The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(65)

Yusuf led Jenkins down the sidewalk to a commercial van. He moved to the front and reached under the bumper, snatching a key and unlocking the side door, sliding it open. Jenkins climbed inside. The interior smelled of vegetables and was packed with empty cardboard boxes and wooden crates.

“Stay down,” Yusuf said. “The fewer who see you here the better.”

Jenkins did as instructed.

Yusuf slammed shut the door. A moment later he opened the driver’s door. The dome light remained dark. Yusuf slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove from the curb. “You can sit up now,” he said. “But stay in the back, away from the windows.”

Jenkins sat up, removed his survival suit, and rested against the crates to see out the windshield. The road ascended from the marina, cutting through foliage. Between the trees and shrubs, Jenkins got occasional glimpses of the strait and the lights of the anchored tankers.

“Where are we going?” Jenkins asked.

“If the patrol boat followed us, the Russians know we have you. If they stop my father he will stall for time, but he will not risk his son or his boat to save you.”

“I understand.”

“The Russians have many assets in Turkey, especially in Istanbul. Many of your spy novels have been written about Istanbul, and with good reason. Those assets will be searching for you, and for me. They will find me eventually, and I will have to tell them where I have taken you.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“The only safe travel for you now is by bus. It will not be convenient, but you can buy a ticket without showing identification, and you can get off of one bus and onto another. Remember, good information is disinformation. So this you will need to do often. Leave false trails.”

“Where am I going?”

“I will drive you to Taksim. There you will catch a bus to Izmir and from Izmir to ?e?me. Once in ?e?me, secure passage across the Aegean Sea to Chios.”

“Greece,” Jenkins said.

“You can practically skip a stone and hit Chios from ?e?me. From Chios you are on your own.”

“How much time do I have?”

“The bus ride to Izmir will take seven to eight hours depending on how often you get on and off. To ?e?me is another hour. I will stay away for as long as possible, but no longer than midday. I cannot risk staying away longer. I worry for my family. When confronted, I will tell the Russians that I dropped you at a bus station in Istanbul, but that you refused to tell me where you were going.”

“Don’t lie for me,” Jenkins said.

“I will not. I will stay away as long as I can, and I will do my best to stall them, but if they threaten my family, I will tell them that you are bound for ?e?me. Hopefully it will be enough time for you to get there and get out of the country.”

Thirty minutes later, the landscape changed dramatically. The highway continued past hillsides covered with apartment buildings. Another fifteen minutes and Yusuf exited the highway, driving the surface streets of a city awakening. He drove into a large, open square and pulled the van to the curb.

“Across the street. You see the white awning? You can buy a bus ticket from the kiosk when it opens. Look for Istanbul ?evre Yolu. Remember to get on and off the bus frequently. Disinformation. Be very careful.”

“I have no lira,” Jenkins said. “Only rubles.”

“You can exchange your rubles. There is a bank, just down the street.”

“Thank you for your help, Yusuf. I will never forget you, your father, or your brother.”

“I’m afraid that would be a mistake, Mr. Jenkins . . . for all of us.”





37



Jenkins made himself disappear in Gezi Park, across the street from where Yusuf had dropped him, while he waited for the businesses to open. He sat with his back against a tree and his knees pulled to his chest. Convenience stores and fruit vendors were the first to open, at four thirty in the morning. Cars soon appeared, along with a smattering of people. He stood and massaged the pain in his knees before he crossed the street. He did not go to the bus kiosk. He walked down the street, past retail stores on the bottom floor of five-story apartment buildings, to the business Yusuf had pointed out, Alo D?viz. He didn’t know what it meant, but there were two ATMs and behind them a glass-enclosed counter with the universal sign for money—the dollar sign. As he approached, Jenkins saw the flags of the United Kingdom, the United States, and Russia. He handed the man behind the counter 10,000 rubles. He would need more, but too much would make him too easily remembered.

The man counted the rubles, pressed the buttons on a calculator, turned the machine, and showed Jenkins the conversion: 850 Turkish lira. Jenkins nodded. “Spasibo,” he said. Jenkins held up his hand, as if holding a cell phone to his ear, and asked where he could purchase a phone, speaking Russian.

The man pointed down the street and indicated Jenkins should veer to his right at the corner. “Yuva iletisim,” he said.

Jenkins took his money, thanked the man, and proceeded down the street, finding the store. Inside, he explained to a young man, again using Russian and again with some difficulty, that he wanted to purchase two burner cell phones with international calling plans that would allow him to call other countries. After further discussion, the man directed him to something called a Mobal World Talk & Text Phone for 112 lira, which was roughly nineteen dollars. Jenkins declined the young man’s attempts to upsell him, said the phones were simply for business calls, and departed the store with two of the Mobal World cells.