we were coming in,” Aksel says, confirming it.
Todd switches on an earpiece. “We’ll see if we can get an eye on him.”
Aksel places his hand on mine, squeezes, and revs the engine. Moments later, we are careening down steep, tree-lined streets toward the sea. I tighten my arms around Aksel’s stomach and burrow into his back. There remains a dull pain thudding in my forehead and a throbbing in my neck, but Aksel is somehow … here.
We are in the hills of Üsküdar, rising above the water. Ruthless oligarchs control this south side of the Bosphorus in a violent state of corrupt stability, a facade of prosperity, my father called it. Now I know why Todd and Aksel are eager to get out.
In minutes, we reach the terraced hills leading down to the water and soon skid onto a crowded street, deftly merging into the late-afternoon traffic.
Below us, the Bosphorus laps serenely at a gravel-sand beach. Northwest, four kilometers away, against a backdrop of a sapphire sky pierced by beams of rose light, gleam the minarets of Hagia Sophia.
Aksel levers up and down, switching gears, swerving between cars, staying close behind Todd.
In the middle of a crowded intersection at the entrance to a souk, Todd turns his motorcycle so swiftly he appears to skim the pavement. Without braking, Aksel downshifts and follows Todd’s hairpin turn like there is water beneath us, not concrete.
Todd waves us forward. “There is a silver Maybach at Çengelköy Pier.”
I point in the direction of the fishing docks.
Todd motions to us. “You stay north, and I’ll hit from the east. Do not engage. Understood?”
Aksel nods. Todd looks at me, revving his engine; he doesn’t accelerate until I have nodded too.
At the Kuludar roundabout, Todd exits first and we stay on Yalibou Road. Colorful Turkish rugs flash by as vendors close their market stalls. Salty wind from the sea whips my hair, and I push my cheek against Aksel’s back.
Minutes later, we reach Çengelköy Pier. Traffic funnels into two lanes. Aksel snakes between cars and parks beside an old Renault.
Five years ago, Çengelköy was a small fishing pier—now, it’s one of the busiest ferry terminals in Istanbul.
Engage? We’ll be lucky to find him.
I count quickly. Nearly five hundred people are converging in a twenty-meter radius.
Swinging my legs off the bike, I survey our surroundings. Hundreds of cars are packed in line like tinned herring, waiting to drive onto the ferry.
We move discreetly, searching the area for Bekami.
Overhead, an intercom blares in Turkish. Aksel looks at me quizzically.
“Boarding,” I translate.
Commuters, scattered around the terminal, begin to congregate at the entrance to the pedestrian ramp. Others step back into their cars to drive onto the ferry.
I spot the Maybach first—a radiant diamond among all the older Turkish cars. I grab Aksel’s shirt, pull him behind a Renault van, and point in the direction of the Maybach.
For a moment, nothing happens, then the driver’s door opens, and Bekami steps out.
“That’s him?” Aksel glowers at Bekami with unreserved rage.
“Kranker Typ,” I say under my breath. Which causes the corner of Aksel’s lip to curve upward, ever so slightly.
Shielded by the Renault, we watch Bekami, Louis Vuitton briefcase in hand, stroll casually to the passenger line, demarcated by swags of rope.
Like a film reel, I see it unfold: Bekami will return to CNF headquarters victorious, having secured a nuclear weapon while thwarting American intelligence operators. In a few months, he’ll detonate the Koshelek …
The automobile ramp lowers. The pedestrians clump together, waiting for the ferry master to unhook the rope and usher them onto the deck.
But why did Bekami come here? Çengelköy Ferry only shuttles north, to European Istanbul. CNF headquarters are—or were—set up here, in isolated pockets along the south shores of the Black Sea.
Bekami’s eyes sweep over the cars. His silver Maybach gleams lonely amid all the rusty Renaults, Fiats, and Peugeots. Why isn’t he in it, like the other drivers, waiting to drive up the automobile ramp onto the ferry? And where is Todd?
Bekami steps onto the pedestrian ramp. People follow, obstructing my view.
I have three options: I can board the ferry and follow him, I can wait for Todd, or I can end this now.
I ease my hand into the small of my back. My fingers touch the outline of Todd’s Smith & Wesson 686.
I’ve held this gun before. It’s the same make as my father’s—accuracy and power.
Discreetly, I raise the revolver to the open van window.
Although my whole body trembles, I keep my hands steady. I slide