Chapter Twelve

WHEN HIS PHONE rang, bradley was in a bar on the Lower East Side. It wasn’t some hipster joint with tapas and a ‘tasting menu’ but a real place with nicotine ingrained in the walls and drinks strong enough to curl your toes. A last vestige of old New York – a cops’ bar, in other words.

Ben was attending a farewell for some old warhorse and, thanks to the popularity of the retiree and the design of the speakeasy, the only place he could escape the crowd and noise was out in the street. As a result, he was holding a long-neck beer in drizzling rain when he got drafted into the front line of the secret world.

‘Where are you? ’ he asked.

‘In a CIA jet over Jordan, ’ I said. There was no point in masking it, I needed him shaken, to hear the clarion call.

‘As soon as you hang up, ’ I continued, ‘I want you to call the man you’ve been passing messages to. His name is David McKinley, he’s the director of United States intelligence. ’

I heard Bradley’s intake of breath. ‘Shit, I thought—’

‘Forget whatever you thought. This is the real deal. Tell Dave I need a wingman fast. He’ll organize a chopper to take you to an airport and get you on a government jet. ’

‘Where am I going? ’ he asked.

‘Bodrum. McKinley will arrange the documentation – you’re an NYPD detective investigating the murder of Ingrid Kohl. ’

‘Who’s Ingrid Kohl? ’

‘It’s the name of the dead woman you found at the Eastside Inn. ’

‘How do you—? ’

‘Later, ’ I said, as I thanked providence for Cameron and whoever Ingrid really was: their crimes had got me into Turkey and had at least given us a chance.

‘I’ll pick you up at the airport, ’ I said. ‘And Ben – make sure you bring your side arm. ’

Six miles high, turning hard for Bodrum, the turbulence finally abating, I figured he wouldn’t need it if everything went to plan. Then again, when had that ever happened?