AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES

A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida.


Special thanks to Professor Voodoo for the continued use of Genco Ribisi.


Chapter 11|White Knuckle Ride

Settling restlessly back into the Audi's leathery embrace, Jethro Blacker glanced at his wristwatch as its seconds hand swept back toward the glowing double-marker twelve o'clock position. Against the soft radiance of light pollution above dense bushes separating handler from perimeter road, in the darkened cabin that timepiece offered the only source of illumination; its escapement's soft ticking accompanied by a quiet ping and clink as the Allroad's engine lost its last residual heat to cold night air. Funny how the latter always seemed to work better after the even most minor of services, if all the mechanic did were something as insignificant as swapping a headlight bulb, everything seemed to run just that much smoother. At least, that was the impression he'd formed on the drive from Rome to Athens, and every other time the fratello's estate returned refreshed from Audi's Teutonically efficient servicing department.

Hopefully that particular theory would sound true for plans as well.

He glanced again at the glow from Limassol's port; even if it were just a mental thing, a simple placebo created of a break from the norm, he'd take whatever advantage he was presented.

If he were to pick a particular worry then chief amongst them would have to be the shore-side approach. While the port's yards were large and cluttered, this was Monty's third time into the complex in as many months, fourth if disembarking the RoRo ferry were to be counted amongst that number, which was enough to put both fratello members on edge.

In hopes of avoiding yet another overland entry the proposal had been briefly tabled to hire a yacht and scuba gear for her to swim in whilst he waited offshore; until both realised that, even in Cyprus, January was far too cold for the casual undertaking of either activity. The only people liable to be attempting such would be locals, whom they couldn't imitate; or the extremely dedicated, whom tended to be in possession their own equipment. Any traveller looking for hire fins and tanks to explore the deep's wonders with would have long headed somewhere further afield and warmer… like Australia.

Pity, at least on a sailing yacht he would have had a choice of sheets, halyards, wheels and winches to occupy his attention. Just sitting here was cruel and unusual torture.

Checking his mirrors again, the former British agent caught a flash of movement followed by a quiet coded rap against a rear window, and reached over to unlock the doors. A moment later, a dark shape slid silently into the passenger seat. Removing her charcoal flat cap, Monty ran a gloved hand through auburn hair, then looked at her handler with a shake of the head.

"The press isn't there anymore, long gone I'd say." She shivered slightly, rubbing one, skivvy covered upper arm with the opposite hand. "Turn the heater up a tad, it's chilly out."

Firing the car's diesel back into life, Jethro reached forward to do as he was told before slipping the auto box into drive and turning back over crunching, stone riddled earth toward the road.

"Well we can't exactly say that wasn't expected…" he let out sigh, more resignation than frustration, "…back to square one I guess."

As the noise of gravel was replaced by humming, smooth tarmac, the handler flicked on his headlights, washing the road ahead in cold white xenon beams, whilst inside the glow of instruments and ambient lighting came alive just enough to make out his partner's scowl as she spoke. "Feels a bit like; too much time spent running after Rome's fool errands…"

"Be nice, they do pay the bills."

"Some of them," now it was the girl's turn to sigh. "Well I saw one of the intelligence flags up just before we left, mayhaps Ribisi will have found something with which to atone."


Even in the depths of winter, azure Mediterranean waters still sparkled off the Cypriot coastline, conjuring images of seaside holidays on rented patches of sand and laughing children, or yachts and champagne, dependent on one's ilk. Pulling a little tighter closed the resort standard-issue fluffy white bathrobe, Monty turned her attention back to the laptop now resting on the penthouse suite's small outside table. Tapping a key to scroll down another page, she took a bite from an apricot danish resting beside her; arrived ten minutes previous courtesy room service.

The buildings at this easterly end of the city were more modern, the roadways dividing them wider, unashamedly set out to lure pasty northern tourists to the acres of beachside deckchairs and cabanas spread before their sea edge in summer. Now in off season however the resort's pool far below lay all but deserted, and between low numbers and the penthouse's high position, the Four Seasons Limassol made for a decent business-option substitute… even if the room barely managed to live up to the grandiose assertions of its title.

And of course, remaining down the tourist end of town lessened the chances of any… unwanted encounters.

The staff would of course form their own opinions as to why an adult man and young girl chose to hide out here away from the tourist crowds, though some concealed it better than others. The room service boy had hung around a little longer than required when she answered the door berobed and to a backing track of running shower water. To his credit he'd managed to maintain enough professional dignity to deposit his trolley in front of the obviously unused sofa bed without appearing a gross voyeur, before beating a regretful retreat.

Now, emerging from the master bedroom wrapped in a similar style to his partner, Jethro picked up a plate and started to nose around the trolley himself.

"I assume there's coffee somewhere?"

Cocking an eyebrow, the girl outside motioned to a depressed plunger parked in the middle of the table.

"Why did I even bother asking?"

Picking up a covered full English breakfast in one hand, he filled the other with a copy of the London Financial Times and stepped outside to join her. Setting both down before the seat opposite, the handler quickly tipped a measure of strongly brewed coffee into a small cup, already placed in readiness for him with milk and sugar. After a quick whirl with the teaspoon he sipped at it, before lowering the rim again to catch Monty's eye and offer her an indulgent half smile.

"What're you so happy about?"

"I was just thinking how much more pleasant this is than the SWA refectory. We have a view, fluffy bathrobes…"

"It's certainly more private; and quieter."

"…And you don't need to fight anyone for the paper."

"Hmm."

That sounded like the newspaper incident was still something of a sticking point; though one of the elder kitchen staff had corrected the issue later that day. Instead removing the shiny stainless steel lid from his meal rather than pressing the issue, and placing it to one side with a clatter, Jethro lifted his fork. Before he could take the first bite however, he was interrupted from across the table.

"I see we appear to have won a round then."

"Say again?"

Monty quirked him a smile and raised eyebrows before nodding at the newspaper set to one side, awaiting his perusal. Following her gesture to the front page, he scanned the flimsy pink stock until he arrived at a small block of text at the bottom:

"Lost in Space. Another blow has been dealt to the already troubled Moratti Technologia Communicazione after its much touted Mercury communications satellite failed to make transfer into geosynchronous orbit. With current board chairman and grandson of the original founder, Baldo di Moratti still missing in Switzerland, this latest setback has caused questions to again be raised regarding the company's future direction and triggered a…"

The handler glanced up to catch the gaze of his girl, his expression now a smirking exaggeration of her own small smile.

That drew a flat look. "You look entirely too smug."

"I think a little smugness is allowable under the circumstances," he picked up his coffee cup again and raised it, "to the small victories."

Reading upside down however, his partner was further through into the body of the text. "'Inside source', do you thing that could be the same anonymous snitch who tipped us off about Mercury in the first place?"

Giving an internal sigh, Jethro took a sip of his drink anyway before setting the cup back down. "Who knows, no-one ever found out where that tip originated from so it could be any person, even possibly a government plant…"

Monty cocked an eyebrow.

"…you don't seem sold."

Now the girl sipped at her own coffee, buying time to gather her thoughts. "I just can't help but think this particular press leak would not seem an intelligent move for the government…"

"Governments aren't exactly renowned for making intelligent decisions."

That earned him another quirked smile, conceding the point, but she continued, "Padania connections or no, Moratti Technologia is still a major financial entity and, until recently at least, a stable one. Italy's economy is shaky enough without giving one of the main drivers behind it a good wobble as well, and I can't see a ruling government wanting to do that… fiscal bankruptcy has this manner of losing one the popular vote; not to mention giving the Separatists extra ammunition." She sipped again. "Now, if I were running things at Moratti, a defunct bird isn't the sort of information I'd be wanting to make public before a) I knew that it was completely unsalvageable and b) had figured out how to control the damage…"

"…so leaking to the press would seem less a planned political move," picked up Jethro, "and more like the actions of someone with an axe to grind internally."

Monty nodded. "Either that, or it's in someone's interest to give Italy as a whole a good nudge toward the precipice… and take your pick of potential parties in that group."

"Now there's a fun thought to start the day on."

Lifting his fork again for a second attempt at breakfast, the Englishman turned back to his newspaper, continuing the article he had started. It rolled on from the front to a double page spread, and between it and the accompanying commentary he had just about polished off the plate before hunting the next tidbit of information.

Despite what misconceptions the man on the street might harbour of the espionage game, the simple fact was that a solid chunk of information relied upon came from completely legitimate sources. Sources from which could be built a contextual framework to weigh and judge data acquired via less legal avenues against. Without that context, it was quite difficult to build a picture of how to interpret what was found.

Finally folding the paper away again he gathered the last dregs of breakfast which lay around, carrying them back to the trolley which was then deposited in the hall outside for collection. Flipping out the "Do Not Disturb" sign he returned to the balcony, swinging around behind his girl to place one hand on each of her shoulders, looking off along the Limassol waterfront. The sun was higher now, though still doing little to warm the day, and in the clear air he could see down, past the port, to where the coast veered out into the Mediterranean, sandwiching a spit of British territory between sea and sky. Closer, in the building's other wing, two of the hotels other few guests were also sat outside, and as he watched, one of the heads glanced curiously across.

Leaning over further, he let his hands slide off Monty's shoulders and down her sides, slipping under her arms and around to finally fold across the flat curve of her tummy. Bringing his head to rest where his hands had just been, he used the position to plant a light kiss on his partner's cheek.

"Neighbours are watching."

Taking the cue, she twisted her head to get her own look and receive the next on her lips, letting him reach forward to close the lid of her computer whilst the other arm guided her up and toward open sliding doors, a palm resting lightly on her buttocks.

Now he had both hands full.

Moving deftly out of the grasp however, his girl turned instead to the open doors and, with a pointed glance at the pair across the hotel grounds, drew sheer curtains to block any view from the bright outdoors.

Now safely out of sight, Jethro handed her computer back. "So, what sort of presents has young Master Ribisi sent?"

"Some surprisingly good ones actually."

The handler raised curious eyebrows at that, but Monty was already settling onto the room's sofa, opening her computer back up on the low coffee table. Pausing for a moment, he moved to join her, leaning in to look at the laptop's small screen.

Scrolling up the page, the girl stopped at where she had placed notes amongst the PDF file text.

"So far I've been through his summary, and was starting on the detail, but what will be most interesting to us is here," she gestured to a table. "These are a series of flights booked by Hermes, each taking place within a consistent, narrow window before Omurtak's manifest noted a shipment to the Anatolian airfield. The flights themselves are to Odessa, and appear to be part of a larger group of regular bookings… probably an inspection tour of some description."

"And I'll wager most of those other visits are entirely legitimate," put in her partner. "He didn't manage to grab the next date I suppose?"

The girl shook her head. "Unfortunately not. There's a pretty big gap in flights just after we were in Colombia, and since then Hermes has been booking at short notice: usually less than a week. From that I would guess either the supply into Odessa is sporadic, or more likely it's a tactic to prevent people doing exactly what was about to roll off'f the end of your tongue."

"…and I assume there's nothing to evidence later flights lining up with anything from Omurtak at all…"

Another head shake. "…no, we've nothing to compare against... for all we know the continued visits could be a ruse to draw out whomever did them damage in Anatolia and the Amazon."

The handler nodded, then paused apparently in thought. "We only visited either chasing cargo from the port, and I like to think we did a reasonable job covering our tracks in Anatolia… Odessa's on Anagnos' schedule as well isn't it?"

"It is, which is why Genco flagged it up over Hermes' other destinations to begin with. Difficult to tell if the flights fall within a window from that though, with sea passages being what they are…"

She let the rest of that hang, and Jethro nodded: the unreliable on-time performance of shipping lines; subject to weather, port queues and at the whim of customs officials would have made it far easier to match against Omurtak's air and land routes than those sailing the proverbial ocean waves. That said, it was more difficult to conceal a Panamax carrier than a truck or even an aeroplane, and so that Anagnos was also making consistent, covert, pickups at the port city gave a decent indicator of where to head first.

"…and of course it's a reasonably easy jaunt by land around the Black Sea from Odessa to Turkey," completed the handler.

"Bar the occasional armed conflict."

"You know as well as I that can be as much a help as a hindrance."

Massaging at her upper arm, Monty paused, before bringing the conversation back on track. "Assuming Hermes is operating as a front for Padania interests, it's probably a fair chance that's where the arms shipments are being split. From memory at least some of Odessa's wharves are porto franco as well…"

"…so ship the Italian consignment straight from there to Genoa or some holding point…"

"Probably a holding point, Anagnos' runs to Genoa didn't follow a particularly consistent timeframe after Odessa."

"…and send the South Americans' gear on around the coast; with Hermes on the ground at the handoff to co-ordinate and make sure his tat is going to the correct people." At that, Jethro paused. "Of course they could just be checking on what's being shipped out of Odessa and are splitting the loads somewhere else."

His partner sighed. "Could be, but logistically I think it makes more sense to do the split in Odessa, rather than bringing yet another leg by another hauler into the chain, and from a security standpoint handing over straight onto a ship keeps things closer within Anagnos' and Hermes' own sphere of influence."

Now the handler seemed to pause as another thought crossed his mind. "We weren't looking at Hermes in Rome were we?"

Monty shook her head. "No, we were still sifting through known Padans before upping sticks rather than chasing where we didn't have a name. Genco must have exhausted that and figured he'd fare just as well taking a stab at a company, rather than an individual."

"And did he get an individual out of it?"

"One Itri Demirer, probably false, no photo on record... at least not under that name or in any identification to have passed under Italian eyes," she paused. "The good bit though, is that those flights all originate out of Istanbul."

"So you think our traveller may be..."

"...may be the same chap from Hermes was playing chess against Omurtak? I think it's a distinct possibility." she stopped, one hand moving again to massage her upper arm in thought. "What worries me is that Ribisi may have inadvertently tightened our own schedule."

There was another silence as Jethro slotted that into his mental picture of what lay ahead. Unfortunately, she was right. The problem with digging through things like company records was that it left a trail, to varying degrees, dependent on how skilled the operator was. Coupled with what could only be described as a growing counter-intelligence capability within the Padania organisation, the Roman Sniper operation having even occurred was evidence of that, there was every chance that someone would eventually notice. Of course similar risks were true for any form of data acquisition, particularly electronically, but at least checking names it was easier to dance around the edges and through third parties. Going direct for a suspected front company was much more likely to raise flags.

Hopefully at least some of Monty's and his own professional paranoia had rubbed off on the man.

"I think," he said finally, "that if we are going to move on Odessa, we want to do so sharpish. After Turkey and Colombia, particularly Colombia, only an idiot wouldn't realise someone was taking an interest, and if they know Anasetti's Makarov came via that same route…"

"…it would not take much to put two and two together and figure hard evidence was floating around out here somewhere," the girl paused. "What do you make of Anasetti anyway; do you think he knew what he was getting into?"

Another silence.

"I… don't know… difficult to answer without having met the man. That said, if he were clued in on the whole operation, he'd have to know he wasn't coming back..."

"…someone may have told him it would eventually time out."

"Would you honestly have believed that?"

The girl shook her head. "No… a sacrificial lamb then."

Jethro nodded, and reached over to give her knee a squeeze. "Gut feel says so; if I'd been running him I'd have sent him out fully believing he was going to strike a blow for the separatist movement, a proper one, one with direct impact on the government, and leave the rest out… The trick of course would be getting him to swallow that, which would at least explain leaving the gun's serial number on should someone intend to convince him he would live."

"True; and if you knew he was a sacrifice, you'd do well to keep him well isolated from any parties whom could be compromised, certainly no contact with the more important stake holders."

That was met with a cautious nod. "…and with a bit of luck, as a solider, he'd take the orders and not ask too many questions… you're going somewhere with this."

"Probably more wishful thinking than anything; but if Anasetti was a sacrificial lamb, kept isolated from the rest of the organisation, it may take longer for information on what arms had been lost to filter between cells and up the chain of command," Monty nodded at her computer. "Genco's attached a note saying that Hilshire's still finding very little, which would suggest the sacrificial lamb idea might well be true. If that's the case then I imagine his handlers would have been very careful in how they equipped him, and I doubt the person whom gave over that Makarov knew what it was or was aware of its origins. With a bit of luck it may take a while for that information to reach the desk of someone with a big enough picture to realise the implications of it falling into our hands."

"Or they know exactly what it was and are now in a mad panic to try and shut any potential leaks down."

Monty grimaced. "That too. Either way, you're right: we can't afford to dally here."

"At least with some harder evidence we've enough certainty to start pursuing this line a little more aggressively."

The cyborg shot him a thin smile. From here on, as the path forward became more defined, events would inevitably start moving quicker, and as that happened more chances needed to be taken to stay ahead of the game, opening up more opportunities for mistakes to be made and the whole thing just go up in smoke overnight. It was an arms race of sorts, not of guns but of information and reactions. "On that note, Genco tracked down the travel agency Hermes booked through, it might be worth giving them a call to find out exactly where we need to be looking to pick this chap up…"

"…but first it might also be worth figuring out when we need to be there."

"Odessa's a tourist town."

"Not this time of year it isn't, not enough to loiter", he glanced at his watch. "You said the Hermes bookings lined up against Omurtak's manifest?"

"The fragment we have of it yes."

"Then I think this might be a good moment to go give our Turkish mate another surprise visit."

Now Monty cocked an eyebrow. "As in you don't think he'll see this one coming?"

This time, Jethro's smile was that of the cat with its eye on the cream. "I sincerely hope not… or going, for that matter. Find us passage to Turkey."


After a six hundred mile trek from Tasucu's ferry port to Istanbul, the short hop from the fratello's hotel, again near fashionable Istiklal Avenue in Beyoğlu to the south-western district of Aviclar, should have seemed an easy run. However, despite trading the frequently snowy roads of Anatolia's high country for affluent suburban streets, Jethro proceeded with more caution than he had since crossing the Cypriot Green Line north to meet their mainland bound boat.

Dressed head to toe in charcoal, Monty sat silently in the passenger seat beside him as their Audi was carried with the tide of evening traffic down a main road. Suddenly she nodded toward something further along the tarmac.

"Well, that's new."

It took her handler a moment to focus in on what she had spotted: parked by the kerbside, standing high above the other cars stood a black Mercedes G-Wagen, its bulk part obscuring the entrance to a buzzing, brightly lit restaurant.

"Somehow I don't think that belongs to a customer. Maybe recent events have Omur feeling jumpy as well."

Slinking past the Turkish supplier's front business the Blackers did not spare the pseudo-military four wheel drive a second glance beyond noting the silver AMG badging on its rump. Not that any attempt to look inside would have penetrated past black privacy glass anyway, but further on Jethro checked his mirrors, getting a decent view through the unobscured windscreen.

"Looks like at least two blokes in there, can't make out anything of the back seat."

"Two's plenty," came the dry reply, "hopefully we won't need to deal with them anyway."

"Touch wood."

Staying with the traffic until the G-Wagen became obscured from view, the handler turned his own estate up a side street, cutting its return toward the restaurant through back laneways. Darkness had well and truly fallen across Istanbul now, any dregs of twilight obscured by heavy cloud and, finding a quiet alley observed only by drawn curtains and sheer walls the fratello rolled slowly down it.

Reaching across the cabin he gave his girl's leg a squeeze as tyres crunched to the briefest of halts and, offering her partner a tight smile in return, she slipped out into the night.

Chill air hit Monty as she left the Audi's warm interior and, not sparing a glance back she moved quickly away before leaping catlike to catch the bottom of a hanging fire escape. Swinging herself lithely onto its metal platform, she paused as the A4's diesel thrum signalled her handler continuing on, car headlights sending ousted shadows fleeing backwards past it to re-join the darkness.

Cushioning her footfalls to silence, the girl swept up metal-grated stairs, emerging onto rooftop gravel below dull skies. Beneath her, roadways, deep in their concrete canyons glowed eerily like some science-fiction network, the brightest marking major traffic corridors fading to black on quiet side streets, the occasional car's progress traced by flashes of light. Taking a moment to orient herself, the cyborg set off at a loping jog, clearing narrow alleys with ease then breaking into a dash to hurl herself across wider gaps, landing in a roll; never stopping, never losing momentum. The trick was to make the exercise appear human.

It was only a short trip to the back lot of Omurtak's restaurant. Not wanting to risk dropping into the illuminated space, Monty skirted the establishment's rear courtyard, landing instead on the rooftop of an adjoining building and settled into the darkened shadow of an air conditioning condenser to wait.

Peering over the crumbling concrete parapet, she took in what lay below. The courtyard was surrounded by buildings on two sides, both sheer brick faces carrying little more than plant and emergency exits. The third and fourth sides were demarcated by the restaurant's rear, and a high wall facing the far laneway, topped by barbed wire and secured with a simple hurricane-wire gate. That was seemingly left open during operating times which, if front window advertising were to be believed, encompassed all hours bar the smallest of the morning.

Internally, hard packed earth was illuminated by a single sodium lamp, its yellowish light picking out two metal skip-bins directly below her, and a collection of shipping containers, stacked up against the rear wall to her left. Across from them couple of upturned milk-crates sat by the restaurant's rear door and, of most interest, a collection of cars parked tightly together, tails in, between there and the gate.

One of those had to be Omurtak's.

Unfortunately, meeting face to face again had been out of the question as the Turkish supplier would have wanted to know how their fictional forgery caper was coming along, and the fratello were in no position to maintain the ruse. Instead, the plan was simple: from previous encounters, the man was known to carry his list of future shipments about his person, rather than trusting them to a safe. When he emerged from his front business to go home, Monty would… relieve him… of that burden; preferably without being seen. From there she'd rendezvous with Jethro and scarper. It was simple, simple was good, but that did not mean there was room for error; and laying on a rooftop for a couple of hours was not precisely what she would have considered thorough scoping. However, needs must and at least the area was somewhere she and Jethro had spent time before which, despite the risk of alienating an important contact, made this a better short-notice option than plan B: to wait on Hermes itself to make its bookings then chase.

What the cyborg could not see, and not for want of trying, were any security cameras; bar one pointed at the open gate. That made some sense: in Omurtak's business, there were a few things which were best avoided being committed to film, even by accident.

On the rooftop she shivered, following the action with a hidden grimace. Gone was her usual skivvy, replaced by a thermal undershirt and ribbed, heavy wool jumper, but the night chill was still managing to seep through. Wiggling slightly to try and find a less awkward position, Monty settled down for what promised to be a cold and uncomfortable wait.

Hours passed and the temperature dropped, but not enough to prevent at least some activity in the space below. As the hands on the girl's watch crept toward ten at night, the rear door opened, allowing two men in chef uniforms to slip out amidst a wash of voices and laughter from the restaurant floor beyond. Settling down on the milk crates to light up a cigarette each, they were joined five minutes later by two girls in all black, the heavier set of which their watcher recognised as that whom had greeted the Blackers on their first visit. She settled down on another crate, drawing it closer to one of the chefs, her voice wafting across to the watching cyborg. Soon however, her slimmer friend said something, rubbing at her upper arms and turned back inside to the warm.

Monty didn't blame her; wearing only uniform black t-shirt and slacks the stocky remaining waitress had to be freezing, yet somehow seemed unwilling to leave until the two kitchen workers made their way back inside fifteen minutes later.

Half their luck.

Seemingly no other staffers felt inclined to brave the outside cold, and when 1am came and went the watching girl started to wonder if Omurtak were really present tonight; or if freezing in the dark was going to be all for nought. The area was quiet now, occasional growl of a passing car on the main road mingled with the further off grind of a garbage truck the only sounds to disturb the silence. If her mark didn't put in an appearance shortly she may have to call it a night and come back tomorrow; not least because her clothing was ill suited for slinking around during daylight hours.

And her nose was cold.

Shuffling in the gravel a little and rolling her shoulders in the hope of working some of the icy stiffness out, her head came higher above the rooftop; just as the restaurant rear door creaked open. Dropping back down she watched as someone emerged backwards through the exit, a leather folio under one arm, evidently talking to another still inside.

Then the figure stepped back, and glimpsing its face Monty slipped silently to her feet. That was as far as she managed however when, about to move toward the edge of the roof she froze again as another person appeared, one of the chefs from before, Omurtak holding the door open as he emerged carrying two garbage bags. That wasn't good, she was too well known to the Turk for anyone to get her description, and certainly did not want to be involving any more people than absolutely necessary.

Helpless to do anything, the young agent was forced to watch as the two went their separate ways, the chef toward the bins and her mark to a small red coupe, wedge shaped and boxy in the style of the 1980s, parked between two other cars. Opening the driver's door he leant inside and to the cyborg's ears came a faint clonk of metal on metal, then the starter motor's whine and sharp bark of an engine firing. With the motor warming, its owner slipped around between the wall and car, propping the boot open to obscure him from view.

From the other side of the courtyard came a crash of metal on metal as the chef dropped the bin's hinged lid again and turned back for the door. It was only a short walk from there to the restaurant but, for Monty, it stretched to an eternity. She had no idea what Omurtak was doing, but she could make a fair wager she was running out of time.

Finally, with grinding slowness, the chef waved one final goodnight to his boss, before slipping inside and was gone.

Now was her chance.

Wasting no time, the SWA agent was up and running. She was going to need to change her approach a bit from planned and, instead of going straight for the cars where she would be in her target's peripheral vision, ran left. Hitting the rooftop edge the girl flew out into thin air, landing in a silent roll on the double stacked containers, which dropped her silently off their edge into the canyon between. Racing to their end she paused for the briefest of moments to check her target was still occupied and, using the metal corrugations as impromptu starting blocks, shot out across the open space to hunker down beside the car closest the restaurant door, putting it between her and his line of sight.

Just in time too as, creeping toward the vehicle's tail end, she heard Omurtak's boot slam closed.

She was in a bad position, completely exposed to the rear exit, but this was going to be all about timing and she wouldn't need to remain for long. From her quarry's direction sounded the click of a car door latch releasing and Monty exploded from her hiding place, hurling herself toward the restaurant wall. The seconds needed to make the turn on foot would be too many and she instead leapt up, legs compressing against solid brickwork before throwing her the opposite direction to come crashing down upon her target's head.

The added force of the cyborg's landing meant her first hit felled the Turk, bringing him to his knees before a quick follow-up jab, with a fleshy thud, put him out for good.

Leaning down quickly to check the man's pulse, Monty glanced at the car mirrors, both beside her and on the open drivers' door. No, from this angle he wouldn't have been able to see a thing, and with a bit of luck, anyone inspecting the injuries later would mistake her for someone a whole lot taller.

The heartbeat under her fingers was strong, even, and content Omurtak was still alive, the girl left him laying between parked vehicles. There was no point in checking the area again, she would be exposed from now on and if anyone saw her there was not a whole lot to be done about it. Reaching instead into the car's door to yank its boot release with a click, the young agent moved quickly to the back and lifted its hatch revealing...

...nothing. Not a thing. The space inside was impeccably clean, obviously cared for and devoid of the usual rubbish which was strewn through most vehicles of the great unwashed.

Well, there had to be something in here.

Reaching inside, Monty found purchase with slender fingers and lifted the carpeted floor panel.

Bollocks.

From where the spare wheel should have been, the round door of a custom-fitted safe stared back at her, its twin tumbler locks inset so as to lay flush with the steelwork. Like that it could not be very deep, perhaps just enough for a thin folio…

The girl glanced around again. Twin locks made life difficult, but certainly not impossible, and she was no safe cracking slouch. However here was neither the time nor place to try. Quickly coming to a decision she pulled out her phone.

"Skipper, it's me. Had a slight hang up in sealing the deal and could use your expertise to resolve it. Take your time; it's a pleasant enough night for a walk… I'll have someone look out for you at the gate."

Waiting briefly for a quick acknowledgement she hung up. Jethro was only a short distance away, but it would still take a few minutes to cover on foot, and she couldn't very well stand out here in the open.

May as well clear up a little.

Dropping the floor panel and shutting the boot as quietly as she could, the young agent scooted back around the still idling car to her fallen target. Closing the driver's door out of the way, she hoisted him onto her shoulder, staggering a little as the load unbalanced her: he was heavy, a good seventeen stone at least if she were any judge. One of the Gen 1s could have done this easily, and even a Gen 2 shouldn't have really had a trouble; she however had been optimised for endurance, and part of the trade-off was a further loss of strength compared to her sisters. Though she remained more powerful than any human, the limp, awkward body over her shoulder was going to slow things down.

Popping her head up to take one last look around, Monty was out and running across open ground as best she could into the darkness between containers.

Depositing Omurtak unceremoniously on the pavement she opened his coat and quickly frisked the unconscious form. No firearm, but she took his wallet and watch for good measure before buttoning him back up. Fortunately the man was rugged up warm; with a bit of luck he would awake with little more than a cold and screaming headache, maybe a mild case of hypothermia.

Creeping back to the end of the containers she stopped to wait and listen. The garbage truck was closer now, but above it she thought she could just hear the tap of...

At the end of the yard, Jethro scrambled up the high wall, out of the watching camera's sight and, picking his way over loosely coiled barbed wire on the stone construction's top, dropped into the yard. Seeing him, a wave of relief swept over Monty and she stood to motion him toward the car.

Jogging over he met her at its bonnet. "A Biturbo? Pull the other one..."

"Omurtak came out with a friend. There's a safe in the boot and his folio is locked inside. The kitchen staff use out here as a break area…"

"...and if he was about to leave, Omur's mooks are probably starting to wonder where he's disappeared off to," finished Jethro.

Without a further word, the handler headed for the driver's door, Monty dropping into the passenger seat as he got settled behind the wheel.

"Guess we'd best find somewhere a bit quieter to finish up."

Pumping the clutch a few times to get a feel for it, the ex-SIS man found first and edged his Maserati coupe forward, swinging it around toward the entrance. Nosing out the gate, he looked right…

...and directly into the eyes of a suited figure rounding the corner from the main street.

There was only one sort of person that could be at this hour and, for the briefest moment the man paused, wrapping his head around what his eyes were seeing. In that instant, Jethro checked left just as the garbage truck's amber flashing light illuminated the alley way, blocking off his best exit.

Bollocks.

Not even bothering to try for his gun, the guard was gone, running back toward his companions in the waiting G-Wagen. Left no other option, Jethro wrenched his wheel right, slamming the throttle pedal into the carpet as he did so. The Maserati surged out into the alley, then the turbos spooled up and the Blackers exited out onto the main street sideways, accelerating away under a banshee turbine wail and raucous yowl of busy Italian metal. Half a second later, from behind them came an angered roar as the AMG Mercedes leapt off in pursuit.

Germany's AMG tuning house was not renowned for the subtlety of its products, and even from within their wrung out coupe its challenge reached the fratello's ears loud and clear. Glancing in his mirrors, Jethro caught sight of the four wheel drive's bluff front gaining rapidly. There was no way he was going to be able to outrun it on a straightway, and his stolen Maserati was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a good car. However engine aside, the G-Wagen was still essentially the same truck chassis, military vehicle it had first rolled off the production line as over thirty years ago, and that had to count for something.

Back alleys it was then.

Standing on the brakes the handler felt his wheels lock and backed off just enough to regain traction, swinging across the tarmac to get pointed at the closest opening and blasting away up the narrow gap between residents' cars. Seconds later their pursuers followed, running wide to bounce off the row of vehicles parked against a wall, and piercing the air with wailing alarms.

"They'll have the rozzers on us if they keep that up."

Taking advantage of the short straightway, Monty reached around to the small of her back to draw her PPK. Not taking his hands from the wheel, Jethro spared the half second he needed to glance at her.

"Don't go wasting that."

"Didn't intend..."

She was interrupted by the snap and crack of passing rounds, kicking grout and brick off blurred walls and shattering the mirror of a parked car in sparkling shards.

Twisting in her seat, the girl looked back to see one of their pursuers hanging out his window, gun in hand. "You were saying?"

Not answering, her handler threw their car down another street and out of the line of fire. He couldn't keep this up for long, and even here the straights ran far enough for the AMG to remain in shouting distance. What he needed was a plan, a way to change the game; and urban maze was not offering him the means by which to do it.

More gunfire and behind him glass shattered as one of the pursuers' slugs crashed through the rear window to lodge itself in the dash, letting in the roar of rushing air. Twisting around, his partner loosed a shot in return where it splashed harmlessly against the Merc's windscreen.

Bulletproof.

"You won't be doing any good with that!"

Monty turned a scowl on her handler.

"…So put it away and find a route to the port!"

Another volley whizzed past the Maserati and Jethro hauled the wheel around to send it skidding into the next street. Feeling the wheels hook up again, his partner returned her gun to its holster, before extracting her iPhone to boot Google Maps.

"And keep us off the straight ways!"

Monty glanced at her screen. "I'll try, but we'll have to use the highway at some point! Right up here and north!"

Haring through the next bend, the spy glanced in his mirrors again. That last sharp turn had given him another couple of car lengths on their pursuers, and if the highway really were unavoidable then he would want to claw all the lead he could in amongst the houses.

"Three hundred meters, then hard left into a hard right and left through the circle!"

Joining the two next turns into one continuous curve, Jethro buried the accelerator again, firing his car up toward a statue adorned roundabout. The roads here were wider, buildings lower, away from Aviclar's dense southern construction, and behind the fleeing fratello the Mercedes' driver took full advantage, sending his big vehicle thundering out of the same turns and across the road's full width, all four tyres squealing in protest.

"After the roundabout, there's a double-apex right then hard left!"

Dodging around a slower moving lorry the handler dropped a gear and suddenly felt the steering go light as the tyres' note cut from humming asphalt to rough rumble of flagstones, traction evaporating on their slick surface.

Like this he wasn't going to...

Dodging back toward his previous lane Jethro lifted and felt the back swing round to send the car sliding sideways down the road, washing off speed, then poured on the power as the blast of horns and glare of high-beams filled the air. Finding the car which had just overtaken him suddenly broadside on, the unfortunate truck driver behind stood on the brakes with a squeal of tyres as all 18 wheels locked and his following trailer started to slew slowly, inexorably sideways, overtaking the cab as its bulk closed the road behind. The handler glanced around as forty tons of out of control metal bore down on them, filling his window while, out his girl's side, it was mirrored in the jagged shapes of modernist art, plonked squarely in the road's centre.

Come on, hook up.

Finally the tyres bit, and the Biturbo scrabbled forward again, through the roundabout the wrong direction, inside tyres clipping the kerb to pitch it briefly onto two wheels and skidded through to be bounced back on course by the opposite gutter. Under control again, the agent could take half a second to check back, just in time to see the pursuing AMG come squirting out from between jack-knifing trailer and stone wall, its driver forced to stand on the brakes as well to shuffle clumsily around the outside of the roundabout, before once again deploying every single horsepower available to rocket off after his quarry.

The lead was good however, and dodging through backstreets Jethro was able to maintain it until, shooting through a T-intersection, the road opened out again with the east-west highway onramp looming ahead.

"West to the interchange then south to the port!"

The handler drove his foot all the way to the floor. Ten seconds later, the Mercedes appeared onto the same tarmac, its driver following suit to close the gap.

In this race of straight line speed, and with over double the power the Maserati left the factory with, everything went the G-Wagen's way. By the time they hit the onramp their pursuer was barely a car length behind the fleeing fratello, and as wide highway asphalt opened out the German 4x4 was all over its Italian opponent.

Keeping the throttle pinned Jethro did his best, roaring after the edge of flashing high beams, horn blaring to try and clear a path. He'd have a chance to open the gap again at the interchange, but until then...

Monty's window shattered as gunfire scythed through it and her handler swerved over to put another car briefly between her and their attackers. The respite wasn't long however and as they cleared the impromptu barrier's bonnet his whole car lurched sideways as the much larger Mercedes crashed into it, shunting the Blackers toward blurred barriers.

With no other options Jethro did the only thing he could, swerving toward the highway edge to release the enemy's hold on his vehicle and stepped on the brakes, sending the Maserati shooting out from between steel and concrete like a bar of soap under an unfortunate foot. All resistance to its sideways charge suddenly removed, the AMG thudded against the wall, grinding along in a shower of sparks and allowing the fratello to scoot around its outside, back to the exit lane and up the ramp. The handler only just had time to register an advisory speed sign flash past, and realise he was moving far too quickly before the interchange's sweeping curve had them, and there was nothing for it but to keep his foot in and pray.

It almost worked.

Engine screaming the Biturbo bounced against the outside barrier, tearing the driver's mirror off and launching it out across southbound motorway traffic, headed for Istanbul's major port.

The port itself of course never slept and the crush of vehicles was heavier here, massive lorries loaded down with steel containers rumbling along in each other's wake, and Jethro sent his car dodging between them as his pursuers flew off the onramp to disappear between lumbering behemoths.

In the melee neither handler nor cyborg could make out their opponents' engine note above thundering diesels and, sweeping past another semi trailer, suddenly found themselves directly alongside Omurtak's minions.

Leaving his girl to navigate, Jethro drew his own pistol, reaching across her to loose two shots through the G-Wagen's open window before its occupants had the chance to do the same. He didn't know if he hit anything, but the big Mercedes swerved away behind another truck.

"Next exit!"

The former rally driver gave a curt nod to acknowledge his partner's advice as in front, the tail end of another car blocked their way. Urging his vehicle on, he swerved through the narrow gap between its rear and the prow of the prime mover one lane over, earning another ear shattering holler from its horn.

Then the Mercedes was there, trailing dust from the shoulder and slamming up against Monty's door, forcing the Blackers back across the front of the motorist they had just gone around. Glancing up the road however, this time Jethro pushed back, holding the other car on its own side of the line as the speeding vehicles roared together down the two lane highway.

He didn't have the weight to resist indefinitely, but he didn't need forever, just until the road ran out to butt up against another looming container transporter, forcing the AMG to brake hard. Released again, the Maserati shot ahead down the side of the truck as more fire peppered it from behind.

"Off, now!"

Heeding his girl's warning, Jethro reached the other end of the semi-rig and swung across it, down the off ramp, his opponent forced loose more ground braking again to go around the back of the lorry.

"Follow this for half a click then hard left to right into a long right sweeper!"

Ducking again into blessed backstreets, the Blackers jinxed their way south through the urban mess, pursuers always close behind, until apartment blocks and shops started to thin, giving way to bare dirt and undeveloped lots. Directly ahead, down another stretch of straight road however, shone the glowing lights of the Port of Istanbul.

"Straight ahead for seven hundred then hard right onto the proper side of the road!"

This was it, final stretch: no twists, no turns, no traffic and no-more cards to play until he got there.

The thought wasn't lost on their pursuers either whom, now on a straight again rapidly closed the gap, flashing high beams right up against the Maserati's rear bumper. What he couldn't afford to let them do was get in front, and Jethro jinxed left and right, trying to keep ahead whilst more shots pummelled the boot lid.

It couldn't last.

His opponents opened fire again, forcing the handler to swerve away off his line. The gap was only open a second, but that was all Omurtak's thugs required. Suddenly the AMG was along side, the muzzle of a SIG pistol pointed out the rear passenger window in the hand of a burly Turk.

However it was close to the end now, close enough to no longer need a map and this time Monty was ready, PPK in hand, to send another two rounds in return, catching the man in a shoulder and sending him flailing back across the rear seat. Instinctively the driver swerved away, but only briefly before hurtling back across the asphalt to smash into the Blackers' Biturbo, sending it bouncing sideways. Squashed between traffic islands, all Jethro could do was counter steer, pushing back as the G-Wagen's armoured flank filled their windows, denying any shot at its occupants.

More gunfire sounded from above with the sickly smack of sheet metal puncturing and tears opened up in the roof lining above the fratello. The turn along the port's northern boundary was visible now, if they could just...

The AMG braked, desperately trying to haul its almost three ton, live axle bulk back to speeds controllable in a corner and the Maserati shot ahead, rounding the turn and running wide past the island into the oncoming lane.

"Four hundred then left through the gate onto dirt!"

Fortunately the roads here were all but deserted, and no headlights appeared ahead to shine bright accusation, allowing Jethro to deploy every single remaining horsepower on hand to eke out as much of a lead as possible before swinging hard left onto unsealed roads.

The port's rear entrance was intended for little more than construction traffic: open hurricane wire gates with a flimsy temporary security hut beside a wooden boom arm... neither of which stood a chance. The solitary guard inside didn't know what was coming until Jethro's Biturbo smashed through the arm, sending wood splinters flying... which would have been fine had the Merc's driver been ready for the surface transition. Unfortunately, he wasn't, and coming off asphalt the big 4x4 skidded, slid wide and straight through the flimsy structure: demolishing it together with the poor soul inside as it thundered into the port complex.

The G-Wagen's four wheel drive should have proven a boon on the gravel surface, but traction control would never let it fully perform and, despite a lack of formal training, Jethro had cut his car-control teeth on the forestry trails of Great Britain. Spearing along at the head of a massive dust cloud, the handler was able to hold the gap open as they raced south toward wharves and their monolithic piles of containers.

"Straight ahead and it will loop left toward the main laydown!"

"Too close to operations!"

"You're telling me!"

The handler glanced out his window, across open ground and past fuel-oil tanks to where more of the strong steel boxes were stacked thickly in the port's back lots.

"Hang onto something! We'll take a shortcut!"

Seeing what was happening, Monty managed to snatch the passenger grab handle just in time as her partner threw their car into a long slide, arcing gracefully off the road and onto undeveloped ground between themselves and the far hardstand.

Undeveloped was the key word and there was a sickening crunch as the Maserati's air dam shattered itself against the dirt, before the car was leaping skyward again to land awkwardly with another thud. With the impact Monty's handhold parted company with the roof, forcing her to clutch at a doorsill.

"It's not the Allroad you realise!"

Jethro however was busy keeping his sports coupe pointed the correct direction across an environment it had never been intended to encounter. This though was exactly what the G-Wagen had been originally designed for and it thundered off in pursuit, all four wheels putting power down as long-travel suspension soaked up the punishment. Before long it was again just yards from the Blackers as their Biturbo shot between fuel-farm tanks and slid sideways up onto a low road embankment, lifting off its suspension before tyres found tarmac again and its driver wrestled it back under some semblance of control.

The AMG had no hope of pulling the same manoeuvre and speared straight on, across the alignment, all four wheels in the air and keeping enough altitude to bounce across the drainage ditch beyond. With a squeal of tyres it disappeared amongst darkened rows of containers as the driver desperately tried to arrest its flight.

A few hundred metres further north, passing by the rear wall of a neglected looking warehouse on the laydown boundary, Jethro swung over a drainage culvert and into the same area, killing the Maserati's lights as it slunk itself into the steel maze.

"We can't let them live you realise. Not if they'll go scurrying back to Omurtak with a report."

The handler glanced toward where his partner had spoken. "I know, but I have an idea around that…"

In the low light, he could just make out the cocked eyebrow.

"…something along the lines of 'return to sender, address unknown'. Let me find somewhere to park up for two minutes and I'll give you the rest; and hope they don't leave without us."


Sitting in the deep canyon gloom of steel containers, whether by echo or the mind, the night's noises came clear and amplified, each one filled with meaning. From far to the south floated sounds of dock work underway, but closer, much, much closer, the rumble of a V8 prowling between rows; hunting for those whom had humiliated it so recently, angry and frustrated by its wounded but still elusive prey.

Fortunately for once the overpowered 4x4's engine was working against it, masking the Maserati's own quietly idling six.

In her seat, Monty pointed toward the eastern fenceline. "If we're going to open a container, I'd suggest one on the end of a row, or with a decent run to it…"

Her partner nodded. "That was the thinking."

"…you just need to keep those chaps busy for a bit."

"Four minutes do you?"

"I get the impression it's going to have to."

Reaching over, the handler gave his girl's leg a squeeze and quirked a small half-smile. "Four minutes it is."

Returning the gesture, Monty lifted his hand away, before starting her watch's chronograph. As the big, red chrono-seconds hand swept off from its twelve o'clock resting place, for the second time that evening she slipped away into the night.

Hearing revs rise behind her, the girl waited in shadow as her partner edged their battered vehicle out of its hiding space to idle off down the rows. In the container stacks' echoing depths it was difficult to judge position by sound, and to be sure of remaining unseen she would need to wait until it was certain Jethro could draw their pursuers away.

She just wished he would hurry up about it. Getting a container open was likely going to mean picking more than one lock and, though doable, four minutes did not leave great margin for error.

A minute passed.

Three minutes.

Suddenly, two shots rang out then a flare of revs, followed by a louder, more guttural roar.

Taking her cue, Monty sprinted for the laydown's eastern edge, lock picks already in hand.

Two rows south, Jethro dropped his SIG on the passenger seat as the big, black Mercedes pivoted toward him like an enraged tyrannosaur.

Well, that got their attention, time for step two: run.

Drilling the throttle, the handler swung his car around in a cloud of tyre smoke, giving his pursuers just enough time to emerge from the smog before scarpering down another row of containers west. Monty was in the northeast, and to pull this off he needed her handiwork to come as of much of a surprise as possible.

That complicated matters by not leaving a lot of space to work with, maybe another two hundred yards south without risk of being spotted from the docks and the same north before the hardstand ran out. Sound of course for the remainder of the port's denizens he could do nothing about.

The steel wall beside him disappeared, giving way to the looming warehouse blocking his path.

And of course the pad was only so far across as well.

Yanking on the handbrake, Jethro spun the Maserati in its own length, pointing it back the direction it had come and working the throttle to keep the turbos on song. Another shot smacked into the seat his partner had occupied until bare moments previous and he dumped the clutch, aiming the car's battered prow for the next row of containers south as the AMG flew out of their previous run, heeling like a gale blown square rigger as its driver fought to follow.

He couldn't let them fall too far behind, couldn't give them time to think.

More rounds screamed past, sparking off previously red bodywork, as the next line of metal boxes ran out. To his right the laydown opened out, the containers further apart and arranged perpendicular to those he had been already amongst. Throwing his car again into a long slide the handler headed toward them… while the tight confines had been working to the more wieldy Maserati's advantage, keeping his attackers close needed to take higher priority.

Glancing in his mirror, Jethro saw his pursuers emerge, sliding sideways out to the hardstand extremity and, beyond them, a straight run down the fence line to where he had left Monty.

Tyres scrabbling for traction on the dusty concrete, the AMG started to close again, thunderous roar of its engine filling the night.

It was going to be a long four minutes.


The third padlock sprung open in Monty's grasp and she dropped it beside its brethren. Of course the container she needed open could not have been one with a nice, single, protective lock box. Oh no, Murphy had seen to that: it had to be one of the old designs, with a separate lock for each bar. They weren't exactly sophisticated bits of equipment, but with less than a minute for each, she was pushing. Unfortunately they couldn't afford more time, else their quarry may start to wonder why it was being lead around in circles.

Inserting a flat piece of steel into the last lock, she twisted slightly then inserted her second, hooked tool, feeling for the tumbler pins and pressing back against gritty resistance. Ocean air and spray had not done the mechanisms any favours, and corrosion was making it just that more difficult to find their shear point.

The container she worked at sat proud of the next row down, a bare few meters from the western boundary fence and from behind the sound of more gunshots reached her ears through the scream of wrung out engines, starting to grow louder.

In her hand she felt the infinitesimal click of the last pin dislocating against the torque of her wrist and she twisted harder, feeling the salt riddled tumbler grind sideways. Wasting no time the girl yanked its housing away and glanced at her watch.

Twenty seconds.

Pushing up the two outside door locking bars she swung the metal panel open as far as it would go. As she turned to the second door, headlights appeared to the south, followed a moment later by another, higher set pair backed by V8 thunder, barrelling towards her. Jethro cut to the outside to block their path, but Omurtak's driver dodged inside, using the four wheel drive's mass to shunt his opponent toward the fence.

The next locking bar came free in Monty's hands and she grabbed at the final one and lifted…

…nothing, jammed.

With no time left, the cyborg stood back and gave it a hefty kick, grunting as her toes connected with steel from behind thin canvas shoes. With a crack of breaking rust however the bar jumped free and she wrenched the door open, hurling herself out the way in the same movement.

Too late the Mercedes driver realised what was happening as Jethro pushed back harder, funnelling him toward the forty foot container's gaping maw before swerving clear.

Swerving clear, but not clear enough, and the Maserati's sliding rear connected with the container's solid steel edge, sending it spinning away past the row's end and down the fence line as, from inside the open container came the sound of shattering glass and crash of steel meeting steel at speeds it could not expect to survive. The box however was packed in amongst its compatriots and the blow barely shifted the dust off them, sending glowing motes floating down from a darkened sky.

Fighting down the overpowering urge to immediately run to her partner, Monty picked herself up, brushing some dust off and drew her gun. Keeping the firearm up she swept off its safety and cautiously entered the container; there were other threats to her handler's safety which needed dealing with first.

It was dark inside and reeked of petrol, but enough glow from the port's tall lighting towers entered for her to make out the crumpled form of Omurtak's Mercedes squashed up against the far end. Carefully she safed the PPK again and slipped it back in its holster: one shot in this atmosphere wouldn't just kill any survivors, but likely her as well.

Edging up to the mangled wreck, the girl peered inside. The front half of the car was almost unrecognisable, bonnet crumbled over a bent chassis and panels split apart at the welds. Reaching through what had been a window however she pushed a slowly deflating airbag aside and located one of the bodies, placing her fingers against its neck.

No pulse.

Quickly and methodically she worked through the three other limp forms, all departed from the mortal world; not particularly unexpected, but it always paid to make sure. Exiting the container again, she sealed its doors, just as her handler's stolen Maserati limped slowly back around the corner and rolled to a halt with a grinding hum.

Leaving what she was doing, the girl turned to his window, features pulled into a careful mask, one eyebrow raised. "You didn't break anything did you?"

"Not on me, only the car: rear bodywork's been pushed right onto the tyre, and I've likely bent the suspension quite badly," he gave her a wry smile, "somehow I doubt it's going much farther. You?"

Monty shook her head in reply, "We should make scarce though, lest your little escapade has piqued anyone's interest."

"Thoughts?"

The girl looked around, then gestured to the warehouse they had passed on the way in. "That doesn't look particularly inhabited."

"Go check it out, I daren't leave this thing alone lest it stops running all together."

Monty didn't waste time, leaving her partner behind and instead scampered to the far western end of their manmade canyon. Pausing in the darkness, she surveyed the building before which Jethro had made his handbrake turn earlier to avoid crashing through.

On closer inspection, while the building itself was one monolithic block, differing company names were set above tall, widely spaced roller doors, suggesting it to be broken up internally to separate partitions: cheap space suited to small operators. Accordingly, the frontages toward the port's rear appeared like they had not seen proper maintenance in years, the end one sporting a faded "for lease" sign in its window.

So, some were indeed empty… she probably had the GFC to thank for that.

Above the vehicle entrance of each a bulky, aged CCTV camera was positioned, angled slightly to cover both roller shutter and the smaller personnel entrance with its adjoining office window, leaving regular blind spots against the bare, tilt-up panels.

The end section was probably her best bet and, checking the area was still uninhabited, the girl sprinted across the intervening space to put herself in one unobserved gap between it and its neighbour. She couldn't get far over enough to peep in the second company's window without being observed, but there were fresh tyre tracks leading under its roller door and a faint whiff of stale smoke from cigarette butts discarded under the office window. Chances were it was occupied and, looking up further, she could just catch the red sparkle of an LED on the coldly observing camera above.

Turning the opposite direction she failed to find the same glow on the abandoned warehouse's own electronic watcher. Of course it could always just be malfunctioning, but from here she did not have a way to get up level, or even check it if she could.

Giving a mental grimace, she pulled down her cap a little further and, careful to keep her face obscured from the camera's sight, trotted over to the end partition's door to set about it with her lock picks.

It did not take long to beat the cheap setup and, checking for any potential alarm triggers first, the young agent slipped inside. Closing the door again Monty found herself in a small entry way, bare reception desk to her right under the "For Lease" sign, and two deserted, glass fronted offices further on leading to another door, presumably out into the storage area floor. Checking it also for alarms, she moved through to the warehouse proper.

It was dark in here, faint exit and emergency lighting doing little to penetrate the empty blackness. Another sweep of the space revealed no more cameras, but also a rear door and, probably thanks to fire regulations, a connection to the adjoining partition. Looking further up she could see that the internal walls did not in fact reach all the way to the roof, a couple of feet between concrete tops and metal joists filled instead with light reo mesh preventing one from moving between cells.

Following the steel around to the warehouse front, her eye found where camera cables penetrated the building facade, tracing their ribbed conduit until it terminated just above head height, power plug hanging limply beside its socket.

Well, that answered that question.

Aside from a heavy duty lead for the door's electric motor, the wall appeared otherwise bare of cables and Monty moved quickly to its manual lift, shifting a heavy fire extinguisher from her path. Releasing the steel roller's ground-level locks, the cyborg hauled down on the chain, raising the metal inch-by-inch clear of the ground.

Jethro must have been watching for, as the door reached head height his wounded Maserati limped under its edge, swinging around 180 degrees to face back out, and his partner quickly dropped the shutter behind. Killing its engine to prevent asphyxiating himself and his girl, the former SIS man yanked the boot release and stepped out.

"How does it look?"

Monty joined him at the car's rear whilst he pried open bent metal. "This one's definitely abandoned, next door possibly not. I was going to check it next to see if there was a computer terminal."

Her handler nodded. "With a bit of luck by the time you're in, I'll be able to give you something to work with."

Leaving him to set about Omurtak's safe, the cyborg moved quickly to the connection between warehouse partitions. This time the access was alarmed and, with the lock picked, she produced a small knife, sliding it into the crack between panel and frame to hold the plastic trigger tongue fast and opened the door. Using her other thumb to restrain the alarm sensor she removed the knife, turning its blade around to wedge it in the mechanism, jamming the circuit closed. Of course she would have to leave the knife there, but right now she didn't have much choice.

A far cry from the abandoned area's ringing emptiness, this partition was stacked high with pallet racking running along its entire length, a high-reach forklift parked against the back wall. Not wasting time to check what was stored there, Monty made for the office. Whatever the company dealt with it could not have been exceptionally high value as the door from work floor to reception lacked an alarm, or even a fastened lock. Inside she ducked to the first glassed-in work desk, finding a computer quietly humming to itself on the cheap MDF bench with a dirty white iPhone charger and cable snaking around it from a wall power point.

Sometimes it really was worth fitting in with the great unwashed.

Snapping a shot of how everything was arranged, a twitch of the mouse brought the lock screen blinking to life across the monitor. Extracting her phone from a pocket the girl opened up its hacking suite, before removing the Apple cable from its wall transformer, instead connecting it between the computer and her own mobile and setting the device to work.

The hacking software did not require long, barely time to take in the room which she now occupied: a couple of motivational posters, stack of papers, shelf of folders and a neatly arranged line of what appeared to be some form of Japanese robots; all horns and mono-eyes.

The standard windows desktop appeared.

Leaving her phone plugged in Monty quickly found a desktop shortcut to the port's database, sorting through filters to get a window of container movements for a fortnight forward and back, then glanced at her watch. Its little hand was just leaving the 2am marker… barely an hour had passed since she knocked Omurtak unconscious.

Abandoning the computer momentarily, she moved back to the fireproof divider door, checking her knife remained in place, and on to where her handler worked. At least at 2am it was unlikely anyone would be reporting for duty here; admittedly not the same as absolute certainty, but her phone had to remain connected to hold that terminal open and avoid running another hack.

Pulling up silently beside her partner, she watched as he carefully turned the car-safe's second dial until it issued a tiny, barely audible click. To someone without her own sensitive hearing it probably would have been imperceptible; Jethro was operating entirely on feel.

Sensing his girl's presence, the man glanced toward her and, offering a quick half smile in greeting, pulled down on the safe's release lever with a clunk of steel bolts withdrawing. Lifting the safe lid, he reached inside to extract Omurtak's leather folio and handed it over. Undoing the clasps, Monty opened it to eye the thin sheaf of paper retained along the spine, scanning its columns.

"Dates look about right; this is it."

"Nice to know we didn't run for nothing." Now the handler looked at his watch, and grimaced. "If we want to make the hotel by sun-up though, we'd best get a rattle on."

The girl pinched at her jumper. "This isn't exactly morning wear is it?"

"Not unless you're going to a bohemian bar, no."

Shutting the boot, Jethro headed for the Maserati's driver's door, whilst his partner retrieved the dry chemical extinguisher still positioned near the truck entrance and threw it in the passenger seat, then stood by the lift chain.

Taking his seat her handler checked the car was in neutral, gave the throttle a few pumps, depressed the clutch and twisted the key, filling the warehouse with the whine of a starter motor…

Twisting the key back, he tried again.

Nothing.

Standing by the door as it whined for a third time, Monty glanced at her watch, and as silence once more overtook the space she trotted back the car and leant in through her partner's window.

"What's wrong?"

"Murphy's bloody law, that's what's wrong. It's not even attempting to fire."

"Try it again."

Leaning forward a fourth time, her handler twisted the key. This time the whine was weaker, but then the engine coughed once, twice, a third time… before with an almighty and distinctly terminal bang it stopped all together.

Silence.

Still by the window, Monty held her partner's eye. "Well, we can't leave it here."

"I think you may have to push."

"I think I might."

"Pull the bodywork off that tyre first, I'll get the door."

Stepping away to allow her handler passage, she raced around the car's back to where bent rear suspension and crumpled bodywork had brought steel and rubber together. Already the tread was worn down to the canvas, and she didn't much feel like trying to move the thing with a flat. Getting a grip on distorted metal with gloved hands, the cyborg heaved, bracing against the wheel itself, sharp edges biting through soft leather to her fingers. She only needed half an inch and slowly, painfully the ruined coachwork came clear as, behind her the door rattled slightly open.

Letting her partner take the driver's position again, shooting a nod to say the coast was clear, Monty braced against the car's boot and pushed, hard. At first the Biturbo resisted, then started to move, slowly, gathering speed with each step until finally she was jogging after it across concrete and up the container row. Taking it close to the opposite wall, Jethro swung the car in as they reached the unit holding Omurtak's smashed Mercedes, resting its prow a few feet from the doors and leapt out to swing open one side. Breathing heavily, his girl joined him to get the other panel open, before extracting the extinguisher from the passenger seat and helping him to roll the broken Maserati inside.

The handler again looked at his watch; they'd lost time in that, too much time, and it was going to be a substantial hike back to get the Audi.

"I might have to leave you to clean up."

Monty cocked an eyebrow. "Say again?"

The answer was phrased as a question, "How long do you think it will take to clean up here?"

Looking around, the girl surveyed what remained to be done. "Probably a good five or ten minutes to do it properly, another twenty inside at least once I've time to sort Omur's manifest against the port database…"

She stopped, realising what her partner was getting at. "We're not making it back to the car in time are we?"

Jethro shook his head. "Together, not with any certainty, and it'll be far easier to get out of here individually anyway. I think I'd be best leaving now and try to pick you up somewhere outside."

The cyborg looked unhappy, head fighting heart as every conditioned cell screamed not to leave her handler. She pushed those feelings wilfully out of the way; logic and common sense said this would be safest for both of them.

"Get going…" she forced a tight smile, "…but you had better not leave me standing at the altar."

Reaching out on instinct, Jethro moved to give her a quick hug, but his girl had already disappeared into the container again, fire extinguisher in hand. Lowering his arm again, the spy assessed his options: he had four rounds left in his pistol, not that he would be particularly wanting to use it on the way out. From where he stood he could see high, barbed wire topped, hurricane fencing stretching north and the back entrance road had passed more on the port's landward extremity… and unlike his partner he lacked the cybernetic prowess to deal with that neatly.

From what Monty had said on the way in however, the main vehicle access route had to be somewhere to the south and, even at this time of night, the brightly lit wharf gantry cranes still plied back and forward.

Perhaps he could hitch a lift.

Decision made, he started to jog south.

The steady progress didn't last long, and soon degenerated to a series of stops and quick sprints as the spy moved from shadow to shadow, trusting his charcoal suit to help keep him concealed. Cyborg or no, Jethro Blacker was still a fully active field agent; expected to run and jump along in the wake of his charge. To that end, the SWA had decided it would be fitting to hold him to the same standards as his previous legal employer: the British Secret Intelligence Service, more commonly known thanks to a certain double-0 agent as MI6. That meant a gruelling series of physical tests every six months... or as close to as his and his partner's sporadic residency on campus allowed. Considering that other handlers had been allowed to hobble around with a cane, part of him felt that quite unfair.

It did serve its purpose however, and the former British agent arrived at the edge of the port's haul road in good time. The road itself was thankfully well back from the wharves proper and, crouched on its darkened edge between two containers, he watched as trucks rolled slowly back and forward along the tarmac, braking almost to a halt at the roundabout before him. Not all were suitable to his needs however and so he waited, until finally a bluff-fronted Mack rumbled toward the cranes, its backbone-trailer quite empty.

Now he just needed it to return.

If it was going to, he hoped it would do so soon. With the intent of remaining harder to see in shadow, the spy had left his warm camel driving coat in the Audi, and the cold was biting through his fine wool suit as if it was not even there. Fortunately Istanbul's port was a busy one, with a fast turnaround and shortly the Mack growled back. As it thundered down its gearbox to approach the roundabout, Jethro seized his chance and, sprinting across the short space from the containers to it, leapt up between its load and cab, squeezing in behind the latter's aerodynamic fairing.

There wasn't much to hold onto back here, and the handler did his best as the truckie juddered forward, climbing slowly through ratios for the short run to the main gate. As it slowed again, the hidden spy held his breath and pressed back further into cover.

Between the sound of the idling engine and exhaust rushing up the massive stainless steel tower by his ear, any human chatter between driver and gate guard was lost. Finally however the massive truck started to roll forward again. Through his narrow window on the world between bodywork and steel container, Jethro watched as security hut, then window and, after what seemed an eternity, the gate crawled past.

Clear of obstacles the truck started to gather more speed, accelerating up onto the access road and, concealed in darkness, the Englishman allowed himself a small sigh of relief; he was out.

Now to find his car, and pick up a girl.


Stepping into the petrol-smelling container, Monty put down her heavy fire extinguisher and started to search the Maserati as Jethro's footsteps receded into the night. Picking up casings from her and her handlers' guns as she did so, she counted off in her head how many shots had been fired.

Seven.

Spent brass in hand, she crushed each with the base of the extinguisher until it was bent beyond all recognition. It was a calculated move, its intent obvious to any half competent investigator. However, if she could not enjoy the anonymity of wafting ghost-like in and out of country, then she intended to make herself as nigh on impossible to follow as she could, and end the trail right here.

Scattering the bent metal through both car wrecks she wiped the Maserati for prints, before hefting the fire extinguisher and pulling is pin. A long burst filled Omurtak's Mercedes with white powder, before another dealt with the ruined Biturbo, followed by more short, directed blasts over the steering wheel and driver's position, door handles and sills, boot interior, safe and any other point of potential contact. Stepping out of the container, the girl then emptied the rest of her extinguisher's contents over the two vehicles and closed the steel doors, leaving the spent cylinder entombed with them. Give it an hour or so, and the mildly caustic fire retardant would wipe away any fingerprints she had missed.

From the north the sound of sirens wafted to the girl's sensitive ears; hopefully Jethro was far away from that… hopefully they weren't coming for her.

Either way, the demolished guard hut could not have gone unnoticed for long, even if the man there had failed to get off a warning before the speeding Mercedes bulldozed it, so it was probably a reasonable wager to whomsoever that siren belonged was headed for the port. From there it would not take much to figure out where the culprits had disappeared to.

No time to waste then.

Locking up Monty wiped the outside of the container as well and, taking a moment to read something on its side, returned at a silent dash to the warehouse, Omurtak's folio in hand. Shutting the roller door behind herself, she was quickly back at the office computer, her iPhone having held it logged in.

Opening the folio beside her, the girl started checking its information against that she had filtered on screen from the port's, mercifully presented in international-standard English, database. Fortunately, probably in the interests of his own sanity, the Turkish supplier only encrypted contents and receivers for his wares. Dates, weights and drop points however remained in clear and it did not take long for her to isolate out which shipments would be passing across Istanbul's busy wharves.

There were only a few and, information in hand, she started the laborious task of sifting through the mainframe data. It was slow work, not something to be done on a time limit, but she only needed one match. Picking the first consignment from Omurtak's list, the girl filtered by shipment weight and its date.

Nothing.

Bollocks... of course… Omurtak would be recording contraband, whereas the port would only be interested in the gross weight of the whole shipment.

Running through her list of candidates again, she chose one with some heft behind it, hopefully enough to warrant its own container. That narrowed the field somewhat, but after a good fifteen minutes of searching she still came up cold.

That was it; out of time. Short of checking shipment contents herself there was no other means by which to single out what on the database was going to Omurtak, and what belonged to some innocent party.

Plan B.

Removing her filters, Monty instead found the search function and typed in the ID code from that container in which she had left the Maserati, AMG and four dead thugs.

There was only one match, and she wiped it from the system.

So much for 'return to sender'.

Frankly either option had been unpalatable, even if who had so morbidly created that cargo remained anonymous. At least this way it should be weeks before anyone found the evidence, and if it were found, the authorities were more likely to give up on the cold trail than a riled Omurtak would have been; and at least if the evidence did eventually find its way back to the supplier he should have a reasonable idea of whom to pay off. This was after all his city, and if he did not he would not have survived so long at his chosen game.

This was why she generally preferred not to leave dead bodies behind herself: they just caused trouble.

Closing down the database, the girl set her iPhone's hacking suite to make its exit and looked around: time to leave, and be certain she locked up on the way out.

Finger prints should not have been a problem for her, and rearranging the desk back to what he had been with gloved hands, she left the computer as it was: clearing it of the owner's prints would only be suspicious. Finished, she made her way back to the warehouse's empty partition, carefully removing her knife and closing the door without tripping the alarm as she did so.

While she herself would be fingerprint free her handler was a different story, and the girl carefully wiped down any surface he may have touched, including the door lift chain, before moving quietly back through the reception to listen at the external door. From outside came the faint sound of an engine, getting closer, and she hunkered down as powerful lights idled past, shining through the window to send dark shadows running across the room, dancing between red and blue flashes.

Police then, using blues and twos in lieu of the standard light vehicle amber strobe.

The engine and lights receded, but Monty paused a moment to let them get properly clear and take stock. Her partner would not have been able to get over the perimeter fence and had headed south, so she would be best going north. If Google maps were still accurate, vegetation stretched from the hardstand to the main road which she could use as cover. As long as the dog-squad did not get here too quickly, she should be alright.

Listening again, the young agent pushed open the door a crack.

Clear.

Sliding out she made sure the exit was securely closed and locked behind her, then scampered to the building's end and paused. The area ahead was riddled with containers, placed more haphazardly than those in the laydown's south. That was fine by her though and she darted forward into the almost organically grown maze of steel. The containers here were old, rusted through in places, almost certainly destined for the scrapheap or sale to third parties and mostly left open to weather. In an effort to cover her tracks, any emitting a particularly pungent odour the girl would dart inside, sometimes exiting the way she had come or through a rusty hole in a wall or ceiling, skipping across metal roofs if the opportunity presented. It might not do her any good in the long run, but the thought was there and it could buy time.

Nearing the edge of the concrete, Monty once again found herself above ground level and, taking a run-up leapt, flying through the air and over the hardstand's end to land in damp bushes. The north end of the port laydown was indeed wooded, a low lying swale intended to catch runoff from the paved areas and trap any pollutants it may carry. Suffice to say, the smell was not good. Moving as quietly as she could, the girl headed north, picking through freezing undergrowth.

Reaching the port's perimeter fence she stopped again, watching. On her left, to the west had been placed a small group of demountable buildings and, further along the road, more flashing lights were clustered around the destroyed guard house. To the right lay the warmer street-lamp glow of suburbia. Neither were particularly good options but, with the police on the prowl inside the port as well, she could hardly risk returning there.

She glanced at her watch: almost half three now. Edging east, she made for the houses; at least all but the night owls and early risers would be in bed. Finding a point particularly devoid of light the girl checked once more for security cameras, then down toward the cluster of emergency vehicles. Amongst the red and blue flashes she could just make out vague figures, going about their business. With a bit of luck, and without the benefit of backlighting to silhouette her, she would be even more difficult to discern from where they stood.

Drawing a deep breath Monty rose, taking two steps and leapt over the barbed wire topped perimeter, landing softly on the other side and dropped into the shallow roadside drainage ditch. It certainly was not the best cover ever, but she was not planning on staying long. Further up the road was the turn where she and her handler had gained ground toward the port earlier that night, with time to take stock now revealed to be an intersection and roundabout. If she could get near that, she may be able to hitch a ride out of here. The question was how long transport would take to arrive.

Breaking from cover, she sprinted up the road, sticking close to the vegetated traffic island, and crouched down amongst its bushes to wait.

As it turned out, she didn't need to do so for long. From the west came the growl of a large diesel engine, towing a boxy shape in its wake. Seemingly one emergency vehicle which had not been required was a fire truck, and as it slowed for the roundabout, Monty dashed out from cover, keeping low under the line of sight of its mirrors and leapt up onto the back, climbing to its roof and laying amongst ladders and hose pipes. Two nice things about fire trucks: they tended to be stationed close to things which may ignite, often urban environments where the young spy felt most able to lose herself; and they were washed regularly.

Staying as still as she could, the girl took a moment to look up at the stars above: at least for now she was not at much risk of being seen by someone looking out their window; though maybe it would be best to get off before they hit the really built up areas. This certainly had not been her fratello's cleanest job ever.

Now a small smile crossed her lips in the darkness; at least they had a pretty good place to hole up and put some time between now and their exit from Turkey, her hand clasped a little tighter at the leather folio beside her, and plenty to keep occupied with in the meantime. Hopefully this little escapade would pay off.

All that however was for the future. What she needed to concentrate on now though was finding somewhere take her leave of the truck, preferably before anyone had the chance to glance upon the passing fire engine from above. Then she could put some space between herself and wherever that was, before meeting her handler: well away from any potentially prying eyes; organic or electric.


The Ansen Suites, Beyoğlu, Istanbul had been set up with corporate travellers on extended stays in mind. As such its accommodations came with everything the worldly businessman could desire: secure undercover parking, free wifi, room service, easy access to fashionable Istiklal Avenue with its shops and restaurants and big, comfortable beds with room for one more… accompanied by a discreet staff whom would neither gossip nor frown upon some additional company of an evening.

And for once Jethro felt he could spare the time to relax and enjoy it.

Opening his eyes, the man looked around the pair's pseudo-modernist penthouse under sunlight streaming through full height, full length balcony windows. Set just below roof level the suite was bright and airy, with bone walls and light wood floors, its main room being shared by their bed and a lounge area beside the double-glazing, with a small writing desk and dining table in dark chocolate veneer at the far end. To his right, behind curved and slitted dividers was the entrance, a galley kitchenette and, closest to the bed, a bathroom, sporting just gossamer curtains to close its space rather than a door.

From outside the music of city life wafted up from street level many stories below, just penetrating the window glass, adding a muffled backdrop soundscape to the silence inside the apartment. Only the ticking of his watch on the bedside table broke that, and steady breaths from the reassuring weight laid out beside him.

Reaching over, the spy picked up his timepiece, running a thumb across its deep brown, Riva leather strap, feeling the horizontal tracking of its design, then up over the cold angular steel case and around the sharply cut bezel, before eyes focused on the similarly brown hued and neatly detailed face protected behind sapphire crystal.

Almost ten in the morning.

Replacing the Linde Werdelin, Jethro slid his other hand across smooth cotton bed sheets until it slipped into the valley created by another body. Reaching the slumbering form of his partner, he touched lightly against the small of her back, almost as if to reassure himself that she was still real. Monty was on her side, faced away and he ran his fingers along the indent she left before hesitating briefly, and drawing away. It had taken some convincing to prevent her from diving directly into Omurtak's manifest when they arrived back, the first tendrils of dawn just touching the sky. Only raising the point that they'd need to lay low anyway had convinced her to come to bed instead, and he had no intention of waking her if he did not need to.

Arriving at a decision, the former British agent slipped silently from beneath warm covers, checking his blued P230 still resided by the bed, and headed for the bathroom. He could put up with whatever level of berating not waking her immediately would bring later… and as long as she did not wake too soon he could probably deflect much of that as well.

Half an hour later, showered and shaved the man stuck his head out of the bathroom, peering through the partition's slots. His girl was still asleep, breathing softly and, instead of finding a towel he crept naked around to the narrow built in wardrobe beside their bed. His suit hung at one end, away from the fresh clothes and probably in need of dry-cleaning… again. Instead he selected an ironed button up shirt and set of beige chinos which hung beside a light blue, front-zipped A-line dress. Over the top he pulled a heavy, shawl collared grey cardigan before finding socks, but left the pair of waxed-leather desert boots where they were to help muffle his footsteps.

Monty still hadn't stirred.

Taking two quick, silent steps Jethro gave himself a little extra push to go sliding across polished flooring to the hotel phone, ringing down to reception to quietly order room service. Another slide had him back again and skating around the partition end to the apartment's small kitchenette, where the fully grown man skidded to a halt. On its granite bench stood the fratello's chocolate-brown boxed camping kit, leather covering's gold monogramming so worn as to be barely visible. From it he extracted the stovetop percolator and sealed tin of ground coffee.

Time to wake his girl up.

Pouring water into the little contraption's boiler until it lapped just below the pressure valve, he then dropped in its basket which was subsequently filled with coffee, lightly tamping the grindings, before screwing the top down and placing it on the stove. Turning the ceramic hotplate to half-heat the handler settled back on his side of the bed into wait, resting against the headboard, iPad in hand.

Soon the smell of freshly brewed beans was wafting through the apartment, and beside him his partner finally stirred, mumbling something before rolling over to face him, eyes open.

"Morning sunshine."

From where she lay, his pretty girl offered a small smile. "Morning… what's the time?"

Jethro checked his watch. "Almost eleven."

That got a reaction and Monty was up on one arm, eyebrow cocked. "Almost eleven? Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

With that she started to slide toward the edge of the covers above where Omurtak's folio had been stashed under the bed, but was stopped by a hand on her shoulder. "Slow down luv, take your time. We have to lay low for a few days anyway, so for once there's no rush."

"Says you."

Her partner sighed. "I've ordered breakfast, at least go have a shower first."

"I smell coffee as well."

"Thought that might get you up."

Now she fixed him with a sultry glare. "Lucky."

Folding the sheet and duvet back she rolled up to sit on the bed's edge, sliding one hand down the side of the mattress to check on her PPK, before slinking off toward the bathroom. From his position on the covers, Jethro watched her go until she disappeared from sight and his ears caught the curtain sliding closed followed by the hiss of running water… well that had gone alright.

It was fifteen minutes before the bathroom divider was pushed back again and Monty re-emerged wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, its front left parted to the waist. Just in the hall the recently arrived room service runner stumbled over his words, eyes suddenly no-longer focused on the man before him. Sliding up beside her partner, the girl offered a heavy lidded smile as he received the breakfast trolley with one hand, draping the other arm over her shoulder to clasp the robe slightly more closed across small breasts with his own wry grin. Turning red the teenager outside beat a hasty retreat as the spy drew the trolley inside. Monty, still in his grasp, closed the door behind them before slipping herself free and kneeling down to check the trolley for bugs.

Content it was clear, she left her handler to make his own sweep, instead moving to retrieve a beige turtleneck skivvy and charcoal leggings from her suitcase and disappear back into the bathroom to get dressed.

Watching her go as he finished his own confirmation they were not to be eavesdropped on, Jethro looked around the room, before setting breakfast out on the inside table where they could talk work. Outside would have been too cold anyway, and frankly had he tried to slow her down any more, Monty was likely to wind up more on edge than he felt like dealing with.

He was just laying a cup before each setting as his partner re-emerged, rounding the partition to retrieve her blue dress from its hanger and slide on white GoGo boots. Standing, she walked around the bed to draw Omurtak's folio from underneath it.

Internally, Jethro gave a sigh: so much for a pleasant morning off, he'd hoped to at least make the second coffee before that put in an appearance.

"Aren't you going to need Genco's report before you go sifting through that?"

Monty shook her head. "Shouldn't do, Omurtak didn't code the destination column... you'll need to crack his cipher to double check against receivers of course, but for a first rough pass this should be fine."

Ah well, everyone had to give a little now and then… some just more than others.

Sitting down opposite her partner, the girl took a sip of her coffee, then unfastened the folio to scan down its pages. Only covering the span of a few weeks there were not many. Forehead creasing slightly, she read back the other way whilst, across the table, Jethro watched her work as the small frown melded into a wry grimace.

After the fourth pass she looked up. "Would you like the good news or the bad news?"

"Pick one."

"The good news is that there is an airfield shipment on here in line with the ones Genco singled out, and if they're still forging ahead it may mean the continuing flights were not all trap..."

"And the bad news?"

"...timeframe. The airfield handoff is a week and a day out, but if you allow three days to get from Odessa to Anatolia by road and another three or so days as margin and for us to work in Odessa itself..."

"That doesn't make for a whole lot of laying low here does it?"

"Not really, no," the girl paused. "How long will it take to drive from here to Odessa?"

Now it was her handler's turn to think. "Two days comfortably, one if we pushed it."

"So one then."

"One," now Jethro took his own sip of coffee, before looking thoughtfully at his plate, "though we may be able to buy another day in Istanbul if we can lay some groundwork early."

Now his partner held his gaze across the table, one eyebrow cocked.

"If we can figure out where Hermes is staying from here, it might save us a day of trying to find him in the Ukraine... Ribisi included the travel agent they had been booking through correct?"

She nodded.

Now Jethro started to perk up. "Give me the details and I might go for a walk after breakfast, find a public phone and put a call in... claim to be chasing up a friend's recommendation or something."

Monty however looked dubious. "We can't be sure whoever's out there will be staying in the same place, and even if it is our favourite forwarders' rep, we may still need time to track him down... besides; aren't we supposed to be laying low?"

"I do seem to recall putting the call in to be a suggestion of yours."

The look he got in return was innocent. "Oh was it?"

"From memory."

"Though I imagine at the time we had not just caused a ruckus which half the city's police turned out to crawl all over… or put ourselves at risk of blowing a particularly important contact in the process."

Her handler paused to weigh her words; she had a point. On the other hand however...

"True, on both counts… But right now we're going to need anything likely to garner us an advantage once we land in Odessa, so I still think it's worth a shot." Putting down his fork, the man stood up, walking around the table to place a hand on each of his girl's shoulders, massaging the artificial muscle between her shoulder blades. Then he sighed. "As to laying low... it's a risk, but I would more prefer to call off a public phone than my mobile at this juncture, and if I go alone anyone looking for the pair from the other night should be less likely to put two and two together."

"And if Omurtak sees you in town? What if he puts two and two together?"

"Admittedly he's probably a bit miffed right now." He stopped massaging, instead bending down with one arm rested across the back of his partner's chair to support his weight. "However we're purposely in a part of town he and his tend not to frequent, and I promise I won't stray far."

"Hmm."

Standing up again, Jethro reached across the table to lift his coffee and flashed his girl a half grin. "Besides, I need to be back in time to have a stab at Omurtak's cipher."

Polishing off the beverage, he set about breakfast again and, half an hour on, stepped from under the Suites' awning into Istanbul's low, early afternoon sun. Wrapped again in his warm camel coat with scarf and tweed cap, the ex-SIS agent scanned the street from behind dark Ray Ban Wayfarer sunglasses, almost unconsciously noting the faces around before turning southwest; downhill, away from Istiklal Avenue with its expensive shop fronts and ever watchful cameras. When he had told Monty he did not intend to go far, he had meant it and, ducking through another back alleyway to help single out any potential tail, quickly found that endangered species he sought in the age of mobile technology: a bank of payphones.

Unfortunately these particular units did not accept cash, instead requiring a pre-paid card.

Bollocks.

He was just about to turn away in search of a Plan B when someone in the uniform of a city garbage collector walked up to the bank and, inserting their card, started to talk. Seeing his opportunity, Jethro waited until the Istanbulie had finished his call and flagged him down. Making sure his use of the local language remained broken, the Englishman managed to explain that his mobile had packed it in, that he needed to make a call urgently, and would be willing to pay for whatever value remained on the man's card.

Fortunately the city worker did not require much convincing, and very shortly exchanged his card for a set of notes from Jethro's wallet, who watched the man go, happily counting his spoils.

Frankly, he had probably just been massively overcharged... but just right now he could live with that.

Picking up a receiver in one gloved hand, the spy dialled the number his partner had provided and positioned himself such that he could keep an eye on the surrounding area. Presently no-one was in sight, and as a female corporate travel agent picked up on the other end, he ran his voice down an octave, automatically falling into a thick Russian accent.

"Ah, Zdravstvujtye... da, I have a friend, he recommend me somewhere to stay in Odessa, but forgot the name... da, he said you might know as the booking made through you..."

Five minutes later with a deep belly laugh the Britisher hung up the telephone again, and a slow smile spread across his face.

Job done: now they had somewhere to go.

TO BE CONTINUED