Trojan Horse (22 page)

“We’ll leave you for a bit, Mr. Aiken,” Spyri said. “If I hear anything, anything at all, I’ll let you know at once.” He glanced at the female officer, indicating she was to remain. She nodded in understanding.

Outside in the hallway Henri leaned against the wall and let out a deep breath. “Rough,” he said when Spyri had closed the door. “I’ll be tagging along for now,” he said. “I’m the Interpol contact at UNOG and I’ve received instructions to stay on this until she is recovered.” Spyri nodded. “Don’t look so grim,” Henri said. “You did your best.”

“I don’t feel any better for it.”

“I understand but you’ve got one of the two who were abducted. That’s better than anything you could have hoped for a few hours ago.”

Once the WiFi connection was established, Jeff immediately sent a message summarizing events to Frank Renkin in Langley, copying it to Graham Yates at Whitehall. Frank replied at once.

Good to know you’re with us. Our best wishes for Daryl’s safe return. Get some rest.

Frank

Suddenly overcome, Jeff placed his face into his hands in thought and exhaustion.

“Can I get you something, sir?” the woman asked from her place.

“No. I’m . . . just tired is all.”

“We have somewhere you can lay down. I think it would be a good idea.”

“Not yet. Thank you.”

He went back to Frank’s message and hit “reply.” He asked for his assistance, unofficially if necessary.

I understand. If a friend can’t go to the wall for you at this time what’s he good for? You know I’ll do what I can. Just be discreet. I’ll get back to you ASAP. Don’t do anything foolish.

Frank

Next, Jeff sent a message to Bridget Evans, Daryl’s best friend at the National Security Agency where she’d once worked. Worldwide electronic surveillance and encryption were their specialty. To his relief he received an immediate message of sympathy and assurance that she’d do what he asked. “But it’s my job if you aren’t careful,” she’d written.

Jeff closed the computer. “I’d like to go back to my hotel room, if that’s all right. There isn’t any point in my hanging out here from what I can see.”

She stood up. “You’re feeling all right, then? Shock can linger.”

“I’m fine. I’d just like to get out of a police station and into a warm bed. I need to sleep and turn my mind off.”

The woman nodded, stood up, and went out into the hallway. There she found Spyri, who was saying good-bye to Henri. He returned to the common room. “You’re quite sure, Mr. Aiken?”

“Yes, I’m sure. This is now a police matter. I need to get some rest and I have to contact her family yet. I’m not looking forward to it.” Actually, Jeff had no intention of contacting Daryl’s family. He’d let her do that once he had her safely back.

“Very well,” Spyri said. “Officer del Medico will drive you to your hotel and see you to your room. I will be in touch when we have any word at all.”

It was not yet lunchtime when Jeff entered the ultramodern hotel room. Spyri had placed a uniformed officer out in the hallway as a precaution. To Jeff’s surprise, he found it somewhat comforting to be back. It reminded him of a happier time, not that many hours ago, when his own world had been safe and he’d been with the woman he loved. It also seemed to him he could smell Daryl’s fragrance, though he realized that was foolish. The room had been cleaned, the large bed freshly made. A light jacket Daryl had left out was now neatly folded atop her suitcase. He lifted it lightly and held it to his nostrils. There it was, her scent. He
had
smelled it.

Jeff placed the laptop on the desk and plugged it in to recharge. When he and Daryl had first moved in together she’d written a program that allowed the other to track his or her cell phone. That way they always knew were the other was. Since they traveled so often they’d found it a convenience. Plus, if either lost his or her cell phone, which Jeff had a tendency to do on occasion, they could find it.

He launched the app and his heart sank when he saw there was no signal from her phone. He checked for his own. The same. The phones weren’t just off since they were programmed to report their position every fifteen minutes even when on standby. They were destroyed.

Next, Jeff checked messages and found none relevant. Though he had no appetite he picked up the room-service menu, used the telephone, and placed an order. He’d need the energy.

While he waited for the food, he stripped off his soiled clothes and stepped into a very hot shower. He let the water play over his body as he tried to control his thoughts. The last time he’d done this, Daryl had joined him and the memories were still vivid.

He stepped out of the shower and as he toweled off he inadvertently caught a look of himself in the large mirror. There was a bruise along his entire right side, two dark bruises on his face, as well as a number of small cuts and lacerations. He’d taken a beating.

He brushed his hair, then his teeth, and just as he put on the oversized bathrobe the doorbell chimed. He let the waiter carry his meal in and place it on the small table in front of the large window with two facing chairs, signed for it, then closed the door. He checked for messages again.

Nothing.

Jeff sighed, turned on the television for noise, then listlessly ate the meal, forcing himself to nearly finish the plate. Afterward he placed the tray outside, closed the door, then checked again for messages.

Still nothing.

He tried desperately to think of what else he could do. Rest, he decided. He could rest. He moved the computer to the bed and placed it beside his head, activating the chime and turning the volume all the way up. He lay back and closed his eyes, doubting he could sleep but within seconds had fallen into a restless black hole.

ISTANBUL, TURKEY

RED DRAGON RESTAURANT

YEDEK REIS SOKAK 13

KAVACIK MH.

11:52 A.M. EET

R
ush hour was beginning and Wu Ying glanced across the terrace. Located atop a five-story building, his restaurant delivered a commanding view of the ancient city. The terrace was more than half full, a welcome sight as the weather had recently been cold. The Red Dragon was noted for its outdoor dining. In the near distance was the blue Bosporus, looking more inviting from here than it did on close examination. Flowing from the Black Sea into the Mediterranean, with the effluent of this metropolis of 12 million, it was an all but open sewer.

Today promised an early spring. Wu wondered if it would take or if winter would return. He glanced at the azure sky but found no answer there. Buds were thick on the carefully tended potted shrubbery, a handful of flowers revealing the first signs of blossoming. A good sign.

Customers had come out today to take in the view and enjoy his fare. There was laughter and the steady chatter of any successful restaurant, music to an owner’s ears. Still, they were dressed warmly against what could on occasion be a chilling breeze from off the water.

The kitchen behind Wu was a zoo right now, contrasting sharply with the controlled pace and casual elegance of the terrace. The waitresses were dressed in body-hugging red cheongsam dresses embellished with elaborate golden embroidery. These had a closed neck and short sleeves. On their trim bodies the sight was subtly erotic, as the original designers had intended. His waiters were all young, slender, handsome men brought from mainland China, like all the staff. Everyone and everything was efficient. Wu would have it no other way.

Originally from Shandong Province, China, he’d lived in Turkey for nearly ten years now. Besides the Red Dragon, he also owned the Great Wall in Ankara, and he divided his time between them. It was in Ankara where Wu had his residence, a modern condo situated above the city’s chronic pollution. He had good managers at both restaurants but experience had proven they both required his attention.

Wu lit a cigarette near the railing so the sea breeze would carry away the smoke. This was Turkey and every adult and half the children smoked, it seemed to him, but enough antismoking tourists frequented the Red Dragon to make him cautious.

Wu watched an American couple across the terrace laughing. Each was overweight and their voices dominated the eating area. His father had told him that in time he’d likely resettle to America or perhaps Vancouver in Canada. Wu wondered if he’d like it. The thought of living in either place repelled him. But the Chinese were world settlers, more widespread than the Jews or Armenians. His time would come, he knew.

He reminded himself that he’d not expected to like Turkey. When his father first told him this was where he’d start the family business Wu had been miserable. Not even Europe, he’d thought. He’d expected France or one of the other Western countries. In the worst case, he’d thought he’d end up in South America, Rio or Buenos Aires. But Turkey!

It was neither East nor West. It was Muslim as well. He’d pictured himself living behind a guarded wall, cut off from a sterile city, unwelcome and alienated.

The reality had been the precise opposite. Turkey might be Muslim but it was a nominal designation. They didn’t take it that seriously despite its overtly Muslim president. The ruling Justice and Development Party was traditionally conservative and presented a public secular face. It was a mixed-race nation, a unique melting pot in which the Middle East, Central Asia, Southern Russia, Greece, and central Europe had intermixed. Istanbul in particular was a city that took its pleasure seriously, which was why the capital had been moved to dreary Ankara. Wu had found a wonderful life in Istanbul.

And being part of neither Europe (though a member of NATO) nor the Middle East, Turkey was uniquely positioned as the crossroads for this vast region of the world.

Li Chin-Shou came out of the double doors, carry ing a large tray of steaming food and headed toward the loud Americans. Perhaps thirty years old, he was remarkably fit and played his part well. As he set the plates down for the approving couple, he glanced about the terrace, taking it all in.

Though trade with China had increased this last decade and there were more Chinese here than ever it was not possible for Wu to move about Istanbul unnoticed. The Chinese had been in Istanbul for more than a thousand years but they were still a small minority. Unless you worked for the Chinese government in some capacity or operated an export import business, it was assumed you worked in a Chinese restaurant. So it was, the world over.

And that was just fine with Wu. The less attention he drew, the more he fit a stereotype, the easier his life was. He drew the last of his cigarette, then held it in his hand until he could dispose of it. Every smoking customer, it seemed to him, casually flicked their discarded butts over the railing. Each day he had one of his staff apologize to those who lived below before cleaning up the litter.

His father had known what he was doing. Istanbul was a world banking center, appreciated by the Arab oil moguls and international traders of all sorts. From here, Wu could safely and discreetly distribute the family’s growing fortune. No less than once a year he returned to Beijing to visit his family, always returning with a stash of American dollars and euros. China might be a growing economic and military power but its future was uncertain. Every family of prominence planted adult children out of the country to establish roots and to squirrel away the family fortune.

And from here, he had ready access to Europe. It seemed, as well, that all those who really knew what was going on found their way here. The name players on the world stage rarely landed in Istanbul but the second-tier players, the money and power brokers, all did, most having a second home here. This was the true crossroads of the world, the gateway between East and West, as it had always been.

He felt a tingle in his pocket, turned toward the rail, and took out his iPhone. It was his father.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

CIA HEADQUARTERS

EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN BUREAU

1:49 P.M. EST

A
gnes Edinfield stirred from her early-afternoon nap. She rose from the chair and went down the hallway to the restroom to refresh. There had been a time when she’d worked straight through her long day, rarely taking a break. But in recent years these postlunch naps taken in her chair at her desk with the door closed had become a daily habit.

Back at her desk she reviewed again the hard copy of Jeffrey Daniel Aiken’s file. She’d never met the man, knew little about him beyond management scuttlebutt. He’d been one of those who claimed to have uncovered the Al Qaeda plot to destroy the World Trade Center and attack on the Pentagon. There’d been a lot of those Monday-morning quarterbacks in the Company in those days.

Sadly, Edinfield thought there was a lot of truth in the claims. She’d personally found the entire event very disturbing. In Aiken’s case, he’d left the Company, and started his own computer security firm with which he was proving quite successful.