The Poison Secret

by Gregg Loomis

“Mr. Reilly?” A woman’s voice. “I am Fatima Aksoy.”

  Her voice sounded just a bit higher than he recalled. But then Walsh’s speakerphone, the transoceanic transmission, or any number of other factors could have accounted for the difference.

  “Yes, Dr. Aksoy. I believe we have an appointment in the morning.”

  “That is why I am calling. Something has occurred that makes tomorrow difficult. Could you come to the hospital now? It is only a few kilometers from where you are and I need to show you something I found that may help solve Dr. Yalmaz’s murder.”

  “Come there now?” He was looking at Gurt. “We, my wife and I, are beat from the trip . . .”

  Gurt mouthed the words, “Go. I want to make a . . .”

  “Hold on,” Lang said into the phone. “Make a what?”

  “Schlafchen, nap.”

  No wonder he couldn’t decipher her lip movements. “Excuse me, Dr. Aksoy. I’m back.”

  “I thought you said you were beaten.”

  “Beat, tired.”

  “This will not take long, Mr. Reilly. I promise.”

  Reluctantly, Lang slid off the bed. “I’m on the way.”

  Lang guessed the road followed the lip of the cliff. Because of the fog, he could not be sure. In some places it was so thick he had to navigate by following the edge of the pavement. Happily, there was no other traffic, either because of the area’s sparse population or because the populous was smart enough not to risk driving in such adverse conditions. Although less than a mile and a half, the trip took a full half-hour. Had it not been for the sign announcing HASTTAHANE COCUK, which he could not understand, along with the international graphic of a cross above a figure in bed, which he could, he would have missed the hospital altogether.

  The building was an indistinct blur, the fog smearing both its shape and the lights now on for the evening. Lang walked almost all the way around before finding the entrance. A man in green scrubs was seated behind a desk reading a newspaper.

  He looked up as Lang approached. “I’m here to see Dr. Aksoy.”

  The man in the scrubs looked puzzled. At first Lang thought he was one of the few Turks who did not speak English. This was, after all, a rural area.

  The man slid his wheeled office chair over to a computer screen, clicked a few keys, and shook his head. “Today is her day off. She will be in at 0700 tomorrow.”

  “But I just talked to her,” Lang protested. “She was here minutes ago and expecting me.”

  The man shrugged, perhaps realizing the futility of arguing with someone who is completely and totally wrong. He reached for a phone. “I’ll call her office, but . . .”

  Lang felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. The woman on the phone hadn’t sounded like the voice of Dr. Aksoy, although he had met her only once years ago and talked to her on the phone a single time before tonight. And she had been educated in the States, yet she hadn’t understood the slang use of “beat” for tired. Hadn’t she originally referred to the murdered hematologist by his first name, Emre?

  But why . . .?

  Oh, shit! How could he have been so stupid!

  “I can call her home,” the man behind the desk offered to Lang’s swiftly retreating back.

  CHAPTER 15

  Hotel Kardelen

  Twenty-One Minutes Later

  Lang Had kept the mondeo floor-boarded despite virtually driving blind in the fog. He screeched to a stop in front of the hotel, sprung from the car, and dashed through the door, throwing it open so violently he nearly hit an elderly couple about to exit the lobby. Both astonished and angered at his apparent indifference to what could have been a nasty accident, they watched him slam a palm against the elevator button, mutter curses, and sprint for the stairwell.

  He climbed four flights of stairs in what, had he thought about it, might have been world record time. Forcing himself to slow down for the sake of stealth, he slid along, back pressed to the corridor’s wall, until he reached 410, his room.

  For an instant he was still other than gulping air into lungs depleted by his four-story sprint. Then he leaned around the door frame, placing his ear as close as possible to the door.

  Nothing.

  He reached out and touched the wood.

  The door swung open, unlocked.

  Lang flung himself inside, squatting to make as small a target as possible.

  He need not have bothered. He was the only living creature in the room. Still, he called Gurt’s name only to be answered by silence, a terrifying sound.

  He stood.

  The bed was rumpled as though she had made good on her intent to take a nap. He took a step and something crunched underfoot. Kneeling, he saw shards of glass. A quick glance found a water pitcher and two unbroken glasses on the floor. Where . . .? Oh, yeah, a pitcher and two glasses had been on the dresser. But these shards of glass didn’t match. They had come from a small cylindrical object with what appeared to be calibrations on it.

  The realization of what he was looking at made his stomach churn.

  Beside the dresser, a small, ugly, fabric-covered chair lay on its side.

  Now that he knew what he was looking for, small signs of a struggle were everywhere: a lone woman’s sandal just this side of the threshold to the bathroom; clothes, perhaps spread out on the bed, now dumped in piles on the floor; a handbag vomiting its contents.

  Most telling: a quarter-sized drop of reddish-brown on the tiles of the bath, now going tacky. Someone had shed blood. Not a lot, but blood just the same.

  An equal measure of fury and terror washed over Lang, depriving him momentarily of any useful thought. He would personally kill the bastards responsible in the most gruesome manner possible. What if he never saw Gurt again? Worse, would Manfred blame him for not taking Gurt along to the hospital? Or not staying with her?

  Then he made a tour of the room and bath, stopping in front of the sink. The mirror above it had been shattered, only a few icicle-like shards remaining in the frame. What, Lang wondered, had caused that? Other than the indicia of a struggle he had already noted, he saw nothing remarkable.

  Leaving the room, he took the elevator to the lobby, where he surprised himself at how calmly he had the desk clerk call the authorities.

  The man — young boy, actually — with the feathery beginnings of his first moustache, seemed to have a hard time understanding. “Kidnap?”

  “Abducted, taken,” Lang explained.

  “You are sure your wife did not . . .?” He made a vague motion which could have implied anything between simply wandering away and slipping off to keep an assignation.

  “I’m quite sure,” Lang said evenly. “And every second you ask stupid questions instead of calling the police gives the kidnappers that much more of a lead.”

  The clerk’s open mouth shut with an audible snap and he punched 115, Turkey’s 911 equivalent, into the phone’s keyboard.

  When he had finished a brief conversation, Lang asked in a conversational tone, “What other hotel employees are on duty tonight?”

  “On duty?” The young man seemed perplexed by the question, exhaling loudly and sending the sparse hairs on his upper lip fluttering. “The last maid left hours ago. The restaurant staff, cooks, waiters, and such would still be here.”

  “Other than the main entrance, how do you get in and out of the hotel?”

  “There is a service entrance in the basement where food for the restaurant and supplies and laundry are delivered. But it is kept locked when not in use. And there is a fire exit on this floor, also locked. Opening either would set off an alarm.”

  “The service entrance, how do I get there?”

  “The elevator to the basement, but . . .”

  Lang was already on his way to the elevator bank.

  The basement was shadowed in the half light of space only occasionally used. A pair of hand trucks stood sentry against the far wall, illuminated by widely spaced overhead lightbulbs. A corridor led to a large steel ove
rhead door about 50 feet away. There was the faint smell of overripe fruit that Lang guessed came from a stack of wooden crates piled in a corner.

  Lang knelt as he inspected the service door. A simple latching device was the only lock, but it would be effective in denying entry assuming there was no one here to open it. From a panel of numbers a red light blinked. The alarm system was armed. The cement floor was well swept, devoid of any dust that might have captured tracks, either human or automotive.

  Back in the elevator, he got out at the lobby, turned his back on the front desk, and followed the signs to the fire exit. Another steel door, this one much smaller. The alarm panel must be located elsewhere, for it wasn’t visible, although a sign in English, Turkish, French, and what Lang guessed was Japanese warned of its activation should the door be opened.

  Again kneeling, he studied the door. Another simple latching mechanism. A spring at the top would close the door automatically. As with the freight door downstairs, entry would require someone inside. His eyes caught sight of something on the floor, a wad of paper folded multiple times into the size of, say, a U.S. quarter. He picked it up and tried to squeeze it between door and frame. It almost fit, but not quite. If the door had been left barely, almost invisibly cracked open, this bit of paper would have made a doorstop, jamming the door open for entry from outside. And if the alarm were not armed . . .

  “You have found something, Mr. Reilly?”

  Lang got to his feet facing a man who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. He wore khaki slacks and a designer golf shirt under an open windbreaker. Jet-black hair swept back over the ears without a hint of silver. Natural or an expensive dye job?

  The man smiled and extended his right hand. “Captain Sadik Kahraman of the local Jandarma. You are Langford Reilly, whose wife has gone missing?”

  The accent was all but imperceptible.

  Lang took the hand. “I am.”

  Kahraman made a gesture indicating himself. “You will please forgive my lack of official uniform. The call came while I was off duty . . .”

  “Captain, I wouldn’t care if you were dressed like Ronald McDonald. My wife has been taken . . .”

  The other man held up a hand. “You believe she was taken.”

  Typical police reaction the world over: take time to establish a crime really has been committed while the criminals escape.

  Lang turned toward the lobby and the elevators. “Come take a look at the room. You can see a scuffle went on.”

  The captain stood his ground. “And where were you?”

  Lang’s frustration was growing: Every minute gave the kidnappers a larger lead. “At the Children’s Hospital near here. I’m head of the foundation that sponsors it. Now, if you’ll . . .”

  “What was the nature of your business at the hospital?”

  Lang had to make a conscious effort not to grind his teeth. “I came here to find out what I could about the murder of Dr. Yalmaz. I got a call from someone who claimed to be Dr. Aksoy, said she had something I should see.”

  Kahraman’s lips tightened at the mention of the doctor. “Just what interest is this to you?”

  Lang sighed audibly. It was clear he was going to have to satisfy the policeman’s curiosity before any effort to find Gurt could begin. “The hospital is funded by an international foundation I head. Any time something like this happens, I try to get there as soon as possible, see what I can do.”

  The captain was looking at him closely. “Do you often have staff murdered?”

  “No, of course not. I meant whenever there is a problem. Now, if you’d like to take a look at the room . . .”

  “One more thing first, Mr. Reilly. You picked something up from the floor.” He extended a hand. “Let me have it, please.”

  Lang was not happy to give up what might be the only clue as to where Gurt was. “It was only a piece of trash.”

  Kahraman’s smile was frozen, without warmth. His manicured fingers made a beckoning motion. “The object, Mr. Reilly. I need not remind you of the penalties for obstructing an investigation. I am sure your country does not smile on such things.”

  Reluctantly Lang dug the wad of paper out of his pocket. The Turk took it, tossing it up and down in the palm of his hand. “What do you make of this, Mr. Reilly?”

  “You’re the policeman. You tell me.”

  Kahraman shook his head slowly. “Surely you do not believe I would think you would pick up worthless trash? Mr. Reilly, if ill fate has befallen your wife, I would think you would want to cooperate.”

  Ill fate? Befallen? Where had this guy taken English lessons, the Arthur Conan Doyle School of Writing? Still, Lang had learned to handle the local heat carefully. Whether Atlanta, Rome, or Paris, the fraternity of blue resented anything perceived as an invasion of their turf. To appear to be concealing evidence would start things heading downhill faster than the U.S. Olympic ski team.

  Another sigh. “I think it was used as a doorstop to keep that fire door open so the kidnappers could get in and then out without being seen.”

  The captain nodded in agreement. “But that would require the cooperation of someone in the hotel to keep the alarm unarmed, someone familiar with the system.”

  The two men exchanged glances before moving as one down the hall toward the lobby. Neither was surprised to see the desk clerk had vanished.

  CHAPTER 16

  Hotel Kardelen

  Room 410

  Captain Kahraman Surveyed the room from the doorway. “One would not think a woman could put up such a fight.”

  He obviously didn’t know Gurt.

  But Lang said, “I’m guessing at least two, maybe three of them.”

  Kahraman was rubbing his chin. “What is the, er, basis for that?”

  Lang knelt and lifted the skirt of the bedspread, revealing the broken glass. “At least one man held her while the other administered, or tried to administer, the contents of a hypodermic.”

  Kahraman was looking at the American with newfound respect. “I cannot remember the last glass, rather than disposable plastic, syringe I have seen.”

  Lang stood. “At least let’s hope they used a clean needle.”

  “Mr. Reilly, do you have any idea who might have taken her away and why?”

  “I’d hoped you might have that answer.”

  The Turk held out the wad of paper and began to carefully unfold it. It looked like the bottom half of a printed page.

  Kahraman snorted. “Well, we have a good idea as to who the ‘who’ might be.”

  “And that would be?”

  “The PPK.”

  “As in, Walther PPK, a pistol?”

  “No, as in the Kurdish terrorists, sometimes called the Turkish Mafia.”

  He noted Lang’s blank expression and continued. “This bit of paper used as a doorstop is a, a . . . what would you say, a bulletin? Yes, a bulletin about some event in Lice, a Kurdish town in the southeast part of the country, Diyabakir Provence, from which the separatist terrorists join their brothers to launch attacks into Iraq, Syria, and Iran. Iran is the western part of what is called the Golden Crescent, where brown heroin crosses from Pakistan and Afghanistan. From there it travels, frequently by truck, across Turkey and along the more deserted Balkan highways into Trieste and on into southern Italy, where the Sicilian mob takes over to distribute worldwide. It is how these people finance their campaign of terrorism.”

  “If you know all this, why can’t you stop it?”

  Kahraman exhibited perfect white teeth, though there was no humor in the smile. “For the same reason your Drug Enforcement Agency cannot keep drugs out of your country: too few officers, too much money involved.”

  “Okay, point taken. But what does this have to do with Gurt’s kidnapping?”

  Kahraman looked over his shoulder and stepped to right the fabric-covered chair. He sat down. “Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Reilly, why a band of criminals, terrorists, would choose your wife?”

&n
bsp; “Perhaps they saw we were Americans.”

  The Turk made a steeple of his fingers upon which he rested his chin. “Come now, Mr. Reilly. Why would these Kurds travel hundreds of kilometers from their normal territory to kidnap a single American unless that American — or her husband — were special in some way? I can hardly be of help if you do not . . . what do you say? Level, yes, unless you level with me.”

  “Okay, I can see that. But shouldn’t you be doing something like maybe checking the roads out of town?”

  Again the mirthless smile. “That was done before I came here. I am covering every road within 50 kilometers as best I can. I do not have the men to watch every secondary road or sheep path, though.” He nodded toward the window where the lights from the hotel’s windows played back onto the swirling mist. “It is unlikely the — what is the word for the criminals?”

  “Perpetrators?”

  This time the smile was genuine. “Ah, yes, perpetrators! It is unlikely the perpetrators will attempt to drive very far. They know we are looking for them, plus this fog not only makes driving dangerous, but the fact they are out in it will draw the attention of my men.”

  Lang sat on the bed, feeling as weary as if he had hiked here from Istanbul. “What do you suggest we do, then?”

  “I suggest you tell me why these people selected the victim they did.”

  It was clear the Turkish policeman was going to hear the truth before he made any move.

  “Okay, then,” Lang began. “I’m not sure why we were selected, but this afternoon . . .”

  Kahraman was silent for a full minute when Lang finished. Then, “And you did not report the attack to the Jandarma?”

  “To what point? By that time, they were gone.”

  The Turk was clearly not satisfied with that answer, but unable to find an objection to it other than, “In Turkey, it is the law that crimes be reported.”

  Lang was in no mood to split legal hairs. “Looks to me like a real crime has been committed and we sit here doing nothing. Are you going to find the desk clerk? Seems to me he could well be an accessory.”

  Before Kahraman could answer, the phone rang.