Trojan Horse (28 page)

She didn’t like thinking about Ahmed. It made her unhappy. She’d once loved him passionately and imagined a life with him. She’d never before experienced such feelings. But during their first year together she’d come to realize that he was not faithful. She’d lied to herself about that. Her roommate, Ayten, had told her what she’d seen and she was right. A man who strayed always strayed. There was no stopping it. A woman could close her eyes to it, but if she did, she lived a lie and her life was never truly what she pretended it to be.

Yes, he was a lovely man and his fingers and lips were magic on her body but, though she was young, she knew there was more to a life together than wonderful lovemaking. Still, memories of warm summer afternoons wrapped in his arms, the church bells announcing the hour, the shutters thrown open, the flutter of the pigeons and the river breeze occasionally wafting over them nearly overwhelmed her. She wanted nothing more in such moments but to yield to fantasy, to imagine Ahmed was faithful and always would be, that they could have a life together.

But how stupid could she be? Dreams weren’t reality and recent events had brought the real world back into her life once and for all.

She could not ignore this business he was in. The worst part was he’d put her into the middle of it. How deeply was she involved? In how much danger had he placed her—repeatedly? She had no way of knowing. She could ask but he would only lie to her. What risk was she taking for this unfaithful lover?

And perhaps it was all a pretense on his part, an emotional device to get her to do his unquestioning bidding. She didn’t want to think him capable of such deceit but what else could she conclude? She’d come to realize that almost nothing he’d said about himself was real. For all she knew, he already had a wife and family in Iran. She’d heard such stories from other women. Why wouldn’t it be true in her case? Was she so special?

You don’t know what you don’t know, her grandmother had often told her as she repeated the lessons of life to her lovely granddaughter while combing her hair. You can stare at the mountain all day but you cannot discern what is on the other side.

But don’t learn too much, she’d murmur as if repeating a catechism, don’t know things you don’t need to know. Too much knowledge, the wrong
kind
of knowledge, can destroy your life. Don’t ask what you shouldn’t know, don’t learn what isn’t your business. Such was one great secret of life she had learned and impressed upon Saliha.

Ahmed wasn’t involved with drugs or the black market—he was a spy. There could be no doubt. His secretive trips, the mask he put over his face when he received certain messages on his computer, his stern businesslike manner when he downloaded the encrypted files onto a new chain thumb drive, which he would give to her with great solemnity.

She’d never pressed him for answers about all this. Though she’d expressed curiosity initially, his evasions had alerted her. She no longer asked, not seriously at least, and she’d long since given up any expectation of an honest answer.

Always, she realized, there’d been an implied threat behind her trips, the hint that something terrible would be done to her if she failed to carry out the assignment properly. She dismissed that initially as so much showmanship, a Middle Eastern man telling her he was the boss, but now she knew better. She was at risk and not just from the CIA or Mossad.

She turned the corner and walked to the entrance of the building where Ahmed lived. She entered the code and passed through the doors. The Hungarian, if that’s what he was, emerged from his doorway as if he’d been lurking there. If anything he was dirtier than ever, his soiled undershirt his only covering above well-worn trousers. He’d not combed his bird’s nest of hair or shaved in several days. He leered at her and said, “What do you want?” His tone announced he considered her a whore.

“None of your business,” she answered, and walked toward him to pass.

He reached out with his hand and attempted to grab her arm but she moved quickly aside, nearly jumping to escape his clutch. Now she smelled him and realized he was drunk. He lurched toward her again but before he could take proper hold Saliha had her switchblade out.

Snap!
She pressed the knife to his neck.

The man froze, then pulled back. Saliha glared at him, staring him into intimidation. “Touch me again,” she hissed, “and I will cut your balls off, not that they are any use to you, old man.”

With that she stepped away and started up the narrow stairs.

This had to end, she told herself. Just look at the situation Ahmed placed her in just to get her money. For that was her only reason in coming here. There would be no last trip. No, she was done with that. She’d get her money and never see him again, or the filthy man at the landing. She shuddered to think what he’d do if he ever got her in his power.

She knocked at the apartment and waited. When there was no answer she let herself in. The room was dark, exactly as she’d seen it the last time she’d been here the previous day. If Ahmed was back, and his messages said he was, then he’d not come here yet. So where was he? At one of his secret meetings, she decided, as she sat down to wait, not bothering to turn on a light. She removed a fresh packet from her purse, opened it, tapped out a fresh cigarette, and lit it. She drew the first smoke into her lungs with great pleasure, held it momentarily, then forced it through her nostrils. She closed her eyes and willed herself to relax.

Ahmed looked at Karim and said, “Watch the woman. Be careful with her. We’ve made mistakes and they are not happy. You understand?”

Karim nodded.

Ahmed considered telling him that Ali was dead but decided not to mention it, not yet. He couldn’t be certain what the man might do to the woman in revenge.

He picked up her bag, which contained her computer. Hamid thought there was valuable information in it, not that Ahmed could understand the technical aspects. In the hands of experts the laptop was potentially a gold mine of data, more important than what she told them even. Maybe dumping her body was going to be the easiest solution after all.

He nodded to Karim as he let himself out.
No mistakes,
he said to himself as he stepped outside. There must be no more mistakes.

Saliha finished another cigarette as she waited. She realized that she was now feeling the full weight of adulthood and of her greater responsibilities. All that had gone before now had been an extended childhood. Her sister had called earlier that day with bad news. Their older brother had lost his job on the Istanbul docks. It was time to grow up, really grow up, and stop playing the adult, behaving as if her life was hers alone to live.

Saliha placed her face in her hands and sighed. How she missed her grandmother. How she missed the sweet innocence of her youth, the false security of their home. How she longed for life to be easier—but that was not to be, she knew. She was fortunate to have choices. Her English was very good, she’d been told; her looks would hold for some years yet; she was bright and she was not lazy. Given the opportunity she could be a productive employee anywhere in Europe.

She heard steps on the stairs outside and wondered if it was Ahmed. Would she have to sleep with him again to get her money? What if she did? This was the end of it for them. She stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray and instinctively straightened her hair.

And if it happened, it would be a way of telling him good-bye.

PRAGUE 3, CZECH REPUBLIC

JEZKOVA 564

10:36 P.M. CET

S
lipping out of the hotel in Geneva had proved surprisingly simple once Jeff was ready. The guard in the hallway outside his door was nowhere in sight. Likely he’d just stepped away for a moment. Jeff had grabbed his gear and walked quietly to the backstairs and descended all the way to the parking garage. Again he found no guard. In fairness, he realized they were not holding him prisoner but looking to protect him from harm. Their focus wasn’t on him.

He’d walked up the car ramp to the street, turned to his left away from the entrance, and a few minutes later climbed into a taxi parked at a stand. He’d made the flight only because an increase in the security level had backed up passenger boarding and all flights were delayed.

He’d not had to change planes in Frankfurt, taking the time to consider his actions as sleep was out of the question. Once in flight, an air of calm spread through the cabin. Jeff closed his eyes with fatigue. He could hear the muted tinkle and clatter of the cart as the attendants moved down the aisle, taking orders and serving drinks.

He couldn’t shake the thought that this was all a waste of time. Police professionals and intelligence agencies were searching for Daryl; why did he think he could succeed where they failed? She could be anywhere right now—anywhere. The evidence on which he was acting was flimsy at best. He had absolutely no real proof Daryl was in Prague.

He ordered a double bourbon, surprising himself. He typically drank very little and then only wine. The liquid stung as he sipped it, the taste if not pleasant not unpleasant, either. When he finished, he felt a hot glow in his gut that slowly spread throughout his body as the tension eased from him.

Yes, Daryl could be anywhere. She could very well be dead. But the trail led to Prague. And even if the police and intelligence agencies were looking for her they were also occupied with a thousand other tasks. No one was more motivated to find her than Jeff because no one else loved her as he did.

The plane landed without incident. As soon as he could, Jeff booted his laptop to connect but found nothing from Frank. He put his computer away, made a mental note to buy a new cell phone, then filed out of the airplane and made his way to an Avis rental counter. Thirty minutes later, he had keys. But before going outside to claim his car he located a hot spot. And there was the message he’d hoped for.

The car is registered to Václav Morávek. The address is Jezkova 564, Prague 3. That is an unspecified commercial site. The name on the vehicle is a dead end and likely fake. Call the local police, Jeff, and let them handle it. You write software, remember?

Frank

Nothing from Bridget. He kept himself from sending her a reminder. She already knew how urgent this was.

Jeff drove out of the airport. He cautiously followed the GPS instructions, which still managed to confuse him repeatedly once he reached the crowded city center. There the old streets were short, extending only a city block. Though it was late the city had the sense of just coming alive and pedestrians crossed streets with casual care. More than once his eye was drawn to a young couple walking arm in arm, lost in their own world.

It was nearly midnight when he spotted the address. Afraid to slow, he drove by, went around the corner, promptly found himself lost, shut off the GPS system and its nagging voice, and finally made his way back to Jezkova Street. This time he slowed a bit as he went past but still could not make out what was at the address. It was an old building, with several large wooden doors, but that was all.

He drove in circles in the nearby area as he considered his next move. Frank might well have been right. Jeff had already withheld important information from the police in Geneva to protect a source, seriously handicapping official efforts. Then he’d taken off before he’d identified the photographs for them. He suddenly realized that by his actions he made it impossible for them to know who to look for or where to go in their search.

What would the local police do if he went to them? Once they contacted Geneva they’d probably detain him.

No, he’d made his decision. Now he had to play out his hand. If this was a dead end then he’d tell the police what he knew—if he was able.

A car pulled away from the curb, giving him a parking spot that he backed into. On the sidewalk, Jeff took a moment to orient himself. He walked back the way he’d been driving and after a few minutes located Jezkova Street. Though it was not crowded there were a number of pedestrians and he blended in while strolling by the address. He still was unable to make out what it was. There were no offices, from what he could see. It looked to him as if residences were on the second and third floors, which was the case throughout the street. His heart raced and for a moment he wondered if Daryl was being held there.

At the corner was a tiny shop where sundry items were sold: cigars, cigarettes, mints, magazines, toilet articles. He bought a magazine, thinking it might be useful as a prop, then a bottle of water and two candy bars since he had no idea when he’d eat next.

“Excuse me,” he said to the young woman behind the counter, “but can you tell me what business that is down the street?” He hoped she knew more than the few English phrases her job required.

She raised her head. Her hair was dark and short. She wore stylish glasses. He formed the impression she was a student. “What business?”

“Let me show you.” He smiled and went toward the door. She moved from behind her counter without hesitation and walked outside with him. He pointed to number 564 just down the street. “There, with the old wooden doors.”

“Ahh,” she said then smiled. “It is a lockup.”