The Russian Woman

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The call to prayer echoed through the ancient city of Istanbul as Michael Thorne stepped from his hotel. The air was sweet with the scent of jasmine, the light golden with the promise of a new day. Above, the sky was a blue so pure it hurt his eyes.

Thorne was a dark star in the CIA's firmament of dark ops, a Specialized Skills Officer, expendable, deniable. If this mission went bad, no one was going to show up and pull him out of a Turkish prison.

Turkey was a powder keg about to explode, and Langley's overlords wanted to know when it was going to blow. Thorne was on his way to meet a man who was supposed to have the answer to that question. The last time there'd been a coup here, the bosses on the Seventh Floor had been caught with their pants down. A lot of powerful people had gotten upset. They were determined not to let it happen again, which explained why Thorne was walking down a narrow alley that stank of dead fish, looking over his shoulder.

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