a denim jacket and jeans, but he also wore knee and elbow pads and, on the bed next to where he’d been sitting, a black motorcycle crash helmet lay on its side.
“Mr. C.,” Sam said.
John asked, “You ready for the fly swat?”
“’Bout as ready as I’m gonna get.”
“It’s all about the angle. Get the angle right, commit to it, and let momentum do the rest.”
Sam just nodded as another flash of lightning lit up the room.
John stepped over to Jack Ryan, Jr. Jack was in head-to-toe black; cotton pants, a pullover knit sweater, and a knit mask rolled up above his face so it looked like a watch cap, similar to the one worn by Chavez. He also wore soft-soled shoes that looked like black slippers. With a handshake Clark said, “Good luck, Junior,” to the twenty-seven-year-old Ryan.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will.”
Last, John walked around the bed, and here he shook the left hand of Dominic Caruso. Dom wore a red-and-gold soccer jersey and a bright gold scarf, upon which the word Galatasaray was emblazoned in red. His attire stood out from the muted colors around the room, but his countenance was much less bright than his dress.
With a severe expression Dom said, “Brian was my brother, John. I don’t need—”
Clark interrupted. “Have we talked about this?”
“Yes, but—”
“Son, whatever our five targets are up to here in Turkey, this op has gone way past simple revenge for your brother. Still . . . we are all Brian’s brothers today. We are all in this together.”
“Right. But—”
“I want your mind on your job. Nothing else. Every one of us knows what we are doing. These JSO assholes have committed other crimes against their own people and against the U.S. And it’s clear from their present movements that they are up to no good. Nobody else is going to stop them. It’s up to us to shut them down.”
Dom nodded distractedly.
Clark added, “These fuckers have it coming.”
“I know.”
“Are you good to go?”
Now the young man’s bearded chin rose. He looked into Clark’s eyes. With a resolute tone he said, “Absolutely.”
And with that John Clark picked up his briefcase with his non-bandaged hand and left the room without another word.
The four remaining Americans checked their watches and then stood or sat quietly, listening to the rain pelt the window.
TWO
The man the Americans had dubbed Target One sat at his regular bistro table at the sidewalk café in front of the May Hotel on Mimar Hayrettin. Most nights, when the weather was nice, he stopped here for a shot or two of raki in chilled sparkling water. The weather this evening was awful, but the long canopy hung over the sidewalk tables by the staff of the May kept him dry.
There were just a few other patrons seated under the canopy, couples smoking and drinking together before either heading back up to their rooms in the hotel or out to other Old Town nightlife destinations.
Target One had grown to live for his evening glass of raki. The anise-flavored milky white drink made from grape pomace was alcoholic, and forbidden in his home country of Libya and other nations where the more liberal Hanafi school of Islam is not de rigueur, but the ex–JSO spy had been forced into the occasional use of alcohol for tradecraft purposes during his service abroad. Now that he had become a wanted man, he’d grown to rely on the slight buzz from the liquor to help relax him and aid in his sleep, though even the liberal Hanafi school does not permit intoxication.
There were just a few vehicles rolling by on the cobblestone street ten feet from his table. This road was hardly a busy thoroughfare, even on weekend nights with clear skies. There was some foot traffic on the pavement around him, however, and Target One was enjoying himself watching the attractive women of Istanbul pass by under their umbrellas. The occasional view of the legs of a sexy woman, coupled with the warming buzz of the raki, made this rainy night especially pleasant for the man seated at the sidewalk café.
—
At nine p.m., Sam Driscoll drove his silver Fiat Linea calmly and carefully through the evening traffic that flowed into Istanbul’s Old Town from the outlying neighborhoods.
The city lights sparkled on his wet windshield. Traffic had thinned out more and more the deeper he got into Old Town, and as the American stopped for a red light, he glanced quickly at a GPS locator Velcroed onto