A Deceit to Die For (52 page)

“It can’t wait? We are swamped here with the bombings on the Mediterranean.

“I know, but the message has a personal reference to you. I wanted to give you a heads up.”

“To me?” asked Yusuf incredulously.

“It’s unusual. That’s why I wanted you to see it immediately. It’s on its way now.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He replaced the receiver, turned to his computer and hit Send and Receive. He saw the mail from Bülent and the fifteen MB attachment. He double clicked the file and turned to Murat.

“Mute the TV for a moment. We have video of the suicide bomber in Istanbul.”

Murat muted the TV and walked around behind Yusuf’s desk. The screen showed a bearded man in a leather jacket pointing a gun at nine bank personnel prostrate on the floor. They immediately noted that he had no mask on. He approached the camera and spoke very clearly.

“Today, the world has seen how people of faith respond to the oppression of the infidel. You cannot attack Allah’s beloved slaves in Europe without consequence. You cannot continue to prop up corrupt Middle Eastern regimes that oppress their people while you siphon off their petroleum. You cannot continue to turn a blind eye to Zionist terrorism and the Palestinian genocide. Allah has made us their protectors. We will drive the unbeliever from the lands of Islam. They leverage the labor of honest Muslims to fill their banks, and then with this money, grant us IMF loans to keep us in poverty and slavery. For over a century, our leaders have collaborated with the infidel in commerce. But the winds of change are blowing. Today marks the beginning of the end of this relationship. Every company who maintains this unholy alliance will be destroyed.”

The man paused for a moment. Obviously, all of this had been memorized. He pointed to the group of people on the floor and continued,

“This is the posture of a true Muslim before Allah. Hopefully, theirs is sincere. Salvation is found only in Islam.”

He stopped again as if for effect, took two steps towards the camera and in a low voice said,

“Yusuf has the clothes that cover Pharaoh’s nakedness. We want them back, Captain. The waters of the Red Sea shall part for the people of faith and Pharaoh shall be swallowed alive.
Allahüekber!
” The screen went black.

Murat let out a low whistle followed by a string of swear words. Yusuf reached for his phone to call his wife.

“Hi darling, I need you to come up to the office,” said Yusuf, without any greeting

“To the office? Whatever for?” She could hear the tension in his voice.

“You could be in danger. Hüseyin will pick you up in five minutes. Bring a bag with a few things. I’ll explain when you get here. Bye.”

Murat had turned the volume back up on the TV and was viewing the carnage. The entire block had been leveled by the blast. First responders were everywhere. The square had been the site of a fruit and vegetable market, fourteen banks, several small restaurants and shops. Now, it was a heap of rubble. The cameraman zoomed in on a bloody arm ripped off at the shoulder lying on the street.

“Well, the message clearly states that it is retaliation for the attacks on Turks in Europe,” said Murat.

“Yes, it does,” said Yusuf thoughtfully. “And if so, it might be the first time in history that a radical Sunni group has avenged the deaths of Alevis…”

He said it to no one in particular. Then, he swung into action.

“Murat, the end of that message was about the tapes we found in Akçakoca during the raid. Obviously, he wants to use them to compromise key officials. The threat to me was obvious. They will try to contact us soon.”

“Sir, you need to immediately take this to the Minister of Internal Affairs. They will put you in a witness protection program.”

“Would you go into a witness protection program under this government if you were facing the same threat?”

The look on Murat’s face gave him the answer.

Yusuf continued. “Find out if we are intercepting any communication between radical groups and how they are viewing today’s events. This could inspire other cells to carry out their own acts of violence. Also, make sure all of the country’s political leaders are advised to change their schedules for the next several weeks. I think Pharaoh could be a veiled threat to heads of state and it is certainly credible.”

They were about to see
credible
muscle its way into reality.

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P
RAGUE,
C
ZECHOSLOVAKIA
 
 
The air in the hotel conference hall was jovial. After two years of wrangling over delays and budget concerns, the partners of the international natural gas consortium had finally resolved their differences. A pipeline project that would carry gas from the Caucasus, Kurdistan and Central Asia to the energy-hungry markets of Europe was finally back on track. Delegates, including the ministers of finance from every country on the pipeline route, were here to sign the agreement and to celebrate this important breakthrough. The biggest challenge had been persuading the Turks, who were demanding twenty percent of the gas in addition to transit fees. The Turkish government was only dissuaded from this highway robbery when Romania threatened to use a Russian pipeline planned for the north shore of the Black Sea. News of the bombings in Turkey had not, for the most part, dampened the mood here at the signing of a nine-billion-dollar project. Except for the fact that the Turkish delegation arrived with an extra security detail, no one seemed in the least concerned.

Several blocks away, a man sat in front of a window on the fourth storey of an apartment building behind a curtain. The window was open and the muzzle of the barrel just barely visible. It was an eight hundred and thirty-seven meter shot. There was no wind to speak of, and since the .50 caliber AS50 sniper rifle had an effective range of over two kilometers, this was not even considered a long-range shot.

He kept the scope trained on the front door of the hotel just over the top of the black limousine waiting outside to pick up the minister. He fully expected the man to be shielded by security guards wearing bullet-proof jackets and might even have one on himself. It didn’t matter. There was no body armor in the world that could stop a .50 caliber bullet with a steel core. It could penetrate a brick wall two-feet thick or one inch of steel plate. The energy released on impact was enough to cause certain death through blunt force trauma. There were five rounds in the clip, one for the minister and four for whoever else happened to be standing there.

Sunlight flashed off of the hotel doors as they opened. There were two security guards blocking his view. He squeezed the trigger. The first bullet ripped through the bodyguard’s neck like it was tissue paper and hit the minister in the chest, sending him to the ground. The next four bullets took out three security guards and the driver.

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C
AIRO
  
“Damn it, Jabbar. How in the hell did this slip past our nets?” said Ahmet, pointing at the television. “And, in Turkey no less. We have over a thousand people in the field and a budget of five billion dollars a year aimed at keeping these guys under our thumb, and yet we can’t stop them from blowing up hundreds of foreign citizens on Muslim soil and assassinating a key member of our group placed strategically in the Ministry of Energy and Natural Resources. Have we found out who is behind this?”

“The Turkish Hizbullah claimed responsibility,” replied Jabbar.

“I know that. What I meant is who executed it?”

“No one knows. I’m sure the general assumption is that this is the work of Bekir Kaya,” Jabbar answered.

Ahmet shook his head slowly.

“He’s directly challenging us, isn’t he? Overzealous fool! What good will his jihad do? Escalating armed conflict with the West is suicide. It’s just too bad he won’t rot in hell for his folly. All they want is their moment of glory, the title of Martyr and the rewards that go with it. They are small minds whose brains would fit in the tip of their libido.”

Jabbar noted the Freudian slip. Ahmet’s was nothing to sneeze at.

“What do we know about Gilbert? Has he contacted his secretary again?” asked Ahmet.

“Nothing and no. We don’t know where he is, and he hasn’t emailed or phoned the secretary. Did you still want to call her with a ransom message today?” Jabbar asked.

“Yes. He’s smart enough to guess what we’re after, and that his secretary is likely our only point of contact. If he wants his family back, then he’ll call her.” He exhaled a long sigh. “Jabbar, this document has suddenly become a major distraction and a serious liability. I want to end this thing quickly. Call our liaison in DC. Have him contact Mike Tate. We need an international search warrant from the FBI for Gilbert O’Brien on charges of corporate espionage. Have it forwarded to Interpol immediately. Make sure our DC team informs the Senator’s office of the situation as well. I would have just sat on this information, but now we need the document, and Interpol can help us find Gilbert. Besides, this revelation of illegality might be enough to turn the tribunal against Finch and Moreland so that our assets can be unfrozen.”

“I’m on it.”

“Is everything set for the exchange when we do get in contact with Gilbert?”

“Yes, the two women and children are being held at a container terminal on the Anatolian side of the Sea of Marmara. Somebody has informed the authorities of the kidnapping because a yellow Interpol notice was issued for the kids.”

“Where did that come from?”

“Washington DC.”

“His secretary?”

“No sir, the report was called in from a number at the US State Department.”

“Shit! The last thing we need is someone running interference and blocking our search warrant. See if you can find out who it was. What is the plan once we contact the O’Brien’s?”

“They’ll be told to go to Istanbul, but no details will be provided until they contact us from there with the document. Since the document is in the States with Gwyn, it’ll probably take two days to get the document to Istanbul after we inform them of our ransom demands.”

“Call O’Brien’s secretary and have it routed through London. Tell her to get a number for Gilbert where we can reach him and to do it immediately if he ever wants to see his children alive.”

“Will do. The FBI is still looking for Zeki. So far, no luck. But, he can’t go far with the girl.”

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I
STANBUL
 
Ginger could hear the crunch of boots on gravel clearly through the walls of the steel shipping container which had been their prison ever since they got off the boat. Their captors were probably bringing them food. It had been steadily growing warmer for the last hour, so she guessed it was mid-morning. Shelly gripped Ginger’s arm. The poor girl was a total wreck. The daughter of a stockbroker who had made millions on the dot.com craze and multiplied his winnings during the collapse, Shelly was a tall and slender brunette without a care in the world. She had never experienced deprivation of any kind or worked a day in her life. In the West Texas farm community Ginger grew up in, they would have said that Shelly had more money than she had sense.

For two days now, they had been kept in the pitch black container. The only time they had any light was when the door opened and someone shoved trays of food and bottled water through the door. The menu never changed—two loaves of French bread, a large block of salty feta cheese, and a pile of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers. For toilets, they had been given two five-gallon buckets, and using them in the pitch black was a challenge. There was no toilet paper and Ginger had been making do with scrap packaging material strewn about the floor. The container wasn’t ventilated and the stench was becoming unbearable. There were five people using the toilet several times a day. She found herself profoundly aware of something she had never given much thought to before—the blessings of a sewer system.