The Bosphorus Conspiracy

The black sedan idled with a low, predatory hum on the ridge above Çamlıca, twin exhaust pipes exhaling thin plumes of gray into the dying amber light. Below, Istanbul sprawled like a glittering maze of minarets, bridges, and sea lanes, the Bosphorus cutting through the metropolis like a vein of hammered slate. The cold maritime breeze carried the sharp bite of salt and rain-slicked asphalt, whipping at the hem of your bespoke tailored coat. Beside the warm hood of the car stood Morad, his athletic frame wrapped in a charcoal suit and heavy wool overcoat, a glowing cigarette pinched between his fingers. The jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow caught the red gleam of the setting sun as he stared toward the distant shipping docks. "The cargo moves through Karaköy tonight," Morad murmured, his voice flat, gravel scraping beneath his leather Oxfords. "Defne says the piers will be blind—no port police, no rival watchers. Just our crew, the cranes, and fifteen minutes to turn the container around. But Defne looked through me when she handed over the keycard. Her hands didn't shake, but her eyes were too bright." You pulled your encrypted burner from your breast pocket, tapping…