been practicing for days. He gestured at Chief Costa and his enlisted man, who stayed quiet. They were supposed to be bodyguards. They looked the part.
“This your principal?” The attendant glanced at Salih.
The man reached under the counter and gave Felix a pile of forms to fill out, and a pen. “Please show me your documents. All.” He cast his eyes over the group.
The SEALs and Salih placed their passports, visas, international driving permits, and other papers on the counter. Salih was pretending he was a Turkish citizen, although both he and his parents had been born and raised in Germany. Salih translated each box on the form for Felix, and showed him where to sign.
While Felix filled out the forms, the man turned to his computer and entered the passport numbers. He seemed satisfied that none of Felix’s group had a criminal record, or was a wanted terrorist, or whatever. If anything came back saying the passport numbers were invalid, he didn’t react.
He typed on his keyboard again. A printer spat out an invoice.
Felix made a tsking sound, a sign of disapproval. “Too high.”
The man leaned across the counter. “This basic rate for the cars. Overnight is two days. Not negotiable. This for insurance, also two days.” All insurance rates were steep, with the war. “This for full petrol tanks.” Gasoline prices were also astronomical. “This is surcharge because you not taking our bodyguards to go with cars.”
“Why a surcharge? You do less work.”
“Because, my friend, when customers use own bodyguards, cars come back with more damage.”
Felix didn’t argue. He pushed the filled-out forms across the counter.
“How payment?”
The team did not bring credit or debit cards, since Parker had said providing valid ones in-country, with false names, was too difficult and would leave a trail. Large amounts of cash were problematic too, because Turkey suffered hyperinflation even before the war, and international currency rates were fluctuating wildly. Precious goods had become a reliable form of exchange amid so much financial instability.
Salih reached into his pocket, and opened the velvet sack. He offered two high-quality emerald rings. The stones were large, and more valuable than diamonds.
The attendant called someone from an office, then took another puff on his cigarette. This second man, younger and thinner than the first, also wore a business suit, except with the obvious bulge of a pistol holster under his left armpit. He used an eye loupe to assess the stones.
“Will you need weapons?” the attendant asked.
“No. We have.”
The front-desk man eyed the team’s windbreakers and gym bags.
“I must see weapon licenses. The law.”
More forged documents proffered, and accepted; more paperwork.
“There now must be collateral for cars.”
The team expected this. Salih handed Felix two wristwatches. Both were Harry Winston models, a very prestigious brand, for the extremely wealthy only. Felix gave them to the attendant. Each, in the U.S., would cost about a quarter of a million dollars new. They were sold worldwide, and Felix expected that the CIA had bought these in some neutral country, in an untraceable transaction.
The appraiser came out again, inspected the watches, and nodded.
The front-desk man took digital photos of both, printed the photos, recorded the Harry Winston serial numbers on their photos, filled out and signed a form, and gave Felix the receipt for the deposit. The watches went into the safe. They’d be returned when the cars were returned. He finished his cigarette, stubbed the butt in the ashtray, and lit a new one with a gold lighter. He exhaled another cloud of smoke.
“One more thing. Need pictures, each of you. Here please.” One by one, Felix and his guys stood where the attendant showed them to, and he took photos. He checked that these came out okay on his computer screen, printed hard copies and added them to his paper files, saved the data to a backup disk, labeled it by hand, and put the disk into the safe.
He called out into the rear office area, louder. Another Turk — rather unfriendly and with a knife scar on his cheek to rival Felix’s — appeared soon and took over at the counter. Like the appraiser, he had a big pistol bulging from under his suit jacket.
The attendant made a downward scooping gesture with one hand, which signified that they follow him. He led Felix’s group through a door, down a dusty cinder-block corridor, then, after punching keys in an electronic lock, through another door.
They came out into a large, enclosed space in the back-most part of the building. It smelled of fuel and exhaust fumes — both gasoline and diesel — and lubricants. The ceiling lights were harsh, bare, functional fluorescents. The floor, spotted with stains from oil and transmission fluid, was poured concrete. To one side, Felix saw a well-equipped maintenance area, with a hydraulic vehicle lift not now in use. A late-model Audi sat near there, with its front windshield and hood removed.
Farther on, half a dozen cars were parked as if at an indoor garage, except with more room between them.
“I suggest this one for your guest.” The car was a 2012-model, sparkling-clean, black Mercedes-Benz sedan. He opened the driver’s door, and showed Felix the window. It was armored, and double glazed. “Other windows all like this.” Felix knew that the double glazing prevented eavesdropping by someone bouncing an infrared laser beam off the glass to catch vibrations from people talking inside the car.
Felix peered under the Mercedes. He saw a plate protecting most of the underside of the vehicle.
Felix stood. “No dark window tinting?” This was common on stretch limos used by celebrities, for privacy.
“I can stick on sheets of tinting quick, but not recommend. Draws attention, and harder for you to see out at night.”
“Agree, no tinting…. What’s this?” Felix pointed to small nozzles in the roof of the passenger compartment.
“Fire-suppression system. Automatic. Engine space have same. New gas, like halon, but not toxic…. This one, good chase car.” The Turk pointed to a dirty, dented jalopy, a brown Hyundai four-door at least ten years old.
“It looks like it’s been in an accident,” Felix said skeptically.
The attendant smiled, for the first time. “You blend in. That just sheet metal. Chassis, suspension strengthened, engine new, two hundred fifty horsepower, whole drive train new. Passenger place, engine compartment, boot, all armored.” The “boot” meant the trunk.
“Petrol tank?” Felix used the British word for gasoline.
“Main and reserve, total one hundred fifty liters.” About forty gallons. A large supply, even for something so heavy because of all the hidden armoring. “Tanks hard steel with self-sealing rubber bladder inside. Mercedes same. Tires, both cars, bullet resistant.”
Felix waited while his chief and enlisted man opened the hoods, checked in the trunks, sat in the driver seats. Both cars had manual transmissions, which the men expected and knew how to use. They took electronic instruments from their gym bags, and carefully did a visual inspection and swept for bugs or tracking devices.
The attendant smiled again. “Professional. Trust no one.”
