready.”

“Awesome.” Karr rolled off the hot marble slab, letting his bones soak in the warmth from the steam. Then he went out through an archway opposite the one where he had come in. The tellak was waiting, a razor in his hand.

“I think I’ll skip that, thanks,” said Karr. The next stage of a traditional Turkish bath,
tozu
—the removal of hair from
all
parts of the body—was generally optional for foreigners, but the attendant looked disappointed as he put his blade away and led Karr through a set of columns to a shallow marble bath. There he poured water over the American and began rubbing his torso with a camel hair glove several grades rougher than coarse sandpaper, pulling dead skin and hair into his fist.

“Tickles,” said Karr as he was flayed.

After he was buffed down, Karr was soaped with a cream that smelled like olive oil; he felt like a chicken being prepared for a barbecue. A rinse with ice-cold water followed. It took three large basins to properly baste the six-six American, whose muscles tingled with each splash.

Finally the
tellak
pronounced him finished by flapping a fresh towel in the air, wrapping it ceremoniously around Karr’s midsection. As a final gesture, he gave Karr a long lecture in Turkish on the history of Turkish baths—they extended to the Romans, who had made their capital here in Istanbul in the sixth century—and their many health benefits. Since the American had no idea what the man was saying, he nodded as soberly as possible, given the circumstances. Only when he was properly educated did the
tellak
see fit to release him, pointing toward an archway beyond the columns.

These led to the
masak
or cold room, a lounge where bathers went to recover from the ordeal of coming clean. Karr’s wooden clogs were two or three sizes too small, and he felt a bit like a ballet dancer in special shoes as he ambled into the room. The only other occupants were two middle-aged Turkish men sharing a
nargile,
a classic Turkish water pipe, smoking apple-scented tobacco. Karr smiled at them, giving his head a half bow. One of the men said something to the other, and they both laughed.

“Yup,” said Karr, laughing himself. “Definitely my first time.” He ran his fingers through his yellow hair. “Guess it shows, huh?”

The men looked at each other and laughed again. They were in their fifties, obviously well off or they wouldn’t be here. They sat on a large couch covered with a cloth so thick it looked like a rug. A tray of dried apricots sat on a small table at the side, along with two glasses of
elma
or apple tea.

“Stuff in the pipe smells good,” said Karr. “What is it? Ganja?”

“Eh?” asked one of the men.

“Dope. Pot.” Karr put his fingers to his lips as if smoking a joint. The men remained confused. “Marijuana?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” said the man on the left. “This is tobacco,” he said, speaking in English. “Here—join us.”

“Me?” Karr glanced around.

“Yes, yes, come, come. You’re American?”

“Born and bred,” said Karr. “You guys?”

The man turned and looked at his companion, then burst out laughing.

“We’re Turkish,” said the first man.

“Well, no, you just speak English real well,” said Karr.

“English is the universal language,” said the second man. “Come, sit with us, young fellow. Have a smoke. Very good.”

The men moved over on the couch and Karr sat between them. He took a hit on the water pipe and immediately began to cough. This amused his new friends so much they nearly fell off the couch laughing. He did better with a second puff; the smoke had a soft, cool taste.

“Wow. Don’t let the surgeon general taste that, huh? Get hooked right away.” Karr laughed and sat back on the couch. “Name’s Thomas Magnum. Dr. Magnum. I’m here for a conference. Great city.”

“I am a doctor as well,” said the man who had first spoken to him.

“More than a mere doctor,” said his friend. “The head of neurology.”

“I crack heads open to take a look,” said the doctor. He laughed, then told Karr that he had trained for a while in the U.S., and had thought of living there for a while. But pleasures like his regular Tuesday and Thursday visits to the
hamam
brought him back.

An attendant came to ask if Karr would like any refreshments. He deferred to his hosts for advice; after conferring in Turkish, they recommended a glass of
ayran.

“Okay,” said Karr. “What is it?”

“Very healthy,” said the doctor. “You will live to one hundred.”

The attendant returned with a large glass of a white liquid that smelled like curdled cream. It turned out to be a salty yogurt drink that was clearly an acquired taste.

“Maybe some tea,” he said, putting the glass back on the table.

Tears of laughter flowed from his companions’ eyes. A small glass of tea appeared almost instantly. Karr took a sip, swished it around to get the salty yogurt taste from his mouth, then began to sneeze. The attendant reappeared with a small cloth—a handkerchief.

“Just what I needed. Thanks,” said Karr, adding another of his meager store of Turkish phrases,
“teṢekkür ederim.”
The words meant thank you, and were pronounced “teh-shekkewr eh-deh-reem.” Karr stumbled over the middle syllable in each word, and looked apologetically at his hosts.

“Did I get that right?” he asked. Then he covered his face as he sneezed.

The doctor corrected his pronunciation. Karr tried the phrase again, but once more had to sneeze. He excused himself—in English—rose and turned away to be polite.

It also made it easier to remove the small prosthetic tape at the roof of his mouth. He took the flat capsule and snapped it between his fingers, dividing the contents in the other men’s tea cups, which were blocked from their view by his hulking back.

“Wow. Must be allergic to something.” Karr held up his glass. “A toast, to Turkey and its great hospitality.”

His hosts nodded, and raised their teas as well.