by Parker Bilal
Midnight found Nizari and Makana sitting in the back seat of a battered Renault that squeaked every time either of them shifted his weight. In the front seat sat the two young thugs from the café. Batuman had sent them along for insurance. The rain was coming down thick and hard now, hammering at the sea like a thousand demons trying to get into a locked room. Through the windscreen the lights of the Beşiktaş terminal were barely visible. A ferry was toiling on the rough water, trying to dock. There were a surprising number of people around, considering the weather and the late hour.
‘We’d better get out,’ said Makana.
‘In this weather?’ Nizari seemed to be under the impression that he had a choice. Makana was going to be glad to see the back of the man. There was something about him that left a bad taste. Underneath all that whining and fussing was a cold self-seeker prepared to concoct the chemicals that would cause their victims painful convulsions while they died. It took a certain kind of person to do something like that.
‘They’re not going to show themselves until we do.’ Makana checked his watch and cracked open the door. ‘Let’s go.’
Once you were out in it the rain wasn’t that bad. Makana turned up the collar of his jacket and led the way towards the ferry terminal. They were halfway there when a set of headlights flashed to their right. The car Boris had sent was a yellow taxi. It was in slightly better condition than Koçak’s, though not much.
‘We’re not going all the way in this, are we?’ Nizari asked as soon as they were inside. The two men in the front seat were older, heavier versions of the two they had just left in Batuman’s car. Neither one gave any indication that he understood the question.
They moved off. The car rolled through the slick streets, along the coast road, travelling north, out of town. Makana glanced back but saw nothing but the blur of lights on wet glass. If anyone was following them it would be almost impossible to tell in this weather. They drove slowly. The two men in front occasionally spoke to one another in low tones. Nizari stared out of the window in silence. Makana wondered what they would find when they got to Sofia. A part of him still hoped that Winslow would keep his end of the bargain and arrange transport. His more cautious side told him he could expect nothing from the Englishman. But with the money he had left he could buy a ticket to Cairo, and as for Nizari, well, he would deliver him to the British Embassy and let them sort out the mess.
As an afterthought he reached for his mobile phone and called Inspector Serkan. This was probably the last chance he would have.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ said Makana.
‘I could trace the call.’
‘There won’t be time for that. I called to give you some help.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘The killer you are looking for, the one they are calling the karakoncolos?’
‘What about him?’
Makana rubbed the side of his neck. It had taken him a moment to place her, and even then he couldn’t quite believe that his attacker was the same deranged woman he had seen outside the telephone booth he had used.
‘He is a she. An itinerant. I’m guessing she’s a homeless woman with mental problems and a history of abuse.’
‘Interesting,’ said Serkan. ‘Can you tell me how you came across this information?’
‘You need to look for someone like that. She frequents the centre of town and usually has a collection of plastic bags with her. She’s not that hard to find.’ He described the location of the phone booth where he had seen her. ‘She’s probably not even aware people are looking for her.’
‘I shall certainly look into it. And how shall I thank you?’
‘I don’t think you need to worry about that. Our paths are not going to cross again.’
‘I see, and you can’t tell me where you are?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Makana. ‘I have to go.’
He ended the call and sat for a moment wondering at the wisdom of what he had just done. Then he wound down the window and tossed the phone out into the darkness.
‘What was that about?’ asked Nizari.
‘Nothing that need concern you.’
As they drove, the radio provided a muted backdrop of soft horns and strings while the drumming rhythm of the rain played them out of the city. The darkness ahead was broken only by the blinding flash of headlights coming from the occasional lorry that rushed by in the opposite direction and battered them with its tailwind. They drove for about an hour, winding along narrow roads, leaving the city behind. The rain grew heavier. The wipers swept back and forth over the windscreen, pushing the wave of water from side to side. It was almost impossible to see where they were headed. Alongside them to the right the rain glittered darkly off the cold wet tongue of the Bosporus.
‘Where are we going?’ Makana leaned forward to ask. The faces of the two men were impassive in the low glow coming from the dashboard.
‘We change car,’ said the driver tersely.
‘And where exactly is that supposed to happen?’ Makana squinted ahead, trying to see through the silvery curtain of water. When neither man answered he sat back.
‘I don’t like this,’ whispered Nizari. Neither did Makana, but as he saw it they had little choice at this point.
They began to slow. To the left Makana could make out a few sparse lights, pinpricks that marked out a dark, forgotten hamlet. Beyond that he saw nothing, no lights, buildings, streets. They came to a turn-off, a dirt road that took them around to the bulge of a hill, and then to a dip that led into a stone quarry. The car rolled slowly down a shallow rise and came to a halt. The rain pattered on the roof. The driver and the other man started to get out of the car.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Makana, starting to open the door. ‘Where are you going?’
‘You be here,’ said the driver. He smiled, pointing at the sky and turning up his collar. ‘Is raining.’ He pushed the door gently closed.
‘Why don’t you do something?’ Nizari demanded, his voice quavering with nervous energy.
‘What do you suggest?’
Makana watched through the rear window as the two men disappeared into the darkness. Now the silence was broken only by the sound of the wind whistling around the car and the urgent hammering of the rain on the roof.
‘Oh god!’ Nizari put both hands to his head. ‘I’ve been such a fool.’
Makana turned to look at him.
‘I should never have got into such a mess.’ He rocked from side to side.
‘Would you care to explain?’ Makana tried to understand where this was leading.
‘None of it should have happened.’
‘What exactly are you trying to say?’
‘I’ve been a fool. I’m not cut out for this. You understand? I’m a technician. I work with formulae, chemical reagents, elements. In the lab, everything does what it is supposed to do.’
‘Unlike people, you mean?’
Nizari gave a quick jerk of the head that was meant to be a nod.
‘My wife …’
‘You’re doing this for your wife. Is that what you are saying? She’s ill.’
‘She’s dying.’ Nizari whimpered.
‘Why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me how you became involved in all this.’
‘I don’t know. I was tired. Tired of living in poverty. Tired of Khartoum. My wife was ill. I thought this was my chance, finally. I could make things better. Make them right.’ Nizari stared at a fixed point in the darkness. He hardly seemed to notice Makana. ‘They asked me to do it, and I agreed.’
‘What did they ask you to do?’
‘No, I can’t, I can’t.’ Nizari shook his head from side to side. It was as if he was paralysed by the weight of it. Makana took a deep breath and forced himself to speak slowly, trying to draw the man out of himself.
‘You went to Spain to meet this middleman, Santamaria.’
‘That’s it.’
‘And he was to introduce you to the mysterious buyer, Abu Hilal.’
‘Exactly.’ The mournful eyes lifted briefly. ‘Only Abu Hilal does not exist.’
Makana was silent for a moment. ‘Go on,’ he said, finally.
‘We knew, they knew,’ Nizari corrected himself. ‘They knew the Israelis would jump at the chance to catch someone like that.’
‘Who invented him?’ Makana had a feeling he already knew the answer to that one, but he had to ask. Nizari didn’t hear the question, or else his mind was elsewhere.
‘They spent years setting up stories, building rumours.’
‘To make the world believe Abu Hilal was a real person, a dangerous terrorist?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Okay, so tell me why.’
‘Why what?’ Nizari blinked.
‘Why go to all of this trouble?’
The other man hung his head and was silent for a moment. When he began to speak it was in a mumble that Makana could barely make out over the rain.
‘A story will appear in the press revealing that the Mossad had been operating in Istanbul without permission. They knew of the existence of a lab producing nerve agents right in the middle of the city and they failed to inform the Turkish authorities.’
‘Because they wanted to catch Abu Hilal themselves.’
In the darkened interior, Nizari gave a brief nod. ‘They wanted all the glory.’
Makana reached for a cigarette. He wondered why he hadn’t seen this coming. The whole thing had been a set-up. Right from the start. Not even Winslow knew what was really going on.
‘When you asked for me to bring you in,’ Makana asked slowly, ‘it had nothing to do with my old chief, did it?’
Nizari’s head sagged even lower. Makana passed over his cigarette and cracked a window open. It squeaked as he wound it down. Drops of rain spattered on him.
‘I never met him.’
‘And at some point you got cold feet.’
‘I couldn’t bear it any more. The whole thing. I couldn’t sleep,’ Nizari whimpered. ‘There was an accident. A bus hit the vehicle we were in and I knew it was my chance to escape, so I ran.’
‘Who was planning all of this?’
‘You know who.’ Nizari lifted his head. ‘Mek Nimr talked me into it. He said the British would take care of me. That I would get a reward, they would give me asylum in England, my wife would get the treatment she needed.’ Behind the spectacles, Nizari’s eyes were darting left and right, and he was biting his lower lip so hard it looked like he was having a seizure. He ran a hand over his head, back and forth like he was polishing it. ‘He’s a dangerous, dangerous man. He can turn everything around in your head until you don’t know what’s up or down.’
‘How does it end?’ Makana felt his mind spinning, trying to think of a way out.
‘A controlled explosion. A small amount of sarin released. There will be casualties locally. It will all be tied to an undercover Mossad operation that went wrong. That’s how it will look, anyway. Turkey will be outraged and the finger will point at the Israelis.’
It had the kind of twisted logic that somehow fitted Mek Nimr. It seemed like a lot of trouble to go to for such trivial gains, but maybe that was the point, this was all an elaborate exercise in strategy. Maybe having a point was no longer relevant. It was all about staying in the game.
‘The Dutchman, he’s Mossad?’
‘Yes, he’s the leader. Elie something.’
‘So, the Dutchman along with the two pretending to be Bosnians makes three. How many more?’
‘Two, maybe three. I don’t really know.’
‘A couple, a man and a woman?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘And Kara Deniz was working for them?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nizari. ‘I never met her.’
That made sense. Kara was just a minor player, an informant who had got herself mixed up in something bigger than she could handle. She’d led them to Nadir Sulayman, but it didn’t really matter. They decided she was a loose end. They couldn’t risk knowledge of Mossad involvement being made public. She was a journalist after all.
‘They believe Abu Hilal is real, and that he’s here, in Istanbul?’
Nizari began to giggle. Makana wondered for a moment if his mind had snapped. He was sniggering and snuffling, crying and wiping his nose on the back of his hand, all at the same time.
‘What? What is it?’ asked Makana.
‘Don’t you see?’ Nizari let out a snort. Desperation seemed to have pushed him over the edge, or else he was the type of man who couldn’t help laughing at the misfortunes of others.
‘They think I’m Abu Hilal,’ said Makana slowly. It was obvious when you said it out loud, logical even. ‘Was that why Marty Shaw had to be killed?’
‘Who?’
Makana waved his own question aside. Marty Shaw had figured it all out. He had been waiting in Makana’s hotel room to let him know, perhaps even to get him out. Only someone was already on to him. Mossad, or Mek Nimr’s people? The latter option left him with an uncomfortable feeling.
‘So they were going to take care of you and your wife? Did they promise you a fat reward for setting up the sarin lab for them?’
‘I gave them a detailed plan of what they had to do.’
‘That was helpful of you,’ said Makana. ‘So this lab is actually functioning?’
‘It has to look convincing. There will be people coming in from all over the world. The FBI and all kinds of agencies, experts with experience in these things. There are protocols, you understand, and …’ Nizari stopped mid-sentence. ‘What is that?’
Makana was wondering the same thing. A coughing sound somewhere in the distant like a giant clearing his throat, followed by a steady rumble. He strained to see through the darkness.
‘What is that?’ Nizari repeated his question. He leaned over and fumbled with the light switch so that the interior light came on.
‘Switch that off,’ Makana ordered, momentarily blinded. He leaned forward to do it himself. Whatever it was, he could feel it now.
‘I don’t like sitting in the dark,’ whined Nizari.
‘Keep quiet.’
The noise was vibrating up through the wheels. Makana started to wind down the window further in an effort to see better. There was something out there, a lumbering shadow rising out of the ground, coming towards them. Then a row of huge white spotlights came on, blinding him. A truck and a big one came over the rise. A monster with wheels that were bigger than the car they were sitting in. And it was gaining speed as it came down the slope.
Makana moved then. Even as he did so he realised there was no time to get across Nizari and out of the car before it hit. Before he’d finished the thought he felt the impact and was thrown back to his side as the car seemed to bounce, lifting into the air. It crashed down and skidded along the ground. The left side had caved in, jamming the doors and throwing the two men together. The second impact was hard, and this time the lorry’s crash bars stayed in contact, scraping the car sideways along the ground. The glaring headlights were so close you could feel the heat from them. The heavy roar of the diesel engine was deafening. Through the window on the other side he could see the sea gleaming darkly in the headlights below them.
‘They’re trying to kill us!’ screamed Nizari.
Makana didn’t respond. His mind was on other things, like how to get out of the vehicle before they hit the water. But it was already too late. The car was sliding away down the incline, away from the truck, gravity doing its job. They careered towards the edge of the hill and bumped straight over. It felt as if they were suspended in mid-air for minutes. It wasn’t more than a few metres to the sea, but they hit the water with a such a jolt that Makana felt his head thrown back against the roof of the car with a jarring blow.
Cold water came rushing in. Hot metal hissed and clicked as engine parts cooled suddenly. The sea spurted up th
rough gaps in the floor, pouring through the windows, the shattered windscreen. They would be dead in a matter of minutes. Nizari was screaming and kicking hysterically, as if he might be able to push the water away.
‘Open the door,’ Makana shouted, but Nizari was beyond responding to any kind of simple command. The problem was getting past him to reach the door. The front of the car lurched suddenly forward and down, the interior now flooded. The left-hand side was so badly crumpled that the door was jammed and impossible to open. They were pushed up against the roof as the remaining air was compressed into a pocket. Makana tilted his head back, water swilling into his mouth as he tried to gulp in the last of the air. There were creaking sounds all around as the frame of the vehicle bowed to the pressure. He struggled to hold onto Nizari. Then he heard, or rather felt, the rear window pop as the interior light went out, plunging them into darkness. The car was sinking more slowly than he would have imagined.
It felt fitting somehow. Dying like this connected him to that night all those years ago when he had watched the old Volkswagen Passat carrying Muna and Nasra topple off the bridge. How often had he told himself that he should have died with them? How many times had he replayed that scene in his mind, trying to imagine their last moments, trapped in the car, sinking into dark oblivion? Their faces came to him at night, their fear breathing into his face, their cries stifled by water as they cried silently in the drowning light. Now, finally, he would learn what it was like.
He recognised the irony. To die this way now, when for the first time he had been given a glimmer of hope in the darkness. When he had reason to believe his daughter was alive. To die now when at last he had something to lose.
It took seconds for these thoughts to pass through his mind. As they did so he realised that he was losing consciousness. He was drowning. When was death ever anything but untimely?
Hands were reaching for him. He thought, for one brief moment, that it was Muna. He allowed himself to drift into their embrace. Dark angels drawing him into the depths. This was how it should be. An arm wrapped itself around his neck, but to his surprise, instead of pulling him down deeper, it was trying to lift him up. Not down into darkness, but up towards light. A bright light that cut through the water like an all-seeing eye. Convinced that it was Death drawing him in, he struggled, but this arm was strong and persistent and he was too weak to fight.
