The Washington Stratagem (38 page)

Yael shivered again. “Can we go back now?”

Yusuf nodded. He led her down the way they had come. They soon reached a small iron door set into a wall, under an incline where the cemetery grounds rose steeply upward. Yusuf opened the door and led Yael down a narrow corridor, back to the archive room.

Yusuf busied himself making tea. Yael sat down at the table and rested for a moment. She felt strangely at home here, among the dusty, musty old books and ledgers of the Dönme, a small tile in the dazzling mosaic of Mediterranean history.

Yusuf put an aluminum teapot on the table, together with two small tulip-shaped glasses. For a moment Yael was back in her window seat in Café Markiz.

“The girl,” she asked. “The beggar girl on İstiklal Caddesi?”

“She is fine. I alerted a friend of mine who runs a charity. They will help her.” Yusuf poured tea for both of them. “And now, I think it’s your turn to talk.”

Yael reached for her tea. She looked at Yusuf, his dark, expressive eyes, his obsidian-black hair, his long slender fingers, the look on his face as he brushed the earth from his wife’s grave. Her instincts had never let her down. She told him everything she knew: about Clarence Clairborne, Cyrus Jones, the Prometheus Group, the plan to attack the summit, which she now knew was disinformation, and Prometheus’s links with Nuristan Holdings through Bank Bernard et Fils.

Yusuf stared at Yael. “Which bank did you say?”

“Bernard et Fils, in Geneva.”

“Nuristan Holdings,” Yusuf said, thoughtfully. “We know who runs Nuristan Holdings.” He reached inside the desk drawer and took out a folder. He passed a photograph to Yael. “Does he look familiar?”

Yael peered at the picture, frowning. The image was quite poor quality and pixilated after being enlarged. It showed a clean-shaven man in his late forties, with dark hair, getting out of a car, with two other men in front of a rundown house at the end of a street of wooden-fronted houses, each with an enclosed balcony on the first floor.

Yael frowned. “Yes, but I’m not sure. Is he Turkish? Persian?”

Yusuf passed her another photograph. It showed the same man, but bald now with a neatly trimmed beard, in a collarless shirt.

“Salim Massoud,” said Yael. “Is he here, in Istanbul? Where?”

“About a mile from here.” Yusuf took out another photograph, much sharper, showing Massoud entering the rundown house. “I agree with you, Yael. There is no plan by jihadis to bomb the summit. Nor by the Kurds. We have people inside every radical, Islamist, Kurdish, far-left, far-right, Syrian-refugee, and jihadi group. There is no increase in activity—no chatter, no surge in telephone calls. We would know if there was.”

“Then why is Massoud here, in disguise, if nothing is planned?” asked Yael. An idea began to form in her mind, a train of thought that could perhaps explain events so far and answer her question, when her UN mobile beeped. She checked the screen. An SMS message from Isis:

V. worried to see TV reports. You OK? Can you meet me 11am Mercan kapisi grand bazaar tomorrow. Have David info.

Yael put the phone down, her hand shaking, her heart pounding, all thoughts of Clarence Clairborne, the summit, terrorist attacks: gone.

She pushed the phone across the table.

Yusuf read the message. “Your brother?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“We like to keep an eye on our VIP visitors. You understand that meeting Isis is out of the question.”

Yael said nothing, her head tilted to one side as she looked at Yusuf.

“You are wanted by Interpol. There is a warrant out for your arrest,” he said.

Yael merely held his gaze.

“There is a terrorist alert. The whole city is on lockdown.”

Yael continued looking.

Yusuf refilled their tea, smiling despite himself. “You are a
very
difficult woman.”

Yael picked up her glass. “I hope so,” she said brightly.

Yusuf sighed with exasperation. “Every policeman in Istanbul is looking for you.”

“But what if they cannot see me?”

President Freshwater looked her security chief straight in the eye. “I. Want. To. Go. Shopping.”

Dave Reardon looked at the ceiling for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Madam President, we have talked about this. Istanbul is under a complete lockdown. We’ve had two bombs in the heart of the tourist quarter. An attempted kidnapping of a senior UN staffer, apparently by Kurdish terrorists, who has now disappeared. The P5 presidents and their entourages will all soon be gathered in one place, in a building helpfully made of glass. The Istanbul Summit is
the
number one target for every kind of crazy from here to Baghdad.”

President Freshwater smiled. “Baghdad is just next door.”

“Precisely.”

It was nine o’clock on Monday evening. The president, Aldrich Utley, and several staffers were sitting in the lounge of the Marmara Suite at the Four Seasons Hotel in Sultan-ahmet. The room was tastefully decorated, the polished hardwood floor covered with pastel kilims, traditional woven Turkish rugs, the curved wooden sofa dotted with richly brocaded cushions. The hotel, a thick-walled former prison, was used to hosting VIPs. But the Secret Service advance security team had been deeply unhappy about the president’s choice of accommodation. The surrounding area was a jumble of narrow alleys and hidden courtyards, jammed with tourists from all over the world. The three balconies, each ablaze with flowers, had spectacular views over the Bosphorus and Sultanahmet. However, if the president could look out, others could look in, which was why thick curtains now blocked the windows. Secret Service agents were posted on each balcony, with a further contingent inside the suite, by the door, in the corridor, and in the lobby of the hotel. The presidential armored Cadillac, known as “the Beast,” was parked nearby. The Beast weighed a ton and a half, and its ceramic and titanium armor could withstand bullets, RPGs, and bomb blasts. Its doors were as heavy as those on a Boeing 757, and the tires were reinforced with Kevlar, able to run while flat. A supply of presidential blood, type O, was kept refrigerated in the trunk.

“Dave,” said Freshwater as she picked up her thimble-sized cup of Turkish coffee, “you already have me sitting here in the dark. I can’t move three feet without bumping into one of my Secret Service contingent.”

Reardon, a black, Bronx-born, stocky five-foot-eight ex-marine, veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, smiled. “We are in a near lockdown situation, ma’am.”

Freshwater sipped her coffee appreciatively. “This is good. We should have this in the White House.” Her voice turned serious. “We are in a flying-the-Stars-and-Stripes situation, Dave. The leader of the free world cannot be seen to be hiding in her hotel room. I want to go shopping. I want to bargain in the bazaar. I want to see where they shot
From Russia with Love
. We talked about this. It’s in the schedule.”

Reardon frowned. “That was a contingency plan, Madam President. Drawn up some time ago, before the bombs went off and before we got here. I walked over to the bazaar this morning. The place is a maze. Tiny narrow streets shooting off in all directions. Thousands, tens of thousands of people wandering around. I strongly recommend that we drop it.”

“And that is the plan I agreed to and want to stick to. I know how hard you are looking out for me, Dave, and I really don’t want to pull rank, but Zincirli Han is on the edge of the bazaar. It’s not like we would be stuck in the middle.” The han was a small, covered courtyard. Once a resting place for travelers and their horses, its living quarters had been converted to small artisan shops. Freshwater picked up her schedule from the table in front of her. “There it is. Grand Bazaar. Tuesday 11:10 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. Shopping for jewelry in the Zincirli Han. Aldrich, what do you think?” she asked, turning to her chief of staff.

Utley, like everyone else in the room, had come straight from the airport after a twelve-hour flight, but it didn’t show. He had changed into a fresh suit and looked as immaculate as ever. “I agree with Madam President. We can’t hide here and in the convention center all week. The Russians, the Chinese, the Brits, they will all be out and about, having photo ops, taking—what do you call those photographs—selfies. We need to show a presence.”

Reardon leaned back and thought for several seconds before he spoke. “Two helicopters. Two advance and two chase cars. Six plainclothes motorcycle outriders, three in front and three behind. Once we are inside the bazaar, twelve Secret Service agents, three in front, three behind, and three on either side. You wear a vest and we travel in the Beast.”

President Freshwater cradled her chin in her hands as she considered her reply. “I was thinking about walking.”

“I was thinking about resigning,” said Reardon.

“OK, we drive,” said Freshwater, laughing. “But no helicopters. One advance, one chase car. No motorcycle outriders, four Secret Service agents, two in front and two behind.”

“Two cars, two outriders, eight Secret Service agents, two in front, two on each side, and two behind, and you wear a vest. Ten minutes, maximum, once we are inside.”

“This is not Walmart, Dave. What can I do in ten minutes? I have to bargain with these guys. Drink a tea. Haggle.”

“Twelve. And no teas. Unless we bring our own,” rejoined Reardon, proffering his hand.

“Deal.” President Freshwater shook his hand. “Welcome to Istanbul.”

Yael leaned against the ship’s railing, pulled off her niqab, the black veil that covered her face, and stuffed it into her purse.

Yusuf’s eyes opened wide in alarm. “Yael! Please, you must keep covered up.”

“I will, I promise. Just give me a minute,” she said, grinning as she tried in vain to gather and tie up her windblown hair. There were few other passengers on the ferry from Üsküdar to Eminönü at this time of night, and none at all on the open top deck.

For a few moments she was a tourist, savoring the city. The Bosphorus rippled black and silver, and the breeze blew hard over the water, heavy with the smell of the sea. The coastline was studded with seafront cafés and restaurants, their colored lights a rainbow against the night. The şemsi Pasha Mosque, a few yards from Üsküdar port, shone white and yellow, its wide dome and stubby minaret shimmering on the water. It was 9:15, time for
Yatsi
, the nighttime prayer, and a legion of muezzins sounded up, one after another, their calls carrying so loud and clear over the water, they could surely be heard all the way to Galata.

As well as her niqab, Yael was dressed in the full-length, plain black robe, or abaya, of an observant Islamic woman from the Gulf. She sensed Yusuf watching the wind blow her robe back and forth, framing her body within the flapping fabric. Yusuf gave her a few seconds, then gently took her arm and guided her back inside. A white metal wall and large windows enclosed the front half of the top deck. New wooden benches stood in horizontal rows, their seats back to back, facing both the prow and the hull. Steel railings marked the staircases down to the lower decks—one in the front, one in the middle, and one at the back.

Yael sat next to Yusuf and put her niqab back on. To her surprise, she enjoyed wearing the coverall. The head scarf she previously wore had barely mattered—her vision was unencumbered, her face exposed. The niqab was very different. Nothing of her was visible except her eyes, which were already disguised by brown contact lenses. A separate piece of black cloth covered her mouth, loosely enough for her to breathe. Behind the fabric, she felt invisible. In an Islamic society, she was virtually untouchable.

She watched a tourist boat pass by, its lights bright in the darkness, tiny figures visible on deck—laughing, drinking, chatting. She turned David’s ring around on her finger. What information did Isis have?

Yael knew, as much as she knew anything, that there was a reason why peacekeepers had not been dispatched from the UN base at Kigali to save her brother and his colleagues. Fareed Hussein held the key to the answer, of that she was certain. She could still see the way his body stiffened whenever she pressed him on the subject, hear his voice become brittle. He was lying. There was a cover-up, one that reached back twenty years. But Hussein could not be the only one who knew the truth. There were files, she knew, files buried deep in Paris and London, Kigali and New York. As an American diplomat Isis might be able to access them.
But why now?
asked a small voice in Yael’s head. Wasn’t this strange timing, in the middle of the world’s most important diplomatic summit?
Maybe it was
, Yael answered herself,
but Isis is my friend and she understands my determination to find out what happened to my brother
. For now, there is no point worrying. She would meet Isis tomorrow, find out what she knew, and continue her quest.

The ferry ride from Üsküdar to Eminönü took around fifteen minutes. From there they would take the tram to Sultanahmet, the heart of the old city. Yusuf’s plan was for them to spend the night in an apartment there owned by one of his many cousins. The narrow streets and alleys of Sultanahmet were crowded with shops, bars, and restaurants, home to a legion of tourists from across the world. Even the nosiest neighbors would take no notice of new arrivals coming and going.

Yael glanced ahead. The shore at Eminönü came into view, the fried-fish restaurant, now closed, bobbing on the waves like a seesaw. A cruise ship was docked nearby, seven stories high. Perhaps, once all this was over, she might stay in Istanbul for a couple of days, go shopping, finally get to see the sights. There was a vintage clothes shop, a giant emporium, just off İstiklal Caddesi, that she had read about. She looked at Yusuf. Maybe he would come shopping with her. She felt relaxed in his company. Yusuf was an attractive man, and unlike Sami and Eli, she had no history with him. Apart from his shooting her in the neck with a knockout dart, she thought, and started laughing.

Yusuf turned to her, smiling. “What’s so…,” he started to say, when two heavyset men in black leather jackets came up the staircase at the front of the deck and walked toward them.