The Natanz Directive (11 page)

Anderson pointed us to a pier south of the main port. There were two other boats moored here, both similar to ours in their insignificance. Our launch tapped against the dock, Anderson shut off the motor, and I helped a deckhand with our ropes.

Anderson clambered onto the dock beside me. He seemed in a hurry. He said, “This way,” and moved down the pier.

Like all commercial harbors, the scale of the facilities and the vessels that used them dwarfed everyone and everything. Huge cranes serviced enormous ships. Stack after stack of pallets marked seemingly endless rows of giant warehouses. The immensity created an ambience that was at once eerie and humbling. We crossed over a set of railroad tracks, passed through a chain-link fence, and headed to a shabby, redbrick warehouse. There were two doors: a wide bay door flanked by a regular-size door made of steel. Anderson halted outside the steel door and punched a code into a cypher lock.

A lock buzzed. Anderson pushed open the door and I followed him in. He reached for a light switch, and the ceiling lamp directly above us illuminated the corridor. Metal bay doors on opposite sides receded into the gloom. A forklift sat idle, like a sleeping beast, the concrete floor around its tires marred by skid marks.

As we proceeded down the hall, the next set of overhead lights would blink on, and the ones behind us switch off. The effect was like walking in a tunnel collapsing to the beat of a metronome.

Roger halted at the fourth door and fished a set of keys from his pocket. He opened three stainless steel padlocks that secured both sides and the bottom. He grasped the bottom handle and gave the door a yank. It scrolled open with a tinny rattle. The familiar, musty odor of military equipment wafted out.

He reached to the left and flicked a switch. Overhead fluorescent lamps sputtered on. Shelves filled with boxes and crates and duffel bags in shades of military green lined a wall to the left. Roger knew exactly where he was going. He walked straight to a shelf in the middle of the wall, bent over, and dragged out a metal crate the size of a footlocker. The lid was stenciled USMC FORCE RECON, S
PECIAL
O
PS
T
EAM
T
ANGO
.

“Here you go.” He snapped open the latches and swung open the lid. “This shit is so new, the jarheads don't even know it's missing.”

I crouched beside the crate and inspected the gear. A Mark Seven HALO rig. Harness. Instrument module fitted out with GPS, radio, altimeter, and clock. An MC-5 ram air parachute. Reserve chute. I was liking it already. Pressure suit with electrical heater. Gloves, also heated, and very cool the way they plugged into the suit. Helmet with oxygen mask and regulator, microphone, and ear speakers. Goggles with built-in display and a direct feed to the instrument module. Did I say cool?

Touching this equipment made my nerves tingle with anticipation. Yeah, I admit it: carnivores like me were adrenaline junkies even at my age and completely unapologetic about the fact.

“Got everything but the oxygen,” he added. “There will be a fresh tank when the time comes.”

I arranged the equipment back in the crate. “Weight?”

“Come on, hotshot. Take a guess,” he said.

I shrugged. “In pounds, a 102.5, give or take.”

“More like 104. You're rusty.”

“Rusty or not, I can't see myself dragging this gear from here to Istanbul. And a couple of miles down the road from there as well.”

“You tell me where, and it'll be there.”

“What's this? You taking a sudden interest in my mission?” I said.

“Let me guess.” Anderson quirked an eyebrow. He tapped his windbreaker over the spot where he'd pocketed the envelope. “If I'm wrong, well, hell, you got a full refund coming.”

“Yeah, right.”

“A C-17 Globemaster. Am I right?”

“Time to go,” I said, shaking my head.

“Not yet.” Roger pulled back his sleeve and read his watch. “Not yet. First we eat.”

“I'll eat when the mission's over.”

Roger cracked up when he heard this. “Same old Jake.”

“I keep hearing that. ‘Same old Jake.' What is that? Like a compliment?”

“A compliment, my ass.” Roger led me over to an improvised kitchenette, meaning a coffeepot, a cupboard filled with canned soup, and a microwave. The coffee was strong and the soup was hot. We ate it standing up. When he was done, Roger tossed his dish into a tub sink and looked at his watch again. “Now it's time to go. Finish your coffee. You got a plane to catch.”

He locked up. We retraced our steps through the warehouse district and made our way back to the boat. Motoring past the Channel Islands and into the North Sea, Roger switched on the GPS mounted on his instrument console. The readout counted down the distance to the location, which was apparently in the middle of nowhere.

One thousand meters. Five hundred. One hundred. Fifty.

Roger pulled back on the throttle, and we came to a slow stop amid gray and blue swells. Behind us, the Channel Islands were smudges in a sea of haze.

“Nice,” I said, with an undisguised bite of sarcasm in my voice.

“Patience, my son.”

I heard the drone of the airplane five seconds before I saw it. I craned my neck and studied its features as they came into view. Twin turboprops, a high-mounted wing, floats adjacent the engine nacelles, a V-shaped fuselage. Very impressive. The airplane circled once, displaying the lines of a Bombardier 415 amphibious flying boat, painted light gray with only black buzz numbers on its rudder fin. My ride to Istanbul. Excellent.

The flying boat descended, skimmed the water, then sliced across the surface with plumes of spray dancing in its wake. The Bombardier settled into the water and glided toward us, propellers slowing, engines whistling. A hatch opened in the fuselage behind the left wing. Roger advanced the boat's throttle and guided us to the airplane. A crewman in a white helmet, yellow life vest, and blue overalls waved from the hatch.

“Let's move,” he shouted.

“Well done, Rog,” I said.

“We aim to please. Now get your ass going,” he replied.

“Thanks.” I snapped off a salute, knowing it would piss him off, and it did.

“Don't salute me.” He winced. “I was a sergeant, not some candy-ass officer.”

Roger nudged the bow of the boat up against the open hatch of the plane, and I climbed aboard. I turned and gave Rog a thumbs-up. The crewman swung the hatch closed.

“I'm Lauflin,” he said, his accent very German. He led me up a passageway to a cabin aft of the cockpit. He pointed to the man in the left-hand seat. “He's Darby. Best pilot I know without a license.”

Darby glanced over his shoulder and gave me a nod. “You bring the money?” he shouted. I patted my pocket. “Let's see it,” he called. “No offense.”

I reached for my stash and peeled off twenty-five hundred dollars. I handed it to Lauflin, and he pointed to the four empty seats in the cabin. “We're in business. Have a seat.”

He handed me a headset. “Get comfortable. It's seven hours to Istanbul. We've got sandwiches and coffee, and plenty of both. Let me know.”

“Thanks. Think I'll catch up on some sleep first.”

I took a seat on the far left next to a window. Lauflin strapped into the right-hand seat next to the pilot. The turboprops roared, and the airplane surged forward. I sank into the seat. The flying boat bounced across the water, accelerating until we broke free. The pilot put us in a gradual climb and we turned southwest and back over Amsterdam.

We leveled off. I closed my eyes. Sleep came so fast that I didn't even have time to dwell on how exhausted I was or how risky it was to go to sleep in the company of two guys I'd never met before and would never see again. Especially after the really great time I'd had dodging bullets in Amsterdam.

When I woke up, we were over water again. The Black Sea. It had to be. The sun was breaking over the horizon, a sliver of pale orange light. My headset had slipped down around my neck. I reset it. “Where are we?” I said.

Darby answered. “We're an hour out,” was all he said.

“Any chance that coffee's still hot?”

“We just brewed a new pot.”

I unbuckled. Stood up and stretched. Lauflin turned in his seat and held out a steel thermos. “Sandwich?”

“Thanks.”

There was a cooler between their seats. Lauflin popped it open. The sandwiches were wrapped in tinfoil. He handed me two. “My sister made these. Can't say with what exactly. But I've had worse.”

Some endorsement. I thanked him again and went back to my seat. I ate both sandwiches so fast that the taste eluded me. I sipped my coffee and watched the morning of my fifth day on the job open up below me. I saw fishing boats and a cruise liner.

Morning painted the water emerald green.

We were descending over the Sea of Marmara, south of Istanbul, on the flight path into Nuri Demira
International Airport. Our flaps squealed. The landing gear whirred, and the wheels clunked into place. We passed over the beach, our shadow spilling across the Turkish coastline.

The pilot eased us onto a runway reserved for planes of lesser size and import than the steady flow of commercial flights coming from all corners of Europe and the Middle East. We landed with little more than a jostle and taxied toward the terminal.

“We'll get you as close as we can,” Lauflin said, “But you'll still have a bit of a walk. The tower wasn't real thrilled with our flight plan.”

“Imagine that,” I said, as the plane came to a halt on the tarmac. I slipped my gun under the seat and stood up. I felt naked without the Walther, but only a fool would have tried to slip a gun past the very suspicious folks in Turkish customs. Besides, the streets of Istanbul were a virtual cesspool of illegal weapons, so arming myself again would be matter of a phone call or two.

Lauflin wasted no time cracking the hatch and dropping a foot ladder to the concrete. There was a maintenance tech and a service truck waiting for them. That struck me as unusual for a plane this size, but then everything was striking me as unusual at this stage of the game.

“Thanks for the lift.” I handed my headset to Lauflin and gave Darby a brief nod.

“Have fun,” he said.

Oh, yeah. A barrel of laughs.
I climbed down. The hatch closed behind me.

I walk to the terminal without looking back and followed a group of businessmen inside. I passed through security and entered the line for customs, a bedraggled guy with no luggage. I showed a Canadian passport identifying me as Darrell Swan, a businessman from Toronto, got the usual please-give-me-a-reason-to-stop-you look from the customs agent, and merged with a dozen other travelers into the main terminal.

Things were going well. Or, given my rather cynical view of the world: too well. My internal alarm sounded.
Careful, Jake. Watch your six.

And sure enough, there was good reason. I stepped outside. My plan was to hail a taxi, just another weary businessman eager to get to his hotel, but I didn't have time even to reconnoiter the cabstand.

A line of Turkish policemen had fanned out across the walkway, and they were systematically inspecting passports. Okay; but why weren't they stopping any women? And why did they seem to be targeting men who looked like they'd just dropped in from Europe or America? Couldn't have anything to do with my recent arrival, could it? Just a coincidence, right? Sure. Absolutely. If only I believed in coincidence.

I stopped and leaned into the shadows cast by a nearby pillar. It was a lousy hiding place. One of the policemen looked in my direction. He was a large man for a Turk, and his uniform didn't fit him worth a damn. But he had a strong voice, and all his colleagues heard him when he shouted, “There he is. Arrest him.”

He was pointing at me.

 

CHAPTER 10

NURI DEMIRA
INTERNATIONAL, ISTANBUL, TURKEY—DAY FIVE

Like a school of piranha, the Turkish airport police swarmed in my direction, oblivious now to the crowds exiting the terminal. They had their target. Ten of them in black uniforms with silver accents and black ball caps,
POLIS
embroidered across the front. Hands on their holstered pistols. Advancing. Clumsy, but calm. One spoke into a handheld radio, and his face was etched with urgency.