by Angus McLean
Unless they’d been given a heads-up from somewhere.
Moore double-checked the door and wedged a door stopper under it before stripping out of his jeans and shirt and stepping into the shower. The water pressure was low and he had to crank it up to get some decent heat, but it washed away the stickiness of travel and in five minutes he was washed and dried.
He flopped onto the bed with the intention of getting his head down for an hour. He could still feel the knots and aches from the training exercise, and it was another reminder that he was getting older. Two decades of soldiering had brought with it plenty of aches and injuries, some of which still lingered.
Within a minute he was out for the count and when he woke it was to the sound of the evening prayer call. Speakers in the minarets of a mosque nearby-probably the big Blue Mosque, he guessed-called the faithful to prayer as the sun dropped in the sky and the temperature cooled.
He rolled off onto the floor and did a short series of stretches to loosen up before downing half a bottle of water. The thin carpet smelt funky and obviously hadn’t seen a cleaner in some time.
Feeling rejuvenated he dressed in clean khaki cargo pants, an old black Rolling Stones T-shirt, and comfortable Merrell walking shoes. He checked his G-Shock; 5.30pm.
Moore tucked his passport and wallet into his pockets with his iPhone, secured the windows and locked the door behind him. He stepped out of the hotel into the cobbled street and paused beside a potted tree for a minute, absorbing his surroundings and letting his mental antenna scan the environment.
There were plenty of people around, movement and noise, but no alarm bells went off. He scouted the neighbourhood, doing a full circle around the block and sussing out what was there-shops, hotels, apartments, eateries, parking areas. He had no reason to suspect any trouble, but if things went belly up he needed to have some familiarity with his surroundings and possible escape routes in mind.
That done, he widened his circle and threw in a couple of counter surveillance measures without detecting any watchers. Satisfied, he stopped to buy bottled water then made his way back to the restaurant across from the hotel.
It was only moderately busy at 6.30pm and he took a table in a corner of the outdoor eating area with a good view of the comings and goings. He ordered a Efes Pilsen and supped it while he mulled over the menu and unobtrusively observed his fellow diners; mostly small groups of excited tourists.
The waitress returned for his order and within minutes he was enjoying a mezze of fried mussels on a skewer. That was quickly followed by grilled chicken kebabs with rice and salad, and he got the distinct impression that as the tables filled up so the waitress’ desire to get him moving also increased.
He took his time finishing the kebabs and ordered a second beer, feeling himself unwinding nicely as the food settled and the evening livened up. Coloured lights were strung along the adobe style walls of the restaurant and background music came from somewhere inside.
Moore was almost ready to go when he spied a new arrival taking a seat at a long table nearby. The rest of the table was occupied by what appeared to be a tour party of twenty-somethings who were settling in for a long night with flowing beer and loud chatter. The same grumpy waitress who had served Moore found a space at the end of the table and brought a chair over for her.
Moore recognised the newcomer as the girl he had spotted earlier at the hotel, the one with the clear blue eyes and watchful look. She was clearly not part of the tour group and seemed anxious, unsmiling and keeping her head down as she quickly scanned the menu.
Moore sat back and watched as she waved the waitress back over and gave her order. While the waitress hurried off and the tour party raised a loud toast to something of importance only to them, the girl checked her surroundings and Moore felt her eyes flick over him as he took a sip from his bottle.
He put the bottle down and caught her give him a second glance. She casually looked away when she realised she’d been seen, and struck up a conversation with the nearest diner.
Moore nodded subconsciously to himself. Just as she had clocked him, she was also no tourist. What exactly she was remained to be seen.
He finished his beer and put the bottle down. The girl started to look as he made his way towards the door, but caught herself and pretended she hadn’t noticed. He walked past her and paid his bill at the bar.
When he left a minute later the girl was starting her meal.
Thirty minutes later the girl exited the restaurant alone, her hands tucked into the pockets of her puffer. She turned left and moved away from the Altan hotel.
Moore stepped out from a doorway and dropped in behind her, hanging thirty metres back as she went to the end of the cobbled road and left again, heading up a hill and left into the next street. Foot traffic had thinned out and Moore paused at the corner, watching as the girl headed back parallel to the Altan.
When she disappeared through the front doors of a building half way down, Moore moved forward. He walked straight past, giving just a quick side glance to register the name of the hotel before continuing on. He turned off into a narrow alley he had seen earlier and dug out his phone to do a quick web search. The Grand Central Hotel was a standard tourist hotel, definitely a grade or two better than the Altan, but still suitable for the budget-conscious traveller.
He put the phone away again and made his way back towards the Altan. Pausing at the front entrance of the hotel, he realised that the back of the Grand Central faced him. Presumably the girl-whoever she was-was staying at the Grand Central, so why had she been at the Altan earlier? Visiting perhaps? Doing a recce?
He had more questions than answers and no immediate plan to fix that, so he headed up to his room to get his head down.
Tomorrow was another day and there was work to do.
Chapter Twelve
When Moore entered the lobby at 4am the only noise he could hear was someone snoring for Africa.
He tracked the noise to the back office behind Reception, where he saw an open door accessing the back office. The night shift clerk was asleep there with his feet on the desk and his head back, out for the count.
The office was small, with a small kitchen bench and a couple of shelves of files.
The rest of the hotel was silent, the street outside empty. A white board on an easel by the Reception desk listed a couple of tour departures for the morning, the first at 6am. He was confident that, all going well, he had time to get what he wanted and get out unseen. He couldn’t see any CCTV cameras, but even if there was one it shouldn’t matter.
His sock-covered feet were silent as he padded across the lobby and stepped over the low swing gate at the end of the Reception desk. He didn’t want to open the gate and risk a squeaky hinge waking the clerk.
A high counter top provided cover for him from any passers-by on the street.
As he had hoped, the computer was on. He tapped the mouse and the screen came alive. He glanced over his shoulder at the human chainsaw barely two metres away; still no sign of stirring.
Moore ran his eye over the screen and took a minute to figure out what was what. The writing was all in Turkish but it was a standard layout. He found a search field and typed in the name Oldham, then hit Enter. The clack of the keys was as loud as snapping bones in the silence between snores.
The clerk stirred and stopped breathing for a few moments. Moore froze, ready to move if the man woke. The clerk inhaled sharply and gave a nasal rattle, then settled back into sleep again.
Moore checked the search results and found Natalie Oldham’s name with her booking record. It showed she had paid with a credit card and booked Room 332 for four days.
Moore took out his iPhone and snapped a photo of the booking record before returning to the main screen. He took a minute to navigate his way through the system before he found current bookings.
Room 332 was unoccupied, but had new guests arriving that day. His mind started ticking over a plan as his fingers were
closing the screen down again.
He edged back towards the end of the counter, painfully aware now of the slightest rustle of clothing.
Suddenly the chainsaw stopped and he heard the clerk’s chair creak. There was a snort and a sigh. Moore stepped back over the swing gate and quickly ducked behind a tall potted plant against the wall. Adrenaline had kicked in and he waited, poised to see how things unfolded. He had a cover story prepared, but there were never any guarantees. If the clerk was at all suspicious, it could all go very bad very fast.
He heard the shuffle of feet followed by a yawn and the sound of a stretch. A fart split the air followed by a chuckle. Moore silently rolled his eyes to himself and waited.
The clerk shuffled round for a minute then there was the sound of a zip being undone followed by a sigh and the tinkle of running water on tin.
Moore remembered the sink in the back office and realised the clerk was having a piss into it. He ducked down and moved quickly around the front of the desk, making it safely to the stairs before the clerk finished his business.
Chapter Thirteen
Room 332 was right by the lift on the third of five floors. As rooms to break went into went, it wasn’t a great choice.
Moore had been awake since the dawn call to prayer-not long after he’d got back to bed- but waited until the hotel’s morning was in full swing at 7am, with the second wave of guests moving down to Reception for their tour.
He knew the clerk would be fully occupied and the cleaners wouldn’t be into the rooms yet. If he’d had his kit and several minutes he could have easily picked the lock, but in the absence of either he went old school. The door was typical of a budget hotel-flimsy and with a cheap basic lock that did little more than hold the door closed.
Moore gripped the door handle with a hand towel as he applied maximum pressure to it and leaned his shoulder and knee against the door itself. The door flexed and he gave it a short hard palm strike just above the handle.
The door popped open with only a slight crack of the frame, and he was in. He shut the door behind him and paused in the small narrow entranceway, waiting and listening. It wouldn’t be the first time a covert recce had been ruined by unexpected hotel guests, with the clerk taking a quick cashy that didn’t go through the books.
Satisfied he was alone, he took five seconds to visually check the room. It was a studio, small and basic, with the same level of cleanliness of his own room. It was unlikely that Natalie Oldham had left anything behind in the room, but it had to be checked anyway.
Moore worked the room methodically, looking in, under, behind and on top of everything. Nothing. He did the bed last, lifting the mattress on its side and clearing one side before repeating the process for the other side. The only things he found were a dirty sock and a used rubber.
He dropped the mattress back down and straightened the covers, satisfied that he’d checked every nook and cranny available but frustrated that he’d come up empty.
He waited until the hall was clear before exiting and making his way to the stairs. As he started down he heard someone coming up, and the top of a head with long dark hair in a ponytail two flights below him. Instinct told him it was the girl from last night, and he hurried back up to the next floor.
Watching furtively over the railing, he saw her enter the third floor, glancing cautiously over her shoulder as she did so. She was wearing a black shell jacket and blue jeans. Moore descended again and watched through the safety glass window in the door. She went to the end of the hallway and stopped at the door to Room 332. She checked her surroundings again before slipping a key in the lock and entering.
Moore waited a few minutes, mulling this development over. He still had no idea who the girl was, but her actions told him several things about her. She was obviously connected to Natalie Oldham somehow, but wasn’t acting in an overtly official capacity. She wasn’t from The Service, and presumably not from the Brits either; American maybe?
Choosing the same time as he had to toss the room showed she was smart. And he hadn’t seen a shadow or companion yet, so presumably she was working alone.
Deciding that time was not on his side, he made up his mind to approach her front on. If nothing else, at least it would tell him what her motive was. He was opening the door when the lift suddenly dinged further down the hall and two men stepped out. Moore ducked back into cover and watched as they moved to Room 332.
The older of the two, a pudgy man in an ill-fitting brown suit, used a key to unlock the door. The younger man, taller and stronger looking, put his hand into his jacket before following the other man into the room.
Whoever they were, Moore knew they weren’t good news for the girl. He stayed where he was for another minute to see how things developed. He had no desire to tangle with the Turkish intelligence services, considering he was operating there without their knowledge; it would just make things messy, and probably completely blow the job.
It wasn’t long before the door to Room 332 opened and all three of them emerged. The pudgy man had the girl by the arm and was hustling her along. The younger guy, who Moore decided was the muscle, had his hand still concealed in his jacket.
They stood by the lift and the pudgy man jabbed the button. The girl tried to pull her arm free and the pudgy man snapped something at her. She responded and the pudgy man belted her across the face with a back hand.
Enough was enough and time was running out.
Moore had too many questions and he figured she could answer at least some of them. He couldn’t afford to let her disappear into the bowels of a faceless interrogation centre.
He opened the stairwell door and headed towards them, his head down while he played with his phone, moving steadily but with an affected limp. He could sense the three strangers all looking at him as he got closer and he glanced up, tucking his phone into his pocket and giving a polite smile as he reached them.
The girl’s right cheek was pink and her face was defiantly scared. She made eye contact with him and he knew instantly that she recognised him. The pudgy man was in his fifties, with a standard Turkish moustache and slicked wavy hair. He was shoulder height on Moore. The younger guy was Moore’s own height and in good shape, in his late twenties maybe, with a tidy beard and a tailored grey suit.
The younger guy kept his right hand concealed in his jacket and eyed Moore with suspicion as he stopped beside them and waited for the lift. The pudgy man gave Moore a surly look and grunted something to the muscle.
The young guy stepped forward and blocked Moore from the lift.
‘Is ours,’ he said as the lift car arrived with a ding behind him. ‘Take the stairs.’
‘Sore leg, mate,’ Moore said, slapping his thigh for emphasis. ‘Can’t walk too far, gotta take the lift.’
The muscle was not amused. ‘Go away,’ he said, gesturing down the hallway with his head. ‘Take a walk.’
The lift doors opened and the pudgy guy moved forward with the girl, still holding her arm.
‘I’m getting old, mate,’ Moore said with a friendly grin. ‘Be a sport and let me share your lift, eh?’
‘I tell you before,’ the young guy said, taking a step forward and reaching for Moore with his left hand.
It was a rookie mistake.
Moore snatched the hand in his own right and pulled it down and out, jerking the young guy immediately off balance. His left hand flashed out in a bent knuckle strike to the young guy’s throat, driving his knuckles into the Adam’s apple. The young guy automatically reached for his throat and Moore stepped in, slamming his knee up into the guy’s gut.
The pudgy man was turning when Moore pushed past the young guy and kicked him straight in the side of the thigh, brutally hard. The pudgy man shrieked and started to go down, releasing his grip on the girl as he did so.
Moore turned to the young guy again, seeing him leaning against the hallway wall and regathering himself. His right hand was snaking into his jacket for whatever weapon h
e had concealed there; Moore had to assume it was a gun.
Moore shoulder charged him, slamming him back against the wall and pinning him there sideways, his gun hand trapped between them. He raked the edge of his foot down the guy’s shin, ripping his trouser leg and bringing a sharp burst of pain to his opponent. The guy got his left hand free and reached round, scrabbling for Moore’s face.
The girl was struggling with the pudgy man, blocking the lift doors open now, and Moore saw her land a good jab to his face.
The young guy’s hand was searching for Moore’s eyes. Moore seized the hand and ripped it away from his face, bending the fingers back and pulling away, opening the guy up again for another strike. The guy was strong though, and faster than Moore had anticipated. His right came up in a hook to Moore’s ribs that took the wind out of his sails.
As Moore absorbed that the guy snapped a foot into his ankle and a right jab to the side of Moore’s head. Black spots burst in his skull and he staggered back into the wall. The young guy pulled his jacket open and went for a pistol in his waistband.
Moore lashed out wildly with his foot and connected with the guy’s knee, distracting him long enough for Moore to push off the wall and regather himself. He snapped a double left jab to the guy’s face and followed through with a solid right hook, knocking the young guy sideways. Moore stepped into him, slamming a knee into his thigh and going for an elbow strike to the temple that should put him down.
As he moved into the strike the pudgy man crashed into him from behind and slammed him into the wall. The young guy staggered clear and went for his gun again.
Moore pushed away from the pudgy man, grabbing him by the collar and jerking him aside, knowing he didn’t have time to get to the young guy before he drew the gun.
The pudgy man was flailing at him, but the girl was free of him now. Moore saw the young guy get his hand on the pistol and start to clear it.
