Jihad by Stephen Coonts Page B

Lion?” he said, overlaying a satellite photo on the grid. “What sights will we see?”
    ASAD LISTENED AS Katib recounted what had happened at the hospital. It took considerable discipline for Asad not to interrupt; he didn’t want to prejudice his chief bodyguard’s report by asking questions that might lead Katib to shade what he said.
    “The Turks must have set up an ambush,” said Katib. “They were waiting in the room. Most likely they had moved the driver already.”
    The official police theory—obtained through a third party Katib knew—was that this was the product of a feud between two dueling smuggling groups, possibly Syrian, who had connections to the Russian mafiya. What the Turks were really up to, however, was difficult to fathom. Their government was not sympathetic to the true cause of Islam, and while the intelligence service was preoccupied with the Kurds in the east, they were not to be taken very lightly. Asad had no doubt that that they had arranged an ambush at the hospital; the question was what the driver, Yorsi al-Haznawi, would have told them.
    He didn’t know much, not even the location of this safehouse. Still, as a matter of prudence he would have to change locations.
    To be truly safe, he would have to leave Istanbul completely. But he couldn’t do that; only he could initiate the wave of attacks. If he did not conduct his meetings over the next two days, the entire operation would have to be postponed. Better to move forward and risk failure than flee like a coward and accept defeat.
    “I know this is my responsibility,” said Katib. “I will make amends, here in Istanbul.”
    “We will speak of it later. This morning there is much to do.”
    “We have new vehicles.”
    “Then let us go to the mosque and pray.”
     
    LIA DEFRANCESCA PULLED down the top piece of the religious veil covering her head, adjusting the band so that it covered her eyebrows. The Fiat’s air conditioning was at full blast, but she was sweating anyway; she could feel beads of perspiration running down the sides of her neck. She had another full set of clothes on under the long dress and outer jilbab. She also had three pistols, her PDA, two satellite phones, six pin grenades, a dozen video bugs, and two dozen eavesdropping flies. And that didn’t begin to count the small booster units disguised as tourist gear and the clothing in the three bags she had in the car, or the extra clothes and gear stashed around the city. Nothing like traveling light.
    “Coming in your direction,” said Rockman.
    Lia reached to start the Fiat, then caught herself; she already had it on. The car was so quiet, it was hard to hear the engine.
    “Go down two blocks and turn left,” said Rockman.
    Lia put the car in gear and followed his directions, moving mechanically. Ordinarily she would have used the PDA to make her own way, but this morning she simply wanted to do what she was told, a robot moving through the narrow streets.
    “They’re turning back onto the highway,” said Rockman.
    Lia got on a few blocks ahead of them, driving slowly so they could catch up. They were in a white Mercedes—the terrorists seemed to have an endless supply of vehicles; no doubt they had a good deal with a used car lot somewhere nearby.
     
    DEAN PARKED A block from the Mercedes in the heart of the Sultanahmet district, the most popular tourist area in Istanbul and the center of the city for more than a thousand years. He could see the walls and minarets of the Blue Mosque just up the hill; beyond it to the right but out of view were the Haghia Sophia and the Sultan’s Palace. Literally thousands of people thronged through the area every day; Asad and his al-Qaeda contacts would be just so many needles in a massive haystack, their foreign faces as much a part of the scenery as Dean’s.
    “Buggee is headed for the Blue Mosque. Must be doing the tourist thing,” said Rockman in Dean’s head as he pulled on his sunglasses and got