Istanbul, a city that straddles Europe and Asia, a wonder of civilizations. In Turkey, where 99% of the population follows Islam, blue and white are the most common colors; looking around, nearly all buildings are white.
13 Fountain Street—a location flagged by CTU as a potential hiding place for Dmitri Pavlovich. However, CTU could not confirm the accuracy of the intelligence. Owen and Nikki needed to verify it for themselves.
As a tourist city, Istanbul had many local families who rented out spare rooms to make ends meet. With U.S. dollars opening doors, the two quickly rented an apartment across the street from number 13. The window offered a diagonal view of the target building—perfect for surveillance.
This was the old town. Most of the buildings were aged two-story structures, occasionally three stories high. The streets were narrow, and the homes were tightly connected. Most notably, the rooftops were all linked together by a walkway spanning across them.
Inside the room, a high-powered telescope sat behind a sheer curtain, its lens pointed precisely through a gap toward the building opposite. Nikki was stationed at the eyepiece.
"Anything?" Owen asked.
"Nothing. The windows are all covered with sheer curtains. Can't see inside," Nikki replied emotionlessly, her eyes never leaving the scope.
They had been here for half a day already, but no one had gone in or out of the house. If not for the occasional shadow passing behind the curtains, they might have thought the building was abandoned.
"This won't do," Owen muttered, mind racing to find a way to confirm if Pavlovich was truly inside.
He stood by the window, staring at the tightly drawn curtains of the building across the street, calculating.
"I'm going out," he said.
An idea had come to him. It worked in the U.S., but whether it would work in Turkey remained to be seen.
Just a few steps from their building, he found a basketball court where a group of local Turkish teens were playing.
He walked over and watched silently. Before long, the boys noticed him and stopped.
"What are you looking at, foreigner? Get lost. This place isn't for you," one teen, clearly itching for trouble, stepped up with a hostile tone.
Owen smiled, unfazed by the attitude. The boy's accented English was a blessing—it meant they could communicate. As for the kid's cocky posturing, Owen didn't mind. He'd been young once too.
Ignoring the troublemaker, he pulled out a $100 bill and waved it in front of the group. "I've got $100 here. Who wants to earn it?"
The teens glanced at each other. Several of the bigger ones grinned maliciously and dropped their basketballs, surrounding Owen—including the same teen who'd just picked a fight.
Owen smiled. He knew what they were thinking. When he pulled out the cash, they must have seen the fat wad in his wallet. Clearly, these boys had robbed tourists before. They had mistaken him for an easy target.
Without making it obvious, Owen lifted the hem of his shirt. The teens stopped in their tracks. They had spotted the pistol holstered at his waist.
Now they could talk like civilized people. "See those cars over there? Make all their alarms go off. This hundred's yours."
Silence.
"Are you serious?" one of them finally asked. The request was so simple they couldn't help but suspect he was toying with them.
"Dead serious," Owen said. "Whoever gets it done first gets the money. I don't care who your leader is."
No sooner had he finished speaking than a short, scrawny kid darted off toward the row of cars. He was the smallest in the group, and had hung at the back during the earlier confrontation. This was his shot. If Owen was legit, he'd earn a hundred bucks. If not—well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
As the short kid ran off, the others realized what was happening and followed close behind.
"WEE-OO, WEE-OO—"
One after another, car alarms erupted down the street as the boy slapped hoods and sides. The blaring echoed through the narrow street, stirring nearby residents to peek outside. Number 13 was no exception. Owen noticed movement: a figure appeared behind a second-floor curtain, and someone opened the ground-floor door.
"Did you get it?" Owen asked into his earpiece.
"Crystal clear," Nikki replied.
In front of him, the short Turkish kid stood expectantly, eyes locked on the $100 in Owen's hand.
"It's yours," Owen said, handing it over before turning and walking away. Behind him, the boys erupted into a noisy argument—whether the kid would keep the cash or have to share was no longer Owen's concern.
Back at the apartment, Owen moved to the computer. A data cable linked the camera to the laptop, which had facial recognition software running. As soon as the camera snapped an image, the system began cross-referencing.
On the left side of the screen were two recent photos: one of the man behind the curtain, another of the one at the door. On the right side, the software rapidly flashed through possible matches.
Nikki had limited the comparison pool to Eastern European terror suspects. After about two minutes, the program stopped. Two matches had been found with significant facial resemblance.
Below each photo, the profiles were displayed.
Botuar Chikalyev – Member of the Russian extremist group "Core Group," known follower of Makarov. Facial match: 100%.
Dmitri Pavlovich – Former Soviet nuclear weapons expert. Facial match: 90%.
There was no mistake. Makarov's people were here—and with Pavlovich, no less. That aligned perfectly with the intel Owen had seen on the whiteboard. Now all they had to do was keep eyes on Pavlovich and eventually, they'd be led to Makarov.
Upstairs, angry locals were yelling at the kids for setting off car alarms. The boys wisely retreated. After a while, the alarms shut off automatically, and the street returned to calm.
"They ordered food~"
As Owen was lost in thought, Nikki's voice came through the window. He stepped over and saw a pizza delivery guy on a motorbike pulling up in front of 13.
The deliveryman kicked down his stand, grabbed several boxes from his bag, and knocked on the door.
After a moment, a man answered—it was Chikalyev. He took the pizza, handed over a stack of cash, and quickly shut the door. The delivery guy smiled brightly as he counted his tip and rode off. Apparently, it had been a generous one.
(End of Chapter)
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