Blown Coverage (30 page)
Authors: Jason Elam
FRIDAY, MAY 29, 5:30 P.M. EEST ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Check another city off your
“
places I want to visit
before I
die”
list,
thought a frustrated Scott. Istanbul was one of those mystical spots that he had always dreamed of experiencing—the history,
the architecture, the smells, the foods. He wanted to mingle with the people, drink their coffee, smoke a hookah, whirl with
a dervish or two.
Instead, here he was in the middle of this ancient city, and the closest he’d probably get to the Hagia Sophia or the Grand
Bazaar would be a postcard from one of the hundreds of kids selling them on the street.
Sort of like the way you experienced
Prague. That was quite a fun little vacation,
he mused bitterly. Since that trip, he had been forced to change from sleeping on his left side to his right just so he could
put his head down on the pillow.
This was the team’s second night staking out mosques. The questioning of Kamal Hejazi’s wife down in Cairo had been very profitable—particularly
when she had been promised a new life in the United States for herself, her three remaining children, and her parents. Kamal
had not been a very nice man, and his widow was convinced his activities were responsible for whatever had happened to her
firstborn son.
She had told the CIA operative that Kamal had several times walked home with al-’Aqran following the
’
Asr
prayers at a nearby mosque. Apparently, the old man was very faithful about his
’
Asr
attendance and usually used the journeys to and from as opportunities to discuss business.
Scott shifted on the vinyl seats to try to get the blood flowing to his nether regions again. The air in the early ’90s Mazda
323 hatchback was stifling, and by the looks of it, the air-conditioning hadn’t worked since the turn of the millennium.
“Ugh,” he said as he took a long pull from a glass bottle of warm Coke. He looked at his watch again. ’Asr
is the late afternoon
prayer, which means that in the next few minutes, somewhere in this huge
metropolis,
al-’
Aqran will be walking out of one of the
city’s
three thousand
mosques—
yes,
that’s
a three with three zeros, folks!
That was another discouraging little factoid he had read about the former Constantinople, née Byzantium. Apparently the government
was very adamant that Istanbul should be a Muslim city, so they had started putting up mosques everywhere. Half of the new
mosques weren’t even used.
Unfortunately, we have no clue which half, thus our chances of finding the
right mosque hover just above an old-fashioned crapshoot.
However, Mrs. Hejazi had given one more piece of information that narrowed the odds considerably. Her family had lived in
the Eminönü district of the larger metropolis—the “old city” area on the west side of the Bosporus. Sometimes, after leaving
a meeting with the leaders of the Cause, Kamal would call her on the cell phone to vent his anger. Whenever he called, she
knew that she had a maximum of fifteen minutes to have his favorite food and drink ready for him before he walked in the door.
Otherwise, he took his anger out on her in more physical ways.
When they had first arrived two nights ago, Scott and Jim had pulled out a map and determined how far a person could walk
in fifteen minutes. Then they had drawn a wide circle around the Hejazi house—a circle that had extended to the edges of Eminönü,
the neighboring Fatih district, and the Beyo lu district located directly across the inlet of water known as the Golden Horn.
Just like that, the three thousand mosques had been narrowed to 112—a formidable, but not impossible, number for the ten members
of the team, along with the six CIA agents who had offered their eyes but not their guns for the operation.
Surprisingly, the CIA guys had been great. They had helped get the team acclimated right from the time of their arrival at
Izmir Air Base, a three-hundred-mile drive south of Istanbul. A safe house had been prepared for the team, and the agents
had provided vehicles, maps, and all the intel they could divulge.
Later that first night, over some bottles of Efes Pilsen, two of the CIA agents told about how they had graduated with four
of the guys who had been killed when al-’Aqran had broken out of prison. All six of the men were looking for revenge, and
they were counting on Hicks and Scott to do the job their superiors wouldn’t allow them to do.
A little bit more time with these guys, and
I’ll
have to change my
opinion of CIA spooks.
A knock on his passenger window almost made Scott lose all the warm Coke he had already drunk. He resisted reaching for the
weapon he had tucked between the seats as he turned to look who it was. Immediately, he recognized the white-bearded man who
had been sitting at the door of the shop Scott was parked in front of. The man was yelling something at him and waving his
arms. Although Scott’s Turkish was limited, it wasn’t difficult to get the gist. This shop owner was tired of having Scott
taking up his prime street-access real estate.
Scott waved without bothering to roll down the window, started the car, and moved up a couple of spots, making sure there
was no angry old guy sitting in front of the shoe repair shop whose street parking he now occupied.
Good job keeping control. Pulling your
weapon would not have been a good thing.
Everyone had been on edge since the plans for the school attacks had been revealed. The possibility of a large-scale slaughter
of innocent children and the ensuing societal and economic ramifications was difficult to even comprehend. Wholesale panic
would combine with a passionate desire for revenge to create a perfect storm of anti-Arab backlash. Once that happened, who
knew what the global impact would be.
At first when Hicks and Scott were discussing the possible attacks, they had thought that the Cause was committing a major
blunder by planning school attacks during the summer. But then Gilly Posada, who had an elementary-aged son, had informed
them of the school track system. In many schools across the country, the population of students had outgrown the available
classroom space. As a result, the kids were divided into four tracks, each with a different school calendar. This meant that
at any given time throughout the year, many elementary schools still ran at full capacity.
Hicks had contacted his superiors at Homeland Security, who were now trying to get warnings out to schools without causing
hysteria. The safeguards at most elementary schools were so lax, it would be no problem for a gunman to enter and begin shooting.
And even if there was an armed guard, most school district security personnel were not trained to handle a terrorist with
an assault weapon.
Please, God, if
You’re
really out there, help us stop this thing
from happening!
Not for the first time, Scott wished he had the same kind of faith that Riley Covington had.
The doors across the street from Scott’s car burst open. His fingers began drumming nervously on the cracked dashboard. He
had parked his car on Ordu Cadessi in the Aksaray neighborhood of the Fatih district. Kitty-corner from him was the main entrance
to the Pertevniyal Valide Sultan Mosque. The mosque itself was an enormous structure flanked by two tall minarets. Now prayer
time was over, and people began streaming out of the front exit.
From the moment Scott had pulled up, the mosque felt right to him. It was nearly two centuries old—not one of the countless
new buildings hastily constructed during the past three decades. Yet it also wasn’t one of the really popular old tourist
mosques, like the Blue Mosque or the Yeni Cami.
The New
Mosque—
a strange name for
a four-hundred-year-old structure.
But as the worshipers flowed out onto the street, Scott knew he was in the wrong place.
What is it? Think!
It’s
not location.
It’s
not
architecture.
What’s
bugging you?
It’s
the people.
They’re
too . . . urban. No,
that’s
not right.
They’re
too . . . comfortable? Well-off? Maybe
that’s
it.
Al-’
Aqran has spent his
life living from foxhole to foxhole.
He’s
not going to hang around with the
wealthy or the beautiful people. So where else?
There’s
Sulukule, with its
poor Gypsy population. But
I’ve
got to think that observing their coarse
lifestyle would get on his nerves or at least offend his sensibilities. Balat?
Right income level, but its Jewish roots would probably turn him off. Zeyrek?
Maybe Zeyrek. Old buildings and ramshackle wooden houses. Perfect
camouflage for an ugly, old, one-eyed man. What do we have going on
in . . . ?
Johnson!
He’s
in Zeyrek at the Eski Imaret Mosque. It fits
perfectly—
a
thousand years old, run-down neighborhood, and to top it off, it started
out as an Eastern Orthodox Church, which is pretty symbolic for the vision
al-’
Aqran has for the world. Gotta warn the boy!
But before he had a chance to speak, Chris Johnson’s voice rang in his ear. “Velvet One, this is Velvet Eight. I’ve got a
visual on Scorpion.” Scott had decided for this operation to name al-’Aqran after the English translation of his name—the
Scorpion.
“Velvet Eight, Velvet One,” Hicks’s voice replied. “Are you sure?”
“I never forget a face, especially one this mama-beatin’ ugly. It’s him.” When the team had taken al-’Aqran into custody five
months ago, Johnson had endured plenty of shifts guarding the man. Scott was sure of his ID.
“Velvet One, Velvet Eight. Ready to plant the dot.”
“This is Velvet One. Do it and be careful, son.”
“Velvet Two here,” Scott broke in. “Give yourself a once-over. You sure you’re still fully
hajji
-fied?” The CIA boys had given each of them very detailed disguises, but Scott was still extremely nervous about any of the
team getting close enough to al-’Aqran to plant a GPS signaling dot on him.
“Dude, my mama wouldn’t even know who I am.”
“Lucky woman,” Kim Li said from his position over in Horhor.
“Velvet One, radio discipline, boys.”
Leave it to Jim to spoil good banter.
“Velvet One, Velvet Eight. I’m going in.”
“Am I surrounded by fools? Must I get on a plane and go do everything myself? Tell me, you two, how am I to lead us in carrying
out the will of Allah if I can’t get anyone to simply do what I ask?” The loss of the warrior in the Washington, D.C., subway
attack had been a minor irritation.
Insha’Allah,
it happens.
But the capture of the Yamani girl and now the failure of the policeman to kill Riley Covington were more than al-’Aqran could
take.
On the old man’s left side walked his young, trusted bodyguard, Babrak Zahir—the tip of his spear, and the future of the Cause.
On his other side was Hamad Asaf—a friend for more years than he could remember but lately struggling to accomplish even the
most basic of tasks. Each remained close to protect their leader from the crowds of passing pedestrians. Al-’Aqran stopped
suddenly, causing Asaf to have to step back to avoid tripping.
“You must take care, my dear old friend,” al-’Aqran said as he examined a deep purple eggplant from a street vendor’s cart.
“It seems your footing is getting a little more shaky of late.”
Asaf nodded. “I am sorry,
sayyid
.” The three men began walking again, ignoring the voices of the proprietors beckoning them from the small shops they passed.
“Our asset on Riley Covington says that he has a foolproof plan he has been formulating. Covington will be dead in forty-eight
hours at the latest.”
“Don’t talk to me about foolproof plans,” al-’Aqran said loudly, striking the pavement hard with his walking stick. “Every
one of his plans was supposed to have been foolproof, but somehow Covington still seems to keep besting the
fool’s
plans! We will give this
asset
one more chance. If he fails again, we will send Babrak over there to finish Covington and him.”
“Yes,
sayyid
.”
As they continued to weave their way through the crowded streets, al-’Aqran said, “Hamad, what is the schedule for the missions
to the schools? You said that they are ready to go. Give me a timeline.”
Out of the corner of his eye, al-’Aqran watched as Asaf carefully weighed out his words.
Either he is sufficiently scared of me, or he is
going to try to bluff. And if I catch him in a bluff, it will be the end of a
good, long friendship.
Finally, Asaf answered, “A timeline is hard to give,
sayyid
. As I told you before, we have everything ready to go. We are waiting right now on the perfect timing. We are confirming
that our target schools will all be full for our time of attack. Once we have that information, we will set a date, then wake
our sleepers.”
“Tomorrow,” al-’Aqran said.
“What?” an alarmed Asaf responded.
“Tomorrow you will wake the sleepers. Tell them that the attack is set for a week from today. You have told me that everything
is in place. Make it happen.”
“But—”
“
Make it
happen!”
“Yes,
sayyid
, it will happen,” Asaf acquiesced.
“See that it does,” al-’Aqran threatened, “or else you and I will—”
Seemingly out of nowhere, a man bumped into al-’Aqran, almost knocking him over. The stranger reached out for the old man,
catching him before he fell. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he kept saying over and over in Turkish.
