whatever their country of origin. 'If I were Interpol,' she added, 'I wouldn't need to be here, jumping through the bureaucratic hoops.
They were speaking English, but Lia's legend called for a French accent and she knew a few words in Turkish.
'It is irregular,' Tarhan said at last, 'but let me see what I can do for such a beautiful woman.'
Interpol, the International Criminal Police Organization, maintained NCBs — National Central Bureaus — or sub-bureaus in 187 member countries and had one of the largest and most comprehensive computer databases on international criminal activity in the world.
The NSA, quite naturally, had penetrated that database long ago, but its very size and complexity meant that any covert search of Interpol's records required time — days, sometimes even weeks. Things had gotten even worse since the NCTC had begun trying to do Interpol one better with its Terrorist Identities Datamart Environment. Interpol tended to be jealous of its database and didn't make it easy for other agencies to gain access; a formal request for information could take weeks, even assuming it hit the right desk and reached the right person.
Taggart had tried first earlier that morning, showing his NSA identification and making a formal request downstairs at the National Central Bureau for Turkey, and as they'd expected, he'd been told that his request would be processed… a polite way of saying that approval might be forthcoming in a week or two.
And so Lia had decided to try it her way. Among her fictitious IDs was one for Captain Danielle Fouchet, former French gendarme and current agent for Europol.
Europol was not Interpol but a relatively new organization first established in the early 1990s by the Treaty of Maastricht and the creation of the European Union. Without full executive powers, it so far was limited to the role of support to the law enforcement agencies of the twenty-seven member nations of the EU. As the new kid on the European law enforcement block, it still faced considerable difficulties in finding channels with which to work with established agencies and databases — including those of Interpol.
Europol, she knew, struggled with many of the same challenges as the NSA or NCTC, but assuming this role gave her a significant advantage. As a European, she wasn't American. Too many foreign police services, reacting to the stereotypical image of the ugly American, the at times heavy-handed approach of the CIA and other U. S. agencies, and the perceived arrogance of U. S. foreign policy over the past decade, simply refused to work smoothly with any American intelligence unit. They dragged their feet, invoked special privilege, and threw up bureaucratic barriers, stonewalling attempts to get them to share needed intelligence.
That attitude was the NSA's primary motivation in infiltrating the intelligence data networks of other nations, even those of close allies; Lia didn't like the need for spying on allies, but that was the harsh truth of the current geopolitcal landscape.
And so Lia was posing as a French Europol agent and she'd chosen Colonel Tarhan of Turkey's Interpol bureau as her target.
She watched Tarhan typing away at his keyboard and smiled. Her ploy appeared to be working.
Working with the Turkish authorities could be challenging, especially if you were a woman. Though Turkey's government was defiantly secular, most Turks were Muslim and tended to be conservative to one degree or another when it came to dealing with women. An attractive woman on her own in the streets of Ankara could be subject to catcalls and harassment, even to physical assault; at the same time, many Turkish men, especially the older ones, could be almost charmingly and touchingly gallant when it came to responding to a woman's request, especially if she threw in just a touch of feminine helplessness.
Lia was also using Tarhan's military background to her advantage. The military dominated all aspects of Turkish society and government, doubling as the nation's police force. Individual Interpol NCBs were staffed by the national police of member nations, and so the Ankara bureau was run by Turkish military officers. By showing her credentials as a French Army officer serving with Europol, she could call Tarhan Komutanim instead of the civilian Bayim and relate to him as a superior officer.
All Turkish males were required to serve in the Army; women were not; she could tell that Tarhan was bemused by the idea of a woman Army captain and Europol agent… but she was counting on what would have been called machismo in a Latino country, his conservative and patriarchal gallantry toward women.
The technique required delicacy and care; it could easily backfire, especially if the target happened to be strongly Muslim or from a hyper-traditional culture like Saudi Arabia that seriously marginalized women to second- class citizenry. But the Art Room had transmitted the records of several of the officers at the Ankara Interpol bureau to her that morning, and she'd picked Tarhan as one who might be willing to bend the rules to help a woman in distress.
Especially a beautiful woman. Tarhan seemed quite taken with her, to the point that she was already wondering if she would have to fend off his advances later.
'Ah!' Tarhan said suddenly, leaning back in his seat. 'Success!'
'What did you find?'
'I'm printing off the dossier.' He waved a hand at the printer on the far side of his office, which had begun to buzz and whine. 'It's odd, though. You say this Erbakan was picked up trying to smuggle drugs himself?'
'Yes. In Southampton, Thursday morning.'
'It's not his usual modus operandi. Generally, he acts as the point man, setting up a meet and agreeing on a price. He's also never been involved with such a large amount. He really is a minor player.'
'We thought so, too. That's why we're looking for any connections you might have in your records… Erbakan's connections with organized crime, with known terrorists, that sort of thing.'
'Terrorists? Why would a drug runner be connected with terrorists?'
She shrugged. 'Many terror networks finance their activities with drugs.'
'In South America, perhaps. Or Southeast Asia. Not here.'
Dream ony Colonel she thought, but she kept the words to herself. Though the Russians had been more and more in the picture lately, Turkey remained a primary route for narcotics — especially heroin — coming from Asia to Europe, and several local terror groups used the drug pipelines to their financial advantage… especially the PKK, the Kurdistan Workers' Party seeking independence for Turkish Kurds. Evidently, Tarhan didn't care to air that particular bit of dirty Turkish laundry with a foreigner.
He turned back to his computer screen for a moment. 'This Erbakan appears to have been involved in small sales of drugs — heroin and opium, mostly — in Germany. Cocaine is a departure for him. So is trying to carry half a kilo of it onto a cruise ship in England. But we do have this.' He got up and walked around from behind his desk, went to the printer, and picked up a stack of printed sheets. On top was a color image, which he handed to Lia.
The photo was grainy, evidently taken through a telephoto lens, but it showed two men standing outside what appeared to be a warehouse on a city street. Both men were bearded, one in a red shirt, the other in a light blue jacket.
'The man in the red shirt is Erbakan,' he told her. 'The other is a man named Yusef Khalid. He may be AQ.'
'Al-Qaeda?'
Tarhan nodded. 'This is a surveillance photo taken by German Interpol three weeks ago in Bonn. They'd been tracking Khalid, building a file, and happened to catch him at a meeting with Erbakan.'
'So what do you have on Khalid?'
'Not a lot. I'm printing out his dossier for you as well. He seems to be associated with something called the Islamist Jihad International, or IJI., They're new; we don't have a lot on them. But the money trail appears to be through the Bank of Saud, and may connect them with al-Qaeda.' As the printer finished running them off, he handed a second sheaf of papers to her. Several, she saw, showed color images of Yusef Khalid.
'You have been so helpful,' she said. 'Thank you.'
'How would you like to show your appreciation? Have dinner with me tonight?'
'Oh, Colonel! I'd love to. But I can't.'
'Tomorrow night, then? The kebab at the Washington Restaurant is… how do you French say it? C'estfantastique/'
'Ooh.. mon Colonell Here.' She pulled a card out of her handbag and handed it to him. 'I'm here, at the Dedeman oteli. Call me, okay?'
