“I take it you’re no longer in Paris?”
“I’m in Bern now,” Federov said. “The DPSD wanted to question me. I thought it better to avoid that.” The DPSD was the French military’s Direction de la Protection et de la Sécurité de la Défense, charged with counterespionage.
Pope chuckled. “I can imagine you did. They’ve made a couple of subtle inquiries at our embassy, but our ambassador there doesn’t know anything.”
“My superiors are worried your State Department will leave us holding the bag on this if it goes public.”
“I can understand that,” Pope said. “And while I can’t promise that won’t happen, I do know that my president and his closest advisers are pleased by the level of cooperation we’ve enjoyed thus far. We both have mud on our faces, and if it went public today, I’m confident my president would be willing to accept an equal amount of responsibility — as long as your superiors would be willing to admit this has been a joint operation.”
Federov chortled. “That would certainly cause a certain amount of gossip within the NATO community.”
“I’m not sure gossip is the right word,” Pope replied, “but I take your point. Anyhow, it’s a new world. The Islamists are about to join the nuclear weapons community, so Russia and the United States are going to have to learn to work together. NATO may even one day become irrelevant. Regardless, it’s our job to make sure this little mess we’ve created doesn’t go public. In fact, the future of the CIA probably depends on it.”
“Senator Grieves is still pushing to dissolve the agency?”
“Yes, and he’s gaining influence within the Senate. Not nearly enough yet, but a scandal like this wouldn’t help our cause.” Pope did not go on to share that Grieves was now the subject of an FBI investigation into possible treasonous activities.
“Have Western oil companies been advised on the plot to disrupt the pipeline?” Federov asked.
“No,” Pope answered. “We’ve decided to leave them in the dark. There was some trouble six months back with an oil platform off the coast of Nigeria, and their mercenaries made our job ten times harder than it needed to be, so we’re leaving them out of it this time.”
“Fine. How soon will the Ohio be able to put our men back ashore?”
“That depends on where you make the arrangements.”
“How about Turkey?” Federov suggested. “I have a number of resources there.”
“Good,” Pope said. “I’ll run it through the proper channels and get back to you in twenty-four hours.”
“That will give me the time I need,” Federov said. “Now, tell me: How are you feeling? I was more than slightly relieved to hear you had survived the attempt on your life.”
“The doctors tell me I’m mending well. Thank you for asking.”
“And the filthy traitors who ordered the attempt?”
Pope was quiet for a moment. “Well, you know the old saying, Vladimir: it’s stupid to fail.”
39
Istanbul was Turkey’s largest city, with a predominantly Sunni Muslim population of fourteen million. It covered two thousand square miles and was the focal point of Turkish cultural, economic, and historical interests.
Gil and Dragunov were put ashore in the dead of night at Aytekin Kotil Park, where they waited among the Cretan palms for a half hour until Dragunov received a text message from their GRU contact telling them to rendezvous with him at the main entrance.
The contact was a big, dirty-looking Russian with an unshaven face, and at three paces he smelled as though he hadn’t bathed in weeks. His name was Vlad, and it was obvious that he hated Gil on sight.
“You brought an American,” he said to Dragunov in Russian. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“You were told there were two of us,” Dragunov replied in the same language. “That was all you needed to know. Now, let’s move. I don’t like standing around in the open.”
They got into a small car with Gil sitting in the back, and Vlad drove out of the park onto Kennedy Avenue, a coastal road named for the US president John F. Kennedy. Gil saw the street sign that read “Kennedy Caddesi” and smiled. He was a long, long way from home, and seeing the Americanism was a comfort.
“Where are we going?” Dragunov kept a hand in the pocket of his US Navy peacoat, where he gripped a concealed 9 mm Beretta M9 pistol.
“Whorehouse,” Vlad answered, eyeing Gil coldly in the mirror. “We won’t be bothered. Prostitution is legal here, and we’re protected by the police.”
Unable to understand a word of what was being said, Gil pretended not to notice Vlad’s disdain, keeping his facial expression neutral and avoiding all eye contact. The last thing he wanted was to get into a pissing contest with the GRU in a Muslim country. Still, like Dragunov, he too had his hand in his peacoat gripping a navy-issue M9. Gil also had two spare magazines in his left hip pocket.
They drove through the lighted streets of the city until Vlad turned down a dark alley and pulled up to an unassuming-looking concrete building with two men standing outside in a dimly lit parking lot. A heavy fog was setting in, and the air was cold. There were six cars parked in the lot.
Vlad killed the motor, and they got out. A fat man with a bald head took Vlad aside and spoke with him in a low voice as Vlad lit a cigarette. When they finished talking, Vlad waved for Dragunov to follow him inside.
Gil nodded at the two men standing watch as he brought up the rear, keeping a wary eye out as they crossed the threshold into the building. The pervading scent was unmistakable: heavy perfume and marijuana. At a table inside the door, two more men sat watching television, and nine scantily clad young women lounged around on sofas and chairs in the shadowy foyer. A couple of the girls met Gil’s gaze, one managing a halfhearted smile, but most averted their eyes.
Gil felt his gut start to churn. “What the fuck is this place?” he muttered to Dragunov as Vlad stood talking with the men at the table.
Dragunov glanced around at the women. “What does it look like?”
“I thought we were going to a GRU safe house.”
“This is it,” Dragunov said. “What were you expecting? Something from a Jason Bourne movie?”
“Back here.” Vlad led them through a red-beaded curtain and down a long corridor of closed doors to a well-lighted kitchen area. Two more young women sat slurping soup at a card table, and he barked at them in Russian, causing them to get immediately up and flee the room.
“All they do around here is eat,” he griped to Dragunov. “If they’re not eating, they’re bitching about something. Ungrateful cunts.”
Dragunov nodded. “Coffee?”
“Over there.”
“Want some?” Dragunov asked Gil.
“Sure.” Gil took his cigarettes from the other coat pocket and lit one as Vlad walked out of the room through a blue-beaded curtain down a second corridor, growling orders at someone unseen. “He speak English?”
Dragunov shrugged. “Probably not, but watch what you say around him.”
“These girls are sex slaves. You know that, right?”
Turkey was one of the world’s most popular destinations in human trafficking. It was estimated that as many as eight thousand women may have been enslaved there, and the Russian mafia controlled a big part of the industry. They imported their women primarily from Russia, Poland, and Ukraine, but other crime organizations imported them from Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belarus, Bulgaria, Georgia, Greece, Indonesia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Moldova, Romania, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan. This overt abuse of Turkey’s liberal prostitution policies had caused many Turkish municipalities to stop issuing licenses for new brothels and to refuse the renewal of licenses for existing brothels. This did little, however, to stem the flow of human traffic. The syndicates were too well established, and police officials were too easily bribed into compliance.