Ismail saw his eyes skim the surface of the weapon and laughed. “Don’t worry, my Kalashnikov isn’t loaded today!” He sat down. “Come on then, get your gruesome photographs out!”
Arto reached into his briefcase and removed two large color pictures. They showed the right arm and hand of Leonid Meyer in close-up. He spread them out on the desk. Ismail bent low and examined them closely. He whistled sharply. “Nasty!”
“The Pathology Lab says that they are probably gunpowder burns. They’re old too, sixty or seventy years. Very severe, must have been extremely painful at the time.” He pointed to one of the shots. “As you can see, as they healed, they puckered considerably. This seems to suggest that no treatment was given after the injury, probably just bandaged, wrapped in rags, something like that.”
“Mmm.” Ismail put on his spectacles and held one of the photographs up to the light.
“Now, Faud, we know what did this. However, what I need to know now is how. How would somebody sustain gunpowder burns like this, under what circumstances?”
“Well…” Ismail put the photographs down and then sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together under his chin. He didn’t take his eyes from the pictures in front of him. For a few moments he thought in silence. “Any reason to believe that this man worked in the ballistics industry?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Mmm.” He went back to his thoughts and sucked hard on his top lip. “Soldier?”
“Yes. He was Russian. We think he may have fought on the Red side in the 1917 Revolution—well, Çetin does. He’s trying to piece together some details about his past. His military history could, apparently, be pertinent.”
“Right.” Ismail took a pencil from his drawer and pointed it toward the livid image of Leonid Meyer’s right hand. “Now this…” He paused for thought again. “1917, you say? Russia?”
“Well, 1918, actually, the wound.”
“OK.” He took in a deep breath. “This here, on the hand, this could be the result of a faulty weapon. People like the, oh, you know, the Russian Revolutionaries—”
“Bolsheviks.”
“Yes. People like that weren’t always professional soldiers. Any old firearm would do, however decrepit. You can get nasty burns from old, unmaintained pieces. You can’t just pick up a gun and fire—well, not if you want to be safe.”
“So an old, possibly faulty gun, you think?”
“Maybe, maybe.” He rubbed his chin with his hands and sucked in his already slim cheeks. “Then again he could have had an accident—oh, fireworks? Some industrial process? 1918 to 1992, it’s a long time. A lot of things can happen in, what, seventy years?”
“Yes, right. What about the arm?”
“Ooh.” He looked at the photograph and sighed. “Again, I can only speculate. Ruling out fireworks and industrial causes, which I assume you want me to do…”
“Yes—at least I think so.”
He stared at the ceiling for a moment, marshalling his thoughts. His hands moved very slightly as he worked the spacing out in his head. “Possibly being in the vicinity of an old cannon. Unlikely, but … well.” He shrugged. “Someone standing very close beside him letting off a great number of rounds very fast. It would have to have been in a confined space of some sort. He must have been unable to move away. If you could, you’d shift long before you got this badly burned.”
“Caused by somebody else’s firearm?”
“Yes. Could be. Possible scenario is a left-handed person standing on his right, slightly behind … If Çetin’s victim were close enough, and especially if he used both hands to hold his weapon, the trajectory of a large number of bullets passing could have caused this. It’s—”
Ismail’s telephone rang. “Excuse me, Arto.” He picked it up and spoke into the receiver. “Ismail.”
Arto looked at the photographs again. The kind of scenario Ismail seemed to be suggesting struck him as being not unlike a firing squad. Two or more people firing at something, side by side, letting off a large number of rounds. And yet there were differences. In a firing squad where there were two ranks the front rank usually knelt down or squatted, while those behind stood and fired over their heads. And of course this type of execution was nearly always performed in a courtyard, outside—in some sort of open space at least. It had to be, confined spaces presumably increased the risk of ricochet. Of course, it wasn’t strictly Arto’s problem, but ever since he’d first noticed the burns on Meyer’s arm and hand he had been gripped by an unmistakable feeling that they were important. Why, he didn’t know, but Çetin had been very interested when he’d told him and Çetin was not accustomed to getting worked up about nothing.
If Faud Ismail was right then it was quite possible that the murdered man had been a murderer himself. And if that were so it moved Meyer from his current position as oppressed Jewish victim into quite a new and more sinister role.
* * *
It felt so good to be out in the open. Natalia ran her fingers through her hair and delighted in the feel of the gentle early evening breeze as it played between the strands and massaged her scalp. In an hour the park would be closing, she would have to be quick. Lucky and quick.
But then luck didn’t come into it unless you were fussy. Natalia wasn’t. As she started the long climb up the hill toward the Palace, she felt her body tense. Her eyes darted from side to side as she ascended. What she sought had to be there. It always had been before; beside a tree, to the edge of the path, standing on one of the bridges that spanned the ornamental pond …
All day she had waited. Cooped up in that tiny box of a shop with only doddery old Avedissian for company. Endless puerile chatter, all it did was provide a background to her anxious thoughts. What she needed was release, a few moments to be her, unencumbered and undiluted Natalia. There was only one way that she had ever, could ever do this. And it was going to happen—it had to! She’d broken a date for this, her need had been so desperate, a date with a Kurdish silversmith.
A young couple, arm in arm and laughing at some recently shared joke, passed her as they made their way back to the gates. Whatever they had come to do in Yıldız Park they had obviously done it. The young man was very handsome and Natalia, just for a moment, felt jealous. The young man would have suited her very nicely. Well, partially suited her anyway. There was one thing, one important thing missing.
She pushed onward and upward. So far, nothing, but Natalia did not lose hope.
Looking deep in among the trees she undid two more of her blouse buttons and smiled as her rich cleavage came into view. She was breathless, both the climb and the anticipation were beginning to get to her. All she hoped was that he was young, that he’d do exactly as she said. But then he would because she’d do anything in return, anything. At least, that’s what she’d tell him.
Natalia fanned her hot face with her hand. She could see people moving about, laughing and running around among the trees, but they were all couples. A twinge of anxiety started to pull at the pit of her stomach, but she squashed it down. This was Yıldız Park on a Saturday evening! Yıldız Park, old abode of the Sultan’s, playground for Istanbul’s lovers and adulterers. She paused for a moment to catch her breath and skimmed her eyes across the horizon.
He was leaning against a tree, his long legs crossed casually, his arms folded across his chest. His dark green uniform was a little tight which was good because it meant that she could see the outline of his muscles. She liked muscles. Also, he had—something. Yes, he’d do. He’d be fine.
Natalia swept her hair back from her face and walked toward him. As she approached he turned his head away, as if trying to avoid her eyes, but she knew that he’d seen her. He was young. Nineteen? Twenty? He had to want what she wanted, but his youthfulness probably made him shy. It wasn’t the first time she’d encountered this phenomenon. It only meant that a slightly slower, maybe less crude approach was required. Initially.
As she drew level with him, s
he smiled, even though he still wasn’t looking at her.
“Your Commander let you out for the day?”
He turned his head. His soft young face was pink; long dark lashes hid his slanted Anatolian eyes. “Hello … miss.”
Natalia laughed and the boy’s thick lashes parted and flicked upward revealing a pair of frightened soft brown eyes. He looked like a young bear, lost and scared in an unfamiliar forest.
Now she was up close, Natalia ran her eyes over him in detail. She wanted to be sure this was a good choice. There were bound to be more men, soldiers, further up the path she had just left. She needed to convince herself that this boy was about the best she could do. She smiled at him.
He was good, she had to admit it. Dark, muscular, young. His large hands augured well, and there was a pistol on his hip. It sat in a leather holster, the handle gleaming in the dying rays of the sun. A thing of great beauty and excellent craftsmanship.
As she looked at the weapon Natalia felt her heartbeat quicken. She was full up, almost in pain. She opened her mouth and ran her tongue slowly around every millimeter of her lips.
He gazed at her questioningly at first; he obviously had no or little experience. But as her hands loosened the remaining buttons of her blouse, the corners of his mouth turned upward and he smiled. She pierced his eyes with hers and, without looking downward, she unfastened her brassière.
Natalia felt her breasts lurch forward, the delicious sensation of the cool breeze touching their skin. The boy’s eyes widened and he put a tentative hand out toward her. She walked toward him and slotted one big, dark nipple between his outstretched fingers. He let out a little gasp as he felt the heavy weight of her in his hand.
“Come on,” she said, her voice thick with sex. “Let’s get a bit further away from the path.”
She disengaged her breast and took his hand. They didn’t have to go far. The undergrowth became dense and almost impenetrable only about twenty meters away.
But the place had to be right: a tree with smooth bark or a flat and bramble-free piece of ground. Standing or lying, she didn’t mind as long as she didn’t tear her skin. Pain was all right, pain was great, but she didn’t want marks on her body.
“Er, miss, er…”
She turned. “What!” She hoped he wasn’t going to talk.
“Um?” His shaking hand offered her two crisp twenty-thousand lira notes.
Natalia snorted and pushed his hand away. “I don’t want your damn money! Just do what I tell you, OK?”
It was obvious from his expression that he could hardly believe his luck. “Oh, th—”
“Shut up!” She moved some tangled weeds aside with her foot and looked about her. “This will do.”
As she sank to the ground Natalia slipped off the remainder of her clothing. The soldier stood and watched her, mesmerized. If he was worried or offended by her brusque manner he certainly didn’t show it. He just looked at her, his eyes wide, lips wet.
Natalia bundled her clothes into a small heap and put them on the ground beside her. She stretched out one long, tanned leg and caught some of the material of his trousers between her toes. She threw her head back and looked up into his livid, sweating face. His chest heaved as his breath came in unsteady labored gasps.
For a few seconds they just stared at each other. Natalia, impatient, even started to get bored. She didn’t want to savor the moment, the boy wasn’t important enough! But then slowly and with trembling fingers he unzipped his fly and his dark penis sprang, erect and painful, into his hand.
Natalia felt her skin tingle. The boy was huge; he’d hurt. She hadn’t been really wounded for a while. She wanted to be.
“If you do what I say this time, you can have as much as you want,” she said coldly. She opened her legs wide and rubbed her breasts with her fingers.
“Oh.” But he didn’t move, just stood stupidly with his penis jutting out from his trousers like a stiff, dead snake.
Now she was losing patience. An idiot boy from the country in all probability. She’d just have to take control. Well, it was what she did best.
“Sit on the ground and take your pistol out.”
“Pistol?”
“Look, do you want me to fuck you or not!” she snapped.
For a moment he looked confused, but then he undid his belt buckle and pulled his pistol from its holster. Natalia felt her whole body flush and open as he held it out toward her.
The boy sank to the ground and stretched his legs out in front of him. Natalia sprang forward and took his penis between her fingers. It was very hot and she could feel the pulse of his blood tearing through the engorged veins.
“Now,” she said as if she were issuing instructions to a particularly dim servant, “when I get on top of you I want you to put that pistol in my mouth.”
He looked from Natalia to the pistol and then back at Natalia again. He didn’t seem to understand. With a grunt of irritation she pushed his torso back and straddled him. She had to rise her body up quite high in order to clear his penis. “Like this,” she said. She thrust herself down his length and he groaned.
As she rose and fell on him, she took the gun from his hand and put it, barrel first, into her mouth.
At first he tried to take it away from her, but she slapped his hand to one side. The stiff metal tasted good, bitter and acidic. That, and his great bulk inside her, heightened Natalia’s senses and she felt a rapturous loss of control sweep across her body. But she wanted more. She grabbed his hands and clamped them hard on to her swaying breasts. Although so recently broken, he knew what to do and he pinched her nipples hard. She cried out—it was so good.
But his face was agonized now; he wouldn’t last long. Too young. She closed her eyes to shut out the vision of his stupid, grateful face and increased her pace. He was tearing her apart and she loved it.
Arms like bands of steel wrapped themselves around her and she pushed the gun deep into the back of her throat. This was what she thought of their history. This was what she would have done if the hard-eyed men had turned their weapons upon her! She felt like crying; it always had that effect. If only she had been there—it would have all been so different. They’d be home, in the right place, not grubbing around with these filthy, these disgusting foreigners. Fucking thick, musky Turks on dirt floors!
The man beneath her bellowed and bucked like a bull. She opened her eyes and taking the pistol from between her lips, she turned it toward him and rested the barrel against the bridge of his nose.
He stopped moving almost immediately and his eyes became very still, frozen in fear. His chest heaved as he tried to contain his post-coital panting.
She, on the other hand, was quite calm.
Natalia smiled as her finger clicked the safety catch off. She felt him crumple and shrink inside her. His face lost all its color and took on the appearance of ashes. Gray and shriveled.
“Mmm…”
She laughed at his faltering attempts to speak and jammed the barrel so hard against him that he cried out.
Terror was a good game. It was the only one she really liked to play. Of course it could only be played with scum like this boy, but then she liked scum too. She took the cheap watch off his wrist and flung it on to her heaped-up clothes. Terror fulfilled all her needs.
He was sweating heavily now and she knew that very soon he would start begging for his life. That was always amusing. She looked down at his big, shaking body and ground her hips against his groin. With one finger she spitefully flicked the base of his penis.
Very slowly, so there could be no possible chance that the dullard wouldn’t understand her, Natalia spoke. “If you don’t get that thing of yours up and do it to me again I’m going to blow your head off.”
* * *
By the time Robert Cornelius reached Celaleddin Rumi Caddesi, he was totally and utterly exhausted. What, of course, he should have done was ask Natalia what the name of the company was first—before he took off into th
e back of beyond. But so anxious had he been to get into the area and do what had to be done that all thought of the practicalities had, at the time, escaped him. As a consequence he had stalked the streets for hours, asking probably unwise questions of suspicious local residents, until finally he had arrived where he was now: a place that had been variously described by some as the only and by others as one of many textile plants within the Üsküdar district.
Not that being on the exact site of the actual textile plant owned by this Smits character really mattered that much. He’d thought originally that it would, but upon reflection, surely it would be enough if he were simply in Üsküdar. Besides, if someone connected with the old Nazi were really to do something nefarious, would he do it precisely on his own doorstep? No, he wouldn’t. He’d be more intelligent than that.
But now he, Robert Cornelius, was where he needed to be and it was at this point, when all the excuses had effectively run out, that the full portent of what he was about to do hit him. Carefully wrapping a handkerchief around his fingers, he took the letter out of his pocket and stared down at it. This had to be madness! He recalled, with a sad but knowing smile, that during the course of all the awfulness back in Britain people had told him he was mad for many months. They hadn’t known the half! Not even the most pessimistic consultant could have even dreamed of the still deeper depths to which he would sink: the ultimate insanity that he was about to perpetrate now. Deception, perverting the course of justice, impersonation, libel.
As he looked at the neat, typewritten address on the front of the envelope, he imagined how the other words—the mad, twisted, hate-filled words inside—now looked. In his mind they were mobile, dripping with the spite of ages the modern world hoped it had forgotten. But then if they secured her for him, were they too high a price to pay? If they kept her safe even at the expense of some old Nazi’s life, then surely that had to be a good and right thing?
Belshazzar's Daughter: A Novel of Istanbul (Inspector Ikmen series Book 1) Page 23
