Straits of Power

around, tugged on his other lanyard, and Gamal Salih appeared. They unclipped the lanyards and climbed the ladder. Nearby stood outdoor, screened-off showers meant for maintenance divers.

Soon Felix’s team were all ashore, stripped naked behind the screens, showering thoroughly and rinsing off their dive gear. Aside from the filth of the water, they needed to remove the last little trace of forensic signs — U.S. — made cloth fibers, dust particles from inside a submarine, whatever — that clung to their hair and in the nooks and crannies of their bodies. They dried themselves with towels made in Turkey, and dressed in casual clothes also made in Turkey. In the week leading up to departing from Norfolk, even their dental work had been redone to Portuguese or Turkish standards.

Salih put a small but heavy velvet sack into his shirt pocket. In deference to local cultural sensitivities — and so to better blend in — none of the men wore hats. They donned cheap watches and synchronized with Felix—3:42 P.M. They checked their forged ID papers and counted their real local money one last time, and slipped out their Turkish-made weapons.

The MP-5s were model A-3s, with collapsible buttstocks and no protruding silencers on their barrels. Slung downward by the adjustable strap in one armpit, and held along the side of their bodies, the firearms became invisible when the men pulled on thin windbreakers — especially with no protruding magazines loaded into the weapons yet; these they slid into pants pockets. They strapped fighting knives near one ankle, under a pants leg.

They picked up their equipment bags, with dive gear plus flak vests, helmets, pistols, and more ammo inside — and a disassembled sniper rifle for long-range work — and sauntered out of the sewage-treatment plant. It was one of the least guarded or hardened targets in Istanbul — raw sewage went into the Golden Horn from other sites anyway. Nobody challenged them.

Away from the plant, the men split up into smaller groups. In their heads were maps and routes and schedules, plan phases and fall-back arrangements, thoroughly memorized. The whole team knew what to do. Some would hail taxis. Others would ride on city buses. Felix and Salih, and Chief Costa and an enlisted man, would walk and then hop aboard a municipal electric trolley.

Chapter 34

Felix and those with him survived their half-mile walk to the trolley — something never guaranteed. Istanbul traffic drove on the same side of the road as in the U.S., but beyond that the vehicular rights-of-way were fought for driver to driver, in a perpetual game of chicken whose outcome was left to the will of Allah — literally. Pedestrians had no rights at all other than to be run over. The sidewalks were safe enough, most of the time, but the streets and intersections were maiming zones for people on foot. Red lights were seen as suggestions, often ignored if no policeman was near. Spillback, gridlock, blaring horns, squealing brakes, and frustrated cursing went on nonstop. One car rear-ended another with a loud smack and the sound of scattering headlight glass, barely ten feet from where Felix warily paced. The drivers argued, but not violently. Fender benders seemed a matter of course, frequent accidents a normal part of the daily routine here.

And exactly as the briefing papers said, Felix thought, taxi drivers are so conscious of crashes that they have their blood types painted on the outsides of their cabs. Terrific.

They threaded their way through milling crowds. Felix and his group passed tea sellers with big silver samovars strapped to their backs, and vendor stands offering fresh-caught seafood, pastries, stews, or mouthwatering lamb. Ever concerned about detection and surveillance by a number of potentially hostile non- American operatives, for security and countersurveillance the SEALs and Salih pretended to not know each other. Their gym bags were different shapes and sizes and colors for this reason. They used the reflections in windows of shops and the windows and mirrors of parked cars to make sure they hadn’t already picked up a tail.

At last on the jam-packed trolley, they stood near enough to watch each other’s backs and guard against pickpockets. At one stop they shuffled off, covertly taking careful looks at everyone else who left the trolley there. They waited for the next tram to come down the line, and made sure no one else from the previous one had loitered and got back on when they did.

Along the way, in odd snatches when he wasn’t preoccupied with remaining clandestine or simply staying alive amid the traffic mayhem, Felix got more of an up-close view of Istanbul’s New City. The architecture varied from shiny office buildings to millennia-old monuments whose stone was now blackened by air pollution. The odors of exotic spices wafting from shops and restaurants blended with the bite of vehicle exhaust fumes. Lute and zither music clashed with Arab-style quarter tones and homegrown Turkish evolutions of rock and jazz. Men and women, dressed in Western casual or business attire, mixed freely with others who observed Islamic public-apparel guidelines with different levels of strictness that seemed completely a matter of personal choice. The Turkish tongue that most of them spoke sounded vaguely like Hungarian, but Felix knew there was no linguistic connection.

And modern Turkish was written with English-style letters, as Felix could see on trolley and bus destination boards, street signs, storefronts, and product advertisements everywhere.

Felix kept noticing the large number of Japanese tourists. As on his last mission, on a different continent, they seemed to take an almost voyeuristic glee in getting as close as they could to a tactical nuclear war in which, so far, they were neutral; Tokyo’s recent announcement that they had their own atom bombs, proved by an underwater test, was just one more destabilizing factor in the present increasingly unstable world.

These particular Japanese may be a lot closer to tactical nuclear combat than they realize.

Felix, Salih, and the two SEALs got off the trolley again, this time at their stop. After more death-defying sprints through traffic at what were supposed to be crosswalks where they had the light, the foursome walked on briskly, blending into the crowd and the hubbub. They arrived at their first destination, the storefront of a two-story yellowed limestone building. They did another check for any surveillance tail. None. Together, they went inside the upmarket executive-protection rental company.

Felix acted as their leader at the rental company. On the trip from Norfolk, with help from Salih, he’d mastered some phrases of the Turkish language, and learned about local conversational gestures.

“Merhaba,” he spoke in Turkish to the man at the counter. Hello. The man wore an off-the-rack business suit that didn’t fit very well, and had a black mustache and a receding hairline. He chain- smoked, as witnessed by an overflowing ashtray on the desk behind the counter; the air had the strong but not unpleasant odor of tangy Turkish tobacco. A stereo played, of all things, classical music — Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, a lively, fast-paced section of the piece. Two leather couches with a newspaper tossed on one formed a waiting area.

“Iyi aksamlar,” the attendant responded. Good evening.

“Ismim…” My name is. Felix pulled out his Portuguese passport and gave his false name. In Portuguese, he mentioned Awais Iqbal and his firm, and said they had a reservation.

The man shook his head from side to side.

Felix knew he wasn’t saying no. He meant he didn’t understand. He didn’t speak any Portuguese. “Almanya?” Did Felix speak German?

“How about English?”

“Yes, English is good.” Most Turks who did business in Istanbul spoke at least one foreign language pretty well.

“You should have two cars for us.” Felix explained that Mr. Iqbal had been delayed outside the country, and they were standing in for him. Felix gave the reservation number Iqbal had passed on to his handler, which eventually reached Gerald Parker on Challenger by radio. This was to confirm Felix’s identity as a genuine associate of the absent Iqbal.

The man bowed his head once. This meant yes. “Still not wanting bodyguards?” His English had hints of a British accent, not American, a common thing in this part of the world.

Felix lifted his head back and raised his eyebrows. This was how Turks conveyed no. “We have our own.” Felix made sure to speak with a Portuguese accent as best he could; this was another part of his cover that he’d