Jihad

Lia popped the trunk, then watched through the side mirror as the two CIA agents pulled the prisoner out. Either Pinchon had not given him all of the dope, or the dose was somehow bad, because the terrorist was clearly conscious.

“Is the Arabic translator on the line?” she asked Rockman, who was listening to her in the Art Room. “Haznawi just came to and he’s talking.”

“She’s here.”

“He’s asking what we’re doing,” said Reisler.

“What are we doing?” said Pinchon in English outside the car. “We’re saving you from your friends, raghead.”

As Lia threw open her door, Reisler started to explain in Egyptian Arabic that Haznawi’s al-Qaeda companions had tried to kill him at the hospital.

“You’re safe now,” said Reisler. “Very safe.”

Haznawi responded by launching himself headfirst over the nearby guardrail.

* * *

Dean didn’t realize what had happened until he heard Lia curse. He turned in time to see their prisoner tumbling over the rocks and then falling into the water head first. Reaching back into the trunk, he grabbed one of the nylon ropes, planning to lower himself down to the water. As he straightened, three shots rang out. At least one hit the prisoner; his body bobbed backwards, disappearing for a moment before resurfacing face down. Even in the dim light Dean could tell he was dead.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Dean shouted.

“What, I’m supposed to let him get away?” said Pinchon.

“He had a cast on his leg and his hands were bound. How far could he have gone before I grabbed him?”

“I didn’t think you’d make it, old man.”

“Get him,” said Dean.

“He’s your prize. You get him.”

“Get him. Then find your own way home.”

“We can’t just leave them here, Charlie,” said Lia as Dean stomped back to the BMW.

Rockman was practically yelling in his head, asking what was going on.

“The al-Qaeda driver is dead,” Dean told him. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Charlie—”

“I can’t explain now.” Dean snapped the com system off.

“Take the Toyota,” Dean told Reisler, who had a stunned look on his face. He pointed to the car, which was parked a short distance away. It was one of their backups. “Key’s in a case under the driver’s side.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Lia ran to Dean as he strode toward the BMW.

“Charlie, we can’t go like this.”

“Are you driving or am I?”

“I’ll drive,” she told him finally, getting into the car.

* * *

Lia drove across to the Beyoglu section of Istanbul, parking near a jazz place they’d gone to during their orientation stay a few weeks before. She turned off the engine, then reached to the back of her belt, making sure her com system was still off.

“What are we going to tell Telach?” she asked Dean.

“What do you mean? We tell her what happened.”

“I don’t know, Charlie.”

“They heard the whole thing, Lia.”

“We screwed up.”

“Like hell we screwed up. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum screwed up. They blew it big-time.”

“It’s our fault.”

“Since when do you cover for the CIA?”

“I’m not covering for them.”

Dean didn’t answer.

“We better tell them what’s going on before they freak out,” Lia said finally. “Before Mr. Rubens calls on the sat phone.”

Dean grabbed her hand before she could switch the com system back on.

“What’s with you and Pinyon?”

“Pinchon. Terry.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“We worked together on a couple of missions. He was in Delta.”

“And?”

“We worked together. I thought he was dead.” Lia saw the charred car, the bodies. He had to have died. There could be no other explanation.

But he was alive.

“I’m not sure what happened,” Lia added.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“I didn’t ask,” she said, turning on the com.

CHAPTER 29

Tommy Karr found himself zooming up a street narrower than most sidewalks when a pair of headlights turned from a side road and bore down on him. He began to tilt the bike into a skid, then spotted an opening at the right and plunged into an alley just ahead of the headlamps. The alley, barely wider than his shoulders, connected with a second, even narrower one that circled around a large building, spitting him out on another side street. A horn blared in his ears; Karr tucked onto the nearby sidewalk, which quickly turned into a succession of stairs. Karr’s teenage summers spent riding dirt bikes through wood trails didn’t translate well on the misshapen and slippery steps: after about fifty yards he and the bike went separate ways. The bike spun into a row of discarded boxes and plastic garbage cans, which broke its fall. Karr didn’t have nearly as much luck, slamming hard onto the concrete and cracking his head against a metal pole so fiercely that the visor’s display died.

Growling, he jumped to his feet and ran to the bike, a flood of adrenaline and anger pushing away the pain of the fall.

Temporarily.

“What’s going on?” asked Chafetz.

“I fell. Give me directions.”

“Tommy, are you okay?”

“My ego’s busted. But I’m fine.” He laughed. “Got a headache.”

“Mr. Karr, are you all right?” asked Telach.

“Fine, Ma. Sandy, I could use some directions here.”

“Take a left at that next block.”

“Got it.”

Karr wove through a tangled path of streets toward the eastern outskirts of the city, then back toward the center. Karr, chastened by his fall, kept to the main roads, avoiding both steep hills and stairs. He also kept close to the speed limit, for one of the few times in his life.

“They just stopped,” Chafetz told him. “There’s a hotel on the block — hang on while we see if we can get into its reservation system.”

Karr cruised down the block, driving through the neighborhood to get a feel for the area. With adjustments for the profusion of domes belonging to the nearby mosques, the block in western Istanbul would not have been out of place anywhere in Europe, especially Eastern Europe. The buildings were two- and three-story-tall townhouses, the residents prosperous and thoughtful enough to keep the large flower-pots on their stoops watered.