AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES
A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction by Alfisti, based on works by Yu Aida.
CH02|With A Fez On
Pieri Lorenzo, chief of Italy's Social Welfare Agency, looked up at the soft tap on his office door. Taking in the room he noted, with some chagrin, that what had once been a sunny Saturday morning was now replaced by the dark of night. Apparently the best laid plans of mice and men really were always doomed to failure… even if those plans were as simple as coming to work for just a few hours on the weekend.
"Enter."
The door opened silently to admit the Chief's steward; dressed impeccably, if somewhat incongruously, in a maid's uniform and carrying a silver tray.
"Telegram for you sir."
Lorenzo raised his eyebrows questioningly at the archaic form of communication, but didn't say anything yet. Instead he leaned back in his chair, pushing his glasses up slightly to rub at suddenly tired eyes.
"What time is it?" He asked, not bothering to look at his watch.
"Almost seven in the evening sir; I have taken the liberty of informing Signor Alboreto that you will be late or not back at all tonight. I have also prepared your on-campus quarters."
"And how long have you been here."
"I sir, am always here."
By now the steward had reached his desk and placed the tray down. On it were plunger of fresh coffee, a small plate of neatly arranged cheeses, cold meats, fruit… and a yellow envelope, addressed to one of the Agency's post office boxes in precise typewriter script.
"I have prepared something light, but if you do intend to remain later I would suggest a more substantial meal."
Lorenzo looked from the girl, to the papers on his desk and then to his computer, where another email had just arrived. Seemingly he wasn't the only one working late on the weekend.
"Thank you, Tea. I think that may be appropriate."
"Very good sir, I shall inform the kitchen."
With that she made a slight bow and withdrew, leaving Lorenzo again to his empty, darkened office.
Now able to indulge his curiosity, the Chief picked up his physical mail, slitting it open and withdrawing the single piece of grey-brown card inside. Picked out in the same all-capitals type as the front of the envelope it read:
SIR -(STOP)- COMPLETE LIGHTHOUSE EXIT STAGE LEFT -(STOP)- TRANSITING CONSTANTINE VIA THREE MINISTERS -(STOP)- HOPE YOU LIKE PRESENT SENT WITH A -(STOP)- PLEASE INFORM IF USEFUL -(STOP)- BEST REGARDS
PYTHON
Quirking a thin smile at the extra theatre "Python" had apparently wanted to include in their transmittal, Lorenzo opened up a new message on his computer to let Ferro know she had mail to collect.
"Mr. Archer? I wondering what you and lady would like for kahvaltı?"
Jethro stopped, one foot on the set of worn wooden stairs and turned to face his addressor; a weather beaten, yet still handsome woman in her early fifties.
"Honestly luv I've not managed to even look at the menu yet," he replied, "What's good?"
"Our menemen is particularly good," said the woman, describing a Turkish traditional breakfast foodstuff, "but we used to tourists as well."
Jethro thought for a second, "Can you give us five minutes? Let me put these down..." he lifted the bags he was carrying slightly "...check with her upstairs and I'll get back to you."
"Of course, I be in kitchen."
Facing forward again, Jethro continued climbing to the second level of the small bed and breakfast he and Monty had chosen to accommodate themselves. It was run by an aging Turkish couple, the last in a long line to inhabit the farm property, who had welcomed their guests with relaxed and genuine hospitality.
Rustic in the extreme and located in the quiet, secluded countryside, it seemed an appropriate place to rest before entering Istanbul proper.
The fratello's journey from Alexandria had been relatively smooth; their night time border crossing into Libya, and subsequent drive north seeing them roll into the coastal city of Tobruk about mid-morning. Sorting out passports had been a reasonably simple task of finding an appropriately entrepreneurial emigration official, who was happy to supply the correct stamps for a small fee. Back to travelling pseudo-legally, Monty had then been able to arrange tickets to Turkey on the regular Tripoli-Lebanon-Tasucu ferry over the internet.
Tapping quietly on the door to let his cyborg know who it was, Jethro let himself in. On their bed, Monty sat cross-legged with an assortment of cards, passports and a few thick wads of €500 notes arrayed around her. At that moment however, the cyborg had one forearm slipped under the bed covers and her attention solely on the new arrival. Rest assured of who was joining her she slowly removed her hand, leaving the concealed PPK in place, while Jethro placed their bags down.
"Asya wants to know what we'd like for breakfast," started Jethro, referring to the B&B's matriarch by name.
Monty had turned back to what she was doing and replied without looking up, "Don't know."
"Turkish traditional it is then, back in a tick... I've got the key."
Hearing the door click shut again behind her handler, the girl picked up an American Express card, quickly checked the name on it and added it to a rapidly filling black leather card folio. A Maestro card followed it, along with two French passports, causing Monty to pull a face. One by one, a majority of the various items in front of her were slotted into the folio, leaving a meagre selection still on the bed. Giving a small sigh, the cyborg picked up the red-trimmed case and, using her weight to hold it shut, sealed the zipper. She was just about to slip it back into her suitcase when Jethro re-entered the room.
Stepping over to his cyborg he plucked the folio from her grasp, frowning at how heavy it was, "This is everyone we've used since London? Who's left?"
"The Archers and that's about it," replied Monty resignedly. "After them we're back to being ourselves."
Jethro gave a wry snort, "Guess we might prioritize retrieving some fresh aliases once we hit Istanbul."
Tapping the wads of Euro also laid out on the bed the handler continued, "This also needs dealing with. We could make a trip through Sharjah at some point; but if there's somewhere decently reliable in-country, then getting it clean sooner rather than later would be preferable."
Monty wrinkled her nose slightly at the last suggestion. The Emirate of Sharjah, enviously watching the successes of nearby Dubai and Abu Dhabi, had decided it wanted its share of foreign coin. However, as one of the smaller members of the United Arab Emirates and with a population of under a million, it hadn't had the funds to plough into towering civil monstrosities. The answer had been elegantly simple: a single-runway airfield in the middle of the desert and minimal regulation. When the Soviet Union had folded in on itself, unpaid and unemployed former Red Air Force pilots, with their Ilyushins and Antonovs of dubious origin, had flocked there. The result had been a major hub for cargos that needed moving with discretion; and a banking system wherein accounts could be opened, have massive amounts of money transferred in, immediately transferred out again and closed with no questions asked.
"I'll keep an eye out; if we can avoid a side trip of sand and odorous Russians then so much the better."
Jethro returned the card folio to his cyborg so she could pack it away and, moving to the two bags he'd brought up previously, retrieved a cleaning kit. Placing his SIG on the room's table, he started to strip the small firearm down with practiced hands.
"Speaking of ex-Soviets in aeroplanes though," he started, "we might begin in Istanbul by visiting a friend."
Monty looked up from where she was stowing the remainder of the fratello's spoils from Monaco, money that hadn't gone to other members of their crew or the SWA itself, and cocked an eyebrow.
"You don't have anywhere we could start ourselves off without advertising our presence?"
Jethro shrugged, "A few, but I've not been mixing with the Istanbul crowd for awhile now. Rade, however settled down there after he finished moving our run of Franklins... apparently the climate suited him better than Yugoslavia. Either way, he'll be more clued in to the local situation than I am."
Finished packing her bag, Monty padded across the ornate rug used to cover the room's rough hewn flooring and took the other chair at Jethro's table, settling in with a "do continue" expression on her face.
The ex-crook, with his firearm now apart, wiped his hand on a cloth and pinched the bridge of his nose before starting to explain. "The ink we used to forge the Franklins is a touch tightly controlled... mostly a result of its being so close to what the US mint uses. However, it was originally developed for short term, confidential documents. The high acidity of the compound means that anything written in it will literally fall apart after seven years; the standard legal period for which businesses need to keep minor documentation in most countries."
Picking up a small bottle of gun oil, Jethro carefully applied a few dabs where appropriate and started to re-assemble his black P230. "That sort of regulation leaves only a few options to acquire the stuff. One is to steal it yourself. Stock going missing however would put every white collar crime unit from here to judgement day on alert. In the end, the only properly practical route is to go through a supplier. He'll have a contact already inside the manufacturer who can move product out without raising flags... not sure how but my guess would be as QC-failed stock."
Jethro flicked the gun's takedown lever back up into place and racked the slide a couple of times to check its function. Then he inserted a fresh magazine, racked the slide again to camber a round, before de-cocking the hammer back to its safe position and sliding the pistol into his shoulder rig. "The supplier we went through is a man called Omurtak... never learned if he had a second name... and the ink is only one of his lines of business. Understandably he finds it safer to remain mobile and can be a little difficult to track down. So while we could start looking in the same places I did last time, by virtue of being more local, Rade might be able to give us a better read on how to get in contact."
Monty fixed her handler with a hard look, "And how far can we trust this 'Rade' character..."
"About as far as I could throw him to be honest..." admitted Jethro, "...which isn't far at all. However, if we play it like there might be something in it for him, that should leave him curious enough to hold back and see where we take things."
Monty nodded her understanding and Jethro stood, packing up his cleaning kit as he did so.
"How to attack that one however, we can be dealt with tomorrow between here and Istanbul," stated the handler. "For now I want a shower and sleep."
"Jethro Blacker! How are you my friend!"
Standing on the pavement outside a five story apartment block, Jethro's hand was immediately enveloped in a bone crushing hold as Rade Janovich made his greeting.
"Surviving mate, surviving... and you?"
Monty, now dressed in a dapper grey suit, watched on as the two old colleagues exchanged pleasantries. Janovich looked to be a solidly build forty-something with dark hair and a heavy eyebrow line. He wore an expensive shirt, expensive trousers, expensive shoes and an exceedingly expensive Franck Muller Giga Tourbillion watch on his wrist... in PVD coated white gold. Seemingly the transport business had been kind.
The other indicator of course could have been the stunning blonde standing at his side. The cyborg eyed the woman with cool appraisal, taking in the well filled, low cut dress and tall heels being worn on a regular weekday. Finding nothing she felt might garner a threat there, Monty never-the-less moved herself slightly closer to her handler and into a position to keep Janovich's trophy in sight.
Still grasping Rade's hand, Jethro also shot the blonde a glance and leaned in closer to his acquaintance.
"She's a little young for you isn't she?" he intoned quietly.
"Big words my friend."
At that the Englishman let out a bark of laughter and pulled back, releasing his grip on Rade's paw so as to give his cyborg a light nudge forward. "Nothing of the sort I'm afraid. This is Monique; I guess you could call her my understudy."
"An 'understudy'? I never pictured you the type to pick up an apprentice."
Jethro offered a laconic grin at that and gave his girl's shoulder a quick squeeze, "Must be getting old, either that or Noel's bit about needing to bring fresh blood into the game is finally starting to catch."
Monty offered her hand and found it beset by the same firm grasp her handler had endured, which she returned holding steady eye contact.
"Well met Ms. Monique, I hope he is not dragging you all over world with him no?"
"I'm afraid so," returned the girl wryly.
At that the Yugoslav eyed Jethro again, "Ah, you never could stay in one place could you? It's bad for the soul this constantly moving around, it gets lost. Look at me: settled down, nice apartment in nice area... happy now. This by the way is Ninochka, my wife."
Another round of pleasantries were exchanged before Janovich ushered the fratello inside. A modern lift carried the group to the top floor and they were directed through a set of thick, double wooden doors into the apartment itself. While the building was old, the top floor had obviously been gutted to create one single, large space. The wide, open-plan living area was floored in white marble with occasional ornate gold and black fittings or colourful antiquities contrasting against the otherwise minimalist white theme. The front of the apartment had been replaced with glazing end to end, set just behind the building's facade and allowing the view to be framed by its original stonework. From its position on this desirable part of Istanbul's Kadikoy waterfront, the dwelling's occupants were afforded a spectacular vista out across the Sea of Marmara.
"Would you like drink?" offered Rade as he closed the door. "I would offer vodka, but seem remember you are more cognac man?"
"Cognac would be excellent, but only one, I need to drive," replied Jethro.
Janovich shrugged, "As you wish. Ninochka?"
The blonde woman made for a small bar area, grabbing Monty's elbow as she went. The cyborg however shook her hand away, accompanying the action with a baleful glare.
Leaving the trophy wife to fix drinks, the girl stalked off after her handler, towards the apartment's lounge area where both men had already settled into facing Le Corbusier chairs. Monty arranged herself onto a third piece of the French Modernist's design work: a chaise lounge positioned slightly off to one side, where she could keep an eye on the conversation as well as on the woman now preparing beverages.
Shortly, Ninochka arrived with three brandy balloons and a bottle of Hennessy Paradis cognac. Pouring a little of the dark liquid into each balloon, she set them before the party members and moved quietly away, out of the living space.
Jethro picked up his glass and took an appreciative sniff, "You've certainly moved up in the world since our forgery job, Rade."
The heavier set man gave a toothy grin, "Indeed. Move from ground transport into Ilyushin business was good one. I only have one aircraft back then, now running, how you say... 'half dozen' yes? First Africa, then Afghanistan, recently lot of business in Iraq and Cyprus, life is good."
"Keep that up," put in Jethro, "and you'll be able to put another Cinema on."
Janovich shook his head, "No, Ilyushins are good, but want Antonovs next, get into shorter strips... but what of you? I hear of casino heist in Monaco, think you may be involved."
Jethro let a laconic grin spread across his face, "Nope, wasn't me... whoever pulled that off though, I'd like to shake their hand."
The transport man shrugged again, "So if you not need to move much Euro, what brings you to my corner of world?"
"Actually, I was hoping you might be able to give me a pointer or two about where to find our old supplier from the Franklin job."
There was a slight hesitation before the reply came, "You have new plan in works?"
"Perhaps... depends on if I can source some equipment and get it transported... heavy stuff."
At the mention he may have a role to play after all, Rade's eyes lit up for a second. However a shadow passed quickly over his face and he slumped back in his chair, "Unfortunately I have lost contact with Omur, so you on own there. To be honest, only thing I remember of him is that he enjoys chess. However, if find and need equipment moved..."
Jethro frowned, "Not even any pointers on his lackeys?"
The Yugoslav shook his head sadly, "No. What do you require moving?"
"Not sure until I know what's available... you offering mates' rates?"
"Ha! Now Mr. Blacker, you know that is not how I do business!"
It was late afternoon by the time the fratello returned to their Beyoglu hotel from Istanbul's easterly, Anatolian shores. The former capitol's seething metropolis sprawled across Turkey's Bosphorus Strait, its bridges and ferries connecting the continents of Europe and Asia to one another: placement which had for centuries made it a hub for traders and business folk alike.
The historic centre of Fatih, on the European landmass, had however been left to the tourists. Instead, the financial districts of Besiktas and Sisli, to the European side's northeast, now sprouted great steel and glass towers to replace the Old City's mighty bazaars as its economic hubs. Those new axels of Middle Eastern business created their own markets as well, and workers filtered south into Beyoglu's adjoined commercial and entertainment districts. With extra demand now placed on them, those districts grew and changed to cater to their moneyed clientele from the north: high-end fashion stores, bohemian cafes and gourmet restaurants clamoured for attention and continued Istanbul's East-meets-West tradition with a new and cosmopolitan air.
That new cosmopolitan air had made Beyoglu a natural place for the Blackers to base themselves. From a corner room in the Marmara Pera Hotel, comfortably ensconced in the establishment's mid-century, Dansk design furniture, Monty could see clear across two continents and down into the mass of humanity below. To the west, over the Golden Horn's stretch of water, lay the brightly lit Mosques of Fatih, beckoning visitors to its multitude of historic sights and accompanying hotels. Though the abundance of foreigners in that area would have made blending in easier, as the cyborg had pointed out: stone walls and postcards were fine for the tourist set, but anyone who wanted to get actual work done needed to be somewhat closer to the city's hub.
Right now however she wasn't paying attention to the view, instead scouring a list of RSS feeds, searching for a marker indicating the Agency had dropped a message or new information for her fratello. On the room's TV set, Al Jazeera's English language service was wrapping up the day's news, and the mind-numbing work allowed Monty to keep half an ear on what the reporter had to say. Once the Arab channel finished, and time permitting, she intended to flick across to the BBC's World Service to get a western media perspective on the same events.
Those plans were cut short as Jethro exited the bathroom. "C'mon luv, I say we go find something to eat."
The cyborg closed her computer down, stowing it in a drawer as her handler threw on his suit jacket, then grabbed a camel toned car coat, trilby and scarf to help ward off the late autumn chill.
Ferreting around in his girl's suitcase he withdrew the slender card folio she had filled at the bed and breakfast, "You said this was everyone we needed to rest for now?"
Monty nodded, "Bar the Archers, but we're still using them."
"Right."
Jethro slipped the folio inside his coat and made for the door while Monty picked up her own bone Burberry trench before joining him outside. Checking the door was locked; she quickly scanned the corridor and knelt down, leaving Jethro to keep watch. Breaking off a short strand of hair, the cyborg licked her fingers and secured it close to the floor, across the gap between the door and its frame. It was a rudimentary measure, but still a surprisingly effective one... sometimes it was good to stick with the classics. Content with her handy work, the girl stood again and motioned to her handler that they were alright to leave.
Three minutes later the pair was standing outside the Marmara Pera, in Istanbul's bustling early-evening streets.
"Any idea where to eat?"
Jethro had a city map, pilfered from the hotel reception, open and shot his cyborg a half-grin, "Yes actually, there's that little place around Fatih which was good last time. I think we'll grab a tram across the Horn and walk from there."
Getting to the tramway entailed a walk and short ride on one of Istanbul's two funicular rails, down to the Golden Horn waterfront. Then a thoroughly modern light rail system whisked the fratello west: out of Beyoglu's Galata neighbourhood, over the water and into the Old City.
Disembarking two stops before their actual destination, Jethro and Monty lost themselves among the tourists swarming through Fatih's Sultanahmet area. Gone was Monty's suit of the morning, replaced with a light blue a-line dress, trimmed in white over charcoal turtleneck, and matching baggy white railroad cap. As the tram car pulled away, Jethro jammed the trilby on his head and threw an arm around his cyborg to guide her off the platform. Reaching up, the girl adjusted the hat to a more rakish angle as they ambled up the street; two leisurely travellers out on the town for the evening.
The fratello's meandering course took them slowly north, out of Fatih's historical heart and into the streets of the Old City. As they moved deeper into the residential areas, the beeps of digital cameras and multitude of languages gave way to the soft buzz of Turkish conversation filtering out of houses and eateries.
Cutting up an alleyway, Jethro and Monty arrived at an innocuous looking small restaurant with a couple of filled tables in the street outside it. As they stepped through the front door, the proprietor came to meet the fratello with two menus. A soft word from Jethro secured a secluded booth set against the establishment's wall and ten minutes later he was back to take their orders.
Noting down the pair's selections the man asked, "And will there be any drinks tonight?
Jethro shook his head, "Just water for me."
"I'll have a Negroni, no ice," put in Monty.
Suddenly the proprietor was paying her much closer attention. Motioning to the rack of spirits behind the restaurant counter he said carefully, "I'm sorry, but as you can see we have no gin."
Glancing briefly at the selection, and noting full bottles from at least four different suppliers, the cyborg returned her steady gaze to their server. "Well you're certainly out of No.3, which was what I was after anyway. I'll have a lime and soda instead... and the food had best make up for the lack of decorum."
"Come to think of it, we'll take a bottle of the house red with three glasses as well," finished Jethro.
At that the proprietor nodded and left the fratello again in peace with the buzz of the restaurant around them.
"So what did you think at Jan's place today?" queried Monty, shortening Janovich's name in conversation to a more generic form.
Jethro sat back in his seat and considered his partner's question. Certainly it hadn't been the start he'd hoped for however...
"I think it was odd that he'd lost contact with Omar. Not impossible, but odd. The latter specializes in getting people what they need, and our winged friend there specializes in getting it to them. It's amazing what his pilots can squeeze into one of those birds around a legitimate cargo. That to me would seem like a match made in heaven, so you'd assume they'd at least have kept an eye on one another."
The handler picked up his hat and started spinning it idly on his finger as he talked, "That said, there's plenty of aviation transporters out there willing to pick up a quick quid or two. Either way, we're going to be starting from square one..."
Jethro's voice trailed off as the restaurant's proprietor returned carrying a tray. From it he removed a bottle of wine and three wine glasses. Opening the bottle he let Jethro sniff the cork and, seeing the customer was apparently satisfied, filled each waiting piece of stemware. As he placed the bottle on the table he also set down a metal safe box, which Monty quickly swept onto the booth's seat out of sight.
"And my lime and soda?"
The man bowed his apologies, "I am sorry Miss, it will be along shortly."
Alone again, with his companion glaring balefully after the proprietor bustling back across the room, Jethro pulled the card folio from his jacket. Extracting a small key from its spine, he opened the safe box and began rapidly switching its contents with the used identities in the folio.
"Time's almost up Guv."
At the counter, their host had just lifted his tray with a lime and soda on it and started to return across the room. Placing the last fresh passport into the folio, Jethro zipped it up, stuffed it back in his jacket and locked the box closed again.
"A thousand pardons for the inconvenience."
Monty fixed the restaurateur with a cold gaze a he placed a perfectly made lime and soda in front of her.
"Thank you," she returned icily.
"We won't be requiring this either," added Jethro, handing the extra glass of wine back.
"Of course sir, again, I am terribly sorry."
Bowing his apologies, the owner used the same motion to scoop the safe box up off the table; where Jethro had placed it once the slightly rotund man arrived to block the rest of the restaurant's view. Concealing it under the empty tray now held vertically beside him, the proprietor moved back to the kitchen carrying the undrunk glass of wine and disappeared to the back of house.
"I hope he doesn't let that go to waste."
Jethro eyed his cyborg as she took another sip from her own glass. "I'm sure someone back there will be able to put it to good use. Either way we still need to remember to leave our tip."
Monty shot her handler a small smile and non-committal shrug; with a fresh set of aliases now in hand, the fratello could afford to focus again on getting on with the job they had come to Istanbul for originally. Leaving extra cash at the restaurant for that privilege seemed like a small price to pay.
"So I realise we're basically back at square one, but tell me exactly how far back square one really is."
"Not too far back I hope," admitted Jethro. "When we last did business with Omar, it was me who dealt with tracking down materials and suppliers. We'll start by hitting some of the places I was told I could make contact last time... if we're lucky those haven't changed too much."
Monty looked dubious, "Hope and luck are things I'd prefer we didn't into our planning. Is there some sort of general pattern to follow should we have to take another step backwards?"
"To square zero?"
"If you like."
"Usually Omar leaves a few feelers out in places they can be contacted without raising suspicion. For foreigners that's through here..." Jethro tapped the table top, "...around the Old City where the tourists frequent, or in the business districts."
"With that in mind," he continued, "I say we start with the haunts in the Old City tomorrow then work our way up toward the business district... ah!"
Jethro pulled back from the table, where he had been leaning in to speak to his cyborg, in order to allow the restaurateur to start placing plates of steaming food on the butchers' paper "tablecloth".
Having filled her plate from the shared dishes, Monty picked up a piece of dolma with her fork.
"You know," she noted with a dry smirk, seemingly addressing the morsel hanging in front of her, "for people who travel on business, we seem to spend an awful lot of time playing tourist."
The next day found the Blacker fratello back in Sultanahmet, wandering the grounds around Topkapi Palace. Cited on a high promontory at the mouth of the Golden Horn, and separating that from the Sea of Marmara, Topkapi had been the seat of power for the Ottoman Sultans during almost 400 years of their reign. Having first displaced the previous Byzantine Acropolis, the palace had grown and evolved into a sprawling walled complex of multitudinous residences, baths, hospitals, kitchens and so on; all riddled with secret passageways. At the height of its power it had housed over four thousand servants and staff to look after the Sultan and his family.
With the fall of the Empire, the buildings and their grounds had been decreed as a museum of the Imperial era. Now, its rooms still bustled with humanity as they had centuries before, though the rushing bodies now wielded cameras rather than brooms and linen. While parts of its complex had been given over to other exhibits, within its walls remained some of the most priceless artefacts of the period.
"That's why it's still one of my favourite museums," noted Jethro as the fratello ambled down the Courtyard of the Sultan's Consorts and Concubines, "lots of options and a security nightmare."
"I mean, look at this," went on the handler, inspecting a transparent-cased exhibit. "Admittedly the piece is nothing special, but the glass is thin and the pressure sensor in there is rubbish. Any half competent thief could have that away over the rooftops before anyone knew what had happened."
"Focus," muttered Monty quietly. "We've plenty enough ways to get in trouble already without finding extras."
Stopping in front of another small information plaque and starting to read, she continued, "Still, this complex is huge, it's going to take forever to get right through it."
"Longer," added Jethro, pulling up behind his girl, "This isn't just a matter of combing every room; it's about being in the right place at the right time. So get ready for a frustrating few days of playing hurry up and wait."
Monty made a face at that and her handler bent down to wrap an arm around her. Putting his head on her shoulder, so as to be just in her peripheral vision, he continued. "We'll do a circuit around Fatih this week, then move up to the business districts if we have no luck."
"It'd be good if we could split up and cover more ground," replied the cyborg.
Jethro considered this, "Maybe I should draw you some pictures, so you know who we're looking for."
"Maybe you should."
"Not sure if I trust my memory that far back… but we'll give it a stab anyway. At the very least it'll mean we're not relying solely on my eyes."
The fratello's circuit took them through the palace and to the former stables on its north-western boundary, which now housed the Museum of the History of Science in Islam. From there they moved southwest out of the palace grounds, through Aya Sofya Square and along the gardens between it and the impressive Blue Mosque. Approaching that last, Monty undid her red gauze scarf from where it was serving as a faux ascot and covered her hair. Although Turkey was constitutionally secular, to the point where the wearing of a headscarf was banned in some public spaces, around these bastions of Islamic tradition, observance of custom was still considered polite. It was perhaps then ironic that the conservative Old City would also be the area subject to the highest percentage of tourist traffic.
Finding no luck at the mosque either, Jethro and Monty found a seat in Sultanahmet Square, just outside its gates as the adhan, the call to prayer, started to ring out from the building's six minarets. People still milled through the open space, tourists transiting between the mosque and the Turkish and Islamic Arts museum directly opposite, or stopping to take a photo of the Obelisk of Theodosius erected between. Amongst the foreigners were also local Turks, either less devout Muslims or of other religious denominations, still rushing about their daily business. Content to rest his feet for a bit, Jethro settled down to search faces for a potential lead, and otherwise just people-watch.
Though she hid it well, his cyborg was less happy. It wasn't the drudgenous footwork that bothered her: that she had long ago come to accept as coming with the territory of her job. Instead it was the feeling of uselessness that she was finding frustrating. The fratello was searching for people her handler had known years ago, people she had no idea what they looked like. With nothing give her direction, Monty was reduced to tagging along as her handler searched for faces in the crowd. If that was all she was to do then she may as well have been one of the domestic drones back at the Agency.
Sensing his girl wasn't feeling exactly salubrious, Jethro reached around and gave her shoulder a squeeze, "Chin up, our next stop is the Arts Museum… that's where I made contact last time."
That gave Monty cause to fix her handler with an appraising look, "They actually let you into those places still?"
"No-one's found just cause to throw me out… yet."
Unfortunately, the Islamic and Turkish Arts Museum, though displaying some fine pieces, was devoid of anyone Jethro could place as one of Omurtak's lackeys. By the evening, a meandering course had carried the Blackers northwest; eventually landing in a small café near the gates of Istanbul's famous Grand Bazaar. That however proved fruitless as well, but did provide a decent, if none-too-exciting and tourist focused dinner, set amongst the bustle of the streets.
Resultantly, it was a tired and footsore fratello who returned to their hotel and checked that Monty's strand of hair was still in place on their door. Removing her battered hiking boots, the cyborg placed them neatly next to the cupboard and turned to her handler.
"Would it be possible to get some of those sketches tonight?"
Jethro scratched his chin, "I could probably knock out one or two... but first I want a shower and shave."
Starting to unbuckle the belt on her khaki safari suit, the girl nodded, "Well then, give me your clothes. Mine should probably go straight to the laundry service, so I imagine yours could benefit from a wash as well."
While she waited for her handler to strip off in the bathroom, Monty removed the rest of her outfit, replacing it with a simple black pencil skirt and white t-shirt with a deep v-neck. Booting up her computer, she picked up checking for Agency communication markers at the same point she'd left off the previous night.
On a mod fashion blog she found what she was looking for; in an anonymous comment dated some two days earlier. From the direction of the bathroom door there was a dull thud of a wad of fabric hitting carpet and the shower starting up, but now Monty had something better to do with her time. Typing in the URL for the blog's associated drop box, she started the file she wanted downloading and went to her duffle. From it she extracted a USB thumb drive which was soon plugged into the Macbook Pro and, encryption chip in place, opened the computer's wifi controls to click onto the new network which had just appeared. As she entered a different username and password; the little drive booted up its hidden decryption software. Searching her computer via the program's interface, the cyborg selected the file she had just downloaded and entered her memorized day code, which would tell the software both that she was legitimate and what decryption protocol to use.
Program running, Monty started to get out of her chair, with the intention of gathering up the fratello's dirty washing to take down to reception for the hotel laundry service. However she'd barely stood up when the computer dinged to say it had finished its task. Returning to her seat, a puzzled cyborg read the simple, single line of text which the downloaded file had contained and growled something unpleasant under her breath.
Quickly she shut down the software, removed and stowed the encryption key and wiped all trace of the message from her system. Then, collecting the room's swipe card, she stuffed her own and her handler's discarded clothing in a supplied laundry bag and headed for reception, mulling over options as she went.
By the time she returned, Jethro was out of the shower and sitting at the table in a bath robe. In front of him were the room's supplied notepad and pen, with which he'd started to sketch out the likeness of one of Omurtak's front men. At the sound of his cyborg's knock however he looked up, watching as she entered the room.
"What's wrong?"
Having come to grips by now with her handler's ability to somehow read her moods like a book, Monty started straight into her grouch. "Nothing new, just the people we work with being their usual moronic selves is all. The Agency managed to break the encryption on that hard drive we picked up in Monaco. It's too big to transmit across the internet, so they've sent a physical copy..."
Jethro gave her a quizzical look, "And that's a bad thing?"
The cyborg scowled, "It is when they send it to the Italian Consulate. Do either of us look or sound even remotely Italian?"
By now she had reached the table. Opening her computer back up, Monty started to tap away rapidly at the keyboard.
"What're you doing?"
"Drafting a response to Ferro, instructing her to instruct the consulate to forward their package on to either the British Consulate, the French Consulate or, even better: straight to this hotel, care of our aliases and preferably via a proxy. Then, I'm requesting she find whoever was responsible for that decision in the first place and to ask them if they'd care to apply a little common sense next time."
Leaving his drawing for a moment, Jethro moved around behind his grouchy partner and started massaging her shoulders. "I guess the mistake's somewhat understandable luv: the SWA deals primarily in domestic affairs. Running international agents is something they've not a lot of experience in."
"I wouldn't call this an experience issue so much as a lack of forethought issue… and I could certainly do without the SWA adding their own extra little complications to my life."
Reaching over his girl, Jethro gently but firmly closed the lid of her laptop. "Go have a shower, you can finish that later..."
Monty started to open her mouth, but her handler cut in over the top, "...besides, I want to get an early night and I can't do that with you clattering around in the bathroom. So: bath."
Jethro and Monty started their circuit at the Blue Mosque the next day. Without the sprawling Palace to deal with first, by the time the midday prayer was called they had reached the Bazaar fronting café at which they'd previously ended their search. Installed at a footpath table, with a coffee and cool drink each, the fratello settled in to again watch the passersby. The previous night, and good to his word, Jethro had managed to complete two simple sketches. The first was of Omurtak himself, and the other of the front man through whom the onetime crook had made contact during the Franklin job. Having committed both to memory, Monty now at least felt she could contribute something to their endeavours, rather than just being dead weight.
An hour passed, and one of the café's waiters brought their food orders and fresh coffees. Making the most of the tourist-geared establishment, Monty was about to take the first bite out of her club sandwich when she felt Jethro tapping her leg under the table. Lowering her meal, the cyborg looked across at her handler, who gestured with his head toward the café's entrance. Standing and talking to the waiter was a mousy, nervous looking Arab man with a thin moustache and wearing a generic navy blue suit. Going back to her sandwich, the cyborg kept a subtle eye on him as he crossed the café and sat down at a back corner table. Content he wasn't going anywhere soon, Monty threw her handler a quizzical look.
"That," said Jethro quietly, "is Omar's accountant… or at least was two and a bit years ago."
"Looked nervous."
"He was a jittery little slime back then too," Jethro skewered another kofta ball with his fork. "Finish your meal, but keep an eye on our mate there and be ready to move. At least this café has decent service, so getting the bill in a hurry shouldn't be an issue."
"You're thinking we follow him?"
"I'm thinking we do," replied the ex-MI6 spy. "He's not an established contact point, for that matter we don't even know if he's still part of the same outfit, but he may lead us to someone useful. Either way, it's got beat traipsing around this circuit again."
That last point Monty wasn't going to argue, and she tucked into her sandwich with renewed vigour.
Half an hour passed while the café's theatre played out around its new cast member. Wait staff came with a menu, wait staff went with an order and returned again with food. As the accountant was seated out of his field of vision, Jethro had to rely on his cyborg to keep him updated on the man's actions. Even if he wasn't catching the bulk of the show however, the handler had been observing its opening act at the café entrance and how this new character interacted with the supporting cast. There had been no pre-amble, no small talk, no urge to do anything other than the task immediately at hand, and someone with that much nervous energy wasn't likely to dally around for pleasantries. Which meant the fratello should be safe to…
"He's finished his meal," reported Monty quietly.
That was his cue. Jethro signalled a passing waiter, "Could we get the bill please?"
"Of course."
The man returned promptly with a bill, and Jethro took his time, counting out the Turkish Lira in the manner of a tourist dealing with unfamiliar currency. In doing so he gave the accountant a chance to collect his own cheque. The handler added a margin large enough to make it clear that there was a tip involved and that no change would be required and sent the grateful waiter on his way.
Still needing to kill more time, as the fratello stood to leave, its male half stopped to hunt around the table, then through his jacket and eventually retrieved an errant pair of sunglasses from the inside pocket. Seemingly relieved at not having lost the black-framed Ray Bans, he slipped them on and grabbed the jacket from the back of his chair. Jethro was doing up the top fastening as the accountant stepped out into the street and made a beeline for the Grand Bazaar's nearest entrance.
Tourist attraction and shopping mecca combined, the Bazaar's covered streets were a seething mass of humanity. Shafts of sunlight from windows, set high in the arched ceiling, cut through the hot, muggy atmosphere inside. Merchants raised their voices to bring people to their shops, or rushed back and forward bringing more wares in from outside. Holidayers looking for trinkets mingled with locals, all shouting at each other in a great melange of languages to be heard above the hubbub. Others just stood in the middle of the walkway to gawp; seemingly oblivious to the obstruction they caused to those trying to get past.
Through the middle of it all, the Blackers followed their mark, keeping a casual visage and navigating the melee with practiced ease. For his part, the accountant also maintained a relaxed pace, but was patently having difficulty doing so. Every so often he would glance around himself nervously and Monty's keen eyes could make out the white-knuckle grip he maintained on his black attaché case.
As they entered an area dominated by luggage and other similar items, the accountant turned suddenly and ducked into one of the stores. Easing across the covered laneway, Jethro and Monty stopped to eye the storefront opposite and wait for their quarry to emerge again.
From a stand, Jethro picked up a red felt fez, assumedly aimed at the tourist market, inspected it briefly then placed it jauntily on his head.
"You're not seriously going to wear that are you?"
The handler looked shocked, "Absolutely. Who'd ever suspect the man in a fez?"
Monty took in her handler: slim-cut, light grey, two button suit, crisp white shirt, slender black-knit tie, dark Wayfarers and now a bright red fez... complete with tassel.
"Anyone who's seen a 60's spy film," replied the cyborg flatly. "You do realize wearing that thing's still technically illegal here right..." Monty's voice trailed off as the accountant re-emerged, now carrying a different briefcase but no less nervous looking. "...Put it back, our friend's come out again."
Jethro removed his headpiece and turned to leave, but suddenly found the fez being thrust back into his hands by the store's owner.
Turning back he pushed it away again, "No, I don't want it."
The fez returned, "Twenty Lira."
"No. I said I..."
Monty however was watching their quarry starting to slip away up the street.
"Skipper..."
"I said I don't want it. Look, just... hold on."
Breaking for a second to turn to his cyborg, the handler growled under his breath, "Get after him, I'll catch you up."
Hesitating for only the briefest moment, Monty disappeared into the crowd and Jethro recommenced his argument.
"No, I said I don't want your bloody fez... and I certainly don't want it for twenty Lira!" Jethro paused to check if he could see his cyborg, but she and the accountant had vanished. "... I'll give you eight. Maximum."
Further up the Bazaar the accountant, whether consciously or no, had quickened his pace. Now however, devoid of her handler's company, Monty could make use of her small, waif-like stature to thread her way efficiently through the throng of people. One upside of the hot and crowded environment was that it was easy for the cyborg to remain concealed as her quarry moved toward the market's northern end, simply letting her path place fellow pedestrians between herself and him.
Once clear of the covered streets however, Monty's job became more difficult. Exiting into the sunlight, Omurtak's accountant veered east and downhill, headed seemingly for the Golden Horn's waterfront and the low Galata Bridge stretching between Sultanahmet and the far shore. Moving further from the Bazaar's tourist trap, the crowds on the street thinned out more and Monty dropped further back to remain unnoticed. Though her acute vision would allow her to keep tabs on her mark, even from a much greater distance, if he suddenly took a side street she was going to need to move fast in order to reacquire him before he disappeared from sight.
Retrieving her sunglasses from where they hung on the unbuttoned collar of her blouse, the girl slipped the white plastic fashion frames on. Unfortunately it was the best she could do for now as Turkey's staunchly secular constitution wouldn't even allow her the luxury of a headscarf, not unless she felt inclined to really raise eyebrows as a western woman following Islamic tradition when she didn't need to.
Further down the street the accountant crossed an intersection and turned right, forcing Monty to quicken her pace in order to avoid being left behind. She was about to cross after him when there was a tugging at her sleeve.
"Would you care to inspect my fine shirts Miss?"
Monty's head snapped down to take in the street hawker with his wares displayed on the pavement.
"No."
"Ah but Miss, they are…"
"Let go or so help me I will make a martyr of you," hissed the cyborg.
Shaking the man off, Monty abandoned her attempt to cross the traffic and strode down her own side of the street, using the wider angle of view it afforded to scan the footpath opposite for her target. When she found him he was almost another hundred meters further up and the cyborg quickened her pace again in an attempt to draw level.
She'd only managed to close half the distance however when the accountant turned left, away from her, into the next main street. Growling something unpleasant under her breath, the cyborg hastily checked left and right as best she could then dashed out across the traffic, leaving the squeal of tyres and blaring horns in her wake.
Dodging around the last slowing car, Monty followed the path she'd seen the accountant take. Twenty metres down the next street she managed to reacquire him and started closing the gap again. The pair tracked straight toward the waterfront, continuing as the asphalt ran out and crossed onto the wide forecourt of one of the district's many mosques. The wide open space gave Monty new cause for concern. However, with few options available to her, all she could do was drop back a little further and try to keep clear of the accountant's sightline as he glanced around. Fortunately his actions seemed to be more a result of nerves than any calculated attempt to single out a pursuer, leaving his tail reasonably able to remain undetected.
Having covered the grounds and almost at the western end of the Galata Bridge, the accountant crossed another road to the open space between the mosque and waterfront. There he struck out diagonally, travelling toward a tram station situated in the middle of the next band of asphalt closer to the Golden Horn. Drawing level with it he stopped, checking the traffic and, content the trip wasn't going to get him killed, crossed to the raised platform.
Her quarry seeming to have reached his immediate destination, Monty pulled up, starting to snap photos of the mosque and bridge with her little Leica as she weighed options. The tram station was small, and the accountant was sure to at least see her if she joined him on it. Whether the presence of a single western girl would concern him at all was another matter, and in this part of the city foreigners were plentiful. The only other time she was certain he may have noticed her before was at the café she and Jethro had first picked him up at. Still: once was an accident, twice a coincidence… as long as she didn't make it three a tram ride with her mark shouldn't increase her risk unduly.
Unwilling however to expose herself longer than absolutely necessary, the girl took a few more photos, before starting to amble toward the platform. Having studied a city map on her arrival, Monty knew the tramway made a loop through Fatih. It ran in from the west, inland of the Marmara coast, turned north behind Topkapi Palace and then up the Golden Horn to the Galata Bridge where it crossed the water into Galata and Beyoglu. As a result those tramlines also almost encircled the Grand Bazaar, with the closest being on its southern side. It was a logical assumption then that, if the accountant hadn't intended to cross the Horn he would have made for one of the closer, southern tram stops or simply walked to his destination. Of course he could have been actively trying to throw off a tail, but his actions so far didn't suggest that was the case.
Despite feeling confident in her reasoning, Monty still watched closely as a south-bound tram pulled up. If she was wrong about where he was headed, she was going to need to make a fast decision whether to let her quarry go or risk a flat-out dash to the next tram stop. Realising she was probably paying the whole scene slightly too much attention, the cyborg turned to a posted route map, before returning to squint at the light rail car's slab side to check its destination posted there and back to the map.
Fortunately for her, as the cars rumbled out of the station, the accountant was still standing on the platform. Feeling the need to help shore up the part of "tourist" she had just played, Monty retrieved her Leica again and, swallowing down the slight disgust she always felt at emulating the camera-wielding group she held in such distain, took another photo of the departing tram. From further down the street however, the sound of metal on metal signalled the approach its Galata bound counterpart.
Making use of the Istanbulkart, electronic ticket she'd purchased on arrival in the city, the cyborg took a seat near the front. The articulated vehicle's long, open interior allowed her to watch as the accountant boarded at the rear and made to sit down. Almost immediately however he stood up again to offer his seat to a woman getting aboard, and in the process certified he'd be clearly visible at least until the next stop.
With a screech of metal, the tram rumbled away and north across the Galata Bridge. As it neared the opposite shore, Monty's mark started to edge closer the exit. Excusing herself to a man standing in the aisle next to her seat, the cyborg rose and headed for the forward door.
She was on the platform almost as soon as the doors had opened at Karakoy station, situated right on the Golden Horn's northern waterfront and from where she and her handler had originally caught the tram to Fatih. Taking a knee and turning back toward the bridge the Leica was lifted again, as if to snap a nicely composed shot down the side of the tram cars. In the camera's small screen, Monty watched as the accountant exited. Checking quickly left and right, he climbed off the platform and started into Beyoglu proper, directly away from the water.
Again maintaining a safe distance, Monty gave chase. Though not as thick on the ground as in Fatih, Beyoglu saw its fair share of foreigners. The concentration was slightly greater in the immediate vicinity too as, headed uphill, pursuer and pursued were climbing toward the ancient Galata Tower. That however they passed right by and continued upward, pace slackening slightly as the accountant started to succumb to the clutches of gravity. Cresting the slope he turned into the next street and stopped for a rest.
Propping herself casually against a wall, just out of sight around the corner, Monty listened while the man brought his breathing under control. Given a moment to get her bearings she grimaced as she realized the irony in where they'd fetched up. The area was terribly familiar: if they turned left at the next intersection it would take her directly to the funicular rail, which she and her handler had been using to get to Karakoy tram station. If they turned right, it would take her into the fashion centre of Istiklal Avenue and eventually, to her hotel. Essentially, the fratello could have just taken up residence in an appropriate cafe and waited for the accountant to walk past, rather than traipsing all over the Old City, and gained equal success.
Around the corner, the sound of heavy breathing had quietened and Monty could hear leather soled shoes starting to tap on pavement again. Glancing through the window behind her, the cyborg saw her mark pass by its diagonally opposite number on the building's front facade, headed away up the footpath.
Starting again in pursuit, Monty didn't get far before she was again forced to remain concealed. In the small square the two had just entered were a set of escalators descending into the ground, with a metro sign and the word "Sishane" picked out on the stonework above them. On the escalator itself was the accountant, descending into the clutches of Istanbul's underground rail system. Waiting for him to disappear out of sight, Monty headed for the entrance herself.
Highly polished stone floors clicked under the cyborg's soles as she stepped off the descending stair. For once, luck was on her side as Sishane station was the end of Istanbul's M2 metro line. There was only one direction to go from it: north... under Beyoglu, then toward the financial and business districts of Besiktas and the urban areas beyond. Swiping her card at the turnstile, the girl found her next problem waiting: at this time of day, the metro was not particularly busy and its corridors sparsely populated. To make matters worse, Sishane's platform was a long, arched tunnel offering almost nothing in the way of concealment... and Monty had used up her only "get out of gaol free" card at the first tram stop.
She stopped to weigh options again, and they were not good. One was to end the pursuit right here and now and go back to trudging the circuit in Fatih. That certainly didn't appeal and would feel too much like failure. The second would be to risk getting spotted, maintain her current casual attitude and hope the accountant either wasn't playing by Moscow Rules or hadn't noticed her at the cafe and/or tram-stop.
Monty swallowed her pride… and chose option three.
Waiting in the platform's access corridor, as the train pulled into the station, the cyborg started to countdown. Reaching zero she took a deep breath and dashed into view, across the platform and swept through the train's doors just as they started to close. Leaning over inside the carriage, hands on her knees, Monty feigned being out of breath and looked up and down the subway car. Finding Omurtak's accountant staring at the strange panting girl, she threw him her best embarrassed grin, before moving "self-consciously" to a seat and "collapsing" into it.
Settling slightly more comfortably, Monty checked she could still see her mark then, in fitting with her cover, pulled out her own copy of the hotel supplied tourist map and studied it intently. The act was only in part for the benefit of potential observers. Finding Sishane station, the cyborg followed the M2 metro line north up the coast of the Bosphorus. At each station marked, she scanned the surrounding area, taking note of any potential tourist attractions, shops or similar nearby: anything which would give her a plausible excuse to get off in that vicinity.
Glancing up periodically to make sure her quarry still hadn't moved, Monty worked her way up the map to where the M2 split. Tracing the line south again as far as Taksim Station, which had just slid by the window, she booted up Wikipedia on her iPhone and started looking up the various sights she had chosen. At the rate the train was moving she only had time to skim the introduction for each article, but Monty was a fast reader, and it was enough to give her a little background on each.
Soon they'd left the borders of Beyoglu and entered the financial districts of Besiktas. Feeling that this would be a logical area for the Omurtak's accountant to leave the train, Monty got out of her seat, moving closer to the doors in the manner of tourists everywhere unsure of their stop. As each station passed she glanced down at her map again, as if checking how many stops she had to go, or if she had inadvertently missed the one she wanted.
Eventually, as the train slowed into Gayrettepe station, the accountant stepped up to the doors himself. As soon as they opened Monty was out and, sparing a quick glance to make sure she was at the station expected, strode off down the platform. Pausing briefly at the next corridor intersection to get her bearings she quickly made her way out of the metro, ahead of her target.
Taking a position at the top of the station's exit ramp, Monty again studied her dog-eared map, glancing around and pointing at streets or landmarks then back to the map, like someone trying to relate what they saw to ink on paper. It wasn't long before the accountant reached ground level as well. However, instead of walking away, he headed straight for the cyborg and the girl bit back a curse as her adrenalin spiked. The accountant however made a placating gesture as he walked toward her.
"You seem lost," he started in a heavily accented but surprisingly pleasant tenor. "Could I perhaps be of assistance?"
Monty breathed an internal sigh of relief, but remained on guard, "I was going to take a look at Zincirlikuyu Cemetery... just trying to get my bearings."
Studying the map the girl held out and where she was pointing, the accountant stroked his thin moustache for a few seconds, then waved her to follow him. Leading her to a taxi rank, he pointed up the street.
"You'll want to go that way, then turn…" he looked at the map again… "First street right."
Accepting her map back, Monty nodded and gave her thanks in some of the little Turkish she knew, "Sağ olun."
Turning from the girl, her helper moved to the first taxi at the rank and let himself into the rear seat. Monty though stayed where she was, rechecking the route he had laid out on the map and, seemingly content, sauntered off the opposite direction. Fortunately, cyborgs came with the same five senses as humans, and much better versions of the originals at that. As soon as she heard her quarry's taxi pull out and start to accelerate up the street, the girl jumped for the nearest car. Sliding across the vinyl bench in the rear of the taxi she doled two fifty Lira notes out of her wallet and dumped them on the front passenger seat.
"Follow that taxi and don't ask questions," ordered Monty, gesturing at the accountant's vehicle. "There'll be double that once you reach his destination… and don't let them notice you either."
Knowing better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, her surprised driver nodded and pulled out into the traffic, cutting off a passing delivery truck. As the blare of the truck's horn and curses of its occupant followed them up the road, Monty buckled her seatbelt and gripped the handhold a little tighter.
The raised position this part of the city enjoyed gave a fantastic view down the street and out across the Bosphorus to Istanbul's Anatolian shore. Almost directly ahead was one of the strait's giant bridges, stretching toward the far coast, with the taxi carrying Monty's mark driving toward it. However, as the two cars descended, the lead vehicle veered off the approach to the bridge, heading instead for the waterfront. As her own taxi followed suit, Monty noted the area passing by the window getting more residential and upmarket. Large, lushly planted properties matched the expensive yachts moored along the shoreline, giving some indication of the monetary worth of those residing here. Eventually they reached the water and turned left, following a wide promenade north along the Bosphorus Strait.
A kilometre or so further on, the lead car started to slow, and Monty signalled her driver to pull up in a side street. Handing over another hundred Turkish Lira, she gestured to herself then, pinching her fingers as if holding a zipper, drew them across her lips.
"I never happened, and you don't want to talk about it."
The cabbie nodded his understanding. The strange girl's payment had been over ten times what he'd normally have earned on a similar trip, enough to buy a fair amount of discreet silence.
Letting the taxi go, Monty moved swiftly back to the main street. Approximately a hundred meters further up, the accountant's car had drawn to a halt in front of a large, whitewashed, two story building with a terracotta roof, situated on its own bit of waterfront land. A doorman, dressed in a classic black mandarin collar jacket, had met the vehicle to usher his new arrival inside. Sauntering up her side of the street, letting the parked cars conceal her from view, the cyborg burnt details of the building into her brain. It was well maintained, with a neatly trimmed low hedge out the front. In a small carpark to one side were a number of vehicles of the more expensive, luxury variety. Added to the doorman's presence it would be a fair assumption that this was some kind of club, probably of the private persuasion.
Monty briefly considered trying to get inside, but quickly discarded the idea as at least one person there laboured under the impression she was busy reading gravestones three kilometres further inland. Instead remaining on her side of the asphalt, she continued her relaxed stroll down the street and considered her next course of action. On the blocks to the club's southern side were private residences which, going by the size and waterfront positioning, probably had a staff. Though one may have allowed her to get a look into the club grounds and rear area, Monty would have preferred to avoid risking a spate of broad daylight breaking and entry.
To the north was public parkland. That however offered very little cover so close to her target and, as far as she could tell, didn't protrude as far out into the water as the club's land anyway; the latter having assumedly been constructed on a certain amount of reclaimed dirt to give it more space. Either way, it again robbed her of a view into the building's rear.
About another hundred meters further up however, where the waterfront started to curve out into the Bosphorus, was a low, single story building, jutting out over the water on slender piles. In the hope that it was some sort of public amenity, Monty continued up the street toward it.
As luck would have it, wedged into the corner of the building beside a tourist information centre, was a small cafe. Realizing that it was now late afternoon and that she hadn't eaten since lunch, the girl located a waiter. Organizing an outside table, she quietly steered the man to a seat with a nice, clear view across the water to the back terrace of the building her mark had entered.
Sending the waiter off with an order for a Turkish coffee and baklava, Monty settled down to stickybeak. The distance would almost certainly keep her safe from any regular human in the next property distinguishing her features, whereas going the other way, her sharp eyes allowed her to pick out individual faces in great detail.
The rear of the club had sections of its upper story built out to form an overhang, creating a covered veranda under which tables and comfortable looking rattan arm chairs had been placed. Further out toward the water, large white parasols kept the sun off similar table and chair setups and it was under one of these that Monty spotted her accountant. Amongst the rest of the club's clientele his generic suit looked terribly low-rent, and she decided it a high probability he was visiting someone rather than a member. That someone was sitting facing away from his observer at that moment, but talking with some animation.
Her waiter returned with coffee and food and the cyborg picked at the offering while she continued to monitor the pair, head resting on her hand and apparently deep in thought. Across the water, one of the club's staff arrived at the accountant's table to clear empty glasses and the latter's companion twisted around to address the mandarin-suited man. ..
...and suddenly, Monty felt her day had been completely worthwhile, every minute of it. Seated opposite his accountant, was a man whose face Jethro had drawn for her just the previous night: Omurtak.
Withdrawing her iPhone, the cyborg activated its vampire app, a modern update of technology pioneered by the KGB, allowing it to disguise itself as any mobile in the area it could lift a number off. On the touch screen she tapped out a quick, cryptic, message to her handler, stating she had found their supplier and would now be headed back to the hotel before she risked exposing herself further.
Having paid the bill, but now a long way from public transport and not willing to use another taxi so soon, Monty continued her walk north along the seafront. Occasionally she would stop to take a photo or consult her map again, but eventually the course brought her to one of the Bosphorus Line commuter ferry stops. Opting for a paper ticket over the Istanbulkart, she boarded the ferry north and found a seat which would give her a good view of passengers boarding and disembarking. Keeping with the northbound boat till the Yenikoy terminal, another five or so kilometres up the Strait, she then changed to the southbound Scenic Route.
The sudden switch in direction meant that very few people followed through the same transfer, and the cyborg put a mental mark against those who did. Motoring south in long, lazy legs, the scenic ferry puttered back toward the Sea of Marmara. On either shore, late afternoon sun threw Istanbul's buildings into sharp relief, much to the delight of the few photographers lining the vessel's rails, and Monty repositioned herself lest any budding Lindberghs or Cartier-Bressons attempt to get a candid shot of a pretty girl with the golden city behind her.
As afternoon turned to evening, Monty found herself deposited back in Fatih/Sultanahmet, just opposite the mosque in front of which she had first boarded Istanbul's trams in pursuit of the accountant. Maintaining her switchback pattern of public transport usage, the cyborg caught the next tram away from the Golden Horn waterfront, riding it two stops before disembarking. Taking a meandering course she walked to the next stop along the line and caught another set of cars back, across the Galata Bridge and into Karakoy. Though the process extended her journey significantly, each interchange allowed Monty to narrow the field of potential pursuers. By the time a very tired cyborg arrived back at the Marmara Pera hotel, she was reasonably confident that no-one had tailed her.
Following the message which had arrived on her phone earlier, which simply read "top side", the girl caught an elevator to the hotel's rooftop bar. In a back corner, amongst carefully sculpted foliage and minimalist white furniture, Monty found her handler. Still dressed in his light grey suit, but with the top button of his shirt undone and the tie loosened, there was one other addition to his outfit...
"If you got that where I think you got that..."
Jethro threw his travelling companion a lopsided grin, "You don't like my fez?"
In reply Monty sighed, squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose, "I just can't leave you without adult supervision ever can I?"
"Look, the store owner wasn't giving in, it seemed faster just to buy the thing... have a drink."
Willing to concede the argument for now on grounds of tiredness, the girl sat down next to her partner and reached for the Negroni cocktail he'd left resting on a low table in front of them. Taking a sip, she judged it passable and slumped against the thick, white throw cushions provided by the bar. Crossing her legs she propped her head up with her free arm, supporting it on the arm of the couch with her chilling glass resting in her lap, and let out a long, tired sigh.
Glancing briefly at her, Jethro stood, "Hold on, I'll be back in a minute."
Monty watched her handler walk off across the softly mood-lit rooftop, keeping an eye on him till he was out of sight. Then she let her gaze wander across the still sparsely populated space, over its glittering infinity pool and out to the spectacular, sparkling vista of night-time Istanbul beyond. The glow of the city was broken only by the dark band of the Golden Horn, and punctuated by brightly lit Mosques, great icebergs in a sea of lights. Not generally one to wax lyrical however, Monty was content just to take in the view and recoup from the rigours of the day.
Soon Jethro returned with a table number and light blanket. Placing the number down, he shook the blanket out and took a seat next to his cyborg. Shifting to get more comfortable, he threw the blanket around both of them to ward off the autumn chill, and drew his diminutive girl in beside himself.
Putting their heads close together he said quietly, "So what did you find?"
Taking another sip of her cocktail, Monty gave her head a subtle shake, "Not a whole lot to be honest. Omurtak was at some sort of private members' club on the Bosphorus waterfront. It was only him and his accountant, and going by the standard of dress being worn, it'd be a reasonable assumption that the accountant was the guest."
Jethro thought for a second before voicing his opinion, "Istanbul doesn't really have a gentlemen's club tradition that I know of. My guess is that it must be a fairly new-money sort..."
"...well it is reasonably handy to Levent and Besiktas," put in Monty, "it could well be meant to service the crowd out of those, or one of the other financial districts close by. I'll have a dig later tonight and see if we can't attach a name to it."
"Food first," returned her handler. "That said, it might be worth putting some thought as to how we're going to make sure we turn up at the same time as Omurtak. Traipsing in and out of the joint without being members could raise some awkward questions."
"Well there is a doorman..."
Two days later, Monty stood in front of the hotel room's mirror, carefully applying some subtle, strategic shadow to accentuate her naturally heavily lidded eyes.
Acting on her suggestion that the doorman might be a good source from whom to determine Omurtak's movements, Jethro had returned to what they now knew to be the Istanbul Polo Club the previous night. Waiting for one of the porters to finish his shift, the spy had followed him to a small local hookah cafe in the urban Uskudar, directly across the Bosphorus from the club itself. Though the man had turned out to be a devout Muslim and therefore couldn't be plied with alcohol, over a couple of pipes of shisha the Briton had managed to get the information he required. Omurtak was to be found at the club on Monday and Wednesday afternoons as well as Friday evenings and nights.
Finished with her eye-shadow, Monty added a simple, clear lip gloss then picked up a squat, black glass bottle with gold atomizer cap from the table. Giving it a quick shake, she found it almost empty and made a mental note to buy more next time the opportunity arose. While Bvlgari's Jasmin Noir concentrate was not precisely cheap, it was the only scent she used regularly. On that basis the dark, close wearing perfume seemed like a good investment.
Monty pumped the atomizer twice into the air and walked through the ensuing mist, allowing the droplets to settle onto her skin. Taking a moment to enjoy the smell, she turned back to face the mirror and inspect the overall effect. A short, fitted black cocktail dress, with angled hemline and wide white collar, paired up with dark stockings accentuated her slender, long legged figure, while a padded bra and two inch heels did their part to add a more adult edge to her silhouette. She also carried a small, black patent leather clutch containing her PPK and, making the most of the luxury of extra space it afforded, a silencer and spare magazine.
Across the room, Jethro was shrugging on the jacket of a charcoal three-piece suit; the most formal attire he carried without going to black tie. Monty, having skimmed the Polo Club's dress code, had decided that the latter would be overkill and he was inclined to agree. Moving to inspect her handler, the cyborg reached out to do up the top button of his jacket, straightened his tie clip, then tweaked the crimson, single-point folded pocket square which added a flash of colour to the otherwise monochrome ensemble.
"Do I pass muster?"
His companion gave her handler an appraising look, which morphed into a sly smile, "I think so... barely."
Holding up her trench coat so she could slip into it, Jethro gave his cyborg another grin, "Then what say we be about it?"
The fratello's well-travelled Audi took them up the Bosphorus shoreline into the residential area in which the Polo Club resided. Finding a park a few hundred metres from the building itself so as to avoid having the vehicle associated to them, the Blackers walked on as a couple out to enjoy the early evening air. Ambling up the street side by side, Monty remained close to her handler, keeping a watchful eye out for any lurking danger. This evening had given her extra reason to be on guard as, unsure of club convention regarding the removal of jackets; Jethro had left his sidearm hidden in the car.
Their relaxed stroll eventually brought the pair to the Polo Club's entry. Having been welcomed in by the doorman (a different one to whom Jethro had talked) they were directed to the club concierge's desk. There, Jethro thumbed through his wallet, eventually producing membership to the Royal Over-Seas League as well as a letter of recommendation from the General Secretary of the same, on a now slightly scratty, gilded letterhead.
A holdover from his days in the British Secret Intelligence Service, Jethro's ROSL membership had been quietly expedited by that agency, a practical decision to allow their man some flexibility in his external dealings. As one of London's more progressive clubs it held reciprocal rights to a large number of foreign establishments, across a broad range or disciplines including, seemingly, the Istanbul Polo Club.
Content with Jethro's credentials, the concierge took Monty's coat for her and directed the fratello into the club proper, with instructions to come and see him if they required anything at all.
Open doors from the foyer lead through to a combination of members' lounge and bar; a long, low room taking up the entire rear of the club's bottom floor and furnished in a sumptuous mid-century style. French doors ran the full length of the space, opening out to the terrace on which Monty had spotted Omurtak and his accountant two days previous. Beyond that, across the water, the ancient urban centre of Uskudar was visible. Lit by the setting sun, its soft, reflected light suffused the Polo Club's interior with a warm, golden glow.
Placing a hand on the nape of his girl's neck, Jethro directed her gently toward the bar at one end of the building. This early in the evening the club lounge was quite busy, about two thirds of the small clusters of low set chairs and tables being occupied. About them, the room hummed quietly as the mostly expat crowd wound down from the week, accompanied by low, downbeat bossa nova jazz, played by a suited four piece stationed near the bar itself.
A few patrons gave the two strangers some attention, taking in the new scenery, but most paid them little heed. Keeping his cyborg close beside him, Jethro leaned on the bar's countertop in a position which would allow him a view out onto the terrace.
"A Vesper Martini please, shaken, on Tanqueray Ten," said the SWA's man, hailing the barman, "and a Negroni for the lady on the same."
While the barman produced a Boston style cocktail shaker, filled the steel beaker with ice and started measuring Tanqueray Ten gin into the vessel, Jethro continued to survey the room. He hadn't seen Omurtak on the way in, which suited the fratello's needs just fine. Whether Monty had anything to add he'd need to wait till they'd found somewhere to sit to find out.
A thump of heavy glass being wedged into to the top of the beaker, followed by the rattle of ice, brought the handler's attention back to where his cocktail was being prepared. While he was scanning the room, Monty had kept an eye on the process, making sure nothing got slipped into their drinks.
Leaving the shaker together for the time being, the barman next produced a short glass and filled it with ice. Setting that to chill, he selected an orange from a bowl behind the bar. Pausing to partake in a little showmanship, he flicked the fruit into the air before catching it behind his back and placing it on a cutting board. Working quickly he sliced off a strip of the rind, trimming the edges before giving a lemon similar treatment. Into the short glass went a shot of gin, a shot of sweet vermouth and a shot of Campari which were stirred vigorously and joined by the orange rind.
Extracting a chilled martini glass from the fridge, the barman knocked the heavy tumbler from the top of the cocktail shaker. He then produced a straining whisk, flipping it also in the air and dropping it over the mouth of the metal lower section with a flourish. Using it to hold back the ice, he poured Jethro's drink, finishing it with the lemon rind garnish.
Having left payment on the counter, Jethro picked up his martini and handed Monty the shorter, old fashioned glass with its deep red-orange contents. Setting their sights on an empty group of chairs on the far wall, the pair moved sedately through the club's membership, giving both a good chance to study each face in turn. Most seemed to be in late middle age or older, predominantly male but with the occasional younger man or woman scattered through the mix. Most of the women and girls however seemed to be taking a similar role to the one Monty played: hanging on the arm of one of the club's patrons.
Settling himself into a low, smoothly carved Dansk chair and taking a sip of his Vesper, Jethro leaned over to his cyborg, "I take it you didn't spot Omurtak on the way in either?"
The girl shook her head, "No, but I wouldn't mind getting a better look at the terrace."
"Well finish your drink first. If he's not here yet it doesn't matter, in fact if we're first on the scene it may just work to our advantage."
Seemingly content with that, Monty relaxed back in her seat, letting her eyes rove across the room whilst the music and hum of conversation washed over her. Every so often her keen cyborg hearing would pick up a snippet of one group or another's talk and, if it seemed interesting, she'd follow it along. It was evident from what she heard that most of the people in the club were from the nearby business districts. Talk of shares and bear markets moved to the changing fortunes of different companies through the financial downturn, not that the latter seemed to have unduly effected anyone present. Perhaps they wouldn't be able to afford that second SUV, but the girl hardly saw that as a reason to offer up sympathy. Another group, two sets of chairs across, were discussing shipping trade around the Mediterranean and up through Turkey's straights to the Black Sea area. In memory of the intelligence packet she'd received in Monaco, Monty listened in until the group moved itself to one of the informal chess games taking place out on the terrace.
Lounging in the chair next to hers, Jethro had taken her hand, gently stroking the back of it with his thumb while, like his partner, he let his eyes wander around the room. While he lacked the ability to eavesdrop his companion did, he could still watch the people nearby and how they interacted. Right now, though there was the usual mix of extroverts to wallflowers and those fitting in between, no-one looked like someone consciously undertaking clandestine dealings. That however could just mean that they were professionals who knew what they were doing, but the spy had always felt that there was a chink in anyone's armour: if you looked hard enough.
Eventually, a movement near the door caught his attention and he leaned over to whisper in his girl's ear, "Omurtak's just arrived."
Monty's eyes flicked over to the entrance to the lounge as well. Flashing a small smile in response to her partner for the benefit of anyone watching, she twisted around to bring her own mouth in line with his ear. "You want to go meet him?"
Jethro shook his head slightly, "Not yet, lets allow the man to get comfortable first."
With that the fratello settled in to wait a little longer, watching as Omurtak retrieved a drink from the bar. Powerfully built and bordering on heavy, the man did not need to weave through the crowd as he carried himself out to the same chess game the group with an interest in shipping had gone to watch. Whether consciously or no, those in his path quietly cleared the road.
Soon the current match had wrapped up and the supplier ensconced himself in one of the players' chairs. As the man's own game got underway, Jethro nudged Monty and the pair vacated their current position.
Stopping by the bar again for refills, they made their own way out onto the terrace, joining the small group of spectators around Omurtak's table. Taking up a position so as to be within the native Turk's field of vision, they watched as he proceeded to successfully block his opponent's opening before driving home his own black army's counter offensive on the board. As the game progressed it was rapidly becoming obvious who the superior player was as the white army's parries and ripostes became more frantic and less well thought out, crumbling in the face of the black pieces' onslaught. Eventually, bowing to convention as his position became ever more untenable, Omurtak's competition knocked his own king over, conceding the match.
The two players shook hands over the board.
"Same time again next week?"
"Of course, if you want to try your luck again."
Laughing at what was apparently a running joke, they got up to leave and Jethro stepped forward addressing the victor, "Would you care for another game?"
Stopping to study the man who had spoken, Omurtak motioned to the seat opposite him. "I did not wish to monopolize the board, but if you are offering then I will most certainly accept. What would you prefer: white or black?"
Taking his own place, the handler started to gather up pieces and reset them on the board, "I'll take black."
Omurtak's eyebrows rose slightly at this and he studied his competition with renewed interest. Meanwhile, Monty settled herself on the arm of her handler's chair, resting a slender arm across its back.
"Interesting choice, you would forfeit the first move..."
"The first move is an advantage. However, by playing second, one can learn much from how their opponent opens."
"Perhaps, but personally I prefer to be able to take the initiative from the start, so I shall not fight you for the black."
Pieces in place, Jethro lounged back in his chair and propped up an ankle on his other knee. Taking a sip from his Vesper, he let an arm snake around the girl sitting next to him, resting his hand on her upper thigh, and settled in to wait for the game's first move to be made.
Omurtak studied the board in silence, immobile and with his chin resting on knitted together fingers. Eventually he slid the pawn from in front of his king forward two spaces and immediately removed his finger to signify he'd made his play, then relaxed back into his own chair.
On the opposite side of the table, without relinquishing his handful of cyborg, the SWA's man contemplated the board, thumb absentmindedly stroking his girl's thigh. From her perch on his chair arm, Monty consciously pushed the pleasant sensation from her mind and concentrated on maintaining a sultry, ornamental visage, whilst keeping an eye and ear on the surrounding crowd.
Seemingly coming to a decision, Jethro unknotted himself from his charge and leaned forward to move the black, queenside bishop pawn forward a similar two spaces to his opponent, signalling his willingness to open the fight for the centre of the field.
Omurtak next moved a knight forward, followed by his queenside central pawn which was rapidly lost to Jethro's own black pawn as the Englishman began to draw his pieces into a tight Dragon variation, Sicilian Defence.
As his opposite number started to push his natural line of attack up the game's kingside, the spy leaned into the table's centre as well.
"You're a difficult chap to get a hold of Omur."
The man across the table gave an apologetic smile at that, "Comes with the territory I'm afraid."
"In that case, joining a members' club would almost seem like settling down would it not?"
"A little perhaps, Mr. Blacker, I really should move on but I have grown fond of this establishment. Perhaps I am getting old."
Now it was Jethro's turn to grin, "Ah, so you do remember."
"Your Franklin job was one of the more successful I had a hand in. It pays to remember that, and occasionally remind other customers of it."
'Mr. Blacker' glanced down at the game briefly, weighing his options in light of the most recent tactical development, and moved a bishop forward to aid his own counteroffensive along the board's queenside.
"Well, if you've been happy with my previous work, I may have a potential proposition for you."
Omurtak's eyes flickered up from the black and white pieces in front of him briefly to look at his counterpart opposite again.
"Then let's discuss it later somewhere more private."
Moving another pawn to clear the road for a rook, the Turk leaned back in his seat to await the next development.
As time wore on it became evident to the more attuned of those watching that there were two fairly distinct games taking place on the same board. One was centred around Omar's white, kingside offensive, and the other on Jethro's counterattack down the opposite half of the sixty-four black and white squares. Each player was forced to split his attention between both, and the pieces danced furiously as they attempted to push forward their own gambits whilst parrying against their opponent's.
Slowly however, the Turkish man started to gain the upper hand. His British opposite's more conservative, defence biased opening had been advantageous to his aggressive play style and the current ferocious switching of fronts was only adding to that. Eventually the inevitable came to pass...
"Checkmate."
Shrugging his defeat, Jethro reached forward and pushed over his black king. Then he stood up, offering his hand across the board.
"That was an excellent game, thank you."
Omurtak returned the gesture, "It was. Would you care to join me in the dining room to pick it apart further?"
"We'd be delighted."
Slipping an arm again around Monty, her handler followed the Turk back through the main lounge and into the foyer again. A set of richly carpeted stairs took them to the building's second level and the dining room which occupied its northern end. Acquiring an isolated table for three, a waiter brought menus, then left the little group to its own devices.
"I was not lying when I said that was an excellent game."
Jethro nodded, "The Sicilian has taken some flak in its time, but I still maintain it's a solid opener."
Omurtak looked thoughtful, "I am not sure if I would agree with you entirely. Played well and astutely a Sicilian variant can put black in a good position. However it, like the real Sicily herself, leaves too many holes and leverage points open to strike at more valuable targets."
Taking a sip of the supplied table water he continued, "Also, I find it too much a purely defensive tactic. As we proved today, it gives opportunity for an aggressive opponent to gain the advantage."
The SWA handler nodded again, conceding the point, "Agreed. However, it does open up options down the queenside for black. Either way, it's a good opener against someone you're unfamiliar with regards their style."
"That's right, I do not remember your playing last time we met."
"We didn't. I was too busy at the time to give it much thought, but recently I've been trying to polish my game up a little."
"Which has lead to a lot of less-than-interesting books being bought and conversations being had I can assure you," put in Monty flatly.
The Turk turned his attention to her, "Ah, you are not a fan of the great craft then I take it?"
"Not so much."
"Unfortunately it's a past time wasted on the young," said Jethro, giving his cyborg a sly wink.
Omurtak looked between the two, "Are you not going to introduce me?"
"Where are my manners," said the handler, motioning to his chess opponent. "Monty, this is Omurtak, he supplied us for the Franklin job I was telling you about. Omur, this is Monique. She's my... I guess you could call her my 'understudy', without whom I'd now be lost, so feel free to talk in front of her. Should the worst happen, it will be she who carries on any job."
Monty reached out her hand and, catching Jethro's signal that the girl was to be treated as an equal, the Turk shook it. "Well, while the king is the most important piece on the chess board; it is the queen which gets things done."
But if you lose the king, then you lose the game.
"If you'll forgive me saying so," he continued, "you seem very young to be carrying such a role."
The girl cocked an eyebrow, "Youth does not beget stupidity or incompetence Mister Omurtak, but merely creates an excuse for those incapable or unwilling to make a contribution."
Leaning back in his chair, the fratello's host ran a more appraising eye over the girl seated opposite him as the table's waiter returned.
In line with the Polo Club's apparent target audience of western expats and Istanbulie new rich, the menu was of a similarly east meets west flavour. Remembering her own, albeit blessedly brief, encounters with the SWA kitchen's attempts at "fusion" cookery, Monty selected something which erred strongly toward a local flavour; a move mimicked by her handler. Having given Omurtak a chance to order as well, Jethro took a minute to study the wine list.
"I think in lieu of this evening's events, it would only be appropriate to have something from Sicily," he said. "A bottle of the Zisola for the table as well please."
"Of course sir."
With the group again alone, Omurtak turned to his opposite male number, "While I realise it's possibly poor form to talk business before dinner, I would like to get some idea of what you are intending Blacker."
The handler sat back to consider this, however it was his partner who spoke up, "You need to be aware that we are still very much in the proof of concept stage right now. The intention here is to acquire a feel for what it may or may not be possible for you to source."
The burly Turk nodded slowly, signalling his understanding as Monty continued, "I'm sure you're aware by now of the job that went off in Monaco recently..."
"I am, in fact I wondered if your Blacker here had anything to do with it."
The Briton let a small, wry, smile crease his features, "Why does everybody seem to assume I had some hand in that? Sadly I did not, however we were hoping to somehow capitalize on its success."
He halted the sentence there as the waiter returned with a bottle and corkscrew. Fighting slightly to get the screw through the hard wax cap on the cork, the man extracted the stopper and handed it to Jethro, who gave it a deep sniff before nodding. Satisfied at his response, the waiter tied a fresh linen napkin around the top of the bottle and, holding it by its base, let a little of the deep red liquid run into his guest's glass.
Picking it up, the SWA man twirled the glass, sniffed at its contents and took a tiny sip, allowing it to rest on his tongue. Finally he nodded again and the waiter tipped the bottle, pouring about an inch of wine across the bottom of the club's wide stemware. He followed suit for the two other occupants of the table before placing the bottle in the middle of them and withdrawing once again.
Jethro nodded at the dark vessel now sitting on the table, "That needs to breathe; I'd leave it for ten minutes."
Leaning forward again he continued, "Back to that Monaco gambit... now that it's gone off, there's got to be a lot of people wondering what was stolen and when it's going to hit the market."
Omurtak however was looking thoughtful, "I think you may have waited a little long on this my friend. Whatever was stolen has surely been disposed of by now."
"Yes and no," started Monty. "We figure there's likely two windows open during which we could believably fence 'goods' from the heist. The first would be the few weeks after the job itself which we have indeed missed. The second would be in the six-month to two year range: when the heat has died down a touch and word of a casino robbery has had time to spread to a wider market. With a little luck, that broader market will let us push our asking prices up as well."
Now the Turk's attention was completely on the girl in front of him, "So what were you hoping to fence?"
Monty gave a small smile and shrug, "That's what we're here to see you for. We need to get a handle on both what resources could be available to us, as well as what's likely to fetch a good price right now; whether it be bonds or diamonds or..."
Jethro reached out and laid a hand lightly on his girl's arm and shook his head halting her. Then he turned to Omurtak.
"Is there somewhere perhaps more private where we could talk specifics? All the ears around here make me nervous."
Stroking the small wisps of greying hair around his temples, the supplier thought about this. "Do you have a hotel we could meet at?"
"We do, but its walls are thin. It'd be nice to find familiar ground, with less unknown faces in the crowd."
There was another lull in the conversation while the group considered its options.
"There is a restaurant in Avcilar which I operate out of at the moment, and most of my regular patrons are known to me," said the fratello's associate cautiously. "I will give you the address, meet me there tomorrow evening."
"We'll be there," nodded Jethro, as he looked over Omurtak's shoulder. "But now I believe: dinner is served."
It was getting toward midnight by the time the party of three broke up and went its separate ways. Conversation from the arrival of meals onward had remained mostly legal and clean, centring on the political and financial situations through Europe, Asia and Africa.
Spruiking his wares and taking requests from across all three continents, Omurtak had talked animatedly on the topic. Evident was his disappointment that the global financial crisis had not turned into a cataclysm similar to the fall of the Soviet Union, but on a much grander scale, and resulting in a new free-market free-for-all. Nations selling whatever they could to make ends meet, happily supplying those who wished to cut themselves a piece of the world, he saw as the ultimate expression of market forces at work.
"I had arrangements all made up with shipping companies, and Reds in their aircraft ready to haul my cargoes," he had said sadly. "But, there is still hope! A simple business man may find the world smiling on him again yet."
Monty had felt less enthused by the idea, but maintained a convivial and positive outlook through the conversation. Should the West suffer a similar collapse to the USSR, certainly one of the first victims, with its various warring factions, would be Italy, thus nullifying all the SWA's work to date. The only thing that would perhaps prevent its descent into outright chaos would be that, with a lack of natural resources and an industry-based economy, the financial pressures of waging outright war would be untenable. That was not however a theory that the cyborg had any urge to put to the test.
Settling again into her accustomed seat in the Audi, the girl pushed those thoughts aside and turned to her handler, "You realise that one day our role in Monaco is going to get out don't you?"
Jethro nodded, "Of course it will, and when it does, people will wonder why we didn't say anything."
"And the answer?"
"That's for everyone else to bicker over."
Shifting the fratello's car into drive, the handler threw a U-turn, heading back toward the bridge over the Bosphorus. He would make a large loop over to Istanbul's Anatolian shores, before crossing back into Europe with the intention to weed out and throw off any potential pursuit.
Beside him, Monty piped up again, "Would you say we at least got Omurtak interested?"
At that Jethro threw his companion one of his half-grins, "I'd say so, and organized for him to invite us exactly where we want to be."
"Now we just need to make sure we can capitalise on that."
To Be Continued
