by Rob Sinclair
‘You first,’ Obbadi said with a wry smile.
Arab’ah nodded and lowered himself down into the hole, using the dilapidated-looking metal ladder that was attached to one of the side walls. When he was out of sight Obbadi peered over, looking into the depths, before he followed his brother down. He initially held his breath, expecting a foul stench, but when he was finally forced to inhale there was nothing but the smell of damp and mould. Quite a welcome smell compared to what he expected.
He reached the bottom where the entrance opened out into a tunnel that trailed off into the distance to his left and right. Arab’ah was holding a powerful torch that shone some hundred yards in front of them, lighting up the spooky space in a yellow electric haze. The rounded tunnel was only six feet high at its peak and standing at the side to avoid the pooled water in the middle of the floor meant both men had to stoop.
‘Come on,’ Arab’ah said, ‘it’s this way.’
They traipsed along, Obbadi looking behind him every now and then, into the darkness. He certainly wasn’t one to be scared either of the dark or of confined spaces, but still, this was hardly his choice of a fun way to spend time. Yet he was filled with quiet anticipation as to what lay ahead.
‘This sewer hasn’t been used for about twenty years now,’ Arab’ah said. ‘A new treatment plant opened up a few miles away and this was one of a handful of tunnels that were no longer needed, and the original pump house was left to nature. But the Victorians knew how to build. This place’ll last for centuries yet.’
They walked on for over twenty minutes. More than once Obbadi heard the sloshing of water and the padding of little feet as rats and whatever else lived down in the depths scampered out of the way of the new arrivals.
‘Are you sure you can carry the equipment this far?’ Obbadi asked.
‘Hidashar will be with me,’ Arab’ah explained.
Obbadi guessed that was sufficient. The big man was like a mule. He could probably haul a ton weight this distance without breaking a sweat.
They reached a junction in the tunnel and Arab’ah stopped. Off to his left was an opening where a rounded pipe about three feet in diameter trailed away.
‘I hope you’re not about to tell me we need to crawl through that.’
‘That?’ Arab’ah said, pointing the torch down the pipe. ‘No. That’s an overflow pipe from the water system, to relieve flooding.’
‘Better hope that rainstorm doesn’t hit, then, or we’ll be washed away with the rats.’
Arab’ah huffed as though that was a ridiculous statement. ‘Actually, flooding is usually caused by rain much further down the line. The main water supply is nearly a hundred miles from here. This whole area of the country is supplied from a man-made lake in Wales. In the 1960s they dammed up and then flooded a huge valley there to supply water to the region.’
‘Thanks for the history lesson,’ Obbadi said, sounding uninterested, though he was impressed with Arab’ah’s level of research and knowledge.
‘Anyway, we’re here,’ Arab’ah said. He lifted the torch and pointed upward and Obbadi saw a chamber rising up twenty feet.
They climbed the ladder one after the other and once Arab’ah had forced away the manhole cover they were soon both stepping out into thick rain. Obbadi clambered out and looked around. They were in a narrow clearing of grass that stretched off for several hundreds yards in either direction, flanked on one side by a dense tree line and on the other by a small hill, fifteen feet high – its neat form suggested it was man-made.
‘Keep down,’ Arab’ah said, hunching over and moving on his hands and feet up the mound. ‘It’s usually quiet this side but you never know.’
Obbadi followed and a few seconds later when he was halfway up, the roar of jet engines blasted into his ears a moment before he saw the giant hulk of a passenger plane sweeping through the air almost within touching distance above him. The noise and vibration of the aircraft so close made his insides curdle as it passed overhead. The next step Obbadi reached the top of the mound and lay down on his belly with Arab’ah next to him to look out over the sprawling airport in the near distance. The arriving plane bounced down onto the tarmac runway, sending up a plume of tyre smoke into the air.
Obbadi looked over to his brother, who had a satisfied smile on his face.
‘Perfect, right?’ Arab’ah said.
Obbadi smiled and nodded.
‘Twelve million passengers a year,’ Arab’ah said. ‘At this time of the year there’ll be thousands in the airport at any one time. And the exit route for us from here couldn’t be better. The plan is to head back the way we just came, but if we feel we need to I’ve pored over the whole network. There are three other escape routes that I know we can get to easily.’
‘Good work, my brother,’ Obbadi said, reaching over and patting Arab’ah on the back.
‘So we just need the rest of the equipment now,’ Arab’ah said. ‘Have you heard from Itnashar?’
‘As a matter of fact I have,’ Obbadi said, gritting his teeth in anger as he thought about the last conversation he’d had with Itnashar not long ago.
‘Talatashar?’ Arab’ah said, picking up on Obbadi’s mood change. ‘He’s gone to Bruges?’
‘Yes, that’s where he’s gone. But the plan is that he’ll never leave there alive.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Bruges, Belgium
Aydin stayed in position up on the rooftop for more than an hour without seeing or hearing anything of interest. After the initial flurry of activity there had been virtually no chatter coming into his ear. No one had left the building either, and just two people had entered; a young mother with a baby in a pushchair. He wondered if it was the same mother and baby he’d heard leaving earlier when he was on the top floor.
It was nearly three p.m. when finally his attention was grabbed. He spotted the two men, their backs to the camera, walking along the alley. Even before they stopped outside the door to Itnashar’s building Aydin sensed they weren’t just two passersby. He risked a glance up over the edge of the wall. He wanted to set his eyes on the men properly, pick out any detail that the camera wasn’t giving him.
As he looked over the edge he heard the ringing in his ear as the intercom from Itnashar’s apartment sounded out. The two men had their eyes working the alley around them, but they didn’t look up to where Aydin was at all. They were quite nondescript in appearance. Both wore dark casual clothing, but they were neither particularly old nor young, tall nor short, nor thin, nor muscled. Basically they blended. Exactly the type of men needed for what Aydin thought their role would be.
Looking back at the screen on his tablet Aydin watched as the two men stepped inside the building. In his ear he heard Itnashar’s muffled voice again, and not long after there was the thudding and clunking as the guests arrived inside the apartment.
A conversation began and lasted for several minutes though Aydin shook his head again in frustration as he listened to the mostly indecipherable chatter. Every now and then there was a single word, two or three in a row at most, that he could pick out clearly, but it wasn’t enough to take any great meaning.
Then he heard his name. Talatashar. All of a sudden it was as though his senses had renewed focus. He heard further snippets. He’s alone. Confront him.
Or had Itnashar said don’t confront?
Aydin simply couldn’t be sure and wondered whether he’d even heard those simple words correctly or was just making what he heard fit.
Regardless, he had a clear choice to make. He could go and meet Itnashar as planned, even though it was odds on that his brother was setting him up. It wasn’t a welcome scenario but at least that way he had a chance of getting the information he needed. He had no idea of the exact location of any of his other brothers. Itnashar did.
Or he could run again. Get out of Bruges and try to stay one step ahead of the chasing pack. Quite where he could go to next he didn’t know. But at least he’d still be breathing .
. .
No, he wasn’t running, he decided with absolutely finality.
He remained on the rooftop until four p.m., then he unplugged the camera from the tablet and switched on its wireless capability. To save its battery he’d only turn the camera on again when he was next looking at the tablet’s screen. He left the earbud in place then packed up the rest of his things and headed across the rooftop to the door.
When he arrived, just before half past four, Markt was busy with locals and tourists. The large open space was one of the city’s busiest meeting spots with lines of cafes and restaurants, together with several historic monuments – pride of place being the thirteenth-century belfry, with its gothic spires, that rose up into the sky beyond everything around it. In the past the belfry had been used as an observation post for spotting fires and other danger within the city. It seemed quite apt to Aydin – or was it ironic? – that this was the place Itnashar had chosen to meet.
He walked through the bustling square, past the grand central statue that featured two heroic and proud warriors atop it, whose history he knew nothing about. He ducked out of the way of the tourists posing for pictures and headed to the east corner of the square where Itnashar was expecting to meet him later. Gino’s was a popular Italian – judging by the number of people cramming onto its terrace – and his belly grumbled angrily as he walked past and the smell of grilled meat and tomato sauce and melted cheese filled his nose.
He did need to eat, but not there. Instead, having scoped out the whole of the square to his satisfaction, he bought a cheese and chicken baguette from a delicatessen and ate it on the move, then set up position on the opposite side of the square to Gino’s, in a coffee shop, taking a seat inside, up against the front window.
He wasn’t deeply hidden, but he was far enough removed. It was busy outside, and with the position of the sun in the sky, no one looking from the square to the windows of the cafe could see who or what lay beyond the glare. He also knew there were two good exit routes directly outside the cafe that led away from Markt, if he felt under threat and needed to escape quickly.
As he sipped through his first coffee he took out his phone and opened up the feed to the camera. The smaller screen made it even more difficult to make out the picture clearly, but it was good enough to spot the three men leaving the building just a few minutes after he had. Itnashar and the two others. No sign of Haroun, who he assumed, judging by the faint sounds still in his ear (a TV or radio?), had stayed in the apartment.
The three men were soon out of sight of the camera so Aydin once again turned it off and closed the screen and set the phone down. He also took out the earbud and switched that off to save its battery. Then he again contemplated what he should do next.
He could go back to the apartment, break entry and tackle Haroun, and hope he could find and take what he needed from Itnashar’s equipment without him being there. The first part would be simple, but once inside he would not only have to contend with gaining access to Itnashar’s equipment room, but then breaking through any passcode or encryption on his devices. Although it was tempting to try that, it felt like a risk, particularly as Itnashar hadn’t even arrived at Markt yet. He should at least see how the planned rendezvous played out first.
So instead he waited in the coffee shop. He was just finishing his second drink when, across the square, he spotted Itnashar roaming around. He was alone. Or at least Aydin saw no sign of the other two men, though he had no doubt they were there somewhere. Having not seen their faces clearly made it all the more difficult to pinpoint them, so Aydin was busily scouring the crowds as Itnashar casually set up position against a lamp post ten yards away from Gino’s terrace.
After a couple of minutes there was still no sign of the two men, no one else milling who caught his eye. Nervousness began to bubble up in him. He wondered whether the men were armed and in sniper position, up at the top of the belfry perhaps, ready to put a bullet into Aydin’s head the moment he stepped out into the square.
Either that or they were just damned good at hiding.
Then, Aydin realised, there was always a further option. That perhaps Itnashar wasn’t setting him up at all. Maybe the other men weren’t even there.
Across the square he noticed Itnashar bringing a hand up to his face. Covering his mouth? It didn’t take Aydin long to figure out that he was talking. Likely him and his chums were all wired in to each other.
Or were they?
Aydin frowned. Itnashar’s hand was just far enough away, and the angle just right to allow Aydin to partly see his lips. What was he saying?
Aydin dove into his backpack and took out the earbud. He turned it back on and put it into his ear.
‘Aydin,’ he heard Itnashar say, his voice loud and clear as he watched from across the square. ‘Aydin, I know you can hear me. I can help to get you out of this city alive. But only if you do exactly as I say.’
TWENTY-NINE
Aydin clenched his fists, his fingertips digging into and cutting his skin, the grip was so tight. He didn’t need to listen another second. He pulled the bud from his ear, switched it off and shoved it into the backpack. He stood up and slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the door. Outside he turned left and within seconds was walking away from Markt.
He didn’t know how long Itnashar would stand there, blathering away into the microphone, trying to persuade Aydin that he was on his side. Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour. It made Aydin mad that Itnashar felt he could play him so easily. How long had it taken to find the microphone in the first place? Perhaps that was why the reception had been so crackly from the start – Itnashar had made it that way by smothering it, having found the damn thing the second Aydin left the apartment.
He didn’t know for sure why Itnashar had chosen to reveal his cards like that. There was the slim possibility that he really was looking out for Aydin, but if that was the case why had he waited so long?
It didn’t matter. Aydin decided it was time for a different approach. He’d rather play the game by his own rules, not anyone else’s.
He retraced his steps back along the canal to Itnashar’s apartment, taking the most direct route. There was no hint that either his friend or the goons were following, though Aydin didn’t mind that much if they were. It was plainly clear that, if he was to get what he needed, then sooner or later there was going to be a confrontation; the only questions remaining were when and how.
When he reached Itnashar’s apartment building Aydin pressed on the buzzer for one of the top-floor apartments. He waited a few seconds but there was no response. He pressed on the next button and waited. After a few moments a woman’s voice came through the speaker and he pictured the mother with the screaming baby once again.
‘I have a delivery for 4b, do you think you can accept it?’ Aydin said in French. He didn’t know any Flemish and hoped the woman could understand.
He could hear the unsettled babe in the background still. The woman tutted but then said, ‘Oui,’ and the door buzzed unlocked.
Aydin headed inside and up the stairs and as he reached the third floor he leaned over the banister and peered upward. Sure enough the woman was up there, looking down for him.
‘It’s okay,’ he shouted up. ‘He’s here after all.’
She shook her head in annoyance and disappeared to tend to the youngster. She was too preoccupied to think properly about the simple trick he’d just played, and why would she care anyway – he wasn’t presenting a threat to her.
He stood outside the door to Itnashar’s apartment and pressed his ear up against the wood. Inside it was quiet but not silent, and he heard the faint sound of the TV. He could only guess that Haroun was still home, though he’d not been checking the feed from the camera the whole time so couldn’t be one hundred per cent.
The door had two locks on the outside, though Aydin had noticed earlier that Itnashar didn’t secure the deadbolt while they were inside, and he assumed that Haroun hadn’t eit
her. The other lock, a tumbler device, was easy to pick and it took Aydin less than thirty seconds to work through the sequence of pins. When the last of the pins was released he held the handle with one hand and grabbed the butt of his gun with the other.
He took a couple of seconds to run through in his head the various sequences of moves for when he threw the door open, the exact actions he would take depending on where Haroun was in the room.
Satisfied that he had the most obvious possibilities covered, he pushed down on the handle and swung open the door, bursting forward and drawing the gun at the same time.
He was pleased to see the back of Haroun’s head, poking up from the sofa in front of him. Haroun jumped up and turned when he heard the banging of the door as it crashed against the adjacent wall, but Aydin didn’t give him any time to offer up a purposeful response. He pushed his arm behind to slam the door shut as he moved forward, and just as Haroun’s eyes met his, he smashed the barrel of the handgun into the side of his head. Haroun fell back down onto the sofa, his heavy body bouncing on the cushions.
Thirty minutes later and Aydin was out of luck. He’d not even been able to gain access to Itnashar’s lab in that time, never mind break any codes to gain access to his equipment. He had to expect that his brother would be returning to the apartment sooner or later, so it was time to ramp up the pressure while he still had the chance.
He threw a cup of cold water into Haroun’s face to rouse him. The liquid did the trick and he jerked awake. He coughed and spluttered for a few seconds while his brain recalibrated. His steely glare fixed on Aydin.
‘You’re dead!’ he said, anger the first emotion to hit him. ‘Kess ommak!’
He hurled a mouthful of phlegm that splatted on Aydin’s chin. Aydin wiped it away without showing any feeling. Haroun’s words were intended to provoke and derail, literally referencing Aydin’s mother’s vagina, but Aydin was just a little beyond playground insults, however raw the subject of his mother was.
