The Washington Stratagem (24 page)

Yael and her escort sit on a bench. The breeze brings the scent of the sea, sharp and salty, making her even hungrier. He passes her one of the packets and a drink and she unwraps her lunch. The pide is delicious and they eat in comfortable silence
.

“Thank you, that was excellent.” Yael wipes her fingers on a napkin
.

“You are most welcome, Ms. Azoulay,” he says, his voice warm and genuine. “Shalom, Ms. Azoulay. Welcome to Istanbul.”

“Thank you. And please, it’s Yael. What’s your name?”

“You can call me Yusuf.” He smiles. It is an engaging grin and he knows it
.

Yael watches Yusuf finish his pide. His fingers are long and slender, his dark eyes, somewhere between brown and black, warm and intelligent. A lock of hair, so black it almost shines, falls over his forehead. Yusuf is certainly different from the Turkish officials she has met so far. They have been polite, but distant and somewhat condescending, unused to dealing with assertive, even demanding, Western women
.

To her great annoyance, Yael finds herself blushing. It has been a long time since a good-looking man has bought her lunch, or anything else, especially in such gorgeous surroundings. But she also has a job to do
.

She sips her ayran, turns to look at Yusuf. “Gul was your guest.”

Yusuf shifts on the bench and exhales sharply through his nose. His discomfort is plain to see. He takes out a packet of Camel Turkish Gold cigarettes and offers a cigarette to Yael. She places it in her mouth. Yusuf lights the cigarette with a shiny silver Zippo. The gesture is curiously intimate. The smoke is rich and smooth, the Turkish tobacco fragrant, scented with cloves. She breathes deeply, relishing the instant nicotine buzz
.

“Abdullah Gul is still our guest,” says Yusuf, his voice ironic
.

“That’s one word for it.”

“He is being well treated.”

“He is a prisoner.”

“Like all of us. A prisoner of his time and place.”

“Meaning?”

“He will be traded. Once you persuade him to agree.”

“Traded for what?”

Two young German tourists approach on bicycles. Yusuf waits until they have passed. “American companies are investing heavily in Iraqi Kurdistan. Perhaps one of their oil pipelines will soon burst. A local partner will be found to be corrupt and will be arrested. Or a payment will go astray. Perceptions will change. In Washington they will start to whisper…. Perhaps the Kurds are not such reliable partners, after all.”

Yael takes out her smartphone. She taps through the menu until she finds the right video clip. She presses play and hands the smartphone to Yusuf
.

“Was she your guest as well?” she asks
.

Yusuf’s fingers grip the phone, his body rigid, his face dark
.

“Tell me more about this Yusuf,” said Braithwaite, intrigued. “Family name?”

“Çelmiz.”

“Did you check his ID card?”

“No.”

Braithwaite looked doubtful. “Why not?”

Yael smiled at the memory of that afternoon. “I knew he worked for the
MI·T
, and that was enough.”
And because he was good-looking, bought me lunch, and I liked him
, she almost added.

Abdullah Gul rises to greet Yael as she walks up the path to the villa, accompanied by Yusuf. Gul is sitting on a terrace lined by rosebushes, shaded from the sun by a large walnut tree. A shiny brass coffeepot sits on a low table in front of him, steam rising from a filigreed china cup, next to a pitcher of iced lemonade. The sound of Sufi chanting carries through the garden, soft and hypnotic. Gul is as charismatic as ever: tall, athletically built, his manner welcoming, his gray beard neatly trimmed, gray eyes brimming with intelligence
.

Gul gestures for Yael to sit in the adjoining chair. He nods at Yusuf, who sits a few yards away
.

“They always send a friend for this,” Gul says, his voice wry
.

Yael smiles. “How are you, Abdullah?”

The answer is in front of her. His trademark black
shalwar
and
kameez
seem a size too large. The long shirt and baggy trousers, with embroidered cuffs and collar, were designed to be loose fitting, but his frame seems to have shrunk and his cheeks have sunk in on themselves
.

Gul shrugs. “Alive. Bored. I would like to go home. Have you come to take me home?”

Yael feels sadness rise inside her. “I am so sorry, Abdullah.”

The cicadas chirp in the greenery, an accompaniment to the chanting. There is no point delaying or pretending. Yael takes out her smartphone. She presses play and hands it to Gul
.

He watches the video clip, his face twisted in anger and revulsion, before handing the phone back to Yael. “Truly, they know no limits.”

“None. None at all.”

“He was my cousin. He knew nothing. He had a family.”

The weight in Yael’s stomach becomes even heavier. “There is more,” she says, scrolling quickly through the menu and returning the smartphone to him
.

Gul looks down at the screen. His face is a stone mask. He watches for half a minute, then turns away. He places the phone on the table, its screen still glowing in the soft light of dusk. “Enough.”

Gul stands up. One of the guards monitoring Gul’s every step instantly spins on his heel, his Uzi in his hand. Gul walks across to the garden wall and looks out to sea. The sky is streaked with gold and purple, the sea turning black and silver
.

“Is she alive?” Gul asks. His hand twists the fabric of his sleeve around and around
.

Yael follows him to the edge of the garden. The breeze has turned cold. She watches him shiver. “Yes. She has been drugged, but she has not been harmed.”

“You know why they are doing this?”

Yael shakes her head
.

Gul fixes his gaze on her, his eyes like green lasers. He steps away from the garden wall. “Imagine, a modern, enlightened Islam in Afghanistan, where children and women are educated and the people enjoy human rights. What do you think they will say in the Pentagon and in Langley when they learn that their budgets are to be slashed because peace and stability are coming to Afghanistan? They will not say, hurrah for Abdullah Gul, we do not need any more drone strikes or spies or satellites or safe houses or bombs or electric cattle prods or secret bases at Bagram air base to keep prisoners in dog kennels and send them across the border to Uzbekistan to be boiled alive. And even if the CIA and the Pentagon wanted peace in Afghanistan, their paymasters would never allow it.”

“You are wrong,” says Yael. “American politicians want the troops to come home.”

Gul laughs. “The politicians. The politicians are irrelevant. What matters are the corporations, who pay for the politicians. The corporations want a deal. A deal on drugs. It is common knowledge that the war on drugs is lost. It is only a matter of time before they are legalized. Look at Uruguay and Colorado. Many more US states will follow, and then other countries. You cannot imagine how much money these companies will make. The corporations have been planning for this for decades. There is a German conglomerate, called KZX. A giant firm, with branches all over the world. Have you heard of it?”

Yael nods
.

Gul continues, “KZX has excellent contacts with the Taliban. KZX managers and Taliban leaders regularly meet in Dubai. They were here, in Istanbul, last week, at the conference with the Taliban, the one organized by the Americans. There was a tall man, thin, with white-blond hair; he always wore a gray suit. German, or Austrian. He was in charge. KZX is negotiating to buy the poppy harvest. For now the drugs will be processed and sold illegally on the streets. But in the future, once they are legalized, KZX will be in prime position. Not this year, or next, but soon. KZX doesn’t want our farmers growing wheat or apricots or forming cooperatives. Neither do Langley and the Pentagon. They want war. KZX wants heroin. Afghanistan can supply both, but not if I am there.”

Yael processes what Gul has said. A tall, thin man with white-blond hair. German or Austrian. It all makes perfect sense. She says, “This is not over, Abdullah. Nothing is over as long as you are alive. But you know that even if the Turks let you go, the Americans will find you. She leans forward and searches Gul’s face. She sees sadness and regret, but also determination.

“And Samira?” he asks. “Can you guarantee her safety?”

“I cannot,” says Yael. “But this can,” she continues, holding her smartphone. “The footage of Samira and your cousin has been has been cut into hundreds of sections. Each section is backed up to a network of secure servers, with military-level encryption. Nobody can delete them. Not even Langley. I can splice the videos together and upload them to YouTube in a few seconds
—with a commentary explaining exactly what happened.” She pauses. “The blowback will last longer. Kabul will explode. No US embassy in the Muslim world will be safe if that film is released. Langley knows that. Samira is safe.”

Gul drops his cigarette underfoot and twists the butt into the ground. He steps forward as if to walk to his room and start packing immediately. “OK.”

“Abdullah, please, wait,” says Yael. “There is something else.”

She turns to look at Yusuf. He is slowly tapping his feet to the sound of the chanting floating through the garden. He catches her eye and inclines his head, almost imperceptibly
.

Yael speaks quietly to Gul. He smiles, for the first time that day
.

Braithwaite looked at Yael and nodded, as if seeing her for the first time. “Impressive. And the next thing we know is that Cyrus Jones is being held by the Syrian People’s Armed Revolutionary Faction in Ayn al-Arab, just across from the Turkish border. All thanks to you and the mysterious Yusuf. I almost feel sorry for the fellow. He thought he was going on a dinner date and ends up getting kidnapped by jihadis.”

“Actually he was kidnapped by some of Yusuf’s friends. They handed him over to the Syrians. Only for a month.”

Braithwaite stopped smiling. “You are very clever. You are also in grave danger, Yael. Eventually they will decide that Jones is a liability. They will throw him overboard. And then they will come for you. Again.”

Yael stared ahead as Braithwaite spoke. They were almost at the end of the plaza. Second Avenue was fifty yards away, a familiar midmorning scene of honking taxis and bustling pedestrians. A cycle messenger flew past, his bright yellow jersey bobbing in and out of the traffic. Yael envied him his freedom and the fluid grace with which he maneuvered around obstacles. It was a bright spring Manhattan morning, the kind she usually enjoyed. But Yael knew Braithwaite was right. Her trick with Cyrus Jones had seemed just and smart at the time. It was both. But it came at a price, which was still to be paid. The video she had shot of Jones on the ferry would hold them off, but only for a while, while they considered their next move. In fact, she was not sure how to get out of this situation. She glanced behind her. At least Joe-Don was ten yards away, a reassuring presence.

“Baku?” Yael asked, although with no news of the courier, she already knew the answer.

“Your trip is off,” said Braithwaite. He reached inside his coat pocket, took out a sheet of folded paper, and handed it to Yael.

She opened the paper to see a photocopy of a page of an Iranian passport, with the personal details and photograph of the holder. “Ramzan Hilawi. Is that the name he was using?”

Braithwaite nodded.

“And?”

“He was found dead yesterday morning on the road to Baku, twenty miles from Astara.”

“What did he die of?”

“A heart attack, supposedly.”

“Fuck,” said Yael, closing her eyes and exhaling hard.

Braithwaite put his hand on Yael’s arm. “He was very brave. He contacted us first. He knew the risks. We have to continue. Or he died for nothing.”

Yael breathed deeply before she spoke. “The phone?”

“Gone. He had been stripped clean.”

“Do we have any idea what was on the SIM card?”

Braithwaite shook his head. “Only that it was enough to get him killed. And there is more.” Braithwaite took out his mobile telephone and swiped through the menus until he found the photograph he wanted. He showed the phone to Yael. “Does he look familiar?”

The screen showed an elegantly dressed man at South Ferry terminal. He was bald with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He wore a gray suit jacket and a crisp, spotless white collarless shirt.

Yael nodded. “Salim Massoud. The man in your folder. He’s here? How?”

“He shouldn’t be, but he is,” said Braithwaite as they reached the end of the plaza. He gestured at a bench and they sat down. Joe-Don stopped walking and sat across from them. Braithwaite continued, “Massoud was seen at the Iranian-Azerbaijani border the day Ramzan crossed. He is on a watch list. It seems he is traveling on a Turkish diplomatic passport, which is especially worrying. We checked the CCTV for the subway at East Fifty-First Street where Schneidermann collapsed. Massoud was walking down the stairs and onto the 4, heading downtown. The cameras picked him up later at South Ferry. By then we had a team on him. He took a boat to Staten Island, and then a taxi to the botanical gardens on the island. Where he met—”

“Cyrus Jones?” interrupted Yael.

“Bingo,” said Braithwaite.

“And then?”

Braithwaite looked annoyed. “He took an earlier boat back than Jones. They lost him at South Ferry.”

Yael turned toward Braithwaite. “So the number two in the Revolutionary Guard, the money man who also carries out the occasional assassination on the side, despite being on all kinds of watch lists, manages to sneak into the United States, possibly murder the UN spokesman in broad daylight on East Fifty-First Street, take a ferry ride to meet an operative from the US government’s secret black-ops department, and we don’t know where he is?”