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and pressed the trigger. Pffft. The VAVAK guy jerked back. Ben kept walking straight at him. He fired again, center mass, and the VAVAK guy staggered. Ben adjusted his aim and the third shot blew out the man's left eye.
    There were new screams. People started to scatter. The scientists turned from in front of the coffee shop window, their expressions confused, not understanding what was happening, looking for the source of the trouble. The first one didn't even see Ben walking at him from ten feet away. Ben shot him in the head. The second one had just enough time to raise his hands, either in self-defense or in supplication. Ben put a single round directly between his eyes and was moving past him before his body had even hit the ground.
    He glanced left and right as he moved. People were screaming and fleeing. He didn't see any heroes. No one was even looking at him. They were all just trying to get the hell out of there as fast as they could. He kept his chin down and his eyes forward, the Glock close at his side.
    Suddenly he sensed something out of place, someone who didn't fit in with the crowd's panicky rhythms. He glanced ahead and saw a stocky Slavic- looking guy standing motionless and watching him intently. Ben pulled up short. They locked eyes. No question the Slav was a professional. It was in his face, his posture, his balanced demeanor.
    They stood like that for one frozen second, each trying to determine the other's intent. Then the Slav's nerve broke. He cut left, reaching into his jacket as he moved. Without thinking, Ben brought up the Glock in a two-handed grip. He fired three times, moving closer with each pffft, walking the shots in. The Slav crumbled to the ground. He managed to get his gun out, too late. Ben drilled him in the head from less than five feet away.
    He moved off and cut down an alley, his head swiveling, searching for problems at his flanks, badly rattled. Jesus Christ, he hadn't seen that guy at all. Fucker had been standing right there like a ghost when the whole thing went down. If the crowds hadn't left him stranded like driftwood at ebb tide, Ben never would have noticed him. And goddamn it, if the guy had shown the presence of mind to get his weapon out a second earlier
    He swapped a fresh magazine into the Glock and kept moving. He knew these streets from reconnaissance and made sure to keep to dark ones until he was well away from the Spice Bazaar. Along the way he stripped off the fake beard and discarded it in a Dumpster overflowing with waste. He lost the black hat and replaced it with a red one. The jacket was reversible. He shrugged it off, turned the inside out, and was suddenly wearing yellow instead of blue. He would get rid of the gun later, when he was sure he was safe.
    He began to circle toward the Galata Bridge, back among blissfully ignorant crowds again. He would walk across, catch a cab to HaydarpaAYa Station, then a train to Ankara, his original arrival point, which would make for a safer departure, as well.
    He heard sirens in the distance. They were heading away from him. He let out a long breath. He was okay. No one was following him and no one could connect him with what had just happened. Istanbul was a city of over ten million people. He was a needle in a haystack, a drop in the ocean. He kept moving, just another tourist again.
    Damn, though, who was that guy? Bastard had almost gotten the drop on him, no question.
    Well, he hadn't. Some days you eat the bear, and some days the bear eats you.
    The bear.
    He stopped. Holy shit, was that guy Russian?
    He sure looked Russian. Well, it wasn't Vasilyev, he was certain of that. The guy had been a pro, no question, not a scientist or other civilian. Maybe someone connected with Vasilyev, though. Yeah, who else would have been ghosting along behind the Iranians? And why else would the guy have delayed so long before going for his weapon? Because he was thinking he wasn't the target, maybe. But maybe because he was