Political Thriller: RUSSIAN HOLIDAY, an American Assassin story

  The next train from Zagreb to Belgrade was a little more interesting because it was daylight and he could look out the window. But being cooped up in the train was beginning to make him stir-crazy, like he had been during his recovery. This trip was a little more troublesome because it was only second-class, so Robert had to put up with neighbors. When one of them, an Englishman, tried to speak to him, he feigned ignorance, claiming he didn’t speak English. The Englishman turned his nose in disbelief, but it suited Robert just fine. He wasn’t a tourist and wasn’t there to make any friends.

  They had reserved an entire four-sleeper compartment for Robert for the overnight trip from Belgrade to Sofia, where Robert was stuck for a day waiting for the night train to Istanbul.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Crossing over into Turkey was like entering another planet. Spread out over Europe and Asia, which was only a bridge away, Istanbul was a city on two continents. Robert’s transport, another silent type, this time a Turk, drove him in a small van, deep into the heart of the old districts, which were on the European side. The walls of the ancient city of Constantinople which had withstood the test of time, and its old mosques with their towering minarets showed the contrast of an ancient place against the stark background of modernity of one of the most heavily populated cities of the world.

  The van came to a stop at an apartment in the Sultanahmet District, the oldest part of town.

  “This is where you live.”

  The driver handed Robert an envelope, and he ripped open the top and spilled a set of keys into his hand. He opened the door, grabbed his backpack from the backseat, and said good-bye to the man of few words.

  The apartment was small, but livable. Robert had never called a place home for more than a few months. He wondered if he would stay long enough at this one to develop any habits. He thought about his dog. They said they would “take care of it,” but he had seen first-hand how “they” take care of things and it didn’t give him comfort. But he knew that Marie, the caretaker, loved the dog and treated it as one of the family. Whenever his involuntary servitude was up, he vowed to return for him. For the time being, however, everything was shrouded in secrecy, including his identity and the mysterious new (and last) job they were saving for him.

  ***

  The orchestra played “Hail to the Chief” as the president took the stage at the Annual White House State Dinner in a huge tent that had been set up on the White House lawn. This was the chance for Washington elite’s who’s who to rub elbows with the most influential power brokers in the world. As the president toasted Chinese President Xi Jinping in his own unique, late-night talk show host style, Nathan Anderson motioned to Ted Barnard across the table. Barnard understood it to be a call for an impromptu spy summit as soon as the president had finished speaking and the black-tie attendees went back to their Colorado lamb with fried milk and baby broccoli. Both men were hardly noticed as they excused themselves from the table at staggered intervals and met in an enclave near the men’s room. To Barnard, Anderson was like a pesky fruit fly you tried to swat away but kept coming back. But he had the ear of the president and this had allowed him to insert his nose into this aspect of the company business.

  “Has the PAL situation cooled off yet?”

  “Everything is under control.”

  They both suddenly fell silent as two Chinese men exited the restroom. Barnard, slipping back into the role of head spy, put a hand on Anderson’s elbow as he watched the two disappear.

  “Good, because the next project is extremely sensitive. The president wants our best man on it.”

  “God man, you think PAL is our best man? He’s a wild hair, a liability.”

  “Sometimes it helps to use your brain instead of just blindly executing orders. Besides, this assignment is so dangerous it borders on impossible. And there’s nobody else who has proven that effective against the impossible.”

  “We can’t afford a screw-up on this one.”

  “The man wants PAL, what can I say? Will he be ready or not?”

  Barnard reluctantly nodded. “He’ll be ready.”

  ***

  Two weeks had gone by without a word from them. Robert spent his days wandering around the old town, and buying his staples in the open market. His favorite time was the morning, when a thick blanket of low fog often covered the entire city, and he could walk around freely without having to worry that anyone was following him.

  Robert became fascinated with the Galata Bridge. Every day, as part of his rehabilitation routine, he would walk from the old town across the top of the bridge to Asia, and commune with the fishermen at the rail, who seemed to always be there, hanging over the edge, with their fishing poles, smoking nargile water pipes and munching on fresh givrek from the baker’s baskets: big, loopy donuts covered with sesame seeds. Or watching the balik-ekmek boats bobbing in the Golden Horn. Like elaborate gold-domed pagodas on top of carved hulls, the gaudy boats reminded him of piñatas, with their ridiculous bow figureheads of dragons or mermaids and their elaborate gold columns and swinging red and gold Ottoman lanterns. Robert was an expert at being anonymous, so it wasn’t long before he was dressing, walking and talking like the rest of the crowd on the bridge, which also had its fair share of tourists.

  Most days he’d walk back on the bottom level of the bridge, listening to the colorful cooks advertising their fresh fish sandwiches.

  “Balik-ekmek, balik-ekmek!”

  Robert watched a cook dressed in a red embroidered Ottoman costume on one of the boats stuff a generous load of grilled fish into a fresh half-loaf of bread and hand it to a customer. He walked along the bridge, being solicited by waiters in the restaurants.

  “Balik-ekmek! Buyrun! Buyrun!”

  He sat down at a table and, moments later, a smiling waiter brought him a steaming hot grilled fish sandwich, stuffed with mackerel, peppers and lettuce. Robert thanked him in Turkish.

  “Teskur ederim.”

  The waiter bowed and smiled. “Rica ederim. Drink?’

  “Yes, thank you. Teskur ederim.”

  The waiter came back with a glass of salgam, a drink made from fermented purple carrots, turnips and boiled wheat. It tasted kind of like pickle juice with the dominant taste being turnips. Robert liked it right away, probably because it was as strange as he was.

  The daily trip across the bridge and back became a routine he looked forward to. He would buy fresh mackerel, angler fish or sea bream from the fish market vendors, who would clean the fish and wrap it in paper for him to take home. He thought he would get sick of eating fish, day in and day out, but soon began to daydream of having a boat himself. Being a hermit, Robert could definitely live on a boat, as long as it had a toilet, a shower and a galley. He’d saved up enough money from his earnings to live for years. Robert had never thought of retirement before. He had always thought he’d work until he got killed someday, and that would be that.

  Maybe I should just chuck it all and stay here, change my name and hide in plain sight. They’d never find me and then someday they’d stop looking.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  As Robert strolled the Galata Bridge with his latest fresh market purchases, he paused and hung over the rail, and watched an old fisherman next to him struggle with his catch and then bring a nice-sized sea bass home. The old man cut the line and pulled the hook out, and the fish flopped around inside his bucket. He squinted up at Robert, whose hands were loaded with paper, nodded and said something in Turkish. Robert responded in Arabic.

  “I don’t speak Turkish.”

  The man smiled and switched to Arabic. “I see you here every day, buying fish. Why do you buy when you can just catch it?”

  Robert paused, thinking about it a second.

  Why not?

  “Where can I get my tackle?”

  The man ran his fingers through his grey moustache. “I can help you. Come back here early tomorrow morning and we will set you up with everything you need.”

/>   From the following morning, Robert was fishing and learning how to speak Turkish. The man’s name was Dimitri Galanos. He was a Greek who had lived in Istanbul for many years. The lines on his face were many, but Robert could read them like a palm reader. They told of a hard life, sadness and grief, but his warm smile and patient manner of fishing made it evident he had found his peace.

  “I thought the Turks hated the Greeks.”

  “We have a rich history, like two fighting relatives. But people are people and we all need to live together and get along. Do the French hate the Germans?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Well?”

  Robert spent most of his free time on the bridge, fishing alongside Dimitri. He was like the grandfather Robert never had. But the fishing was slow going. Robert had spent about a week and had nothing but nibbles on his line.

  “I don’t think I’m meant to do this.”

  The old man’s white mustache raised in a warm smile, and he said in his gruff voice, “Son, just like no man was born a lawyer or an architect, no man was born a fisherman. When you learn to be patient, to treat time as relative and stop counting it like it’s a bunch of beans, you will catch fish – so many you won’t even be able to count them.”

  Robert tried to follow his advice.

  “Hold the pole gently. Become a part of the sea. That way the fish will think your bait is just another fish for them to eat.”

  The Zen art of fishing.

  Robert cast his line and relaxed on the bench.

  “Think of the underwater world, malaka. You are a part of it now. Forget time. It is not your friend anyway.”

  Suddenly, Robert felt as if he had entered another world – him, Dimitri and the other fishermen at their sides. The regular world was buzzing on by, tending to their appointments, responsibilities. Life for them was moving at a rocket’s pace. Even the tourists seemed preoccupied with their sightseeing schedules. Not the fishermen. They were happy just to be there, on the bridge, fishing. The old man put his hat over his eyes to take a snooze, holding his pole while he slept.

  Robert felt a quiver on his line. ‘Dimitri!”

  Dimitri threw his hat off and looked up. “That’s it! Tug on it gently. Make him think the little fish on your line is getting away.”

  Robert tugged and felt a pull on the line. Then, it started to unwind quickly, spinning, spinning.

  “Good! Reel him in, malaka, reel him in!”

  Robert pulled back on the pole reeling, and the pole bent forward like a tree branch heavy with winter snow.

  “Don’t let him get away!”

  Robert reeled and reeled, pulled and pulled, until he saw the silver flash of a fish flying above the surface.

  “That’s a big one!”

  Now, the other fishermen had all come to alert and were cheering him on, as if it was some kind of significant event. For them, it was. Robert struggled with the fish until he had exhausted it and brought it up to the pier, catching it with his net.

  “That’s the biggest sea bass I have ever seen on this bridge. Must be over a kilo!”

  From that day on, fishing became a passion with Robert. He still bought fresh bread from the vendors at the bridge, but he caught so much fish he never had to buy another fish sandwich. As it was when he had lived in the Rocky Mountains, Robert’s freezer soon became packed with frozen fish, stacked like plastic-wrapped bricks from floor to ceiling.

  He found a gym to supplement and accelerate his recuperation efforts and worked it into his routine every day after fishing. The gym was not far from the bridge, so, after cleaning his fish, he would take it home, stow his equipment, put one fish in the fridge for dinner and the rest into the freezer, and then it was off for a vigorous two-hour workout.

  Before long, not only was he walking without a recognizable limp, but building up to the same physical training routine he had before the shooting. Robert was ready to go back into action. He checked in daily with his PGP mail, and was pleasantly surprised to find a message from Lyosha.

  Bob, I have been wondering why I haven’t heard from you. I have been thinking to come back to Paris soon.

  Without revealing his location, Robert responded that he had left Paris and didn’t know how long it would be until his return.

  The message from Lyosha made his mind wander to his holiday in Moscow, which they had so rudely interrupted. Robert had never had a significant close relationship with any woman, only a series of starts and stops, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t curious about how it would be. Lana was so soft and nice and her presence, even though it had been for just a few days, had made him feel good in a way he had not felt for a long time. He shifted his gaze to the burner phone on the table, one of three he had purchased, and activated it. From memory, he dialed her number.

  “Allo?”

  “Hello, Lana? This is Bob.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Bob, do you remember me?”

  “Yes, Bob, of course I do. How are you?”

  There wasn’t really anything he could tell her. He couldn’t say: Well, I killed two terrorists and that went okay but now the police are looking for me. But the third assassination didn’t go so well after I offed eleven jihadis and got shot in the leg and the shoulder, but I’m okay, so the conversation was a short one.

  “Oh, I’m alright. I’ve been thinking about you lately.”

  “Really, why?”

  “Because I really enjoyed the time I spent with you and always regretted that it was cut short.”

  Now he was regretting even this phone call. It was a mistake. He couldn’t invite her to Istanbul to hang out with him while he hid from the French authorities and waited for his next kill assignment.

  “Well, I’m still here in Moscow, and would be happy to see you any time.”

  That answer gave Robert a good feeling, like she was actually in the room with him. Acceptance was the only form of friendship he had ever known.

  “Great, I look forward to it.”

  “Me too. And Bob?”

  “Yes?”

  “Call me again, will you?”

  Robert agreed to do that, and hung up, feeling satisfied, but he had to abandon his fantasies for grim realities when he opened his PGP mail and found a message.

  Personal meeting. Tomorrow, Taksim Gezi Park., 1300 hrs.

  It wasn’t signed, but Robert knew who it was from – the man with no name.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Mothers were rolling their babies in strollers and some young people were hanging out in the park, but it was otherwise empty. Robert approached a circular fountain surrounded by flowerbeds with colorful flowers. He sat down at the opposite end of a bench which was already occupied by a man reading a newspaper. His words fell on the man’s ears in the pauses between rhythmic spouts of fountain water.

  “Don’t you know people don’t read those anymore?”

  “The hell you say?”

  The man kept hold of the paper and didn’t move his attention from it, as he removed a folder from his lap and slid it across the bench.

  “Couldn’t you have done this by PGP? What is it, your flair for the dramatic?”

  “Not this one. This is top secret.”

  Robert smirked, grabbed the file and realized the man with no name was gloating at him as he lit up a cigarette.

  “I was against you taking this job.”

  Robert opened the folder and flipped through it. “What else is new?”

  “General Yaman Hemsani is the commander of the Syrian Arab Army Forces of the Basha al-Assad regime.”

  Robert held up his hand. “Wait a minute. Russia is in there actively supporting Syria with ground force training. Wouldn’t a direct hit against a top Syrian general be an act of war against Russia, by proxy?”

  “The sensitive nature of this makes it fall within our territory.”

  “You’re talking about the assassination of a top military commander of a sove
reign nation that we are not at war with.”

  The man with no name frowned. “How many times do you have to be instructed not to question your assignments? The president has made no secret of the fact that he supports regime change in Syria.”

  “By giving aid to rebel forces. But this is an act of war. There’s no authorization for military force against Syria.”

  “This man has been sanctioned by the United States Treasury for human rights abuses. And he’s supporting a criminal regime.”

  “Says you.”

  “Says the President of the United States.”

  “It’s an overt act.”

  “It is an overt act for which the United States will claim no knowledge or responsibility. That’s why you need to execute it and anyone who might get in the way of the target.”

  “I don’t like it. This one really stinks.”

  “The only thing standing between you and life in prison or the needle is this one more job.”

  Robert stood up, leaving behind the file like it was a piece of garbage.

  “But who knows whether you’d even make it to see your trial. Anything can happen.”

  Robert paused and turned.

  “I’m not stupid enough to think I’d make it that far. You’d kill me off and invent some kind of bullshit story about it. But what makes you think I give a shit whether I live or die?”