Of Operations: Chapter 3

In my five star hotel room, I showered and put on fresh clothes; a white designer beach shirt, and Ralph Lauren khakis. After dumping off what little luggage I had in the JW Marriott Hotel, I walked down to the lobby and strode toward the front desk. Sitting behind the desk was a dark woman in a fine white blouse and a black skirt. Her skin had the color of dark tan silk, only impossibly more smooth by the looks of it. As I walked up to her, she looked up at me and gave me a polite smirk that lasted a fraction of a second, clasping her hands together on her lap.
“How can I help you sir?” she said with a rich Turkish accent.
“My suit company is looking for exotic fabric, and I heard Weavers’ Road has some good material. Would you mind telling me how best to get there?” I said with a charming, wry smile. She contemplated it for a moment, before smiling and replying, “Weavers’ Road is about a thirty minute walk from here, however taking a car is a leap of faith. You could be there in ten minutes or forty. It depends purely on luck of traffic and detours. Would you like me to call a cab for you sir?” Her polite smile remained static, but for a moment I noticed a searching in her eyes. I noticed the same look appear in the girls eyes whom I’d asked on dates before. Only this time I just wanted instructions to an ancient Turkish market.
“I think I’ll walk.” I said with a smile, as I turned and walked towards the door.
I stepped out onto the streets of Ankara, Turkey. I was on my way to the Weavers’ Road to meet an agent that a local CIA spook had put me into contact with, and as the relationship of an handler and agent is practically a marriage, the American spy insisted on coming along. When I explained that I couldn’t be seen with agency personnel, he raised his hand half in protest, half in assurance, and explained that he could manage transportation without me having to accompany him. He was lucky I wasn’t some asshole bureaucrat or I would have had him running agents in Antarctica. I respected his confidence and trusted him. Weavers’ Road was known for its fabrics, clothing, carpets, and other materials; however, in the recent years it had also been exploited to discreetly market weapons, drugs, secrets, and other black market items. It was a great place to hold covert meetings, without fear of police or Turkish intelligence, MIT.

I had also arranged to meet another spook that was stationed in Turkey, but for completely different reason. Since I wasn’t officially ordered to go to Turkey, I couldn’t fly on an agency plane. This forced me to use a civilian airline and at the same time dismissing the option of bringing a firearm into Turkey. I had contacted the second spook, Jacobson, and asked if he could provide me a firearm. When he said that he couldn’t directly give a weapon to me, I asked for someone, near Marriot, that could. Jacobson instructed me to apartment building E34, seven blocks to the east of my hotel. This was convenient because the fabric market was several more blocks east. At the apartment, I came to a flat, steel door, with no handle. I rapped several times, and was greeted by silence. After two minutes of waiting, I knocked considerably louder. I stood there frustrated, trying to look inconspicuous, while standing in the middle of the sidewalk, having a boxing match with a random metal door. I wanted to kick the door with all my might, but I calmed myself down and forced control over my mind and body.
Now thinking clearly and calmly, I read back and kicked that god damned door with everything I had, all in one kick. The door bucked in its frame, and I heard a loud yelp come from behind it. Several seconds later, the door cracked open rapidly, a hand instantly beckoning me inside. I squeezed through the door, into a dim, square room with chests and trunks lining the walls, along with a table and several chairs in the middle. The most noticeable object in the room though was the long, white porcelain musket that was pointed at my face. I had been threatened by many objects in my days, but never a 18th century musket. (Once a man that I had confronted grabbed a nearby fishing pole and threatened to snag me with its hook. That man no longer fishes.) Even though this deadly hand cannon was stuck in my face, I couldn’t help but to admire it. The white porcelain was engraved with what looked like gold Arabic writing, and shown brilliantly in the light.
“… You Saddin?” I asked. A man’s curious eye peaked out from the sights of the musket. “How do you know this name?” he asked, sounding especially cautious and skeptical. I felt as though I had his attention, which meant he probably wasn’t going to paint the wall behind me with my brains. For the moment at least. “Well, Jacobson sent-“… The man instantly lowered his gun at the mention of the spook, and he then embraced me in a bear hug. Now that I could see him clearly, Saddin appeared to be in his late forties, slightly overweight, and bearing a pepper colored beard. If it wouldn’t have been for the joyous expression from Saddin before he hugged me, I probably would have thought he was attacking me, resulting in his death. I try not to murder referrals.
The man explained to me that Jacobson had said that an American would be dropping by and should be given whatever he asked for. I made a mental note to thank the spook and also keep in touch with him. “Please follow me in here Mr. CIA, I have anything you need.” I rolled my eyes and chuckled, laying my hand on Saddin's shoulder, causing him to turn towards me with a polite, but confused smile. I leaned in a little bit closer and said in a hushed tone “Sadden, maybe we shouldn't say the phrase 'CIA'... just for the safety of both of us. You know how it is.” Saddin's eyes lit up and he nodded rapidly, “Oh yes my friend! Yes! This is no problem! The CIA is most welcome here!” He continued on his merry way into the next room. I stood there and shook my head for a second, and smirked. I almost pointed out that he had just made the exact same mistake, but then gave in, and followed him into the next room. The chests that Saddin opened revealed a full range of firearms and even grenades, ranging from pistols to grenade launchers. After I didn’t see a Colt 45 in the selection, I personally inquired if he had any. Once he said no, I settled with the Czech CZ 97B. After thanking Saddin, and politely declining the offer of tea, I tucked the .45 caliber pistol in the back of my khakis and continued on to Weavers’ Road. I checked my watch. 1:24. The meeting was scheduled for 2:00, which means I had plenty of time to find and scout the area, and even run a counter-surveillance route if necessary.


I noticed the two men tailing me soon after leaving Saddin's house. After looking back several times, I was able to sketch a rough description of them. One was at my 5 o'clock, about 70 yards back, in a green button up shirt and dirty kahkis. The second one was dressed similarly but with an orange button up shirt, and a golden watch on his right wrist, staying about 40 yards back. That's what gave it away. No one would wear a gold watch into this part of town. I also noticed there was tourists around too, most of them European, but others were American or Asian. You people shouldn't be here. MIT has a ruthless reputation, and aren't afraid of a little collateral damage.
It was sweltering hot outside and my white beach shirt started to stick to my skin from all the sweat. I was, however, glad I hadn't taken a cab. The streets and even some of the sidewalks were packed with cars, trucks, and other odd Asian vehicles. Alright Abraham, you can't lead these guys to the meeting. If you aren't absolutely sure you've lost them, call it all off. I wanted to walk faster, thinking I could reach the corner and take off in a sprint, but I forced myself to calm and actually walked slower. I pretended to notice a tea shop at the last second of passing by it, and falsely interested, walked inside. A middle-aged man and older gentleman seemed to work there, with an Australian couple sitting down and looking around, amazed to be sipping tea in Ankara. I noticed a curtain hung over a section of the back wall, and after passing a nod to the owners, slipped through the curtain. I passed briefly through sleeping quarters in a shack, and out another curtain onto yet another traffic jammed road.

My foot touched the gritty, sandy sidewalk of the pavement, and my legs started moving like pistons, propelling me for all I was worth, cranking my arms for momentum. Moving that fast, a sense of near-joy settled over me as the 'I'm getting away!' feeling set in. I knew to push those thoughts out immediately. I was looking all around, looking for the nearest door to a building that would have a probable 2nd or 3rd exit. Lining the streets were large buildings, some being separated by alley ways, or spaces too small to be considered alley ways. Come on Abe, Mikhail isn't here to rescue you this time. Figure a way out of this!
I was darting down the sidewalk, and right as I was passing an alleyway, a slim, fast moving person his me from the left, tackling me into the grimy alley. I could feel the enemy laying on top of me, so it must have been another person who grabbed me under my arms and drug me through a doorway and into what looked like a small, personal office. “You think you know these streets better than us, American? This is OUR land! You shouldn't have came here!” I was dazed, but extremely pissed. “Well, smart guy, thanks for confirming that you're from MIT.”
The man growled in anger, but I was more pissed off than he was, not to mention stronger. I leaned back, grabbing the belt of the Turk and throwing him over the top of me. I scooted back against a wall, taking out my pistol and pointing it at Orange. Green came stumbling into the room with his gun, and after seeing his disgruntled comrade and me sitting there, reached quickly for the Turkish Tisas Zigana T pistol in the back of his pants. Back in my Army days, I was the quickest and fastest shot with a pistol, earning me the nickname Wild Abe. I had pleaded with this man in my mind not to raise his pistol. I didn't like killing. Especially when it wasn't personal. But that didn't stop my first bullet from tearing through his shoulder, and exiting out the other, cutting his heart in half in a horizontal manner.
Three more bullets followed, all of them cracking through the room, and punching violent holes in his neck and head. I could instantly smell death. The death on my hands, and on my gun. My mind wanted to deny that this whole thing had actually just happened and I struggled to pull myself together. Just when I was climbing to my feet, and about to rush out of the room, two men and a woman burst in the door, pointing guns at both myself and Mr. Green from MIT.
“Hey what the hell! What are you-” The woman pointed a Gsh-18 pistol at me and opened fire, sending two bullets into the dry wall beside my head. My ears were in more than pain. My whole head was traumatized, and I fell back against the wall. I opened my eyes, a high pitch whine now the only noise. The two men walked up to Green and opened fire into him, firing at least five bullets each into the poor Turkish intelligence officer. The gun shots created nothing more than blurps in the ringing in my ears. As the woman walked out, the men proceded to beat me to a pulp. I tried to block the shots, and even fight back, but for every punch I managed to block or deflect, three more fists hit me. I felt like a truck had slammed into my chest and jaw, and my stomach couldn't hold food after taking all those punches. Right before they placed a black cloth bag over my head, I puked all over the floor, some of it mixing in with a pool of blood from Orange.

Russian. That's what I heard when I came to. I was so dazed that I couldn't make out what they were saying. Hell, I probably couldn't understand Englsih right now if I tried. There was no doubt, I was in the back of a vehicle, on the floor. The people were sitting in the back seat, with their legs on top of me holding me down. I guessed they probably had their guns at the ready too. I figured I had been unconcious for over an hour. We were driving fast, and turning sharply, which meant we weren't in the city. The were taking me somewhere else. By the reports I've read in the past of Russian kidnappings, there was only one logical place they could be taking me. Black Dolphin prison. A place where useless mob bosses, canibals, and other evils are kept under lock and key. Some of these other evils were political opponents, and sometimes, spies. Russians didn't feel secure enough in other countries, and wouldn't dare consider Checnya.
I also realized that if they wanted to kill me, there very well could have at any moment in the last hour. I had something they wanted. Information. Which meant that strings were getting pulled by a high placed Russian official. And the fact that he was pulling strings in the manner that he was, meant that someone had leaked something about my meeting. I didn't have any clue if the spook and his agent were even alive anymore.
I must have squirmed around in my conciousness, because an asshole's heel pressed harder down on my head. “Look who is waking up!” a voice said from above, noticably Russian. “You know, I speak Russian. You don't have to talk to me in English.” There was laughter and then the Russian spoke again “No, I insist on conversing in English, American. I always am eager to practice with a native speaker.” His tone sounded sarcastic, even through the thick accent. “So, Mr. Experience, what do Vympel agents and Americans usually discuss? What's below the North-Western wing of the Kremlin? Is that something usually on the agenda?” I expected a kick to the back of the head, but instead recieved a sharp pain in my ass. (No pun intended) One of the Russian operatives had stuck a needle into my butt, and injected me with something. Mysterious needles used by Vympel agents don't really have a good track record when it comes the people who are on the recieving end of the injection. “Ohv'boy... Ish dint know yougr like th...” I sank into a very deep sleep, and slumbered away like a baby, as my new Russian friends took me off to some icey gulag.
Upon regaining conciousness, I sat in a leather chair, in a inconspicuous room. The thin carpet was blue, and instead of windows on the walls, there were book cases and a Russian flag hanging from a flag stand. I had always thought that the devil resided in hell, but here I sat, corrected. Vladimir Putin sat across from me, in a second brown leather cusioned chair.
“I expected you to be taller.” I said to Putin, in Russian. The stoic Premier of the Russian Federation was wearing a black European suit, white shirt, and light blue tie. He had a face that looked like it had been battered and hardened by a lifetime of cold, harsh winds. Frankly, Putin looked only mildly interested in me. In English, he replied “And I expected you to be harder to catch.” Now usually, this kind of remark would come with a smug grin, but it was as if Putin had just reported the daily financial report to his boss at work. All business, completely guarded.

“We know you are an American spy. There is no use in d-” I cut him off in the middle of his sentence, “I am an American spy, yes.” This didn't arouse any emotions in his faced, but he did stare at me for a moment. It almost as if he was looking into a mirror, staring at himself in the eyes. He shifted in his seat and tightened his tie by a fraction of an inch. I took the lead in the next conversation, “You know... I told your Vympel monkey this earlier, I am fully fluent and more than happy to converse in Russian.” Putin actually chuckled at this. The wolf, meowed. “No, no.” he insisted “We will accommodate the American, and speak in 'English'” he said, with an genuinely annoyed tone. My eyes almost shot out of my head in disbelief! I raised my arms in protest “What is it with you people? I went to school to so I could speak in other languages. I understand you also studied German and English during the Cold War.”

Vladimir Putin was the son of a prominent Military Intelligence officer, and had decided at some point to more or less follow in his fathers footsteps. He did poor in school as a child in every subject except for German, and was constantly getting in fights or getting kicked out of school. He got lucky when he got his act together later and ended up going to college. He went on to study English and German, joining the KGB and working in East Berlin.

Ignoring anything I had said he started on what he had really wanted to say “I have a proposition for you.” He took a moment to pause, looked over at the Russian flag, then back at me. “I am aware that you have had your hands on a certain document recently. Something mentioning a 'Project Merlin' and written by a Middle Eastern man. Do you agree?” My breathing didn't change, however it was a conscious struggle to keep it that way. Was this treason? I didn't think so... but what does it matter what I think?...I rubbed my chin and jaw, which by now had a thick stubble. “What reasons do I have to answer you? Why are you asking me this, and not just locking me up like every other dissident and spy?” Putin took no time in answering, even sounding slightly eager, and defensive in his answer. “As much as I would like to lock you up, like the dissidents, I need as many allies as is possible right now.” While this caused him to look away, it caused me to stare even harder. “Allies?... In what way do you find you and me allies?”

Putin now stood up and walked to the flag. He ran his hands down the blue, white, and red lines. “Because, American, even I realize that the enemy of the enemy is my friend.” I couldn't believe what I was hearing. This wasn't the Putin I had grown up to know. Something very, very serious was going down to provoke such a response from the Master of the Bear. I retorted, “But why are you after me? Why are you telling this to me instead of the President Rodriguez?” Putin's attention was now refocused on me, as he hastily made his way back to his leather seat. “Because if I do that, then your president will want to mobilize the entire United States military. We do not have time for that, and it will only get in the way. This must be between our two intelligence agencies. Only that way, can we rapidly and effectively rub them out for good.” What the fuck... This can't be real. This asshole really is serious?





“I understand you are good friends with two high ranking Intelligence officials.” he continued. I wasn't surprised he had that knowledge. “Go to them with what I am about to tell you. Tell them that it is a gift, as well as a warning, from their new friend. Russia.” I leaned in closer, and looked him in the eyes, nodding. “Alright, Putin. Alright... I listen to what you have to say. And if I deem it only of the most absolute importance to my nation's security will I bring it to my officials. So go on. Explain.” Vladimir nodded back, and began.