Asad was supposed to catch his plane, and so he decided it was his job to give up his taste buds in the name of an adequate cover.
“Asad should be heading your way,” said Sandy Chafetz. “We saw him get off the bus.”
“That’s nice,” said Karr, taking another sip of the beer. In the half hour he’d been there, he’d consumed about a finger’s worth from the glass.
He swept his eyes around the nearby gates, looking over the passengers. The Art Room had checked the passenger list; if Asad was meeting anyone here they were unknown to American intelligence agencies. Only European and American nationals had seats on the plane; none had Arabic names, though of course that wasn’t a guarantee.
Passengers making connections had to pass through a security gamut on ground level before being allowed into the gate area. Karr had wandered near the stairway earlier, only to be shooed away — though not before he had placed a video bug nearby, supplementing the airport’s video surveillance system, which the Art Room had broken into. Asad was also within range of the portable booster in Karr’s carry-on bag, and could be tracked to within a meter or so of his actual location.
“Here he comes,” said Chafetz finally.
Karr left the unfinished beer on the bar and walked around the comer to a vendor selling potato chips. He bent to inspect the offerings as Asad approached, shielding his face somewhat from the terrorist’s view.
“Definitely our guy,” muttered Karr after he passed. Unlike the other ops, Karr tended not to worry if people thought he was a nut who talked to himself out loud. He ambled along ten or fifteen yards behind Asad, watching as he turned toward the restrooms.
“That flight is boarding,” Chafetz said. “Maybe you should go over to the gate.”
“Uh-huh,” said Karr, ambling after Asad. He went into the men’s room, making sure there wasn’t a door the Art Room didn’t know about. Asad was in one of the stalls.
For a guy whose plane was boarding, thought Karr, Asad was sure taking his time. But then, some things couldn’t be rushed.
“Tommy, he just checked in at the gate,” said Chafetz.
“Uh, no he didn’t,” said Karr, standing outside the men’s room.
“I’m looking at the computer display right now.”
“And I’m looking at the door to the men’s room. What’s the locator say?”
“We’re worried it may not be accurate — are you sure he’s there?”
“Well, I didn’t knock on the door,” said Karr.
“We’re looking at a video from the gate,” said Telach. “It looks like him.”
Karr sighed. The problem with technology was that sometimes there was just too much of it.
“Tommy, we want you to verify that the man in the restroom is Asad,” said Telach.
“You want me to ask him?”
“This isn’t a joking matter,” she said tersely.
The door to the restroom opened. Karr walked toward it, passing Asad as he came out.
“It’s him,” said Karr, dawdling at the sink for a moment before going back outside. He could see Asad walking down the hall, past the gate.
“He’s not going to that flight,” said Chafetz. “There’s something wrong.”
“Tommy, we’re going to attempt to recalibrate the locator gear on the fly,” said Telach. “Stand by.”
“Relax, Mom,” Karr told her. “My eyes are working fine.”
Karr quickened his pace until he was just five yards behind Asad. The terror leader walked back to the main area of the terminal, glanced at the board listing flights, then continued toward a nearby gate where a plane for Montreal had just begun to board.
“I’m heading over to Air France 346,” Karr told Chafetz.
“Asad isn’t on it.”
“He will be in about five minutes,” Karr said. “Say, am I on the aisle?”
CHAPTER 71
Dean found himself on the ground near the garden at the center of Taksim Square. He couldn’t hear anything. At first he thought it was because the blow had knocked out his hearing. But in fact silence had descended on the square, a moment of sheer, collective shock.
Then the screaming began. Then the sirens.
Dean jumped to his feet. The woman he’d bumped into a moment earlier lay on the ground ten feet away. He went to her, took her arm and lifted gently, expecting that this time he might get a thank you.
But instead he saw an immense gash where her nose and left eye had been, the center of her face a black knuckle. He set her down, thought of doing first aid, but didn’t know where to begin. When he pried open her mouth, two teeth fell out, along with part of gum and bone. He tried CPR anyway, pumping at her chest though it was clearly hopeless.
People were running in every direction around him. Police were moving down from behind the dump trucks. Dean saw a pair of soldiers running up, the first ones he’d seen.
“Charlie? Charlie are you all right?”
“I’m all right, Marie. The suicide bomber. A kid in a big sweater, one of the bodyguards — Katib, I think. The Syrian.”
“Are you
Had the woman changed direction because he’d bumped into her? Or had that been her chance to change her fate — if she’d stopped and spoken to him, she’d be alive.
And maybe he’d be dead; whatever had struck her in the face might have hit him instead, smack in the chest.
Even when they knew—
“Charlie?”
Dean stopped pumping and stood up to take stock — to see if he really was all right. His clothes were intact, spotless, aside from the blood and dirt on his knees.
“Yeah, I’m definitely okay,” he told Telach. “I’ll get to the airport.”
As Dean walked toward the dump trucks, he saw an SUV with its doors open across the square; it looked like one of the vehicles Asad’s bodyguards had used the first day the terrorist had arrived.
“That truck,” he told a nearby policeman. “I think the bomber may have come from there. You better be careful — it may be packed with explosives.”
The policeman either couldn’t hear him or didn’t understand him in the din around them.
“Marie — I need a translator. I think one of the bodyguard’s SUV is nearby. It may be booby-trapped.”
“I’m here, Charlie,” said the translator. She gave Dean the words in Turkish, but the policeman continued to stare, too stunned to act.
Dean caught hold of another policeman nearby. This one understood, immediately calling for backup on his radio and then running toward the truck, waving his arms and shooing people away.
“A suicide bomber,” Dean told the cabbie when he reached him. “A crazy man.”
The taxi driver nodded sadly.
“Airport?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“Yeah. I gotta get back to work.”
CHAPTER 72
Since Asad had already left Istanbul, Lia stayed with the Saudis, trailing them as they traveled on the train
