CHAPTER 49

Edirne, Turkey

September

MO HAD SIGNALED TO Jules Landry that he needed to meet in person. The method was a simple one: a cryptic message left in the “draft” folder of the private messaging system on a Web forum dedicated to stamp collecting. Both men had a shared log-in and accessed the system on a regular basis to check for unsent messages left for each other. The same method was commonly used on webmail services, but the NSA was doing a better job of monitoring accounts with no incoming and outgoing emails, so the Swiss-based philaté lie server provided an extra layer of protection for those who adapted in a tech-based world. General David Petraeus had used a similar technique with his mistress until a random series of events led to its discovery by the FBI.

Landry set up the meeting just outside the Greek-influenced city of Edirne, near Turkey’s border with Bulgaria, so that he could use one of his EU passports to escape westward if something went wrong. He walked down the gray and white mosaic sidewalks of the city and climbed into his small rental Mercedes sedan. He’d spent the night locally and had scouted the route and the meeting site. Even in his chemically altered state, he remembered his tradecraft.

The road from town headed north, across a narrow stone bridge. Landry breathed easier once his car was past the choke point and over the wide-open swamp beyond. He turned right at the intersection and could see the ruins of the Ottoman Palace ahead. Pulling the car off the road, he parked on the grass, choosing to walk the last hundred meters of open farmland.

The twilight air was cool, and Landry was glad to be wearing a jacket. He had found that black leather made you all but invisible in this part of the world; his dark hair didn’t hurt, either. He saw little sign of activity as he approached the ruins. It was primarily an agricultural area, not prone to crowds of tourists. Unlike most of Europe or anywhere in the United States, this historical site was open to the world with no fences, gates, or price of admission; it was simply part of the town.

He saw someone leaning against the opening of the Felicity Gate, a preserved doorway of what was left of a crumbled brick palace wall. Even at this distance, he could tell it was Mo. The man smiled as he approached. Mo jerked his head toward the larger labyrinth of ruins, Landry following a few steps behind. They passed under a columned archway and into one of the few standing rooms among the remains of the once-imposing structure. Mo lit a cigarette. That was the signal.

As Landry stepped inside, an electric stun baton emerged from the shadows and administered two and a half microcoulombs and thirty thousand volts just below his hip. He fell forward without the ability to raise his arms and crashed facedown onto the rocky ground. Mo and his paid accomplice worked quickly and had Landry flex-cuffed, with duct tape added for good measure, gagged, searched, drugged with a heavy dose of benzodiazepines, and rolled into a thick rug within minutes. They carried him into a delivery van filled with local carpets and hid him among the cargo. Mo powered off Landry’s phone and zipped it into a bag designed to block all incoming and outgoing signals to prevent tracking and pocketed his car keys to dispose of along the route. Mo handed his accomplice an envelope of cash and bid him farewell before hoisting himself into the van and turning the key to begin the long trek toward the Ibrahim Khalil border crossing. Mo was headed home.

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