Black Widow. Cliff Ryder

Mustafa said as he turned to his men, “who can drive this truck?”

      The men looked at one another. Most of them didn’t drive. They’d lived in the city all their lives and seldom went anywhere they couldn’t walk. Cars were too expensive, and the Turkish authorities kept track of vehicles.

      “I can.” Radiating arrogance, Fikret strode to the truck, opened the door and pulled himself up into the cab.

      Ajza watched helplessly, uncertain what to do. Mustafa wouldn’t let them know where the weapons were going. He maintained his secrets from the rest of the group. Once those weapons disappeared, she wouldn’t know where they were.

      Fikret started the truck. The big engine rumbled and Fikret smiled broadly at the others. However, Ajza could tell that the revs were too high.

      When Fikret let out the clutch too quickly, the truck lurched forward, snorted belligerently and died with a shudder. He tried twice more, and the results didn’t change.

      “It’s this truck.” Fikret banged the steering wheel with a big fist. “It is an abominable beast. There is something wrong with it.”

      Mustafa wasn’t happy. “There’s nothing wrong with the truck.”

      “There is, I tell you.” For the moment in his embarrassment, Fikret had forgotten himself. But he recalled his station almost immediately. His face blanched. “Forgive me. I spoke in haste.”

      Mustafa turned back to face the others. “Can anyone drive this truck?”

      Heart beating too fast, Ajza stepped forward. “I can.” Her pulse throbbed in her neck and at her temple.

      “You?” Mustafa studied her with hard eyes.

      “Yes.” Ajza had been among them for almost three months. She’d gotten in as a thief, run afoul of one of Mustafa’s operations and sold her services to him. The chauvinistic culture of Turkey precluded women from holding many positions of importance in the community, but crime was an equal-opportunity employer. Mustafa recognized that women’s capabilities—in some areas—outdid men’s. That line of thinking had placed Ajza in the op in the first place.

      A woman’s ability to drive a truck, however, obviously hadn’t occurred to him.

      “I learned to drive my father’s truck,” Ajza said. That was almost the truth. Her father had taught her to drive, but that was in Leicester, not in one of the towns along the Syrian border as she’d claimed. “He had no sons. What he needed done when he could not, I did.”

      Mustafa still stared at her.

      “Perhaps letting her try would not be so bad,” Nazmi suggested. “Surely she can do no worse than Fikret. And we can’t leave the truck sitting here.”

      Fikret cursed Nazmi from the truck cab. This only made the other men laugh.

      Mustafa gestured toward the truck. “Go.”

      Ajza climbed onto the running board and opened the door. Fikret didn’t relinquish the wheel. He glared at her and breathed his sour breath over her.

      “Let her drive,” Mustafa commanded.

      “Another time,” Fikret promised her in a quiet voice no one else heard, “you and I will even the score between us.”

      A quiver of fear spasmed through Ajza’s stomach. There were few days in her job when she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t know what it was about herself that continued to draw her to the spy business. There had to be something wrong with her.

      Whatever it was, though, had infected Ilyas, as well. She suspected it had something to do with their parents, how fiercely her mother and father loved their new country and the opportunities England provided for them.

      She didn’t answer Fikret’s challenge, but she didn’t look away from him, either.

      Cursing again, Fikret surrendered the steering wheel and slid over to the passenger side. He rolled down the window and spat in disgust.

      Behind the wheel, Ajza took her pistol from her waistband and shoved it between her thigh and the seat. She started the engine, put the truck into a lower gear than Fikret had and let out the clutch. The truck lurched forward, but it kept moving.

      The men, led by Nazmi, cheered. Ajza caught sight of the young man in the long side mirror and smiled a little at the celebration taking place behind her.

      A moment later Nazmi ran up beside her and clung to the door while he stood on the running board. “Mustafa says you should follow the car.” He pointed at a dust-covered sedan so old and rusty that Ajza couldn’t identify the make.

      “All right,” Ajza said.

      “I will still buy you breakfast.”

      Fikret cursed foully.

      “We’ll see,” she said.

      “But we must celebrate your great success. Even Fikret has to agree that your skills are important today. If not for you, the truck might sit there until Mustafa hired a driver.”

      Ajza checked the rearview mirror. “Unless you plan on hanging on to the truck the whole way, you’d better get in one of the cars.”

      Nazmi dropped away and went back to join the others. They all climbed back into the cars they’d arrived in.

      Ajza followed the sedan, but her mind raced. Where was the backup team that was supposed to be shadowing her?

      7

      London

      “Do you have an image of the woman?” Samantha asked as she watched the convoy take shape in Istanbul.

      “Yes. I’m running it against the databases now.”

      Samantha watched the truck roll through the narrow streets. The presence of the woman hadn’t startled her. There were others within the group, but very few of them. To survive in such an environment, women had to be harder and more calloused than the men.

      But where had this one learned to drive big trucks?

      The attention to detail, the way she subconsciously filed away pieces that didn’t fit, made Samantha Rhys-Jones invaluable to MI-6. She’d quickly gone from light fieldwork to intel gathering and processing. Those skills had drawn the attention of Room 59.

      “Indigo,” the Red Team leader said, “do we intercept the convoy?”

      “Yes. But only if it leaves town. If they stash the cargo inside the city limits, we’ll take care of it later. I don’t want any collateral damage on this one,” Samantha said.

      “Understood.”

      Samantha never wanted collateral damage. The deaths of bystanders weighed heavily on her. During her career, it sometimes happened—just as she’d sometimes lost agents she minded—but she worked hard to prevent that.

      “Ma’am, I’ve identified the woman. She belongs to MI-6.”

      That was unexpected.

      Samantha walked over to the woman’s computer. She studied the face on the screen but didn’t recognize it.

      According to the file, Ajza Manaev held a position as a field agent with considerable experience for someone so young. Evidently she performed well at what she did.

      “Orange,” Samantha said.

      “Yes,” Kate replied.

      Samantha watched the convoy thread through the winding streets of the Kadikoy district. More people were up and starting to fill the sidewalks, streets and cafés. The potential for unplanned losses was increasing exponentially.

      “We have a problem,” Samantha said.

      8

      New York

      “Remove