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Authors: Lars Guignard
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fact, I kind of liked the idea.
Crust ducked under the door and headed toward the rear of a Mercedes Sprinter panel van. I could see there was no one in the front of the van. I sincerely hoped the same was true of the back.
“I’m going to reach into my pocket and take out a key,” he said.
“And I’m going to put a bullet in your head if there’s anybody in the back of the van,” I replied.
Crust clicked his key fob and opened the left rear door. So far, I could see nobody inside.
“Open the other one too,” I said.
He swung the left door open. The van was equipped as a surveillance vehicle. It was all computers and listening equipment and, of all things, a big Turkish hookah. But there were no people, at least none that I could see.
“Now get inside, hands on your head,” I said.
Crust did as he was asked.
“Kneel at the back wall.”
He knelt and I followed him in, shutting the doors behind me.
“What’s with the water pipe?” I said.
“The Turks call it a nargile . We’re backpackers, right? Thought it might make a nice addition to our cover at the hostel. You want to try it? I’ve got these nifty packets of apple-flavored tobacco.”
“I’ll pass for now,” I said. “Tell me about the mole.”
“Can I at least sit down?”
“Jump seat on your left. No sudden moves.”
If Crust was going to go for a hidden weapon, that would have been the time to do it. But he didn’t. He simply pulled down the jump seat and sat. I took the seat across from him, Turkish pop music still drifting in from the street.
“We have had suggestions of a leak since the China Op,” Crust said. “They weren’t conclusive, but the pyrotechnics in the harbor were hard to ignore. Somebody knew you were going to be on that ship.”
“Why would I leak my own operation? Do I look stupid to you?”
“No, but you look green. We thought you might be trying to put us off the scent of the mole. Trust me, crazier things have been done. Think about it, Mike. No mole, then you join the team and information starts slipping out. It’s suggestive.”
“What kind of information?” I said.
“Do you want to put that thing away?”
I thought about it. No, I didn’t want to put the gun away. I did, however, want Crust to continue talking. So I compromised. I pulled the clip and emptied the chamber. If nothing else, the Browning would still make a decent club. I braced myself for a possible attack. But it didn’t come. Instead, I heard the midday call to prayer echoing through the street.
“Can I take my hands off my head now?” Crust asked.
Before I could answer, Crust reached behind his head to scratch his neck. I considered that I might have removed the clip from the Browning a little too soon. Then I heard a click, like a spring-loaded catch had been released. A fraction of a second later, I was staring down the barrel of an M9 Beretta. It wasn’t what I would have called a welcoming sight.
Crust smiled.
“Bang,” he said, miming pulling the trigger. “That’s for doubting me.”
He dropped the gun in his lap.
“Happy now?” I asked, hoping that I didn’t look as relieved as I felt.
“Not really. You should never have surrendered the advantage. Not before you knew the score.”
“I guess I wasn’t convinced you were going to crack without a little encouragement. Where did the M9 come from?” I asked.
“Safe-lock boxes,” Crust said. “The van is equipped with four of them. For situations just like this. Go ahead. Reach behind your head. Push the release.”
I reached behind my head. Found an indent in the panel wall. Pushed it. A second later, I had a loaded M9 in my hand too.
“Nifty,” I said.
“I know. Wicked feature. It was my idea. Sometimes they listen to us field guys,” Crust said. “Shall we, then?”
“Shall we what?” I asked.
“Figure this the hell out,” Crust replied.
“Why not?”
I guess I didn’t sound convinced.
“Look,” Crust said. “I
Crust ducked under the door and headed toward the rear of a Mercedes Sprinter panel van. I could see there was no one in the front of the van. I sincerely hoped the same was true of the back.
“I’m going to reach into my pocket and take out a key,” he said.
“And I’m going to put a bullet in your head if there’s anybody in the back of the van,” I replied.
Crust clicked his key fob and opened the left rear door. So far, I could see nobody inside.
“Open the other one too,” I said.
He swung the left door open. The van was equipped as a surveillance vehicle. It was all computers and listening equipment and, of all things, a big Turkish hookah. But there were no people, at least none that I could see.
“Now get inside, hands on your head,” I said.
Crust did as he was asked.
“Kneel at the back wall.”
He knelt and I followed him in, shutting the doors behind me.
“What’s with the water pipe?” I said.
“The Turks call it a nargile . We’re backpackers, right? Thought it might make a nice addition to our cover at the hostel. You want to try it? I’ve got these nifty packets of apple-flavored tobacco.”
“I’ll pass for now,” I said. “Tell me about the mole.”
“Can I at least sit down?”
“Jump seat on your left. No sudden moves.”
If Crust was going to go for a hidden weapon, that would have been the time to do it. But he didn’t. He simply pulled down the jump seat and sat. I took the seat across from him, Turkish pop music still drifting in from the street.
“We have had suggestions of a leak since the China Op,” Crust said. “They weren’t conclusive, but the pyrotechnics in the harbor were hard to ignore. Somebody knew you were going to be on that ship.”
“Why would I leak my own operation? Do I look stupid to you?”
“No, but you look green. We thought you might be trying to put us off the scent of the mole. Trust me, crazier things have been done. Think about it, Mike. No mole, then you join the team and information starts slipping out. It’s suggestive.”
“What kind of information?” I said.
“Do you want to put that thing away?”
I thought about it. No, I didn’t want to put the gun away. I did, however, want Crust to continue talking. So I compromised. I pulled the clip and emptied the chamber. If nothing else, the Browning would still make a decent club. I braced myself for a possible attack. But it didn’t come. Instead, I heard the midday call to prayer echoing through the street.
“Can I take my hands off my head now?” Crust asked.
Before I could answer, Crust reached behind his head to scratch his neck. I considered that I might have removed the clip from the Browning a little too soon. Then I heard a click, like a spring-loaded catch had been released. A fraction of a second later, I was staring down the barrel of an M9 Beretta. It wasn’t what I would have called a welcoming sight.
Crust smiled.
“Bang,” he said, miming pulling the trigger. “That’s for doubting me.”
He dropped the gun in his lap.
“Happy now?” I asked, hoping that I didn’t look as relieved as I felt.
“Not really. You should never have surrendered the advantage. Not before you knew the score.”
“I guess I wasn’t convinced you were going to crack without a little encouragement. Where did the M9 come from?” I asked.
“Safe-lock boxes,” Crust said. “The van is equipped with four of them. For situations just like this. Go ahead. Reach behind your head. Push the release.”
I reached behind my head. Found an indent in the panel wall. Pushed it. A second later, I had a loaded M9 in my hand too.
“Nifty,” I said.
“I know. Wicked feature. It was my idea. Sometimes they listen to us field guys,” Crust said. “Shall we, then?”
“Shall we what?” I asked.
“Figure this the hell out,” Crust replied.
“Why not?”
I guess I didn’t sound convinced.
“Look,” Crust said. “I
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