The Way To Die

Part 1: The Way to Die

Chapter 1

MI6 HQ, London-- 8:17 am

Sienna Thorn was submerged in a tank of near freezing water, and all she had on to insulate her skin was a set of tracksuit pants and a T-shirt. The agent’s eyes were shut tight, and as the cold drilled holes into her body she focused on extracting every ounce of life from the air inside her lungs.

How her chest burned… it was like a cauldron of petroleum awash with flames of liquid fire. Sienna allowed a bubble of carbon dioxide to escape from her lips, and as it floated to the pool surface a scuba diver suspended nearby checked his watch.

Two minutes, fifteen seconds, and counting...

Thirty seconds later Thorn reached the surface of the icy prison and opened her mouth to release a gasp of poisonous gas into the atmosphere. Oxygen immediately flooded the agent’s lungs and injected a pulse of life into her exhausted heart. She could barely lift her arms onto the side of the pool, and amidst the swirling light she heard the voice of her diving instructor.

Two minutes, forty-six seconds.

That’s not good enough, whispered Sienna through her chattering jaw. Not nearly good enough...

Try again tomorrow.

No! I’m going to try now.

There’s nothing wrong with your time, agent.

Just reset your bloody stop watch!

The trainer on deck frowned as he studied Thorn from his vantage point. There was no shred of doubt in his mind that the woman in the water was completely crazy, and reckless as all hell.

Get out of the pool, agent. You’re wanted upstairs.

This time the order came from a female, and there was scarcely an ounce of patience in her voice. Sienna turned her throbbing head towards the source of the command and recognized the speaker immediately. It was Joy Campbell, personal assistant to the head of MI6.

I’m sure C can wait four minutes, noted Thorn through her purple lips.

Sienna swallowed two enormous gulps of air and sank into her watery hell-- stubborn and rude and dismissive of authority.

It was almost 9 am when Sienna entered C’s office in a woolen tracksuit. Blueness still lingered in the agent’s face, and her blond hair retained a damp look.

MI6’s spy chief eyed the woman before him and smiled despite his best efforts not to do so. He didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Well done, Thorn. Three minutes, three seconds.

Somewhat impressive…

I’m not patting myself on the back just yet, replied Sienna with her characteristic dryness. There’s room for improvement.

That may be the case, noted C, but your swimming lessons are now on hold. I’m sending you to a place where the water is far from freezing.

The director of intelligence leaned back in his chair and marveled at the personality standing before him. As far as he knew, Thorn was completely divorced from the things that ordinary people cared about. She had no desire for love or stability, or even friendship. The woman thrived on personal challenges, and if you threw her in the deep end she’d be grateful.

What do you know about Yafar bin Al-Alem that you haven’t already gleaned from internal reports?

The question sparked a surge of adrenalin in Sienna’s body.

I know that to find him we will need to follow leads relentlessly, answered the agent. And I know that more people will die before we catch up with him.

C liked the first part of the response and couldn’t refute the second. We at least think along similar lines.

The gray-haired spy chief reached towards his glass top desk and lifted up a manila folder marked as Confidential. The fifty-four year old propelled the cardboard item across the table’s smooth surface so that Sienna could take hold of it. When the agent opened the binder she came face to face with a picture of a European male, late thirties, physically tough, with a hard edge evident in his eyes.

Three years ago Nigel Meaker was dispatched to the Middle East with the express goal of identifying members of militant terrorist cells. He was to keep identified targets under surveillance and capture information that might point to the whereabouts of Yafar. Meaker is now dead. He was assassinated yesterday in Jerusalem, and just before he died he shot and killed a young Palestinian woman who had a bomb strapped to her body. I’m assuming you read about her death in the papers…

Sienna took another look at the picture before closing the folder. She was unmoved by the agency’s loss.

This could be the break we need.

That remains to be seen.

Do we know who the assassin is?

No we don’t, answered C irritably. Three years of field reports from our man and pinpointing his killer is still little more than a guessing game. We have one too many enemies in that part of the world.

C stood up and made his way across the room’s beige carpeting towards the bulletproof window that overlooked the Thames. The miserable view outside did little for the man’s foul mood. Thorn, he just knew, was glad about Meaker’s death. She viewed the event as an opportunity, and that was a little annoying.

I’m sending you into the Middle East as Nigel’s replacement.

C turned around and glared at the female assassin in his office. Downing Street wants ‘The Fist of God’ to know that their random acts of violence on British soil will not go unpunished. The agency, the government, all of us-- we are in agreement that killing high profile terrorists is not enough. We need information to win this war, and we need people for questioning. Bring Yafar back here alive.

Sienna pondered the task handed to her and found its dimensions appealing. Killing a terrorist mastermind was tough enough, but capturing him alive would be even harder.

Understood, replied Thorn firmly.

C returned to his leather bound chair and took a seat. With a caustic weariness he looked into Sienna’s bottomless eyes.

When Meaker last checked in a week ago he indicated in his report that he was scoping out a night club in Istanbul called ‘Lenin.’ He was planning to make contact with an American named Shaw… was evidently under the impression this fellow could help him. We’ve checked our databases and we have nothing on him.

I see.

I suspect that our man didn’t fully document all that he knew, and that’s why we’re in this current predicament. We can’t call ourselves an intelligence agency if our operatives hold back information out of laziness, or poor discipline, or some bullshit rebellious streak. I’ll be expecting miniature novels from you Thorn, not postcards with cryptic one-liners written on the back.

Sienna wanted to roll her eyes but fought back the urge to do so. I appreciate the fact that I work for a bureaucracy, noted the agent in a dry tone. I’ll send back detailed notes.

C smiled gently, as if somehow aware that the statement was a lie. Speaking of bureaucracy, Thorn, you should consider yourself a cost center with a budget of 250,000 quid a year. I suggest you watch your pennies because our government doesn’t hand out blank checks like the Americans do. Do you have any questions?

Sienna had plenty of questions, but she would find answers in her own way and from other sources. Not at the moment, no.

Then I suggest you read everything in that file and get to work.

Thorn almost ran from the room in a spell of mild euphoria. This was something she could sink her teeth into, something to own and possess. The assassin is the key…The person who pulled the trigger would open up a world of possibilities. Finding him or her was the number one priority.

Sienna dropped Nigel’s file on Joy’s desk before she exited C’s waiting room. Put this in archives, will you, she muttered ruefully.

Marcus Washington stood towards the back of MI6’s command center and surveyed his dustless kingdom. The world as he knew it was illuminated by forty computer monitors and twelve LCD screens, all of which were connected to satellite feeds so that at any given moment the planet could be inspected like a precious stone beneath a magnifying glass. The drones in the hive were experts in linguistics, logistics, surveillance and threat management, and like master chess players they moved state resources across a vast playing board littered with landmines. With a flick of a button the people in the room could open up access to the Metropolitan Police, Interpol, the Ministry of Defense, and Downing Street, and only a few words needed to be said to create panic amongst the country’s civil service elite.

When Marcus was feeling charitable he would tell himself that he held a position of control and power. The remaining ninety-nine percent of his time was consumed by the belief that chaos ultimately took home the prize. All the technical wizardry in the world couldn’t save the human race from catastrophe, and there was no rescuing mankind from itself.

Hello, Washington.

The greeting came from left field and yanked Marcus out of his calibrated thought pattern.

Oh bugger! thought the spy handler to himself. It’s Miss Congeniality.

What do you want, Thorn?

Sienna glared at her colleague with an expression devoid of pleasure.

I’m leaving for Turkey soon. But you know that already.

Marcus headed for his glass-walled cubicle with Sienna close behind. The Caribbean-born man was certain that his agent would have a special request to make, and he would inevitably experience heartburn trying to meet her expectations. When he was back at his desk, Marcus took a deep breath and launched an offensive move.

You have a budget for your mission, Thorn. Don’t ask me for more than that.

Sienna ignored the tart remark and chose instead to focus on a white i-Pod that had been placed on Marcus’ desk. I never picked you as a music lover, noted the spy.

Marcus bit down on his lower lip, as if annoyed that people considered him to be a quasi-robot. It’s linked to eighteen satellites. You can use it for tracking targets or locating destinations.

Thorn smiled at her companion’s irritation. Well there’s Apple’s ingenuity again, she replied. Who needs MI6’s toys when the crowd in Silicon Valley is five steps ahead?

Sienna let the insult hang in the air before she pounced a second time. I need you to do something for me.

Naturally.

The spy pulled a piece of paper from her overcoat pocket and flicked the item across Marcus’ desktop.

Tonight I want your crew to hack into the websites of every leading newspaper in Israel and Turkey. Find all the articles you can on the suicide bomber shot by Meaker and place an advertisement next to them.

Marcus unfolded the note in his hands and read it aloud: Meet me at Lenin’s. The Angel of Wisdom.

Jesus Christ, thought the spy handler to himself.

You really want to go fishing like this?

No Washington, I’m making this request for my health. Now can you get the job done, or do I need to get a professional involved?

Of course we can handle it, quipped Marcus irritably. The real question is whether it’s worth the effort.

Thorn smiled at the venomous remark before quickly brushing it aside. Well that’s not your concern. And one other thing-- contact our support agent in Istanbul and pass him the shopping list on the back of that note. I’ll pick up my goods tomorrow afternoon, 3pm, the Ottoman Café in Uskudar. Tell him I’ll have a red ribbon in my hair.

Sienna turned and walked towards the exit, her mind racing with a hundred things she needed to get done.

I’m not your bitch, Thorn, muttered Marcus in a foul mood.

I never said you were, came the sharp reply.

Heathrow, London-- 7:17 pm

Thorn liked the fact that she had very little to work with. Not a lot of information. Not a lot of money. Not a lot of cumbersome gadgets. To succeed she would have to bend the rules of the game, and that was always the more interesting approach. Paying for services was a simple case in point, and when Sienna stepped up to the British Airways check-in counter she knew exactly how to work the situation.

Good evening, ma’am. Your destination?

Istanbul.

And you’re travelling economy class?

Well actually I wanted to talk to you about that. Who do I have to fuck around here to get a free upgrade?

An hour later Thorn eased into a leather seat in first class and mentally contemplated the look on the counter clerk’s face. Perhaps it had been a mixture of horror and fear, or maybe just blind panic by itself. Either way, it was remarkable what a well-chosen word could accomplish.

As Sienna cleared her mind a steward stepped up beside her and nodded politely.

Can I get you anything to drink?

Vodka, ice, a slice of lemon.

Of course. One moment.

Thorn’s gaze moved from the aisle to the passenger beside her. He was a plump, middle-aged man, clearly affluent and altogether quite ripe.

Good evening, said the stranger in a thick Dutch accent.

Goeden avond, replied Thorn.

Spreekt u Nederlands?

Ja ja! Ik hou van de Nederland.

Fantastisch!

Sienna leaned in closer to the man so that her perfume could intoxicate his nostrils. And then, with a little effort, she extracted Heinrich Moller’s life story from his lips.

Eresin Crown Hotel, Istanbul-- 2:18 am

It was quite a coincidence that Thorn had chosen to stay at the same hotel as her new best friend, and at Heinrich’s insistence the pair shared a taxi ride to the Eresin Crown. The five star establishment was located in Sultanahmet, and as Sienna entered the marble foyer she calibrated the routine she would run through with the check-in clerk. Opportunistic-- yes. Brash-- yes. A little pathetic-- almost certainly.

Good evening, madam.

Hello. I should have a reservation under Thorn.

One moment, let me check. The on-duty attendant accessed the hotel’s booking log and scanned the names of guests due to check in before the end of the day. I must apologize, madam. You are not in the system.

Really?

Do you have a printed confirmation?

And why would I have that? I don’t carry paper.

Thorn turned to her travel companion with a look of panic etched in her face. Heinrich, what am I going to do? They’ve lost my reservation!

The Dutchman blanched at the administrative drama. I insist you stay here, remarked the portly foreigner before he faced the counter attendant. Book her into a room. That can’t be hard.

Of course, sighed the clerk politely. Could I have a major credit card?

Sienna dived into her handbag, and after rummaging in its recesses for an interminable period of time she pulled forth a wafer of plastic imprinted with the Diners Club logo.

Only MasterCard or Visa, noted the attendant with a raised eyebrow. And of course dollars.

Thorn stabbed the Turk with invisible daggers before Heinrich came to her rescue once more.

I will pay for her room. Just book her in.

Sienna immediately shook her head from side to side in mock protest. Oh, I couldn’t.

Please, please. It was such a delight talking to you on the plane.

The Dutchman extracted a MasterCard from his pocketbook and handed it across to the clerk. My reservation is under Moller. See if we can have rooms on the same floor.

Oh you are a dear, purred Thorn with a demure smile. I don’t know how to thank you.

When Sienna reached her room ten minutes later she made sure to lock her front door behind her. Then, with scarcely a hint of weariness, the spy dragged her bag into the center of the lounge and left it there as she continued on towards the open balcony. The street-facing deck afforded a magnificent view of the historic city, and as the Brit inhaled the cold night air she felt a palpable sense of excitement.

The world was hers. All she needed now was a gun.

Golden Archway Apartments, Istanbul-- 1:00 pm

The advertisement described the apartment as recently renovated, and for once the description wasn’t a lie. In fact, the entire building was undergoing refurbishment, and from the outside it looked like a remnant from a war zone.

Try to imagine this building in a finished state, said the estate agent as she showed Sienna into the penthouse foyer. It will be quite lovely.

The spacious rooftop apartment was lightly furnished, and it still contained a whiff of fresh paint.

So all the floors are empty while they complete the remodel?

Except for the bottom two, replied the agent. The landlord lives there with his family.

The prospect of having no neighbors was appealing, and with a casual smile Sienna stepped into the polished kitchen and opened a drawer beside the double door fridge. An array of cutting knives jumped into view.

And how long before they finish work?

Another two months, lied the saleswoman.

Thorn shut the drawer and turned on the faucet above the sink. The tap made a deep, gurgling sound before spitting out a jet of light brown water.

Inside the lounge Sienna directed her gaze upwards and assessed the view. There was no ceiling to speak of, only rafters spread far apart that supported a sloping roof. A skylight was present too, and beyond the glass there was nothing but powder blue.

So you would like to rent? I have many people interested but I like to help nice girls like you.

Thorn smiled at her companion.

Yes, I think I will take it.

Excellent, noted the agent. I’ll get the papers from downstairs.

Left to her own devices Sienna made her way along the dusty corridor outside the apartment. There was a doorway just beyond the staircase that the spy opened, but behind it was nothing more than a closet filled with painter’s equipment.

Thorn continued down the passage until she reached a window overlooking a fire escape. The sturdiness of the metal structure was questionable, while the view beyond the stairs was nothing to herald-- just the back of a dilapidated apartment block. Sienna glanced downwards at the alley below, and was pleased to find it open on both ends.

Good. Clear access.

A punching sound suddenly tore into Sienna’s thoughts, and she spun around to face the threat with her nerves on edge. It was a soccer ball, bouncing towards her with accidental force.

The owner of the toy was a boy with jet-black hair and chocolate brown eyes, and he frowned anxiously as he watched Thorn pick up his most-prized possession. The landlord’s son perhaps, or his grandson-- a family member at any rate.

Sienna gently tossed the ball towards the youngster and watched him catch it. Then without saying a word the child bolted down the staircase, embarrassed by the encounter.

You met Ismet? asked the saleswoman as she stepped onto the landing moments later.

Yes.

He’s very shy. Children don’t bother you I hope.

The agent had a contract in hand, and she started rummaging around in her handbag for a pen.

Now when do you think you’ll move in? asked the Turk casually.

Oh, I’m already unpacked, replied Thorn with an expressionless face.

Ottoman Café, Istanbul-- 2:58 pm

Sienna took a seat at a pavement table just outside the Ottoman Café and scanned the establishment’s patrons. For the most part they were men, and nearly all of them were drinking coffee and smoking.

After placing an order for black tea, the spy pulled a copy of Vogue from her handbag and leafed through its glossy pages. Thorn barely noticed the images on display, and she monitored the activity around her with her peripheral vision.

It’s outrageous, isn’t it? observed a man at a nearby table. The stranger’s voice was as textured as his well-heeled appearance, and Sienna looked at him with interest.

Excuse me?

Aswad Hassan lowered his newspaper and spun it around so that Thorn could view the contents. This vodka advertisement. Only the Russians would name a potato drink after a discredited Communist.

Sienna eyed the image of a bottle emblazoned with Lenin’s face. The designer had drawn a halo above the Bolshevik’s head, and it sparkled with exaggerated integrity.

They have a weak sense of humor, replied the blond Brit.

I agree.

Aswad stood up and made his way inside in search of the café toilet. Thorn discretely followed behind, and when both had stepped into the restroom corridor the distinguished-looking gentleman passed over a boutique carry bag.

I hope Istanbul treats you well.

Thank you, replied Sienna.

Aswad extracted a card from his shirt pocket and held it aloft. A telephone number was written across the rectangle in black ink, and Thorn memorized the numerals in three seconds.

Let me know if I can be of service again.

I will.

The field officer placed the card back in his pocket and politely excused himself. Such a pretty girl, thought the man when he reached the sidewalk pavement. And probably quite dangerous…

Sienna wasted no time examining her gifts inside a lavatory stall. A shoebox contained her favorite flick knife, a Glock .45 Auto with leather holster, five magazines and ten feet of binding rope. The British agent picked up her new gun and admired its sleek black body which was light, robust and easily concealable, with a safe-action-trigger system and above average magazine capacity. Satisfied with the weapon, the spy opened up a second box at the bottom of the carry bag. The contents were less to her liking, but necessary all the same. There was a silver party dress that would leave most of her thighs exposed, a set of high heels, and a headband with a silver tinsel halo attached.

Every angel needs a uniform, mused the agent in a solemn mood. Even this one.

Chapter 2

Lenin Club, Istanbul-- 9:32 pm

When the Angel of Wisdom arrived at Lenin she elicited stares from everyone standing outside the club, and not just because she was striking: the silver-clad beauty also showed no fear in jumping the line.

This isn’t a place for good girls, noted a bouncer at the entrance to the disco inferno. The portly man had a thick accent, and Sienna could smell tobacco on his breath.

Well I’m the Devil in disguise, replied the Englishwoman dryly. Trust me.

The mountainous hulk waved Thorn inside with a smirk, much to the disgust of a couple standing nearby.

Inside the club Sienna found herself surrounded by paraphernalia from the Soviet Union. Beyond the flags and pictures of a distant cold war were three hundred patrons dancing in a cavernous space two stories high. The club pulsed and vibrated amidst a sea of strobe lights and rhythmic music, and Thorn drew countless glances from men as she penetrated the realm. The atmosphere was electrifying.

As Sienna danced by herself she cast her gaze up to a balcony that overlooked the central arena. The upper terrace was crowded with onlookers who were drinking and talking, and it was impossible to