Straits of Power

time they revived, the SEALs hoped to be long gone. He opened a canteen, which he and Felix had filled earlier to have ready. The chief poured stale human urine into the crotches of both unconscious bodyguards. Felix knew, per the plan, that the two drugged Germans from the other car would be dumped elsewhere the same way. The original Turkish civilian drivers of the taxi and the gypsy cab had been relieved of their vehicles in a similar manner by some of Felix’s men much earlier: The SEALs had hailed taxis repeatedly, chatting up drivers in fractured English during short rides, and picked ones who were self-employed and just starting the evening work shift — so the thefts wouldn’t be reported prematurely.

Public drunkenness in Istanbul is an increasing problem, despite the many Muslims who don’t drink. One thing that doesn’t draw much notice is a wino or two conked out, especially when they’ve pissed themselves. Even a local cop is very unlikely to haul them in. They’re messy and they really stink.

Chapter 37

Under a railroad trestle, Mohr dashed from Costa’s Hyundai to the armored Mercedes that Felix and Salih had rented. The BMW and gypsy cab stood guard from farther off. Then, with four vehicles to work with now, they did a much more extensive check for tails — there were no signs of any.

The autos drove on as a group, making no attempt at stealth now, running badly behind schedule. Felix parked the Mercedes in the shadows between the rare streetlamps in the seedy neighborhood near the safe house. Inside the car with the doors locked, Mohr ought to be fully protected from any hooligans who might bother him. Mohr was visibly nervous. Felix gave him a spare pistol just in case, and to make him feel more a part of the team.

“We’ll be back. Sit tight.”

“You have to kill them all before they can damage the computer modules.”

Felix had a horrible thought for the first time. It comes from being so rushed. “Do the gadgets have self-destructs or booby traps built in?”

“No. Too risky. But they aren’t bulletproof either.”

“We have to go. Slouch like you’re taking a nap, but keep your eyes open.”

“If I see Kampfschwimmer, not you, I’ll shoot myself.”

Felix knew Mohr meant it. That’s probably the best thing for him, if this safe-house attack does come unglued….

Felix jumped into the back of the gypsy cab, and the little assault convoy roared off. They halted at their preselected staging area. Everyone piled out of the cars and opened the trunks.

The Kampfschwimmer safe house was well chosen, in the middle of a dark street of old two- and three-story buildings. The entire block seemed to Felix to reek of neglect and poverty and crime. I wouldn’t want to walk down this street alone, even armed. Felix and his team were now geared up for battle. They wore black flak vests and ceramic-composite helmets, with equipment harnesses and lightweight night-vision goggles. Under the helmets and goggles they wore gas masks. The fighting would be at short range — no sniper rifle, no fragmentation or lethal-concussion grenades.

They knew from Mohr that the safe house appeared to not have any external security cameras, and he’d never seen displays for them inside, but one of Felix’s chiefs made as sure as he could with image-intensified binoculars. Then Salih walked down the street, still in casual civilian clothes, and tried to see if there were miniaturized surveillance lenses after all. Past the safe house, he gestured that he didn’t spot any up close. Felix thought it would be hard to tell with the little moonlight to go by. But, lenses in a slum? Everyone knows how to spot them these days. Here, with nosy and paranoid neighbors, they might make a safe house less safe…. In sixty seconds we’ll find out.

Felix’s team moved up both sides of the street, hugging the shadows, in a tactical formation. Most of their magazines were loaded with flat-nosed bullets, to avoid any chance of overpenetrating two structural walls and going into the occupied buildings on either side. On the back of their flak vests they had stenciled “EMNIYET,” Turkish for police, in white.

When they were near the targeted building’s front, Felix used an infrared scanner to locate people inside by their body heat. No image. He turned it off and on again. Nothing.

The damn thing’s broken…. Mohr said to expect ten men.

A chief with a directional mike also had it aimed at the building. He tried different windows, then made hand signals.

No conversations overheard. Not even radios playing.

Salih knocked on the door of the safe house. Somebody on the other side said something, and Salih answered, disguising his voice. His tone was sniveling, pathetic, but persistent — as if he refused to go away. He got louder, on the verge of hysteria.

Expecting Klaus Mohr momentarily, and wanting to be rid of this nuisance before Salih might make a scene, a Kampfschwimmer unlocked the heavy, rusty, metal-slab front door.

Felix knew Salih would start in Turkish, then switch to fractured German if the Kampfschwimmer didn’t speak Turkish. He was pretending to want to make a heroin buy, and a friend had said this was the place. The German would assume he had the wrong address, causing a moment’s hesitation.

Felix gave the signal. His men dashed forward, their MP-5 shoulder stocks unfolded, rounds in the chambers, safeties off.

On the run, shoving Salih aside, Felix authoritatively yelled “Polis!”—another Turkish word for police.

“Lutfen,” Salih begged as he fell to the ground and rolled out of the way. Please. Then in his normal voice he yelled up and down the block in Turkish. Felix knew he was announcing a police raid, and telling everyone to stay inside and stay down.

On this block, a drug-house raid is believable. Most of the residents are probably glad it’s not them being raided.

For another crucial moment, the Kampfschwimmer would be confused. They knew one thing — their safe house was not a heroin connection. They’d assume a Turkish SWAT team had followed Salih, and thus also had the wrong address.

Felix’s team poured through the door, shouting “Polis!” over and over, fanning out and climbing the staircase as the metal door slammed shut behind them. Felix picked a human target and his weapon barked, the recoil pounding against his shoulder as spent brass flew. On that cue his team opened fire.

Kampfschwimmer darted for their weapons. Felix’s chiefs both threw flash-bang gas grenades. They detonated, and Felix saw spots even though he’d known to close his eyes. Military tear gas filled the air.

Felix was panting and his gas-mask lenses were fogging already. He pumped round after round into every Kampfschwimmer’s face or abdomen he saw, with his weapon set on two-round bursts. He wasn’t sparing of ammo, and quickly had to change magazines.

A bullet struck his flak vest, knocking him backward. SEALs on either side fired past him; another German screamed and fell, dead.

“First floor clear!” Porto shouted in Portuguese. His voice was muffled by his gas mask.

“Go! Go! Go!” Felix bellowed, also in Portuguese.

“Cellar clear!” came from below.

Felix’s ears were ringing painfully now, from the grenades and loud reports of weapons indoors. But the noise was part of the plan. Through the mental tunnel vision of combat, Felix caught glimpses of his men moving from room to room, covering each other, looking down the sights of their weapons. They swept their gazes and MP-5s in unison from side to side. Their muzzles spit fire as they shot at Kampfschwimmer, and more muzzles flamed as the Germans shot back. Chipped plaster fell from the walls where stray bullets hit, and upholstery stuffing flew around like windblown snow. Felix heard breaking glass and smashing porcelain.

He advanced and almost slipped in a dead German’s blood. Tear gas mixing with more and more gun smoke