him. I don’t want to risk putting him on the same flight.”
“We’ll need someone in Paris — a full team in case he gets off there.”
“He checked his bag. If he doesn’t get on the flight, it’ll set off all sorts of alarms.”
“I find it interesting, Ms. Telach, that someone like you who regularly finds ways around security systems does not appreciate that someone else might as well.”
“I did plan on having someone there,” she said defensively. “Should I alert the French interior ministry?”
“The French will merely confuse things. Where is Mr. Karr? ”
“He’s wrapping up in Germany.”
“Have him proceed to the airport.”
Rubens turned to go.
“Mr. Rubens, wait,” said Telach quickly. “We think there may be some sort of plot involving the Taksim area of Istanbul. Asad’s bodyguard mentioned it just outside the airport. We think they’re going to strike around noon.”
CHAPTER 66
Karr’s take on the German mission could be summed up in one word: bust.
They’d been consistently one step behind the terrorists, hampered by German laws restricting investigations. Al-Qaeda had succeeded in disrupting operations at Europe’s largest refinery, which sent a chill through the commodities market, raising the price of oil twenty dollars a barrel.
The German point of view was considerably more upbeat. The terrorists had detonated their bombs inexpertly, causing far less damage than they intended; the plant kept its vital fuel operations going, and the damage done could be repaired within a few weeks. Meanwhile, a previously unknown al-Qaeda cell had been rolled up. The chemist had been arrested at the bar with the key to the tackle shop gate still in his pocket; he’d gotten it from a girlfriend who’d worked there some weeks before, probably at his urging. The chemist had not manufactured the bomb material — it was a plastic explosive traced to pilfered Czech military stores — but he had raw materials needed to create other explosives, a serious crime under German law. The authorities were confident he would implicate other members of the network in exchange for “consideration” at sentencing.
Six terrorists who had taken part in the operation had died, either by killing themselves or failing to surrender when ordered to. Only two of the men had been identified so far.
Marid Dabir was missing. Fingerprints and hairs matching those in the house the al-Qaeda organizer had rented were found in an abandoned car near the plant. German intelligence was convinced that he had died in the operation and was planning DNA tests to confirm this.
“Except that it’s extremely out of character for an important al-Qaeda lieutenant to kill himself,” Karr told Hess. “They get other suckers to do the dirty work for them. I’d be searching under every rock and in every sewer for him if I were you.”
Hess answered by asking if she could get him a ride to the airport.
His mission in Germany over, Karr was due a good hunk of R&R time, and he knew just where and how to spend it — in Paris with his girlfriend, who was going to school there. But the Art Room had other plans.
“Tommy, we need you in Paris,” Marie Telach told him when he checked in from the Munich airport. “We’re looking for a flight now.”
“What a coincidence,” he said. “That’s why I’m calling.”
“Asad is going to de Gaulle Airport. We need you to trail him from there.”
“In Paris. Cool.”
“No, probably not. He has a connecting flight to the U.S. We’re going to get you a seat. In fact, we’ll get you a seat on every plane coming out of that airport, just to be sure.”
Anyone else would have groused. Karr, being Karr, laughed, then asked if he had time for lunch before making the flight to France.
“Better eat on the plane,” Telach told him.
CHAPTER 67
“We admire Americans here in Turkey, truly admire them,” Istanbul’s deputy police chief told Charlie Dean when he showed up to brief the police on the information the Art Room had gleaned from its bug in Asad’s skull. “I myself have been to New York and San Francisco several times. And Washington, D.C.”
Dean glanced at the head of the Terrorism Section, who was nodding briskly. It was obvious that neither man really believed him.
“My government wouldn’t have sent me to talk to you if they didn’t think it was a credible threat,” Dean said. “I realize that the information is sketchy, but it’s derived from a conversation between two al-Qaeda members. Something is going to happen in Istanbul, probably at noon, probably at Taksim Square or nearby.”
“And you can’t identify the sources?”
“We only have a photo of the person we believe involved. He’s a Syrian. He uses the name Abd Katib Muhammad. He may be working with one or two other people whom he knows.”
Desk Three had forwarded video captures of Katib, along with other information about him and a transcript of the conversation regarding the attack. While the information had been sent through normal high-level channels, Rubens had ordered Dean to talk to the “people on the frontline” to make sure it arrived in time to do some good.
“How do you even know this man is in Turkey?” asked the deputy chief.
“We believe he is,” said Dean, treading carefully because he couldn’t acknowledge the Red Lion operation.
“We have been very aggressive against extremists here,” said the terror chief. “Even before your 9/11. I myself took part in the raids at Beykoz, striking the heart of the Hezbollah conspiracy.”
“I’m sure you do a very good job,” said Dean. “That’s why I know you’ll take this seriously.”
“We are always watching Taksim Square,” said the deputy police chief. His English had a vaguely American accent. “There are many businesses nearby, and tourists on Istikal Caddesi. A car or truck bomb — it will not get close, I assure you.”
“That’s a good start.”
“We will increase the police presence and take precautions,” added the deputy chief, rising to dismiss him. “We appreciate your personal attention. Perhaps tonight you will be my guest for dinner?”
“I’d like that,” said Dean. “But I’m supposed to head back.”
“You came just to tell us this?”
“It’s why I’m here,” hedged Dean.
The terrorism supervisor gave him a wry smile, indicating that he suspected there was considerably more to the story but wouldn’t press as a matter of professional courtesy.
“I don’t think they believe me,” Dean told Marie Telach a few minutes later. He’d gotten into a taxi and was pretending to use a cell phone.
“They do believe you, Charlie. The Interior Ministry has issued an alert,” she told him. “They’re sending more police over to the area and a bomb detection unit from the airport. Your job there is done; we’ve done all we can. Your plane’s waiting — please proceed.”
Dean brooded about the situation all the way back to his hotel. There was certainly more that they could do — all of Desk Three’s surveillance apparatus could be turned loose on the area. But the Art Room was focused on Asad bin Taysr, tracking him on the flight to America.
It was eleven-thirty when Dean checked out of the hotel and got into the cab for the airport. Taksim Square was about a mile away.
