“My point exactly. America is arguably the most multi-cultural place in the world and I suppose it is something to be proud of, but we have allowed it to blind us to cultural reality. All cultures do not have equal value. Why don’t we stand on our record and our values? I am sick of the mandatory cultural sensitivity training telling us that jihad is a legitimate tenet of Islam, and that there is a lot we could learn from them. How about Muslims try learning a little from us?”
“Zeki is a Muslim, and he’s not like that.”
Matt noticed that Gwyn was looking around the room to see if anyone was listening. She wasn’t comfortable having this discussion in an Istanbul café.
“The actions of one honorable man trying to repay a debt to your father cannot negate the dozens, if not hundreds, of terrorist attacks carried out every year in the name of Islam.”
“Listen, I disagree, but this is hardly the time to debate it. If Islam is the problem, apply for a transfer to the Far East, Europe or South America. You don’t have to work in the Middle East.”
“I thought about it, but the challenge of our generation is the Middle East. If I were to get reassigned somewhere else, all I’d be doing is negotiating favorable trade terms for American products. The State Department turns you into a damn salesman hawking American wares and negotiating favorable trade agreements. It’s corporatism plain and simple. Sometimes I wonder if the corporate elite are the ones who write the directives we receive. The State Department greases the wheels for the big boys, who make a killing, and then shuffle the money through offshore accounts using the Irish Double or the Dutch Sandwich to avoid paying taxes to the free market society which gave them birth.”
“You lost me.”
“Many of the largest global conglomerates are American companies, but they pay a fraction of the taxes a typical American company is forced to pay because they have the infrastructure to move the profits offshore. It’s absolute bullshit, and that is what I would be doing if I were out of the Middle East. That or negotiating condom distribution programs to prevent the spread of AIDS in Africa.”
“I understand your frustration, but I think you should reconsider,” she said.
“And I think you should try some baklava. You haven’t even touched yours,” he rejoined. “Besides, that is enough about me. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
CHAPTER
59
V
IENNA
Zeki stood in front of the Albertina Museum, looking at an extravagant marble depiction of Zeus and Hera beneath a bronze of one of the Austrian emperors. He scanned the pedestrians on the street, hoping to see Sally’s signature red hair. She was nowhere in sight. He did, however, see another street security camera, and casually walked thirty meters to his right so that it had a clear frontal shot of him. Together with all of the cameras he had passed in airport security and on the streets this morning, there would be plenty of collaborating evidence that Gülben had been in the city. He moved out of the camera’s line of sight and looked down at his watch. It was 12:59. Patrick had said thirteen hundred hours, and they were never late.
For years, she had been a freelance field operative. As a team, Sally and Patrick were among the best in the field. Zeki had even used them for a job in Greece years back. But, they ran into trouble on a job in Mexico. Patrick wouldn’t say who the employer was, but he suspected it was the US. Something had gone wrong, and Sally was caught leaving the country. The government had turned her over to the cartel, and they were nasty. The grief drove Patrick crazy. He spent half of their life savings, almost two million dollars, to get her back. Then, he called in a bunch of favors and spent the rest of their savings setting things straight. For the next eighteen months, members of the cartel dropped like flies. Sally was never the same though. Now, she ran the document side of their “security services” business.
He felt someone touch his elbow and spun around.
“Hi Zeki.”
It was Sally. Her red hair was gone, and so was the sparkle in her eye.
“Patrick said you were going in as a bald fellow. There were two of you, but the other guy walked off three minutes ago, so I knew you had to be the one still standing here.”
“Sally, it’s good to see you.”
“Here’s your book.” She handed him a white and red Swiss chocolate shopping bag.
He held out an envelope.
“It’s not much, but it’s all I can afford.”
“Keep it,” she said, pushing his hand away. “Patrick told me it was personal. We don’t charge for personal stuff, you see. If it’s personal, it’s on the house.”
He pulled the book out and turned it over in his hand. The cover was exact and the dimensions looked right too. He opened it and thumbed through a few pages.
“It looks great. Good work as always.”
“We’re professionals. Besides, it was for a friend.”
He smiled, but the mask felt funny, and he resolved not to do that again. Her face remained grave.
“You and Patrick need to visit me sometime.”
“Yeah, I’d like to see your real face again.”
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Zeki looked around the reading room. It was getting full. There had only been a handful of people that morning, but now there were over a dozen. He glanced at the clock on his cell phone. It was 2:15. He had four minutes. He closed the Gospel of Barnabas and moved it to his left elbow. He wanted all of the motion to be as close to his body as possible, and it would be easier to reach across his body with his right hand. He had rehearsed it in his mind a thousand times. He knew when the lights went off it would take him less than five seconds, and the generator would take twenty to forty seconds to kick in, so he had plenty of time. He opened N.B. 215
Then it happened. The only thing that could have gone wrong did. He had always known it was a possibility, and now an obese woman moved out of the ethereal realm of potentiality and plopped smack dab in the middle of his reality. She laid a book down on the opposite corner of the table, pulled out the chair and lowered her bulk down gingerly as if she half-expected the chair to break beneath her. There was no way he could swap the books with someone sitting directly across from him. He could text Patrick and tell him to wait, but this lady might be here until closing time, waiting might gain him nothing. He was already warm from the jacket he had brought in on the pretext of having a summer cold. His face began sweating underneath the mask. He had hoped this job would go off without hitting a snag. Now, he was going to have to improvise.
He quickly scanned the room. There were no empty tables or zones except for the area right in front of the reading room librarian. He grabbed his pencil and legal pad, placed the G.O.B. under it and felt in his jacket for the substitute Sally had given him. He looked down at the clock and waited for it to hit 2:18. It was no more than fifteen steps to the elevated platform where the librarian sat. When the clock hit 2:18, he stood up and walked over to the librarian.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”
“I know that pictures are not allowed in the Augustinerlesesaal, but I was wondering if I could make a rough sketch of that fresco,” he said, pointing to the ceiling in the empty alcove on the other side of her desk.
“Why, certainly. Go right ahead.”
“Thank you.”
He took a few steps into the alcove and began sketching on the legal pad. There was a security camera here too. Then the lights went down, and only the natural light from the windows lit the reading room. He feigned surprise and turned to face the room as soon as they went down. The librarian stood up and broke the silence that had dominated the room for hours.
“There is a generator. It will come on momentarily.”
Zeki returned to the fresco on the ceiling so that his back was to the entire room and quickly switched the books. Fifteen seconds later the lights were back on. Zeki remained in the alcove for another couple of minutes, finishing the sketch, and as he passed the librarian’s desk, he nodded again.
“Does the library have stock photos of this room or maybe postcards?”
“I believe they do, but you should ask at the reception area.”
“Okay, thank you.”
He returned to his seat, picked up his cell phone and sent Gilbert a text.
Switch successful.
Then, he picked up N.B. 215 and continued reading. He hoped to finish it before he left. He wanted to stay until closing when the rush of people returning materials would make it even less likely that anyone would give his substitute more than a cursory glance. The only thing left to do was have the receptionist take a photograph of him with the book.
CHAPTER
60
W
EDNESDAY,
V
IENNA
Zeki had finished his continental breakfast and was nursing a cup of coffee as he waited for the sun to rise and the waitress to take his plate. His room was too dreary and cramped to be enjoyable. Besides, the wireless was spotty on that floor, and he had work to do. The waitress came to take away his plate, and as he pulled out his laptop, he thought for the umpteenth time that ‘continental’ must be a synonym for ‘sparse’ in some European language. Their breakfast made Turkish fare seem like a feast. Still, the coffee lived up to the Vienna’s reputation for the finest and he savored every drop as well as the irony. The Austrians’ first experience with coffee had been at the Battle of Vienna when the combined forces of the Holy League led by the great Polish general and King John Sobieski routed Kara Mustapha Pasha, stopping forever the Turkish advance into Europe. This was undoubtedly the chief advantage for Austria, but coffee beans from Yemen had been found in the supplies the Turks were forced to leave behind when they were routed. It was to mark the beginning of a delectable addiction to caffeine.
He felt his face. It was still tender and a bit blotchy from wearing the mask for almost twenty-four hours the day before. This morning he had used almost half a bottle of aftershave trying to get his skin to perk up a bit. Today, for the first time in a week, he would be using his real name. It already felt weird, but there was no sense hiding anymore.
He thought about his meeting with the man posing as a priest today. At last, he would be in the presence of someone from the group responsible for Ian’s death. He had arranged for Patrick to have the man followed after he left the reading room, just in case he didn’t get the results he wanted. It was only a precaution. Physical coercion probably wouldn’t do much good either, but one never knew until one tried. He at least needed the man’s real identity.
He looked down at the screen. Gilbert had sent him Turkish data from the key-logger. Until Augustinerlesesaal opened, he would go over these files. He hadn’t looked at them since Dallas. There had been no time. He was anxious to see just how far Gülben’s network spread. Ten minutes later, Zeki could feel the butterflies in his stomach pushing out of their cocoons one after another until it began to make him nauseous. He stared at the screen, paralyzed by fear and wishing he had never read the file. Terrorists didn’t scare him. They were outlaws preying on the margins of society. They would never win. What scared him were legitimate organizations with public support and sinister motives. Governments were far more frightening than terrorist cells.
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I
STANBUL
Gwyn was awakened by the sound of plates clattering in the small kitchen. She lay there trying to remember where she was. The sound of a boy in the street below, yelling in a foreign tongue, brought the realization crashing in on her consciousness. She was in Istanbul. She pulled the covers up over her face.