by Gregg Loomis
Better than most, Lang thought, although he said, “Tell you what: I’ll stay out of your way, even sit here in the truck . . .”
He had no intention of doing so, but standing in front of the hotel arguing wasn’t doing Gurt any good.
As the truck and its armed complement pulled out of the hotel parking lot, Kahraman turned to Lang. “Now is the time, Mr. Reilly, for you to share your knowledge of where these people have taken her.”
“To the chapel of the nearest monastery.”
“Monastery? Chapel? We are an Islamic people, Mr. Reilly. We don’t have . . .” He jerked forward in his seat. “Yes! There is a monastery nearby, Sumela. Three centuries before the time of the Prophet, peace be upon him, Christians carved it from the face of a cliff nearly 1,200 meters above a forest near here. It became something of a center of Greek learning and culture. After the Ottoman conquest, it was one of the few Christian institutions the sultans allowed to remain open. In 1923, during the forced exchange of population between Greece and Turkey, the monks were forced to leave and the place was abandoned. It has become a popular tourist attraction in Altindere National Park.”
“How far?”
The Turkish policeman exhaled through his mouth. “In normal times? Perhaps half an hour. In this fog? One can only guess.”
Lang managed to control his impatience as the 6x6’s tight suspension found every pothole in the road. It seemed hours, but his watch told him only 40 minutes had elapsed before the APC turned off the main highway and stopped. The men climbed out of the rear as Lang’s feet touched a ground carpeted in pine needles. There was the smell, quiet, and feel of a forest. Indeed, as the men set out with Lang trailing, tree trunks were so close together as to make any sort of a path indiscernible.
Suddenly, they were in a clearing. Looking straight up, Lang could see through the parting mist a huge building on a ledge so narrow the impression was that both rock and structure were about to fall. Rows of square windows stared across the valley. To the left was a cluster of smaller structures.
“There are two ways up,” the Turkish policeman pointed, speaking to Lang in a whisper. “To the right, there is a road that goes most of the way. On the left, stairs.”
He gave a brief, quiet command and the eight uniforms started checking their gear for anything that might give them away: a canteen rattling against a spare clip, a belt buckle clanging against a gun barrel. Lang’s anxiety was slightly lessened by the thoroughness of the training evidenced by the precaution. Lang had experienced too many local law enforcement agencies, both in the U.S. and abroad, whose idea of a hostage rescue was to come in shooting, leaving the captives’ safety more to luck than skill.
“Your promise, Mr. Reilly,” Kahraman said, “was that you would remain in the vehicle. Please return there now.”
Rather than argue, Lang turned as if to go, just as the sound of a shot echoed across the deathly still valley, its echo bouncing from the rocky hills in a vortex of sound. Three more in rapid succession preceded a fusillade. Then all was quiet, the only evidence of the disturbance the cries of crows angry at being flushed from the trees into the new day prematurely.
Lang was instantly forgotten. Turning toward the cliff, the small command set off at a trot. Keeping a distance, Lang followed. Within minutes, they were at the base of steep stairs, just wide enough to accommodate a single person at a time. What the ancient monks had built as a defensive measure was still a perfect device for an ambush.
Lang counted the first hundred or so steps, then gave up to concentrate on a climb that was taxing enough without distraction. His shirt was damp and not entirely due to the early morning mist that was now parting like a stage curtain.
It was only when the men paused before a gate even more narrow than the stairs that he realized night’s shadows had completely retreated, leaving the dull gray of predawn. Through the gate he saw a scattering of buildings cut into the rock, or made from it. The randomness with which they were placed reminded him of a child abandoning his building blocks. Beyond was the large building he had seen from below. As he followed the group, he saw some walls were decorated with faded stucco paintings. Solemn-faced virgins, halos more memory than visible, held or bent over infants who looked anything but happy, now peered over piles of rubble, structures that had not endured the march of centuries.
The deliberation with which Kahraman’s men explored each dark doorway, each building, each pile of rubble was necessary, if maddening. At this rate, searching the monastery would take all day, a day in which Gurt could well die. He fought back the urge to shout her name, to let her know he was there.
The very stillness was a fingernail across the blackboard of Lang’s nerves. He saw a thousand places to hide or from which to launch an attack unseen. There was somebody here. Or had been, as evidenced by the shots.
As one, Lang and the police froze, and one small stone, then another, clicked as it rolled down the stone street. Something, somebody had moved. Gun muzzles came up as men sought the shelter of walls and doorways and glanced at each other uneasily.
Whoever it was, they were approaching.
CHAPTER 22
Sumela Monastery
Forty Minutes Earlier
On hands and knees Gurt Alternately searched the area with her fingertips and glanced at the ever-widening streak of gray that was the eastern horizon. Venus’ heralding of the new day was dimming, and it would be full light soon. She was acutely aware that, at some point, the remaining two men would come searching for their comrade, perhaps to join in the sport he had planned to have with her. Certianly if he hadn’t returned in an hour or so . . .
Somewhere there was a sound. It was not the spasmodic breeze sighing through the ruins of the monastery; it was not the occasional crack of rock exfoliating as it cooled from the long-past heat of yesterday. Unarmed other than with a glass dagger, she had best hide, hoping Lang could muster a rescue effort that would reach her before the two remaining kidnappers did.
If there were only two. True, she had only seen the three, now diminished by one. That did not mean there were not others who, for one reason or another, chose to remain unseen.
There it was again, this time the unmistakable crunch of a footstep on the gravel to which the centuries had reduced a large part of the stone. Close, too close. Why had she not heard the previous steps? Because whoever was approaching felt the need of caution? No matter, she needed a place to hide, something that was not going to be easy in the near dark.
Still on hands and knees, now as a preventative against stumbling, she scrambled up the incline, her eyes futilely probing the last of the night. Centuries of sun had bleached the stones, both rubble and buildings, into a grayish white, making them easier to see than the darker color of the cliff above, but in the predawn, they were little more than a single-dimensional blur. She was desperately trying to distinguish features, to find a crack or cranny in which to hide, when her fingers touched cold steel. It felt like . . . it was . . . the AK-47! At first she could not believe her good luck. The dying man must have tossed the gun toward the upslope. Scree, rubble, something had prevented it from rolling downhill. She would never have found it had she been permitted to continue her search.
Gurt mit Gluck, Lucky Gurt, they had called her at the Agency when she had won the small arms championship. Again with the martial arts competition. She had smiled at the well-intentioned nickname given her by her comrades, smiled the smile of the knowledgeable. Luck had nothing to do with it.
Finding the rifle was another matter. A very lucky matter.
Armed, the requisites of her hidey-hole changed dramatically. Now she needed not only concealment but a vantage point. Slipping an arm through the weapon’s sling, she scrambled behind what appeared to be a pile of loose rubble. A nearby building was between the eastern horizon and her hiding place. She should be in shadow for the first few hours of morning.
Minutes ago she was near helpless, able only to hope the night
would last a few minutes longer. Now, armed, she was eager for daylight.
Between stones, she was first aware she was able to distinguish color other than gray or black. Then the shapes of buildings a hundred feet or so distant came into focus as though through some cosmic lens. Dawn had arrived.
A shadow moved. No, two shadows. No, not shadows but figures: the man with the bandaged face and the English speaker.
They carried their rifles at the ready as though expecting trouble, heads turning side to side. In a few more feet, they would see their dead comrade.
Gurt intended to act before they were so forewarned.
Careful not to dislodge so much as a pebble, she worked the rifle’s barrel through a chink in the pile of stones, resting it in a niche where two met. Not having to hold the wooden forestock would minimize the effect of recoil. She was going to have to account for both targets within seconds or risk a prolonged battle, more than enough time for her opponents to call in any reserves they might have at hand.
She checked the fire selector lever on the right side of the chamber, making sure it was not on automatic. She couldn’t take the chance of the gas-operated recoil jamming or firing off ammunition she might need later. This situation called for marksmanship, not massed fire.
The front peg of the open sight rested on the chin of the first man, now less than 50 yards away. He jerked backward in involuntary reaction to the body he now saw on the ground. It was the last move he ever made. The bottom half of his face became a bloody mass before the single shot could echo from the surrounding stone.
The man behind, uncertain of the source, whirled around instead of diving for cover. The move probably prolonged his life for maybe a full second. A shot caught him in the shoulder, spinning him left. Two more followed in rapid succession, both tearing his throat apart and nearly severing his head. He had his weapon on automatic select, for his death grip on the trigger emptied the clip, sending ricochets buzzing like angry bees.
Gurt sat back on her heels, waiting for the ringing in her ears to go away. Then she rose to a crouch, peering through the slit in which her rifle rested. Definitely the sound of more feet, though more distant.
She left her cover, dashing over to where the two dead men lay. She picked up the first’s rifle. If the two she had just shot had reinforcements coming, she would need the additional ammunition.
An AK-47 in each hand, she crept over to a small ledge. Ten men, eight armed and in uniform. One in a suit, the other . . . the other . . . she dropped both rifles and, with her hands where they could be clearly seen, picked her way down toward Lang and his rescue force, visible in the new day’s light.
CHAPTER 23
Trabzon, Turkey
Hasttahane Cocuk (Children’s Hospital)
11:21 A.M. Local Time
Kahraman watched as Dr. Aksoy Deftly stitched Gurt’s hand. Nearby, Lang inspected the tiles of the ceiling and then the floor, before looking at the photographs on the walls, family pictures he had already memorized.
“I was correct,” the policeman said. “The dead men are all Kurds, no doubt PPK.”
“The ones you mentioned before?” Lang asked, an additional reason not to watch the silver needle slip in and out of Gurt’s open palm. He imagined he could hear it pierce the flesh.
“The same. Kurdish terrorists, call themselves a liberation party. First time to my knowledge they have operated this far from home.”
One man’s terrorist is another’s patriot. Lang kept the thought to himself.
The policeman continued. “Do you have any idea why these people would want . . . what was it?”
“A blood sample.”
“Why would they want that?”
Lang shook his head, puzzled but grateful for the distraction from the procedure going on in front of him. “Haven’t got a clue. Besides, I don’t have it. Far as I know, the sample is in some chem lab back in Atlanta.”
“Chem lab?”
Gurt spoke for the first time. “Chemical laboratory.”
“Ah! Well, at least we now know these terrorists are the people most likely responsible for the death of Dr. Emre Yalmaz, as well as their motive. Undoubtedly the same three kidnapped Mrs. Reilly.”
“Ms. Fuchs,” Gurt corrected.
Lang suppressed a smile. People really were more alike than different. In America or Turkey the police were more likely to hang a crime on deceased suspects than continue an investigation. The practice spared time and shoe leather. And, in this case, seemed entirely justified.
Dr. Aksoy pushed her wheeled stool back from Gurt. “There! The stiches are done. We will need to put on a cast to make sure you do not flex your hand and pull the stiches out.” She stood, beckoning. “Come.”
The three followed her out into a hallway and to a room too small to accommodate all four. Fatima Aksoy turned to the men. “Do you mind? This will only take a few minutes.”
“I do not understand why the PPK would involve themselves in attempting to obtain a blood sample,” Kahraman said to no one in particular.
“If I had to guess,” Lang ventured, “I’d say someone was willing to pay.”
“Who?”
Lang smiled. “You’re the detective.”
The Turk started to say something, but Gurt emerged from the room holding her right arm in front of her. The cast reached halfway to her elbow.
She looked at Lang. “We may go now?”
“As soon as I have a word or two with Dr. Aksoy.”
Sitting across the desk from Dr. Aksoy, Lang said, “I want every record of the patient, the little boy with the snakebite, deleted from the computer, any paper record destroyed.”
He responded to the question on her face. “Someone is willing to kill for a sample of his blood. As long as he can be identified, he can give another sample, voluntarily or not.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean someone might harm . . .?”
“One person is already dead, another kidnapped. What do you think?”
“I think I will see . . . how do you say? Obliterate, yes obliterate. I will see his records are obliterated before I leave here tonight.”
Two hours later, the Foundation’s Gulfstream 550 screamed off Trabzon’s 8,000-plus-foot runway. Gurt lowered her seat back and peered out the window. “Did the doctor have anything to add to what we know?”
Lang was thumbing through yesterday’s edition of Barron’s one of the crew had thoughtfully brought aboard. “Only that the material dealing with the blood work on that little boy was missing. I think we already knew that.”
“So, essentially, we came to Turkey for nothing.”
“Any time some tragedy hits one of the Foundation’s employees, it’s good to show the flag, so to speak.”
“Great idea, renting a car so as not to attract attention.”
“Sarcasm is unbecoming.”
“You did not tell the policeman . . .”
“Kahraman.”
“You did not tell him our house was invaded.”
Lang put the paper down, conceding he wasn’t going to get to read it quite yet. “A gentleman always tells the truth; only a fool tells everything he knows.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning God only knows how many plots, conspiracies, et cetera he might have conjured up. He might have kept us there for weeks.”
“You don’t believe the break-in was related to what those Kurds wanted?”
Lang gave the paper a definitive rattle. “I believe we will soon find out.”
The problem, he thought, is we have no choice but to passively wait.
CHAPTER 24
Richard Russell Federal Building
Atlanta, Georgia
Monday, the Next Week
Judge William Sylvester was a senior United States District Judge, which meant his caseload was slightly less than that of his younger peers. With a full head of silver hair and a perpetual tan on a face craggy with age, he could have been central casting’s respo
nse to a request for an actor to portray a federal judge.
A Carter appointee, he personified judicial activism. Zeus-like, he had hurled mandatory injunctions from the Olympus of the Federal Building at the Fulton County sheriff over conditions at the county jail. When the criminals and mentally ill of Castro’s cynical 1980 Mariel Boatlift were confined in Atlanta’s federal prison, they repaid their new homeland by setting it on fire. The hulking edifice in South Atlanta dated from the first part of the last century and had housed such celebrities as Eugene V. Debs and Al Capone. The former was possibly the only man to run for president while incarcerated. The latter was soon to be sent to other — if not greener — pastures in the newly constructed Alcatraz.
Predictably, the liberal Judge Sylvester found the penitentiary unacceptably crowded and ordered the country’s unwanted guests to be dispersed throughout the federal penal system. Unfortunately for Fulton County, it had no place to send its inhabitants. Release of the least violent was the only option, bail or not.
Between acting as the unelected and unappointed supervisor of the two prisons, the judge found some time to handle some of the business of the federal judiciary such as that before him today.
He adjusted his half-moon spectacles, scanned a stack of papers, and looked up at the lawyer in the natty summer khaki suit, blue shirt, and solid blue tie. But he addressed the older man in a wrinkled seersucker suit and white bucks that had gone out of style 30 years earlier.
“Mr. Wipp, did you understand the indictment as read?”
Wipp’s response was an unintelligible murmur as he studied the remarkably ugly orange carpet.
“Mr. Reilly, tell your client to speak up!”
Judge Sylvester had as little tolerance for mumblers as he had for prisons without amenities, although he had a different reason: he was too vain to wear a hearing aid.
At the other table, Fred Roberts, the U.S. Assistant Attorney, only half-heartedly tried to suppress a grin as Lang whispered into his client’s ear.
