Gregg Loomis - The Coptic Secret

As the preliminary pleasantries drew to a conclusion, Lang decided he didn't like Jim Hartwell very much.

Then Gurt outlined the purpose of the visit.

Hartwell tapped his teeth with the stem of a briar that looked well used despite the no smoking signs that adorned every American government outpost from Abu Dhabi to Zwolle.

If there was an American outpost in Zwolle.

"Let me get this straight," the agency man said, staring out of the window of his second-floor office. "You want me to arrange for you both to get out of Turkey by diplomatic means, never mind that Turkey is an important ally of the United States"

"It is a particular police inspector that is no ally," Gurt said.

"Getting people out of places is something your employer routinely does," Lang added, "even when they aren't particularly eager to leave"

Hartwell shot him a glance. "Not as routinely as you think. We got burned a couple of years ago."

He referred to an incident when a suspected Muslim extremist had literally been snatched off the streets of Milan for interrogation in Egypt, where the definition of torture was somewhat looser than in Europe. An outraged Italian government had indicted in absentia the agency personnel suspected. Only the US's refusal to extradite had prevented a very embarrassing trial.

"You will not do it?" Gurt asked.

"I didn't say that. I'd have to get authorization."

No matter what branch of government, buck passing was the standard credo.

"In Belgrade I did not wait for authorization," Gurt said.

Lang suppressed the urge to ask what had happened in the Yugoslavian capital. He was fairly certain he wouldn't like the answer anyway.

Hartwell studied his manicure. "You're asking me to ride my ass."

"As did I."

Apparently satisfied with cuticle depth and nail length, Hartwell turned his attention to a cluster of diplomas on the wall, all from smaller Ivy League schools.

Lang felt a growing annoyance. He started to say something and clamped his jaw shut. Was he giving way to an irrational emotion because he had had to watch Gurt utilize her sexuality on the Turkish cop and now she was doing the same thing, albeit in a different way, with this empty suit who might be a former lover? Or was it because there had been a time when a chief of station was answerable to nobody below the director, a congressional investigating committee or, occasionally, God? Those days had disappeared with the Berlin Wall. Feather merchants had replaced decision makers. Small wonder tiny nations like Bosnia or North Korea took delight in sticking a thumb in the eye of the American eagle. Small nations or those of the Middle East that actually were no more than tribes with flags.

Hartwell slapped an open palm down on the desktop with a whack that made Lang forget his irritation.

"I've got a way, I think."

There was a brief silence as though he were awaiting applause for what might be his first idea in a long time.

"There's a marine helicopter that leaves almost every day for the embassy in Ankara, diplomatic mission carrying sensitive papers and the like. I might be able to get you space on it."

"Last time I looked, Ankara was still in Turkey," Lang drawled.

Hartwell glared at him, then smiled, bearing those magnificent choppers again. "There's international service from Ankara."

"To where, Kabul or Islamabad? We need to get to someplace where there's service to the US."

Hartwell, still smiling, shrugged. "Best I can do."

Gurt, anticipating Lang's reaction, held out a restraining hand. "Cannot the Gulfstream land in Ankara?"

"Gulfstream?" Hartwell asked, chagrined to suddenly realize he might be dealing with someone important.

The Gulfstream, of course.

Lang had allowed himself the luxury of being too busy disliking the man to think clearly. He stood and took the BlackBerry from his pocket. "Is there anyplace I can have a private conversation?"

Coming around his desk, Hartwell crossed the room, opening a door that had blended so well with the paneling Lang had not noticed it.

"Our conference room. Soundproof, swept daily," he said proudly.

In a few minutes, Lang returned. "I forgot. The plane is in Damascus. We're building a couple of children's hospitals there. Just tell me what time."

Hartwell picked up a phone on his desk, muttered into it and said, "In about two hours."

Lang did some geographical calculations. "That should work."

"One more thing," Gurt announced sweetly. "A very special favor for an old friend."

Hartwell suddenly looked as if his lunch had disagreed with him. "I thought…"

"Just a truly little thing." Gurt was holding thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "We need to stop at the monastery on the Princes' Islands. They have something very important for us to pick up."

The agency man looked from Gurt to Lang and back again, just now realizing they had agreed to keep this part of the agenda for last. "Impossible! This isn't the States where helicopters fly pretty much where they want. We have to clear every flight days ahead of time. Besides, like most European countries, helicopters are restricted over certain areas. I can't…"

Gurt clucked her sympathy. "It does me so sad, to think that everyone in the agency will hear about Belgrade. It is a very amusing story."

Not to Hartwell. Lang watched eyes grow as the man inhaled deeply. The effect was like a balloon being overinflated. No doubt he was seeing a political career slosh 'round the bowl and down the hole.

"You wouldn't…" he finally gasped. "I mean, it's been so long."

"Still funny," Gurt insisted. "I can now see you. When…"

Hartwell held both hands up, surrendering. "All right, all right! I'll think of some diplomatic reason…"

Minutes later, Lang and Gurt were sitting in what might have been a lobby had it been somewhere else, waiting for their flight.

"OK," Lang said, now fairly certain whatever had happened in Belgrade had comic rather than sexual overtones. That, of course, did not exclude the possibilities of the latter in some other locale. "What happened?"

Gurt made a sound that could have been a laugh or a snort. "That would be telling."

Buyukada Princes' Islands

At the Same Time

Levanto had no idea how his new client had done it. In fact, he had only an unconfirmed suspicion who his client might be. All he knew was that a man he had never seen before had appeared at the gates of Levanto's summer villa, the one in the hills above Palermo, with an introduction from Levanto's last client and a briefcase. The briefcase contained a number of interesting items: a Turkish passport, a ticket for connecting flights from Istanbul back to Palermo, a map and, most important, three quarters of a million euro in fifties and hundreds.

By the nature of his profession, Levanto dealt exclusively in cash but usually half before, half after the job was complete. The stranger was perfectly willing not only to front all the money but to ensure that the tools of Levanto's trade arrived.

This latter promise made Levanto a little uneasy. The Walther WA 2000 was fragile. Its extreme accuracy, perhaps the best in the world, did not tolerate abuse well. One hard jolt, a few minutes exposure to blowing dirt or grit and the barrel could be off a thousandth of a centimeter or the delicate telescopic sight skewed less than that or the chamber's seal compromised. Either way, the tiniest misalignment deprived the weapon of its accuracy of nearly a mile. That was why it was generally shunned by military snipers.

The rifle weighed over eighteen pounds. That and its distinctive bullpup configuration made it difficult to conceal from even the most casual baggage inspectors. Plus Levanto would not dare let the handpicked.30-caliber Winchester magnum ammunition out of his sight. An abrupt change in, temperature or humidity could cause alterations in the casing so minuscule as to be visible only under a microscope but big enough to make several yards' difference in accuracy. In Levanto's business there was no substitute or compromise. The bullet either hit the target in the exact place intended at a bone-shattering 800 mps or the shooter was just one more amateur who was better off hunting wild animals or other targets not likely to shoot back.