by Oliver Tidy
Sansom found himself feeling differently about the loss of his wife and daughter since returning to civilisation. On the island, he had lived off their memories; they had never been far from his thoughts. Barely an hour would go by without him remembering them, talking to them. But now their loss as factors in his busier existence seemed only to haunt him; to spring up unexpectedly to dent his spirit and empty him.
Reluctantly, he turned away from the panorama that he could only observe, not enjoy. He examined again the map detailing the area in which he had been led to believe Botha lived. He understood that a boat trip along the coast with one of the local tour companies should provide him with an anonymous opportunity to view the waterfront home of the South African. But that would have to wait until the morning. With the light fading he couldn’t be sure of the location.
*
Sansom’s mobile rang as he was dressing. As far as he was aware, there was only one person with his number.
‘You’ve arrived?’ said Smith.
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Maybe the fewer people that know that the better. Is it important?’
‘Yes. If you don’t tell me where you are staying then I can’t tell your companion where to meet you.’
The quiet hung between them before Sansom said, ‘My companion? What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve decided that it will be sensible for your cover and your business there if you have someone who has some local knowledge of the place. I haven’t been there myself, but I understand that Istanbul is big and confusing. You’ll also look a lot less conspicuous with a partner. A man hanging around on his own attracts far more attention than a couple of apparent tourists on holiday.’
‘I don’t need a companion, a partner. I didn’t agree to that,’ said Sansom, his voice tightening.
‘You don’t have to agree to it, but you’re going to go along with it anyway. He who pays the piper and all that. Think about it logically, objectively, for a moment, like a soldier, and you’ll see that it makes sense. Now, where are you staying?’
Sansom gave him the name of the hotel, an idea of his own forming.
‘She’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour.’
‘Nothing to do with keeping an eye on me, I suppose?’
‘Not at all,’ said Smith. ‘I can do that anytime I choose.’
The line went dead.
Sansom threw the phone on to the bed, exasperated. The very last thing he needed was someone else to consider. Getting in his way or under his feet, the result would be the same: trouble. He would deal with her quickly. A companion, for Christ’s sake.
*
The ringing of the hotel phone made him start awake. He rubbed his face and reached for the handset at the side of the bed.
‘Mr Fallon?’ said the receptionist. Sansom grunted into the mouthpiece. ‘You have a visitor at reception.’
Sansom looked at his watch. If she’d been on time, she would have been waiting for nearly half an hour. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
He threw some water over his face, grabbed his key and took the stairs to the lobby, feeling groggy from the nap he hadn’t meant to take.
He followed the receptionist’s gaze to a woman who sat looking out over the street. Around thirty, he guessed, with a strong Mediterranean look, although much of her face was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat and big sunglasses.
He walked over. ‘I’m Fallon.’
She stood a head shorter than him in flat shoes. ‘That’s it?’
‘What?’
‘You are more than half an hour late. I thought the British were supposed to be well mannered, punctual. You don’t even apologise. They,’ she indicated the men behind the reception desk watching them, ‘think I’m a prostitute here for business.’
Conscious of the scene she was making, he took her arm and guided her out of the building. She shook him off.
On the pavement in the warm and fetid evening air, he said, ‘I can see that you are about as thrilled with this arrangement as I am.’
‘What?’ she said, her voice rising.
He looked around him. Attention was not something he wanted, but they were already attracting it. ‘Is there somewhere a little more private we could go to have this conversation?’ he said, through gritted teeth.
She stared at him, about to explode, he thought, then turning away, she said, ‘Follow me.’
They fought their way against the tide of human traffic thronging the streets for a short distance until she cut down a narrow alley. Sansom followed her to find himself in a quiet street flanked on both sides by small bars and restaurants and overhung with vines.
Enthusiastic waiters beckoned them in with outstretched menus and worn-out phrases. The woman ignored them all, striding ahead. Eventually, they came to a secluded, quiet place at the end of the street with a few weather-beaten tables outside. She sat. Opening her bag, she took out cigarettes and quickly lit one, inhaling deeply. A waiter approached as Sansom decided to sit. She mumbled a few words to him and he disappeared back inside.
‘What do you mean, I can see that you are about as thrilled with this arrangement as I am?’ she said. ‘How rude you are. How ungrateful. I come to help you and that is how you treat me, like something you trod in?’
Sansom smarted at her words. She was right, of course. He held his hands up in front of him. ‘I apologise. I was rude and I am sorry. There was, is, no excuse for my behaviour.’ She seemed about to say something more. Sansom ran a hand through his long hair. He let out a deep breath. ‘I really am very sorry. I’m taking out my frustration with someone else on you. It’s unforgivable.’
The waiter arrived with two bottled beers. A glazing of ice had formed invitingly around them. He popped the tops and they smoked like little chimneys in a display of physics.
Waiting for the man to retreat, she eyed Sansom critically through the smoke from her cigarette and from behind her dark glasses. ‘I have been asked to help you.’
‘By whom?’
‘Never mind. I have a debt to pay to someone. I help, my debt is paid. If you do not allow me to help you, I cannot repay the debt. Can you understand that? Perhaps you think you don’t need help?’
‘No, I mean yes. I don’t need help. What do you know of what I’m doing here? How have you been asked to help me?’
‘You understand Istanbul, do you?’ she said, ignoring his questions. ‘You know how to get around? How to talk to people? Do you even know where he lives?’
‘Where who lives?’
‘The man you have come to… ,’ she paused, unable to find the right word or afraid to speak it. She was calmer now. She clearly knew enough.
‘I can find him,’ he said. He picked up the beer, took a mouthful. It tasted good. He pressed her. ‘Who has asked you to help me? Please, it’s very important that I know.’
She sipped her own drink. ‘A man who does business with the man who has sent you.’
He said, ‘Do you know why I’m here?’
Their stared at each other for a long moment.
‘Yes.’
Sansom sat back in his chair and exhaled deeply, shaking his head. ‘Why couldn’t they just leave me to it?’
She leaned forward on her elbows. ‘Because you need help. You don’t know it but you do. I’m talking about being in a foreign country. You don’t know us, or Turkey, do you? I can help you find your way. Do you understand anything of my language? All I have to do is help you get around. When it comes to your reason for being here, you will be on your own.
‘Listen to me. I don’t know or care what they are paying you for this, but I will help you in any way that I can for nothing. The only reward I seek is to see that man dead. Then I will have paid my debt.’
Again, Sansom looked around them uncomfortably. He took another draught of his beer and worried.
More calmly, she said, ‘I can help you. I have told you how and I have told you w
hy. If you really do not need or want any assistance at all then I will have to accept that, leave you to get on with it and wish you luck. You will need it.’
‘Why do you want him dead?’ said Sansom.
‘It is personal,’ she said. ‘What are they paying you to kill him?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s personal.’
***
7
Lighting another cigarette, she said, ‘What do you do? For work, I mean.’
‘Nothing at the moment. I was in the Army for some time.’
A crowd of noisy revellers passed by their table. He sipped his beer. Cooking smells drifted across from a nearby restaurant.
‘Have you eaten yet?’
‘No,’ he said, and he realised he was hungry.
‘There’s a good kebab place close by. You want to get something?’
Now would be the time to get up and leave. Make his excuses, never see her again. Not have to worry about her, her motives or her loyalties. But maybe there was some sense in what she had said. He would benefit from local knowledge; he had no idea of the language and her company would certainly make him less conspicuous.
‘Do you have a car?’ he said.
‘It’s not that far.’
‘Not for now, for tomorrow.’
*
The beer had taken the edge off him. ‘This is good,’ he said, through a mouthful of food.
She said, ‘Welcome to Turkey.’
They ate in silence for a while.
She pushed away her half-eaten meal. ‘Mind if I smoke?’ Chewing, he shook his head. She inhaled deeply and picked a flake of tobacco from her lip. ‘How are you going to do it?’
He looked around them before meeting her stare. She’d lost the sunglasses. The irises of her eyes were almost black, in remarkable contrast to the bright whites.
‘I don’t know yet. I only arrived this evening.’
‘With no plan at all?’
‘It was all very sudden. Unexpected.’
She toyed with her cigarette. ‘Have you done this sort of thing before?’
‘Not exactly.’
She frowned. ‘Pardon me but let me get this straight – you are alone, you are a stranger here, you have no experience of this kind of thing and no plan.’
He felt amateurish and embarrassed, a little sheepish even. ‘That’s correct. To a point.’ It occurred to him then that perhaps she would be the one to excuse herself from any further involvement with a proposal bound for what must look like spectacular failure.
‘The man that you are here to… find is very powerful, well protected and well connected. With the enemies that he has, he is also very careful. You know that I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you still think that you can succeed?’
‘I’m here to try. I have nothing to lose.’
‘What about your life?’ she said. He shrugged. She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘What did he do to you?’
He looked around them again. Tables were filling up with diners. ‘Let’s walk,’ he said. He wiped his mouth with the napkin, drained his second beer and threw some notes down on the table.
She led him down through quiet, steeply-winding lanes, avoiding the main pedestrian highway. Street dogs lay in doorways, occasionally lifting their heads to sniff them out. The stench of drains and rotting rubbish was stronger. The dirty streets and decaying buildings made a stark contrast to the superficial impression of wealth, affluence and cleanliness of the tourist trails only a few streets away.
Exiting through a narrow opening in the old city walls, they arrived at the shore of the Bosphorus. The narrow stretch of sea was littered with the varying glows of dozens of craft. Among them, the brightly-lit passenger ferries continued to ply their trade – metronomes of the city. As far as the eye could see in either direction, the far shore was a mass of glittering lights – the illuminated homes of millions. He watched in wonder as the hundreds of lights that decorated the great suspension bridge spanning the gap between Europe and Asia changed from blue to red. With a pang, he thought of what Alison would have made of the scene.
At the water’s edge a path stretched out in both directions. A cool and welcome breeze whisked away the fetid stale air of the alleyways. The sea pushed gently against the concrete shore, ripples of disturbance further out. They walked.
Canoodling couples occupied many of the benches that lined the water’s edge. Headscarves and the traditional long coats obscured the features of many of the women.
To make conversation, he said, ‘You’re not a scarf-wearer?’
Her reply was emphatic. ‘No. They are a symbol of repression that I do not approve of. They go against the vision of a progressive culture where men and women are equal. When the modern secular state of Turkey was established the wearing of headscarves was banned and now, like some malignant cancer, they are steadily returning, spreading.’
‘Are you not a Muslim?’
She rounded on him. ‘It’s got nothing to do with being a Muslim. I’m as Muslim as any of them. It’s about living the life and promoting the ideals of the modern state of Turkey. All those headscarves do is undermine it.’
Again, her flaring temper had startled him. They moved along the pathway in silence. A street dog, roused by their passing, stood and stretched.
‘Why do you want him dead?’ he asked, suddenly needing to know.
She stopped to light another cigarette. The flare from her match illuminated her strong features in the rapidly-falling darkness.
The smoke obscured her face momentarily. ‘My youngest brother committed suicide because of Botha.’ It was the first time either of them had mentioned the man’s name. ‘In my culture suicide is far more shameful for a family to bear than in yours. If someone is knowingly responsible for driving another to such a mental state then they deserve to die themselves.’
‘Is that a Muslim perspective or a cultural one?’
‘That is my own view. I loved my brother deeply. He was everything to me.’
‘And how about murder? How does your culture, your religion view that?’
‘Are you familiar with the concept of honour killings?’
‘Yes.’
‘That is what helping to kill this man would be to me. My culture’s and my religion’s views would be something that I would have to reconcile only within myself and with my God.’
‘And the law?’
‘Don’t talk to me of the law. The law did not help my brother. The law did not pursue those who pushed him to his death.’ She snorted, ‘The law is the same all over the world – an ultimately-corruptible institution. Everywhere, the law can be bought. All the time that there are wealthy and connected people that are prepared to pay for the privilege, the law will shield them from justice. Look at your own country if you doubt me.’
After a while, he said, ‘I have a concern. If you know why I’m here, who else knows? I realise that I don’t have that much going for me in this. My anonymity and the element of surprise are about it. If he were to find out that I’m looking for him, and why, then things would look bleaker than they already do for me. I don’t need to be watching my back.’
She said, ‘It wasn’t posted on the Internet, if that’s what you’re getting at. As I understand it, the man who sent you spoke directly with my acquaintance. My friend is a good man, an honest man. Botha is no friend to him. You will have to take my word for that.’
Sansom grunted. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Of course you do. You say that no one is paying you for this. You can choose to believe that we are all completely untrustworthy or useless or both; that you have been, or will be, compromised, and that you consequently have no chance of success. You can turn around and walk away if you want to.’
He stopped and smiled tiredly at her. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can never do that.’
‘Why? What is it that makes you so committed? What did he do to you?’
‘H
e killed my wife and child.’
*
They had parted with his hotel in view after trading mobile phone numbers. She’d insisted on walking him back and in truth he was grateful. Istanbul seemed a confusing labyrinth to him and he was a long way from finding his bearings.
As he lay in bed, he reflected on how badly the evening had initially gone. Until his revelation regarding Alison and his daughter they had seemed a poor match of personalities to be working to such an end. And then she had softened, showed compassion born of genuine empathy. They found common ground, albeit the most horrible of circumstances, something that could bind them together to strengthen and drive their common purpose. And he sensed a sureness in her to match her obvious strength of character. He knew without doubt that she would prove to be a valuable ally. As he drifted into sleep, he hoped that it would not be him who proved to be a disappointment to her.
*
As Captain Harris pulled into the car park of Fleet Services he recognised Tallis’s car. He found him at an outside table with coffee, the remains of a fast food breakfast and a crowded ashtray. He got coffee for himself and joined the policeman.
‘I half expected that you wouldn’t turn up,’ said Tallis.
‘Sorry to have given you that impression,’ said the soldier. ‘But I understand it.’ Harris’s grave face was a marked contrast to the confident Sandhurst graduate that Tallis remembered from their previous meeting.
‘You look troubled,’ said Tallis.
‘When you know what I know, you might feel the same.’
Tallis eyed the man keenly. ‘Go on.’
‘Sansom isn’t dead.’ Harris met the policeman’s gaze and held it. ‘I didn’t know that when I spoke to you yesterday.’
The policeman nodded his acceptance of this. ‘How can you be sure now?’
‘Because this morning I received a package from him at the office.’
A long stump of ash had gathered at the end of Tallis’s latest cigarette. He stubbed the thing out.
‘The contents are extremely sensitive. Believe me, Stan, you have no idea. I don’t feel that I can go to my CO with it. It’s possible that he may be complicit in what’s going on. He’s the man that told me categorically to forget all about Sansom when I started to make a fuss about seeing the body – I had difficulty believing that he was dead and I still haven’t been provided with a death certificate.
