Chapter Thirty-Six
Istanbul, Turkey
Caspian didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice.
He had to sever the connection to Liesel.
His thumb hovered over the screen of his phone a beat longer, then he pressed the button to end the call.
Whatever had happened in the alley, whatever had silenced her, it wasn’t the kind of trouble he could help her with from where he was.
Even if he was to sprint to her location, he’d be too late.
If she was still alive—and he hoped to God she was—his running blindly through Istanbul wouldn’t accomplish anything.
She needs help. Real help.
He called Ranger’s emergency line. She picked up immediately, her voice brisk.
“Caspian, I can’t talk right—”
“I need your help. Now.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Liesel’s last ping was at the corner of Istiklal Caddesi and Muammer Karaca Tiyatro,” he said, walking toward the elevator bank. “Something’s happened. I don’t know what, but she’s not responding. I think she’s hurt.”
“You’re not with her?”
“We had to split.”
“Okay. What do you need me to do?” Ranger said.
“The driver who’s waiting for us at the Hyatt,” he said, watching the elevator numbers descend, “I need you to contact whoever controls that asset and tell them we need to get to Liesel. And I want everyone the German consulate can spare to look for her. I don’t care if they’re desk jockeys or fucking interns. ”
“Caspian, I can’t just redirect—”
“For God’s sake, Samantha, Liesel might be bleeding out in an alley,” he said, his hand clenching the phone.
There was a moment of silence, then Ranger said, “I’ll do what I can. But this is still a BND operation. I don’t control their assets.”
“Nicklas does,” Caspian said, then ended the call before she could respond.
The elevator doors opened with a shudder, and he stepped inside, punching the underground-level button with his fist. There was no one else in the elevator, so Caspian allowed himself to curse out loud. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go.
At this very moment, Liesel might be bleeding out in some piss-soaked alley, and all he had was a damn code phrase and Ranger’s word that someone would be waiting for them in the parking garage. The elevator doors slid open again.
The underground parking level smelled like concrete dust. Faded directional arrows were painted on the floor, but most of them were covered by oil stains. Caspian checked his phone. He had one bar. He called Liesel’s number. It took a few seconds, but it started to ring.
C’mon, Liesel. Pick up.
She didn’t.
Caspian lowered the phone, then scanned the garage. The lot was about three-quarters full, but he saw only a few people. A young couple pushing a stroller was about to exit near the far stairwell, and a man in a suit was walking toward the elevators, talking loudly to someone via Bluetooth.
That’s when Caspian spotted him.
A man stood by a support pylon, leaning just enough to look casual.
Caspian didn’t buy it. The man was in his late thirties, maybe early forties.
He had a lean build and a clean-shaven face with short-cropped hair and was wearing a blue tracksuit.
His eyes met Caspian’s for a full second, then darted away.
Definitely not a tourist, Caspian thought. But not a pro either.
Caspian adjusted his angle, walking toward the far side of the F row before dipping behind a silver four-door sedan.
He moved quickly, his steps absorbed by his rubber soles and the worn asphalt.
He cut between two cars, then another, approaching the man’s blind side.
Caspian dropped into a crouch behind a red SUV and waited, watching through the passenger-side window as the man scanned the garage, clearly alert.
He’s looking for me.
Caspian looked around to make sure no one else was closing in on him, then glanced back toward the watcher. He was coming his way, and his lips were moving. He wasn’t alone.
Sliding along the back of the SUV, Caspian circled wide, staying out of the man’s line of sight before closing the gap once the man had walked past his position.
Caspian came in from the man’s blind side and grabbed him by the collar of his tracksuit, yanking him backward, using the man’s own momentum to unbalance him.
Caspian hooked his heel behind the other man’s ankle and swept his legs out from under him, sending the man face first onto the ground.
Caspian was on him in an instant, one knee digging into the small of his back, and the tip of his pistol pressing firmly against the base of the man’s skull.
“Who are you talking to?” Caspian asked in Turkish as he patted down the man with his free hand. “And keep your voice low.”
“I . . . I don’t speak Turkish,” the man sputtered, his voice cracking in surprise.
Caspian recognized the accent and switched to German. “Fine. Who were you talking to?”
“No one!”
Caspian used two fingers to dig out an earbud from the man’s right ear.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Caspian growled.
“I’m . . . I’m a diplomat. From the German consulate,” the man pleaded.
Caspian narrowed his eyes and dropped the first line of Ranger’s cipher.
“I’m looking for someone to take me to Silivri,” he said.
The man hesitated, then replied, “Too much traffic at this time of day.”
“Maybe tonight, then?” Caspian asked.
“Tomorrow would be even better,” the man said, finishing the coded exchange.
Caspian muttered under his breath. He’d been ready to kill the man if he had to.
“You alone?” he asked.
“There’s a driver.”
“Where?”
“Parking slot G33.”
Caspian helped the man to his feet. “Lead the way.”
They moved quickly, but Caspian kept the man five steps ahead of him.
As they turned the corner into the G section, he spotted the vehicle.
It was a compact commercial van, a dark blue Mercedes-Benz Citan.
It was parked facing out. A woman stood beside it.
She had short blond hair and wore a pair of black jeans and a black leather jacket.
She was on the phone, but the second she saw them, she hung up and shook her head at the man Caspian had just tackled.
No words, just a look that said you screwed up.
She clicked the fob in her hand, and the van gave a soft chirp.
“You, get in the back,” she said to Caspian. “We’re leaving now.”
“Not yet,” Caspian said. “Has anyone contacted you?”
“Yes. Orders have changed. I was told to expect two passengers, but not anymore.”
“We need to pick up someone,” Caspian said. “A friend of mine.”
“No, we don’t. Hop in—” she started to say but stopped when Caspian brought up his pistol.
The woman sighed, but didn’t look overly worried. It was clear to Caspian this wasn’t the first time someone had pointed a gun at her. She remained composed, contrary to her colleague who looked like he was about to vomit.
“I told him this was going to happen,” Caspian heard the woman murmur. Then louder, she asked, “Can I reach for my phone? It’s in my pocket.”
“Slowly,” Caspian warned her.
The woman dialed a number, then put it on speaker.
“What is it, Frieda? Why aren’t you on your way?”
Caspian recognized the voice instantly. It belonged to Nicklas Drescher.
“I’m afraid Mr. Anderson isn’t cooperating,” Frieda said, her eyes boring into Caspian.
“Let me speak to him,” Drescher said.
“I can hear you, Nicklas,” Caspian said, lowering his gun.
“A team from the consulate is already en route to her last known location,” the German spymaster said. “Please follow Frieda’s instructions. She’ll tell you everything you need to know.”