‘Okay,’ I replied.
‘You’ve got my number; here’s another one in case there’s a problem. It’s Grosvenor’s.’
As good as my memory was, I didn’t want to trust it so I pulled out my cellphone and entered it on speed-dial under 911. I was still keying it in as Whisperer plunged on.
‘Okay, so we’ve got thirty-six hours and we’ve got the outline of a plan. Now we work it. What’s the first step?’
‘A phone call,’ I replied. ‘We can’t make it ourselves – it has to sound like the real deal. What’s the highest-level asset we have inside Turkish intelligence?’
Given the country’s strategic importance, I knew that the CIA – like every other major intelligence agency – would have spent years cultivating turncoats inside MIT.
Whisperer said nothing – I was asking him to discuss one of our nation’s most closely held secrets.
‘Dave?’ I prompted him.
‘There’s somebody we could use,’ he said reluctantly.
‘Who?’ I knew that I was pushing too hard, but I had to know if it would fly.
‘For shit’s sake – don’t ask me that,’ he replied.
‘Who?’
‘There are two deputy directors of MIT,’ he said finally. ‘One of ’em grew up Wal-Mart but prefers Gucci, okay?’
‘Shit … a deputy director?’ I said, taken aback. Despite my years in The Division, I could still be shocked at the scale of betrayal inside the secret world. ‘He’s not going to like doing this,’ I said.
‘He won’t have a choice – he’ll be scared I’ll turn him into his government. Maybe they still hang traitors in Turkey. What are the details?’ I heard the rustle of paper as he grabbed a pen to take notes.
When I had finished, he read the bullet points back to me, but he had done more than record them – he had improved and massaged them on the move and, once again, I thanked God for a great case officer.
‘What now?’ he asked. ‘Call him and get him to do it?’
‘Yeah, it’s warp-speed if we’re gonna have a chance.’
I rang off and, while Whisperer was dropping a bomb on a deputy director of MIT, I hammered on the cockpit door. I heard the voice of the ex-US Air Force pilot through the intercom.
‘What is it?’
‘Change of plan. Ditch Gaza, we’re going to Bodrum.’
The door flew open. ‘Where’s Bodrum?’
I yelled the answer, but I was already turning back to the closet. I had another urgent call to make.
Chapter Twelve
WHEN HIS PHONE rang, bradley was in a bar on the Lower East Side. It wasn’t some hipster joint with tapas and a ‘tasting menu’ but a real place with nicotine ingrained in the walls and drinks strong enough to curl your toes. A last vestige of old New York – a cops’ bar, in other words.
Ben was attending a farewell for some old warhorse and, thanks to the popularity of the retiree and the design of the speakeasy, the only place he could escape the crowd and noise was out in the street. As a result, he was holding a long-neck beer in drizzling rain when he got drafted into the front line of the secret world.
‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘In a CIA jet over Jordan,’ I said. There was no point in masking it, I needed him shaken, to hear the clarion call.
‘As soon as you hang up,’ I continued, ‘I want you to call the man you’ve been passing messages to. His name is David McKinley, he’s the director of United States intelligence.’
I heard Bradley’s intake of breath. ‘Shit, I thought—’
‘Forget whatever you thought. This is the real deal. Tell Dave I need a wingman fast. He’ll organize a chopper to take you to an airport and get you on a government jet.’
‘Where am I going?’ he asked.
‘Bodrum. McKinley will arrange the documentation – you’re an NYPD detective investigating the murder of Ingrid Kohl.’
‘Who’s Ingrid Kohl?’
‘It’s the name of the dead woman you found at the Eastside Inn.’
‘How do you—?’
‘Later,’ I said, as I thanked providence for Cameron and whoever Ingrid really was: their crimes had got me into Turkey and had at least given us a chance.
‘I’ll pick you up at the airport,’ I said. ‘And Ben – make sure you bring your side arm.’
Six miles high, turning hard for Bodrum, the turbulence finally abating, I figured he wouldn’t need it if everything went to plan. Then again, when had that ever happened?
Chapter Thirteen
DESPITE HIS VEHEMENT objections, the Deputy Director of the Turkish MIT made the phone call twenty minutes after I had spoken to Whisperer. It was to Leyla Cumali.