through to the next row, closer to the front, with no signs of stopping. Her heart pounded harder than the percussion section.
She forced herself not to miss a beat, even as Jimmy plowed forward to grab the collar of the man trying to climb onstage.
* THE OASIS NIGHTCLUB, ADANA, TURKEY
Nunez climbed the final three steps into the five-star nightclub toward the door host. “ Hola, mi amigo ,” he said only to receive a blank look, so he swapped to accented English. “How are you, my friend?”
The muscle-bound snob in a suit as slick as his pulled-back hair and fedora assessed him with a dismissive sniff. No doubt calculating the make and cost of his Canali suit and Rolex. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, you may.” Nunez fiddled with a gold cuff link, which actually housed a hidden camera that recorded movies complete with sound to a flash drive hidden inside his jacket liner. The door dude also wore a coat in spite of the warm weather. Seemed everyone had something to hide tonight.
Nunez casually strolled around the portico for a better shot of the doorman’s face beneath the hat. “I was hoping to have a good raki tonight, and I heard this was the place.”
The door host eyed the Versace necktie and hesitated an instant before sniffing again. “Sorry, the club is full. I can’t let you in until some people leave.”
Nunez reached for his money clip with a wad of lira and peeled off one at a time until he saw the glint in the overpaid fascist’s eyes.
He palmed them and offered his hand. “Could you take another look and see if perhaps you’ve miscounted the crowd?”
The ponytailed guard pocketed the cash and opened the door with another sniff, sniff . Probably a cokehead. “Have a nice time, sir, and be careful with your raki. It is tough on the uninitiated.”
Nunez nodded and entered the smoky bar.
He angled sideways to avoid the couple making out against the wall by the coat check station. No morals police here.
Turkey was a democratic, secular, constitutional republic. While 99 percent of the population was Muslim, the country adhered to its secular makeup, which included banning by law head cover in government buildings, schools, and universities, for both males and females. And the scantily clad ladies here bore that out.
The secular slant of the government also allowed for free-flowing alcohol, a freedom being exercised to the fullest tonight, given the sound of clinking glasses mingling with the techno beat of European rock.
Of the bars on his list, he’d opted for Miguel Carvalho to start with the one employing the mystery woman, a decision reinforced by how little information existed on her and the fact that so far none of the other agents on the ground had been able to locate a second woman with a similar name. He’d only been able to find one grainy photo on file of Marta A. Surac in an old case file looking into drug trafficking. Given the date on the photo and the woman’s appearance, she must be in her forties. Not much to go on, but something at least.
He swept past the red velvet drapes into the main barroom, ignoring the avaricious female eyes checking out the new meat. He was here for one particular woman.
The low-lying cloud of smoke mixed with too many colognes hit him in a wave that lured him deeper into this world of excesses. Tables spread across half the space. Luminaires cast shadows over faces he needed to record. He made his way over the packed dance floor vibrating from frenetic bodies and overloud music.
A brass barstool gave him the best vantage point to peruse the room and begin spreading his cash like carrion to draw the vultures. He checked out a steady stream of waitresses with plunging silk necklines defying gravity to stay in place.
Eleven and a half minutes in, he spotted a possible Marta-Anya match just as the DJ dimmed the lights and spun up a Livia Cicero ballad. The waitress’s long blond hair gathered back in a clasp shone like a beacon among the
She forced herself not to miss a beat, even as Jimmy plowed forward to grab the collar of the man trying to climb onstage.
* THE OASIS NIGHTCLUB, ADANA, TURKEY
Nunez climbed the final three steps into the five-star nightclub toward the door host. “ Hola, mi amigo ,” he said only to receive a blank look, so he swapped to accented English. “How are you, my friend?”
The muscle-bound snob in a suit as slick as his pulled-back hair and fedora assessed him with a dismissive sniff. No doubt calculating the make and cost of his Canali suit and Rolex. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, you may.” Nunez fiddled with a gold cuff link, which actually housed a hidden camera that recorded movies complete with sound to a flash drive hidden inside his jacket liner. The door dude also wore a coat in spite of the warm weather. Seemed everyone had something to hide tonight.
Nunez casually strolled around the portico for a better shot of the doorman’s face beneath the hat. “I was hoping to have a good raki tonight, and I heard this was the place.”
The door host eyed the Versace necktie and hesitated an instant before sniffing again. “Sorry, the club is full. I can’t let you in until some people leave.”
Nunez reached for his money clip with a wad of lira and peeled off one at a time until he saw the glint in the overpaid fascist’s eyes.
He palmed them and offered his hand. “Could you take another look and see if perhaps you’ve miscounted the crowd?”
The ponytailed guard pocketed the cash and opened the door with another sniff, sniff . Probably a cokehead. “Have a nice time, sir, and be careful with your raki. It is tough on the uninitiated.”
Nunez nodded and entered the smoky bar.
He angled sideways to avoid the couple making out against the wall by the coat check station. No morals police here.
Turkey was a democratic, secular, constitutional republic. While 99 percent of the population was Muslim, the country adhered to its secular makeup, which included banning by law head cover in government buildings, schools, and universities, for both males and females. And the scantily clad ladies here bore that out.
The secular slant of the government also allowed for free-flowing alcohol, a freedom being exercised to the fullest tonight, given the sound of clinking glasses mingling with the techno beat of European rock.
Of the bars on his list, he’d opted for Miguel Carvalho to start with the one employing the mystery woman, a decision reinforced by how little information existed on her and the fact that so far none of the other agents on the ground had been able to locate a second woman with a similar name. He’d only been able to find one grainy photo on file of Marta A. Surac in an old case file looking into drug trafficking. Given the date on the photo and the woman’s appearance, she must be in her forties. Not much to go on, but something at least.
He swept past the red velvet drapes into the main barroom, ignoring the avaricious female eyes checking out the new meat. He was here for one particular woman.
The low-lying cloud of smoke mixed with too many colognes hit him in a wave that lured him deeper into this world of excesses. Tables spread across half the space. Luminaires cast shadows over faces he needed to record. He made his way over the packed dance floor vibrating from frenetic bodies and overloud music.
A brass barstool gave him the best vantage point to peruse the room and begin spreading his cash like carrion to draw the vultures. He checked out a steady stream of waitresses with plunging silk necklines defying gravity to stay in place.
Eleven and a half minutes in, he spotted a possible Marta-Anya match just as the DJ dimmed the lights and spun up a Livia Cicero ballad. The waitress’s long blond hair gathered back in a clasp shone like a beacon among the
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