The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller

by Gonçalo Coelho

  “That’s what the kid said?”

  “Yes. I know I shouldn’t tell you any of this because it will screw up your fight, which is in just a few hours, but I know that neither of you would ever forgive me if I didn’t.”

  “You think I should believe the message from this kid?”

  “He insisted the message came from Nefise herself.”

  “Then I’d better go check it out. I’ve never been a man to run from a fight.”

  “Are you with Mercedes?” Juan asked suddenly. Luiz looked at Mercedes beside him in the bed.

  “Yeah. I know what you think about this, but I can’t waste time arguing about it now.”

  He cut off the call.

  “I realize you’ve got to go. There’s news of Nefise. Be careful.”

  “If it weren’t for your parents we could have been very happy, guapa.” Luiz planted a slow kiss on her lips, and when he let go of her, he finally rose from the bed that had held him captive for over an hour. Snatching up his scattered clothes one by one, he started to get dressed.

  “During the fight, if at some point you remember this evening and so many others we spent together, don’t ever lose heart, they were happy moments, yours and mine, that can only make you stronger. Remember that it’s worth fighting and living for these moments and others like them. No one knows what the future has in store for each one of us.”

  Luiz hurriedly finished dressing. Finally he tucked his shirt into his trousers and ran for the door.

  “Have a good concert, guapa,” he said with his hand on the doorknob.

  “I’ll be there in the front row to see you win.”

  Luiz looked her in the eye for a terribly fleeting instant and felt the invisible force trying to prevent him from leaving the room. Finally he opened the door and went out in to the hall. As the elevator descended, he couldn’t contain a sigh mixed up with a name that came out of his mouth involuntarily:

  “Mercedes…”

  7

  Nefise sat on the cold ground inside the Marmaray Tunnel with her arms tied behind her back, leaning against the bare wall. Beside her, Sheik Omar’s assistant, nameless and laconic, unchanging in his grim demeanor, zealously kept her in his sights, training both his gun and his flashlight on her unwaveringly. From time to time Nefise managed to take her eyes off the man and his gun constantly threatening her and saw Yousef against the opposite wall, engaged in placing one of several explosive devices at a series of strategic structural points. It was a task he had been repeating all along the length of the tunnel for a little over half an hour, placing explosive charges that would set off multiple explosions throughout the structure the instant the detonator was activated from a safe distance, and this, according to the plan, would bring about the tunnel’s total destruction. Still intact for the moment, the gloomy, odorless and hollow concrete gallery was illuminated at the interior point where we find ourselves by the light of three flashlights, and it may be of interest to point out what each one of them illuminated. One of them, in Yousef’s hand, was focused on his meticulous work. At times, to avail himself of both hands, he placed the flashlight in his mouth and held it with his teeth. A second flashlight was pointed at Yousef from behind, resting in the firm, slender hand of Sheik Omar. The third was in the hands of the Sheik’s assistant, and constantly illuminated his target, Nefise, on whom he constantly trained his gun, even knowing that she was very well tied up (and that in the dark, with no flashlight, she would never get very far), so that Yousef remained always aware that she could be shot at any time if he committed even the slightest unwanted act of rebellion. Yousef, however, still had not lost his hope of finding a gap that would permit him to save his own life and Nefise’s life, without blasting the tunnel to vapor. He had indeed lost all trust in Sheik Omar, and therefore did not believe for a second that he would grant the freedom promised him and Nefise once his work on the tunnel was done. The most likely thing was that the Sheik would kill them both as soon as he no longer needed them. While seeking a gap to enable him to take action, Yousef kept up a lively conversation with him.

  “In spite of all our past, and knowing very well what you’re capable of, I’m still amazed at your logistical prowess. How is it possible to plant so many crates of explosives here in this tunnel without attracting attention?”

  “And who said it was without attracting attention? What it calls for is attracting only the right attention, and paying handsomely…”

  “Bribery.”

  “Yes. We all have our price. Even you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Aren’t you doing what I want?”

  Without answering, Yousef resumed his task but kept talking. He threw out another question.

  “You were always manipulating me, weren’t you?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You always do whatever you want. You always made the decisions you thought were right based on the reality that you saw.”

  “Yes, but it can be viewed from several different angles.”

  “No. Not always.”

  For a moment Yousef stopped what he was doing.

  “I’m going to need some help here,” he said, raising his chin in the direction of the Sheik’s assistant.

  “Do you take me for an idiot? You’ve never needed any help to execute an attack.”

  “How do you know? You were never there. If I don’t get some help here I can’t go on, and the tunnel will not blow up according to plan.”

  The Sheik looked suspicious, but yielded, and with a simple nod of his head signaled for his assistant to help Yousef. The assistant handed the gun he was training on Nefise to Sheik Omar and approached Yousef. Meanwhile, the Sheik, now holding two guns, took up the position of his assistant next to Nefise.

  “Before you try any tricks, remember well that I’m right here next to Nefise, and I do not have the slightest qualms about ending her life just like that.”

  “Of course,” Yousef answered. “I won’t try any tricks.” Then he said to the assistant, “I need you to put pressure here at this point and at the same time put pressure right here, that’s good…”

  The assistant lay down on the ground, and Yousef caught sight of a revolver at his waist. Seeing this window of opportunity, fast as lightning he attacked the guard with a surgical blow and snatched up his gun, instantly aiming at Sheik Omar and pulling the trigger. But the gun only released a sharp click, ridiculous and cruel. It wasn’t loaded. The game was over. The Sheik knew it, which explained his scornful smile of triumph.

  “The game is over, Yousef. You lost. Now I’m going to finish off Nefise, just as I finished off Nadia in New York.”

  “Nadia?” Yousef asked, still desperately aiming the gun at the Sheik.

  The Sheik snapped off the safety, pointed it at Nefise and squeezed the trigger. Yousef felt the whole world come crashing down around him as Nefise faced into the gates of death. At the last instant, the Sheik turned the barrel away and fired into the hard concrete.

  “As you can see, this pistol is loaded, and I have no problem firing it. Therefore, confine yourself to doing your job just right without the slightest false move, and when it’s over, you may leave here with Nefise, as promised.”

  “And what guarantee do I have of that?”

  “Absolutely none,” said the Sheik, closing the matter.

  His assistant got up off the floor and, seeing a chance at revenge, gave Yousef a savage punch in the stomach.

  8

  Istanbul

  September 28, 2008

  8:42 p.m.

  Luiz’ chauffeur parked a few meters from the construction site of the new Sirkeci underground station, specially designed to connect with the Marmaray project. In the darkness of the night, Akbar cut the headlights and the engine. There was little traffic on the street at this hour.

  “If I take more than an hour, call the police,” Luiz ordered from the back seat, “but before that, don’t budge an inch. Don’t call anyone and don’t g
et out of the car for anything in this world. Got it?”

  “Got it, boss.”

  “Now give me the gun in the glove compartment.”

  Akbar complied, reaching into the glove compartment and handing the gun to Luiz.

  “May God be with you down there.”

  Luiz stuck the gun into his waistband at his back, got out of the car and slammed the door. He was also carrying a red flashlight. He moved forward cautiously, looking both ways several times before going inside the future Sirkeci station. Once inside, he lit the flashlight and swept it around. There was nothing more than the solitude of a long gallery under construction, hidden in the mists of darkness. He was now in the space that would become the entrance to the future station, and with the help of the flashlight, he came to a broad tubular passageway, a long cavern descending into the depths of the earth. It was an extremely forbidding passageway, but the only available way forward. He aimed the flashlight inside, and moved forward step by step, examining the ground he tread upon, imagining that in a few years there would be escalators carrying millions of passengers like ants, to and from the future train platforms down below adjacent to the tunnel where modern trains full of passengers would come rushing through. He strode farther and farther into this tubular cavern leading towards the future platform, tearing through the shadowy silent darkness. As he descended he heard his own steps echoing through the work site, and realized that this same route had been taken by Nefise not long before. He decided abruptly to sniff the air around him in an attempt to smell her perfume, and in fact it seemed to him that he did indeed catch the scent of it in the air. Or could it just be his imagination? The perfume scent was so faint, and he was so nervous and his soul in such upheaval that he couldn’t really be sure. Even so, he preferred to believe the fragrance was not just the result of the emotions swirling in his mind, but rather due to his sharp sense of smell. Which would confirm that Nefise really was there, somewhere in the depths of the tunnel. It was just a matter of doing things right and getting out of there with her. Positive thinking! But doing what things right? This he didn’t know. First he had to find out where and under what conditions Nefise was being held captive. Only then could he try to come up with a plan of some kind.

  Finally the tunnel came to an end and, pointing the flashlight around him to take in the surrounding area, Luiz discovered that he was coming out onto what would be the future platform in this station, adjacent to a broad trench dividing the platform in two, extending on both ends towards a big tunnel, clearly built for the circulation of the future Marmaray underground train that would traverse the depths of the Bosporus, shuttling between the continents of Europe and Asia. Examining the space patiently, Luiz had the impression that he had stumbled into some ruins in a destroyed place, rather than a construction site, which got him to thinking that what has been destroyed and what is being built are exactly alike, everything is ruins waiting to be built, waiting to have meaning. Dimestore philosophy, thought Luiz to himself, just right for someone all alone by himself in the dark, and he leapt into the broad ditch where the trains would run someday. He got his bearings, thinking of where the Bosporus lay, and advanced into the tunnel leading into the depths beneath the Straits. He aimed the yellow beam of his flashlight into the vastness hidden in the deep shadow encompassing and filling the entire inside of the tunnel. Stopping for a moment, he crossed himself, then took out the gun and, gripping it in one hand and the flashlight in the other, he advanced fearlessly. With his first steps into the tunnel he realized that he had no other batteries for the flashlight. If these give out, I’m imprisoned in the darkness, and if I have to come back in the dark, I’m in trouble, I’ll never find the exit... it’s a good thing this flashlight is holding up so far, he thought. However, because his mind never ceased spewing thoughts of all shapes and sizes, right away another idea crossed his mind, that if he kept on like this holding up his flashlight, he would be spotted immediately from a distance. Best to move forward in the dark, silently, and then no one would see him coming. It would be safer. He’d be walking blindly, but he’d be invisible. He congratulated himself for figuring this out as he snapped off the flashlight. To him it was a sign that his head was still on straight. He became enclosed in complete darkness. It was now totally black all around him, he was utterly blind. It was as though he were walking over an immense black void. He reached out to one of the sides of the tunnel feeling his way as he walked. After about fifteen minutes making his way with difficulty through the darkness, he began to curse this blind excursion. After ten more minutes it was so much worse that a voice inside him nagged him that perhaps Nefise was not even there, perhaps it was all nothing more than a trap or a simple prank in bad taste someone was playing on him. Until at last, another ten minutes farther along, a faint light appeared quite literally at the end of the tunnel. A tiny yellow blur that grew gradually bigger as he approached, now ever more carefully and slowly, trying to avoid making the slightest noise. And so he continued advancing toward the light, shrouded in darkness, until he could clearly make out three figures. If they shone a flashlight on him now they would see him instantly, which would be the end, but they would not do this as long as they did not suspect his presence. He realized the danger he was in, and felt the adrenaline coursing through him as he tried to stifle even the sound of his own breathing. To help him, a murmur of voices filled the air. Fortunately the men appeared to be making noises of their own, talking in a language that sounded strange to him. He was now ten meters away. He crouched down watching carefully, then recognized one of them. It was Yousef Al-Khaled! The deadly Islamic extremist who approached him at a now remote but eternally unforgettable fight in Las Vegas in 1999, where he lost his championship title and then gave up boxing for a long time. He felt anger take hold of him, a thirst for revenge... Crouching down, pinned to the wall, and without making a sound, he crept forward slowly until he was only some five paces away from them. He now heard more clearly the words of this language he didn’t understand. Very slowly he shifted his position, knelt and aimed his gun at Yousef. He was now very close and knew that he could hit any of these men with a sudden deadly shot, but he remembered that he was there to save Nefise, not to kill Yousef. The question was how to proceed to achieve this primary objective. To find the answer, he minutely examined the entire scene unfolding before him. Nefise was there, sitting against the wall with her arms tied behind her back, off to the left in his field of vision. Her mouth was not gagged, but she was silent. Her face was naturally tired, exhausted, hardened. There were no external signs of violence. He had to get her out of there at once. Involuntarily, his mind flew back to Yousef, full of rage. He was more than eager to shoot this man on the spot, certain that he was a fanatical terrorist. But now the problem was that he clearly saw another man aiming a gun directly at Nefise, and this man could shoot her the moment Luiz fired his first shot. So this man was the one he had to bring down first, without fail. All the more so since, at least for the moment, Yousef did not have a gun in his hand. He had his back to Nefise, at the opposite wall, on the right side of his field of vision, planting explosives in the tunnel supports, and to Luiz’ surprise, there was also a gun aimed at Yousef by an older third man dressed in a long a white tunic with a long flowing gray beard. Come to think of it, Yousef did not even seem to be the aggressor here. In this scene, instead, both he and Nefise were the victims. In that case, thought Luiz, it was best to drop the man pointing the gun at Nefise, without fail, and then the man with the gray beard before he could react. Only then would he concern himself with the man he’d rather target first. If he could only understand something of their ongoing conversation, he’d surely have a better idea of what was going on, what were the relationships in this crowd. At all events, he’d have to get past any conflict in his own mind right now and act fast. He aimed at the man with his gun constantly trained on Nefise, and placed his finger on the trigger. Hidden in the dark, he felt that he was nothing but a soul with
out a body. Droplets of sweat poured from his head as he made the decision to fire. But just then, suddenly Yousef appeared in front of the target, throwing Luiz into confusion. Yousef was approaching Nefise to speak to her, and in doing so, had come between Luiz and the man aiming at Nefise, that is, right into Luiz’ gun sights, and at this sudden upset he let go of the trigger, unthinking, uttering a profanity. He chided himself instantly for this involuntary reflex but it was too late.

  9

  A tunnel. A dark and dangerous path. To take it or not? Maybe the decision had already been made long ago. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s possible to change this thing that the world calls destiny for short that so many people dread more than death itself. The die have been cast and are bounding across the table. Again and again the black points on the little cubes come up unequivocally stark against the white, showing the score. The big question is: have we ever had any control over this score? Probably not, thought Agent Frank Borelli, and threw his cigarette on the ground, letting the faint orange glow sparkle in the dark. A decision had to be made, and it seemed to him that clearly a decision had been made a long time before by someone, though not by him. He himself had never changed anything essential in his way of being and acting. Always the same M.O., always the same police searchlight, always the same target, always the same intention, always the same enemy for year after year after year. In the face of this, he had never changed anything essential in himself, in his direction, in his values or beliefs, he had just let the things around him freely take shape. It was precisely because of this that he was now sure that everything would inevitably lead here, to this tunnel, for the final showdown. It would be so easy for anyone to figure out what his next step would be by devoting minimal effort to the question: it would always be the same as the one before, the only differences being those imposed by reality itself. It might sound boring, but discipline led to reliability, and, strange though it might seem, total predictability was quite often… unpredictable. Agent Borelli smiled as this idea crossed his mind: total predictability is often unpredictable…