Mehmed stared at the extraordinary man.
‘Will they not suspect anything?’
‘My people reburied him. The grave is as it was. No one will know.’
‘Good,’ said Mehmed eventually. ‘And what of the artefact? Did they find it?
‘No, majesty. They searched the house yet found nothing. He has hidden it well.’
‘Then we must go back,’ said Mehmed. ‘It will be there somewhere. The artefact must be found.’
‘There is more,’ said Kosta. ‘There are outsiders who are asking questions of the locals.’
‘Outsiders?’
‘Westerners from the United Kingdom. I am told they know of such things and have been brought in to shed light where there is darkness.’
Mehmed stood up from behind his desk and walked to the window, staring out over the city.
‘You have seen them?’
‘I have not, but my people have. There is a man and a woman. Would you have me kill them?’
Mehmed remained silent for a long time. Eventually he turned around and approached the Saljik assassin.
‘No,’ he said, ‘at least, not yet. These westerners often have access to resources that we do not. Let them carry out their investigations and we will see where it leads. Have them followed and report back what they find.’
‘I will do so myself, majesty,’ said Kosta.
‘No,’ said Mehmed again. ‘If they are successful they may travel fast and we need someone who is not afraid to embrace the ways of the modern world. Also, we need someone who can speak their language. Does your tribe have such a man?’
Kosta stayed silent before answering.
‘There is such a man,’ he said eventually, ‘one who was cast out from my tribe years ago. He found the ways of the city intoxicating and has led the life of an infidel ever since. Yet he is second only to me in the art of murder and has alliances to me that are unbreakable.’
‘And who is this man?’
‘His name is Abbas,’ said Kosta, ‘and he is my son.’
* * *
The backstreet bar was half full of westerners listening to a group of musicians playing poor representations of traditional music. A gang of local youths sat in a corner, staring at the scantily clad female dancer with the group as she cavorted amongst the western tourists. One of the youths nudged his neighbour, pointing at a man sitting by the bar with a vivacious red-headed woman.
‘More wine,’ shouted the man, banging his glass on the bar.
‘Abbas, you have had enough,’ said the woman draped over his shoulder. ‘We both have. Take me home.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Abbas, pulling out a wad of notes. ‘The night is yet young. Barman, another bottle.’
The gang of young men stopped talking and stared at the pile of cash on the bar.
‘Abbas, please,’ whined the woman. ‘Take me back to my rooms, I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘How?’ asked Abbas, intrigued. The sexual skills of this extraordinary woman had held him enthralled for the past two weeks and her imagination never failed to amaze him. He listened as she whispered in his ear, eyes widening as he heard her exotic promises of satisfaction.
‘Barman,’ he shouted again, ‘we will take the wine but leave it unopened, I have other business to attend.’ The barman handed over the bottle and took the appropriate amount from the pile on the bar. Abbas pocketed his money and they both left to walk down the side streets to the woman’s rented rooms. A few seconds later, six young men also left the same bar and followed them into the darkness.
* * *
Kosta walked down the backstreets of Istanbul, not something he felt comfortable with but at least it was away from the staring eyes and gawping mouths of the westerners. The people at Mehmed’s offices had made some enquiries on his behalf and he now made his way to the run-down quarter where he had been told he would find his son.
Suddenly he stopped, melting into the shadows, aware that there was danger ahead. His hand crept to his kama and he stared into the darkness in silence. His nostrils flared as he smelt the familiar stench of blood and urine, the signs that something violent had happened in the last few minutes. He knew men often lost control of their bodily functions as they died, especially if the death had been violent. He stepped cautiously forward, approaching a particularly dark corner of the alleyway where he could see a motionless shape on the floor. He soon made out the body of a man and a few yards away, the body of another. He crouched down to turn the corpse over but paused as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a sure sign that someone had crept up behind him.
‘Put your kama away, Abbas,’ he said quietly, ‘I am not your enemy.’ He stood up and turned around, staring into the eyes of his son.
‘How did you know it was me?’ asked Abbas.
‘Only a fellow Saljik could approach so close without me knowing,’ said Kosta, ‘and the cut of the blade is that of a kama. Only your breathing gave you away.’
‘You have the senses of a mountain lion,’ said Abbas.
‘And you the lungs of a bear,’ said Kosta. He looked around the scene. ‘Your blade has been busy, what need was so great that you had to kill four men?’
‘Six,’ corrected Abbas. ‘There are two more in the shadows. They followed from a bar and fell upon us with knives before we opened the door.’
‘Us?’
‘There is a girl inside,’ said Abbas.
‘And did any survive this foolish errand?’
‘None.’
Kosta nodded and looked down at the pools of blood in the moonlight.
‘The police will be asking a lot of questions soon and there are too many bodies to hide. You will have to leave this place or suffer their justice.’
‘I have no ties,’ said Abbas. ‘I will disappear before their bodies are found.’
‘And where will you go?’
‘That is of no concern of yours,’ said Abbas. ‘You cast me out, remember?’
‘As you deserved to be,’ said Kosta. ‘You brought shame on our tent when you brought a western whore to your mother’s hearth. How could I ignore this?’
‘She was no whore,’ snarled Abbas, ‘as well you know. She was a woman I met in the city and brought back to meet my family.’
‘Your mother found you rutting like dogs in our tent,’ snarled Kosta. ‘It is not our way.’
‘I am not having this argument again,’ said Abbas. ‘What do you want of me?’
Kosta looked around, taking the opportunity to calm down.
‘First, we must leave this place,’ he said. ‘Are there any witnesses?’
‘Only the woman I was with,’ said Abbas, ‘but she does not know me well. I met her only last week.’
‘A whore?’ asked Kosta.
‘Yes, a whore,’ sighed Abbas. ‘Do not sound so disgusted, you have had more whores than there are camels on the sands.’
‘Not western filth,’ said Kosta. ‘This woman, would she recognise you again?’
‘Of course.’
‘And she saw all this?’
‘She did.’
‘Do you have feelings for this woman?’
‘None.’
‘Good, then you know what you must do. Go to her room and collect your things. I will hide the bodies somewhere to give us more time.’ He stared at the boy. ‘Leave no loose ends,’ he added before turning away.
Abbas walked up the outside stone staircase and knocked gently on the prostitute’s door.
‘Dilara,’ he said quietly, ‘it is me, Abbas, let me in.’
The lock slid back and the woman peered around the door, her tears leaving trails through her heavy make-up.
‘Is it over?’ she sniffed. ‘Did you kill them?’
‘I did what I had to do,’ he said. ‘Please let me in.’
‘Not tonight, Abbas,’ she said. ‘I am scared. Men have been killed and the police will be here soon. If they think I am involved, I will be locke
d up. I have to get my story straight.’
‘I am hurt,’ said Abbas, ‘and need a bandage.’ He glanced down at the blood on his side, indicating a minor wound from a lucky swipe from one of the assailants.
‘OK,’ she sniffed, ‘but then you must go, I cannot be involved in this.’ Dilara opened the door to let him in. ‘A few minutes, then you must leave’. She retrieved a rag from a shelf and soaked it with water from a nearby jug. ‘You are a dangerous man, Abbas,’ she said as she turned around. ‘I don’t think we should see each other again.’
She stopped dead in her tracks as she faced him. Abbas had come up behind her and stood less than one pace away, staring coldly into her eyes.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘we won’t,’ and with lightning speed, slashed his kama deep through the muscle and cartilage of her throat, severing her artery.
Dilara fell back, her hand clawing at her throat, desperately trying to stem the gushing blood.
‘Sorry, Dilara,’ said Abbas. ‘I shouldn’t have told you so much, but before you die, there is something you should know.’ He leant forward and whispered into her ear as her eyelids started to fall, ‘You were very, very good, probably the best I have ever been with.’
Dilara’s body fell to the floor, the pool of blood spreading slowly across the clay tiles.
Abbas collected his things and placed them in a backpack before turning to leave the room, picking up the unopened bottle of wine as he went.
* * *
Down in the street his father was waiting.
‘Is it done?’ asked Kosta.
‘It is,’ said Abbas, looking around. ‘Where are the bodies?
‘Under a pile of rubbish at the end of the alley,’ said Kosta. ‘It may gain you a few hours.’
‘What about you?’ asked Abbas.
‘I am returning to the tribe for the herding, but before I do, I have a proposition for you.’
‘A proposition?’
‘Yes, but we can’t speak here. Meet me tomorrow night at the Wadi Sakali five miles south of the city. A goatherd cares for my camels there.’
‘And what makes you think I would have any interest in anything you have to say?’
‘All I ask is that you hear me out,’ said Kosta. ‘When I am done, you can walk away and I will never seek you out again.’
Abbas stared at his father for a while before speaking.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I will share your campfire for one night, then I will move on.’
‘Agreed,’ said Kosta and stepped back into the shadows before slipping from sight. Abbas himself turned and started to run down a different alleyway, into the anonymous darkness and away from the stench of blood and piss.
* * *
Kosta sat on a rock overlooking the campfire. His servant, a small boy called Almak, stirred the battered pot hanging over the flames, encouraging the water from the stream to moisten the dried goat’s meat he had added from the meat bag. To one side, three hobbled camels wandered around the wadi, looking for any greenery they could find to supplement the date branches collected by Almak earlier in the day. A skin of goat’s milk, bought from a passing herder, hung from the branches of a nearby bush where Almak had made his shelter.
Kosta looked down the wadi at the approach of a man walking up the goat’s trail in full view of any watchers. The man wore the traditional white kaftan cloak of the desert tribes, hanging down to the tops of his leather boots and secured with a wide sash belt containing the ever-present kama. Kosta stood and walked to the fire.
‘Almak, serve tea,’ he said. ‘Our guest has arrived.’
Abbas walked up to the campfire and stopped in front of his father.
‘I am here,’ he said.
‘You look good,’ said Kosta. ‘I am pleased that you honoured me by wearing our garb.’
‘Read not too much into it, Father,’ said Abbas. ‘The jeans and shoes of the west are not suitable attire for the heat of the desert. This is more comfortable.’
Kosta nodded and indicated a rug already laid out near the fire.
‘Sit,’ he said, ‘eat. Let us forget our differences for one night while we talk.’
Almak served glasses of black tea to the two men and returned to his duties at the cooking pot.
‘You are well?’ asked Kosta.
‘Well enough,’ said Abbas.
‘Have you settled all outstanding business in the city?’
‘If you are afraid that I have left any evidence, then worry not,’ said Abbas. ‘There are no authorities following me, you taught me well.’
Almak approached with two plates of boiled goat’s meat and a loaf of flattened bread. As the two men ate their meal in silence, Almak sat cross-legged outside his shelter, waiting patiently for the men to finish their meal. Only when they were finished and he had cleared everything away would he be allowed to eat. At last, he saw Kosta’s hand signalling they were done and he ran over to remove the plates, leaving the skin of goat’s milk with the men. Both slaked their thirst and the conversation finally turned to the business they needed to discuss.
‘So, Father,’ said Abbas, ‘I am intrigued. What proposition do you have that makes you swallow your pride and enlist the help of me, the black sheep of the herd.’
‘Some things are more important than pride,’ said Kosta.
‘What, like family?’ sneered Abbas.
‘Family is one,’ said Kosta, ‘but also honour, tradition and loyalty.’
‘Why do I think the loyalty you speak of lies elsewhere and not in my direction?’
‘You have chosen your path, Abbas. I will not try to change your will. One day, your path will return to our tents, but you are right, the loyalty I speak of is to the old ways and the traditions of our people.’
Abbas broke off a piece of cheese and waited as his father explained the situation.
‘As you know, Abbas, for hundreds of years our people served the courts of the sultans as bodyguards and assassins. When the world fell apart in the time of your grandfather’s grandfather, the courts of the sultans were dismantled by the false politicians carrying out the wishes of the infidels. Since that time, we have returned to the trade routes of our ancestors and have wandered the sands ever since.
‘However,’ he continued, ‘our family have always honoured those who have been deposed and maintained our loyalty throughout the difficult times. Now, a new dawn approaches and there is a chance for us to return to our rightful place at the right hands of the men who wield the power.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Abbas. ‘There is no way the politicians will return the country to the control of the sultans. The world is changing, Father, we should change too.’
‘I accept that there needs to be change,’ said Kosta. ‘Every year I see our ancestral lands getting smaller as the tarmac roads carve them like a knife. Even the deeper parts of the desert are crossed by the cars of the westerners, seeking their thrills where our fathers once hunted the desert-lion. Our tribes are under attack from western influence on a daily basis and we are losing too many youngsters like you to the ways of the west. Soon our way of life will be known in the pages of books only.’
‘It is the way of the world,’ said Abbas.
‘But it doesn’t have to be,’ said Kosta. ‘There is another way. One where our way of life is preserved and our people can carry on the ways of our ancestors until the sun itself ceases to shine.’
‘And where is this place?’
‘Anywhere we wish,’ said Kosta. ‘His Excellency, Mehmed Hundar has promised me ten thousand square miles of land to be used as I see fit. He will draw up the legal papers and buy the lands on our behalf, ensuring the boundaries are protected from the influence of the infidels.’
‘Why would he do this?’ asked Abbas.
‘There is a task he would have us undertake,’ said Kosta. ‘There are stories from the time of Suleiman himself, telling of a great treasure that dwarfed the treasuries of the sultan. A t
reasure so great that thousands of men were sent to their deaths on hopeless expeditions across the known world to find it.’
‘I have heard of this treasure,’ said Abbas. ‘A tale for the children before they sleep, I fear.’
‘These were my thoughts also,’ said Kosta, ‘until new information came to light. A few years ago, a document was uncovered, hidden within the walls of the Topkapi Palace itself. It would seem that at the time of Suleiman, a minor official stole half of a map identifying the location of the treasures. Somehow he managed to avoid the clutches of the sultan’s guards and escaped the country. He was never seen again, though many years later he sent a letter to his brother, explaining why he left without saying goodbye. He also stated in the letter that the second half of the map was safe and in a place where no man could find it. Apparently, this letter fell into the hands of a court official who secreted it within his chambers, fully expecting to have the chance to seek it for himself. Obviously he never did, as it was this parchment that was found behind a false panel in his rooms.’
‘And what became of this letter?’
‘The document seemed of little value and was placed on display in the museum of the Topkapi Palace, but during a recent storm the museum was robbed and the thieves got away with several pieces of jewellery as well as the letter. The jewellery was never recovered but the letter turned up in the hands of a Greek policeman on the island of Samothrace. It turns out there was a hidden message on the parchment.’
‘And do you know what the message said?’
‘No, nobody does except the Greek, and he is now dead.’
‘Why kill the only man who knew the secret of the letter?’ asked Abbas.
‘It was an error. We thought the letter would be in his safe and decided it was better that he never had the chance to make the knowledge public. We poisoned his wine and after he had fallen searched his house, but it was nowhere to be seen. He has taken steps to hide it away, but now it seems there are others who are getting close to the secret and His Excellency wants to make sure that if and when the second half of the map is found, we are on hand to take advantage.’
The Treasures of Suleiman Page 6
