Fault Line

He cut left on Yeni Cami Cad, then left again on Çiçek Pazari Sok, now on a collision course with the Iranians. The jostling crowds were thick and he had to slow. He passed stalls filled with enormous mounds of spices, their yellows and oranges and reds and greens impossibly bright under the incandescent bulbs strung up above them. Tables were piled high with candies and honey-soaked pastries and fruit. The air was thick with the mingled aromas of spices and coffee and tobacco smoke. Peddlers cried out warnings above the din as they maneuvered pushcarts around clusters of shifting shoppers.

At the corner of Tahmis Cad and Hasircilar Cad he could see them coming toward him, about forty feet away. His heart was beating hard now. He checked his perimeter and sensed nothing amiss.

He moved left, pausing in front of one of the corner windows of Kurukahveci Mehmet Efendi, one of the city's oldest coffee shops. Ben had been here a half dozen times during reco

He moved back, pretending to examine the colorful cookware in the stall adjacent to the coffee shop. He pulled the hat down low and unzipped his jacket. His heart was hammering.

A minute later, the first VAVAK guy appeared through the adjoining corner window. He made a right and stopped not ten feet from where Ben stood. The scientists were in front of the adjoining window now, lined up with a dozen other people to purchase some of Kurukahveci's famed beans. He couldn't see the second VAVAK guy, but it was a safe bet he was somewhere a short distance behind them.

Ben closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, then let it out. Another. And again.

He pulled a guidebook from one of his pockets and slowly walked past the VAVAK guy while examining it. He didn't consider what he was about to do. He focused on the book.

At the corner in front of the coffee shop, he looked left. There was the second VAVAK guy, as he had expected, behind the scientists, twenty feet away.

He looked straight, then right, just another addled tourist trying to orient himself. He detected no problems.

He dropped the guidebook back in his pocket and headed back to the first VAVAK guy. He walked past his position without looking directly at him. He saw in his peripheral vision that the VAVAK guy was watching him now. It didn't matter. It was too late.

He passed by the VAVAK guy's left side. As he did, he let his right hand drift inside his open jacket. By the time he was three steps past the VAVAK guy, the Glock was out. He pivoted counterclockwise, stepping through with his right foot, and brought up the Glock from five feet away.

The VAVAK guy had just enough time to widen his eyes. Ben pressed the trigger. There was a quiet pffft and a neat black hole appeared in the VAVAK guy's forehead. His head jerked and a spasm passed through his body. Then his knees buckled and he slid to the ground. Ben was already moving past him. He rounded the corner.

The scientists were at the window now. The second VAVAK guy saw Ben moving past them, the Glock at his side, approaching with unmistakable intent. Someone from around the corner screamed.

The second guy reacted instantly, reaching inside his jacket, but an instant was all he had and it wasn't enough. Ben was too far away to be sure of another head shot. He brought the Glock up in a two-handed grip, put the front sight on the VAVAK guy's chest, and pressed the trigger. Pffft. The VAVAK guy jerked back. Ben kept walking straight at him. He fired again, center mass, and the VAVAK guy staggered. Ben adjusted his aim and the third shot blew out the man's left eye.

There were new screams. People started to scatter. The scientists turned from in front of the coffee shop window, their expressions confused, not understanding what was happening, looking for the source of the trouble. The first one didn't even see Ben walking at him from ten feet away. Ben shot him in the head. The second one had just enough time to raise his hands, either in self-defense or in supplication. Ben put a single round directly between his eyes and was moving past him before his body had even hit the ground.

He glanced left and right as he moved. People were screaming and fleeing. He didn't see any heroes. No one was even looking at him. They were all just trying to get the hell out of there as fast as they could. He kept his chin down and his eyes forward, the Glock close at his side.

Suddenly he sensed something out of place, someone who didn't fit in with the crowd's panicky rhythms. He glanced ahead and saw a stocky Slavic- looking guy standing motionless and watching him intently. Ben pulled up short. They locked eyes. No question the Slav was a professional. It was in his face, his posture, his balanced demeanor.

They stood like that for one frozen second, each trying to determine the other's intent. Then the Slav's nerve broke. He cut left, reaching into his jacket as he moved. Without thinking, Ben brought up the Glock in a two-handed grip. He fired three times, moving closer with each pffft, walking the shots in. The Slav crumbled to the ground. He managed to get his gun out, too late. Ben drilled him in the head from less than five feet away.

He moved off and cut down an alley, his head swiveling, searching for problems at his flanks, badly rattled. Jesus Christ, he hadn't seen that guy at all. Fucker had been standing right there like a ghost when the whole thing went down. If the crowds hadn't left him stranded like driftwood at ebb tide, Ben never would have noticed him. And goddamn it, if the guy had shown the presence of mind to get his weapon out a second earlier…

He swapped a fresh magazine into the Glock and kept moving. He knew these streets from reco

He began to circle toward the Galata Bridge, back among blissfully ignorant crowds again. He would walk across, catch a cab to Haydarpaşa Station, then a train to Ankara, his original arrival point, which would make for a safer departure, as well.

He heard sirens in the distance. They were heading away from him. He let out a long breath. He was okay. No one was following him and no one could co

Damn, though, who was that guy? Bastard had almost gotten the drop on him, no question.

Well, he hadn't. Some days you eat the bear, and some days the bear eats you.

The bear.

He stopped. Holy shit, was that guy Russian?

He sure looked Russian. Well, it wasn't Vasilyev, he was certain of that. The guy had been a pro, no question, not a scientist or other civilian. Maybe someone co

Son of a bitch. Maybe he hadn't killed the Russian, but he had a feeling he'd just killed a Russian.