Page 149 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
While normal citizens of the city were forbidden to drive motor vehicles on the tree-lined street, the Turkish embassy was allowed an occasional car on an “as needed” basis, and today was one of those occasions.
An armored Audi Q7 SUV pulled up to the curb in front of the white concrete, wood, and glass building. A two-story-tall Turkish flag, red with the white crescent moon and star, hung on the face of the building. It blocked some or all of the views of several street-facing offices. Topal’s office, of course, was on the top floor, enjoying an unobstructed panorama of the promenade and the park across the street.
Moments after the Audi SUV pulled up, a Turkish security detail emerged, clearing a path to the vehicle. On an agent’s signal, another security detail exited the embassy, surroundingthe hunched figure of Ambassador Topal, wearing a Kevlar vest.
The Bosnian government had kept its promise to keep all traffic and protesters from the promenade and away from the Turkish embassy today. But the ambassador’s security team wasn’t taking any chances.
The social media firestorm kicked up by Gavin’s edited tape of Topal confessing his crimes went viral—organically—on Balkan social media within hours. Topal was the most hated man in Bosnia at the moment, since Brkic couldn’t be found.
Under a constant barrage of death threats, Topal’s security team wasn’t taking any chances on his short trip to the airport. He’d been called back to Ankara for immediate consultations with the foreign ministry after the recent social media revelations. Topal was related to the president, so he wasn’t in fear for his life, but certainly his future in government service was in doubt.
His diplomatic security team ushered him swiftly into the waiting SUV. The team lead rode shotgun, while a grim senior officer from MIT, Turkish national intelligence, sat in back next to Topal. The driver punched the gas and the Audi rocketed forward.
Three minutes into the sixteen-minute drive, three bicyclists pedaling furiously along the promenade dashed out into the street, three abreast. The driver slammed his horn and his brakes, burning rubber and slowing to a violent stop to avoid killing the idiots. The bikers immediately scattered.
The Audi’s stop was just long enough.
Ibrahim—Mr. Clean—had a clear line of sight from the third-story apartment overlooking the quiet street. He pulled the trigger on the RPG-7.
The heavily armored Audi was no match for the tank-busting HEAT warhead. The vehicle erupted in a cloud of shrapnel and fire.
Topal died instantly.
Not so the others.
74
SLAVKOV FOREST, EASTERN CZECH REPUBLIC
The old man’s eyes opened slowly, awakened by the cold steel of a pistol barrel pressed in his ear.
“Nice place you got here,” John Clark said, admiring the trophy heads and antlers on the walls. “Real rustic. Not all fancy, like some gilded Malaysian whorehouse.”
Clark sat in a well-worn leather chair next to the Czech’s large but simple bed. His hunting lodge on the wood-studded country estate had been built according to traditional methods, using local materials.
“Thank you, Mr. Clark.”
“You know my name. Impressive.”
“I know everybody in your line of work.”
Clark leaned back in his chair. The old man had been hell on wheels in his youth, according to the few files Gavin had been able to dig up on him. But now the senior crime lieutenant was past his physical prime.
So was he, Clark reminded himself. But even in his eighthdecade, the ex-SEAL was still in better shape than this mook had ever been.
“If you know me, then you know I don’t fuck around.”
“Indeed, I do. May I sit up?”
“Sure. But keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Of course.” The Czech leveraged his long frame up against the pillows and the headboard. “I can’t see without my glasses. May I retrieve them from my nightstand?”
“We’re not here to watch home movies, chief.”
“Then to what do I owe the pleasure of meeting the famous John Clark?”
“We have a little problem we need to sort out.”
