Chapter Thirty One
HOTEL TOPKAPI
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
The dolmuş driver pulled up to the front entrance of the hotel and hurried out of his seat. "Stay, Miss Angel," he begged her.
After the twenty-five minute ride from the airport, she still wasn't sure of his name, despite asking him to repeat it twice. It might have been Bashir, but with his thick accent he could have said Rashid. Or something else entirely.
"Stay, please! I get bag for you."
She hadn't actually brought very much, just a mid-sized carryon and a small rolling suitcase, but she acquiesced, not wanting to deprive him of his expected tip. The poor man looked half starved, and he probably had a wife and children at home.
Tourism in the region had suffered in the past decade due to the persistent drought, but it was the political and religious upheaval that had brought the industry to its knees and sent people fleeing. The rest struggled to survive, recreating an odd facsimile of normalcy under such unpredictable circumstances.
She'd seen some of the effects during her visit to Israel a year and a half earlier, but that nation and its leaders worked hard to shelter itself from the chaos pressing against its borders. Violence occurred, though it was limited, and any physical evidence was usually quickly erased, as if it might beget further violence. But no amount of cosmetics could ever rid the mind of its scars.
The short drive from the airport had provided her with an unflinching view of the prevalence of violence here, even in this relatively stable country. Many of the buildings bore the scars of explosions, and many more were riddled with bullet holes.
Petrol was prohibitively expensive, and yet, from the very moment she stepped through the security doors of the Istanbul Atatürk Airport, there were so many men hounding her and her fellow travelers with offers of rides that their attempts to outbid one another nearly drove them out of profitability. The fares seemed impossibly low.
Angel doubted that any such fare would cover much more than a driver's costs, maybe a few kurus at the most. A decent baksheesh however, could pay for a week's worth of basic foodstuffs. Consequently, the drivers went far out of their way to treat their passengers well and thus encourage tipping.
He carried her bag into the lobby and spoke to the porter, then turned and gave her a gapped smile, his bony hands clasped diffidently at the waist of his long gray prayer robe. Like his van, he smelled of stale tobacco and strong coffee. His lips and the tips of his fingers were stained yellowish brown.
She handed him a few bills, the equivalent of twenty euros, which she knew was a princely sum, and thanked him. He seemed overwhelmed by her generosity and wouldn't stop bowing, even as he backed his way out of the hotel.
After the concierge checked her in and gave her the card key for her room, she asked for directions to Taksim Square. "The Rue de Péra," she added, giving him the well-known French name.
"You plan to visit İstiklal Caddesi, then?" the man asked, smiling broadly. "Excellent! Many good shops there. Many good places to eat. And souvenirs. But be careful of the young men, Miss. They only want your money or to marry you." He winked slyly and laughed.
She didn't bother to tell him that she wasn't interested in shopping and that she was already married. Nor did she say she was, in fact, planning to meet a young man there.
Early that morning, while still waiting for Padraig to come out of surgery, she had used Nordqvist's phone to call Mahdi, hoping Kurtz would answer. He'd been surprised to hear from her and skeptical of her proposal to meet to negotiate Norstrom's release. But he told her to come to Istanbul and instructed her to wait at the fish market that evening. They would see if a mutually agreeable solution could be arranged.
She checked the time on her new phone and saw that she had less than two hours to prepare.
The concierge pulled a worn paper map out from beneath the counter. "Here is Hotel Topkapi. And Taksim Square is here," he said, pointing to a second spot where the printing had been obliterated by dirt from too many fingers. "You see, yes? It is very popular tourist place. Only three kilometers, easy walk, maybe thirty minutes." He showed her the most direct route. "Don't worry, Miss, Beyoğlu district safe, even for pretty woman alone. You wear head scarf and be safe, okay? But you are smart woman, I can see."
"And the fish market?" she asked.
"Balik Pazarı here." He moved his finger along the paper, then looked up and gave her an odd grin. "You come to Istanbul to buy fish or see famous market? We have many good kind. Octopus from Bodrum, shrimp from Çanakkale—"
"Thanks," she said interrupting him. "I'm actually a reporter."
This seemed to excite him even more. "You write story for magazine? Good! Here, take picture with phone, so you have map, okay? And when you are there, if you are hungry, go to Nevizade Sokağı— Nevizade Street. We say sokağı, or pasajı, but it is same. Then, tomorrow, you go to Çiçek Pasajı to eat, to Meyane Ibrahim Elela. It is restaurant owned by my brother-in-law. He not open today, so you go tomorrow."
He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially. "He has special Turkish rakı for special guests, very strong, make you live forever. Me? I am eighty years old, but strong like horse. I know you think I am only thirty, but is because I drink a little bit of rakı each morning."
He showed her the tiny distance between the tips of his forefinger and thumb, then widened it with a wry grin.
Angel laughed at the joke, despite her fatigue and the sick sort of apprehension that had settled into the pit of her stomach, and thanked him for his hospitality. "I will check him out," she said.
By the time she reached the fish market, dusk had fallen and night had arrived. Yet the place was still alive with lights and noise. Old men sat at sidewalk tables and smoked cigarettes or sucked idly on their nargile pipes. Tiny glass cups of Turkish coffee rattled on chipped porcelain saucers, seemingly always just at their fingertips and poised for another sip.
The air was redolent with the aroma of smoke and coffee, as well as with the spices found on nearly every corner, open sacks of saffron and cinnamon and paprika, clove and vanilla. Music came from everywhere at once.
The narrow streets were still filled with people, though she knew there were far fewer now than there would be during the day.
Most of the fishmongers had closed their stalls. The last of them were packing up, cleaning, spraying down tables and bins, stacking plastic chairs. They were, to a man, brash and hard, a young and lively group of sellers who all knew each other and so shared a sort of familial intimacy. Even after what must have been a long day hawking to restaurant owners and locals with little cash and an overabundance of time to negotiate, they shouted good-naturedly at each other, exchanged taunts, and shared laughter.
A dozen tiny transistor radios vied for as many sets of ears, a clash of staticky music stations and old worn-out cassette tapes. The men seemed to either not hear them at all, or they spontaneously broke into song, their voices ululating hypnotically, as if they were wooing the night.
Through the tight alleys, miniature trucks zoomed to collect the empty bins. Their drivers honked with merry abandon and shouted and cursed and made obscene hand gestures at each other, which were alternately ignored, dismissed, or returned with even more obscene replies.
In this place where so many were dying, she couldn't imagine feeling more alive.
She wandered up and down the stalls, eying the emptying stands. The smell of fish was everywhere, inescapable, warm and sweet and humid.
"Baksheesh?" a small boy asked, appearing out of nowhere at her side. He held out a hand, palm up, and smiled. Two of his teeth were missing on top, and his hair, cinnamon brown and curly despite the grease, was slicked tight against the top of his scalp. He wore a striped knit sweater, though it was dirty and frayed. His golden-colored corduroy pants were likewise worn, stained with black and brown spots. They were too short for his bony little legs. Knobby ankles sprouted through the tops of a pair of scuffed br
own shoes. "One dollar?" he asked. "One euro?"
She smiled down at him while keeping half her attention on her surroundings. No one else seemed to take notice. "I'm sorry, but I don't have any change."
"American?"
"French."
"You wish to trade money then? I take you where you get Turkish lira. Good rate. Better than bank. Even better than hotel."
Her heart beat faster. "Which hotel?"
"Ritz Carlton."
This was her cue, the agreed-upon code phrase. She nodded hesitantly, then pulled the new phone from her pocket and removed the battery. His eyes watched her with keen fascination. "Okay," she said, after she placed the pieces into the boy's waiting hands. They disappeared into his pocket. "I'm ready."
He took her by the hand and led her on a winding course through the warren of stalls, ducking beneath saggy canopies dripping with water and squeezing past tilting stacks of plastic crates. He kept a swift pace for such a small child, and she found it difficult to keep up with him, especially through the tighter spots. Soon, she was lost and disoriented by the dizzying array of turns they made.
They entered the shell of a building, all metal and glass and linoleum, the walls unpainted, bright flickering fluorescent lights overhead casting a silvery green hue over everything. Rows of empty grocery shelves had been shoved to one side of the enormous space, leaving only a battery of circular concrete columns rising floor-to-ceiling, the remnants of old posters peeling away from their surfaces. She asked him his name, but he didn't answer.
She kept expecting to be joined by a team of men, but there was not a soul in sight.
They exited into another room, came to a passageway that smelled of wet cement. Doorways every ten meters or so, glass and metal, everything concealed with thin white paint. She heard no sounds coming from any of them.
The minutes ticked away — five, six, ten, — and still they walked, in and out of buildings, through more winding alleys. He continued with confidence, she with mounting apprehension.
They exited another passageway and emerged onto the street, then just as quickly dove into yet another tunnel. This one was poorly lit and smelled of human waste. He guided her around the puddles and past the places where water dripped from the ceiling.
At last, they came to a set of wide stairs, tiled in white and blue and littered with trash.
Angel's nerves, long frayed, were unraveling. "Where are you taking me?" she asked. Her hand was sweaty inside the boy's. He didn't seem to notice or care, and he didn't answer. She tried to contain her anxiety.
Kurtz had assured her on the phone that he didn't intend to hurt her. He promised that she'd be free to go after she listened to what he had to say. She told him she would only do so after seeing Norstrom and only if he was unharmed. And she intended to leave only after she had secured his release.
It was clear Kurtz believed that all of the refugees, not just the hundred or so who had actually arrived at Nordqvist's ranch, were now dead. He hadn't seemed to know that they had been split up. She figured to use this knowledge as leverage to negotiate, though she had no intention of ever handing any of them over to him. She didn't even know where they were.
"We will keep him alive," Kurtz had said. It was the only other assurance he would provide before telling her where to go and when to get there.
They entered another building, a large empty room without decoration, though brightly lit by too many naked bulbs. Down stairs, then up some more. The boy guided her to a door at the end of a hall. Finally, he let go of her hand, leaving the pieces of her phone in its place.
The door, a solid panel of wood without a window, held only a brass knob and a deadbolt. It was painted dark blue, but the color had faded or been scrubbed almost to gray. Above the frame, near the ceiling, was a camera, a tiny red diode and a black eye staring silently and ominously down at her.
There was an electronic buzz, then a pop. The door swung inward a few inches. Angel looked back for the boy, but he was already gone.
"Wait! Don't leave!"
Her voice sounded flat. There was no answer.
The room ahead was unlit, but the lights blinked on the moment she stepped inside. There was a desk at the far end, a simple wooden affair with a computer monitor on top facing away from her and a chair pulled to the side.
The door shut behind her with a click.
"Come around the desk."
It was Kurtz. And it came from the direction of the monitor.
She didn't move. "Where's Norstrom?"
"Come around the desk."
She did so, stepping in front of the screen. But there was nothing to see on it. The power switch in the lower right corner of the bezel glowed green. Centered at the top was a camera lens. She knew it was feeding her image to wherever Kurtz was hiding.
"Where are you? I want to see Norstrom."
"And you will."
"Is he even in Istanbul anymore?"
"He is here. I apologize for the excessive precautions, but they are necessary. I needed to be sure you weren't followed. And that you weren't wired."
She thought back over the past half hour and realized that the boy hadn't just led her through a random maze to get her lost, but so that Kurtz and his people could observe her and determine if anyone might be trailing behind. She had no doubt they had also screened her for electronic signals along the way. Why else would he have insisted on her removing the battery from her cell phone? It was so she couldn't be tracked.
What would he have done to her had she betrayed his warnings not to wear some sort of tracking device or a wire? He had been quite explicit regarding the consequences to Norstrom, though no specific threats had been made to her.
"Who exactly are you?"
"All in good time, Mademoiselle de l'Enfantine. All in good time. First, please, take a seat. Make yourself comfortable."
"Do not patronize me," she snapped. "I did not come all the way here to be told to sit down. I told you I would listen to whatever you had to say only after I was sure Norstrom was okay."
"Yes, you did." There was a long silence, then: "Very well."
An image appeared on the monitor, flickering at first until the signal stabilized. The view showed nothing but a plain white wall and an empty wooden chair, the twin of the one in the room with her. A shadow passed across the view, then filled with the shape of a man in a white robe. His face was hidden behind a black and white keffiyeh, but she immediately recognized his eyes. It was Mahdi.
A second man appeared, large hands wrapped in bloody bandages bound behind his back and a pillowcase over his head. He was hunched over and limping. His shirt was stained with dried blood. Mahdi guided him to the chair and sat him down, then removed the hood.
Norstrom coughed and shook the hair out of his face.
"Are you okay?" Angel asked, pulling the chair to her and sitting down in it.
"This is a direct video feed, no audio. He cannot hear you. Nor can he see you."
"Then how do I know this is live?" She stood up when he didn't answer right away. "This meeting is over."
"Wait."
She heard the man say something away from his microphone, but the words were too muddled to understand. A moment later Mahdi bent over and spoke to Norstrom, then pointed at the camera.
"Angelique?" Norstrom said. His voice shook. He looked exhausted. "You shouldn't have come here." The air rattled out of his lungs, like wind running across loose shutters. "Whatever they say, don't—"
The sound cut off, though his lips kept moving.
"I hope that is satisfactory."
"Don't what?" she asked Kurtz. "You said you would not hurt him."
"I said I wouldn't hurt you. I also promised that both you and Mister Norstrom would be able to walk away from all of this once we had a chance to talk. Those were the terms, and I expect you to abide by them just as I will."
"Why should I believe you? Why should I take anything you say seriously?"
He
sighed. "I can't force you to believe anything. All I can do is appeal to your sense of reason."
"Your man in China, Aston, already tried to appeal to my sense of reason. He was a psychopath. Now he is dead."
"I don't take kindly to threats, Mademoiselle."
"It is Madame," she snapped. "I am married. And that's not a threat; it is context."
Kurtz didn't respond right away. She could almost imagine him rolling his eyes, wherever he was. Finally, he continued:
"Mabry Aston believed himself to be someone greater than he was, an unfortunate lapse on the company's part by not recognizing his hubris. But we have taken that incident to heart and identified and eliminated other potential vulnerabilities in our organization. Unfortunately, the damage that was done there continues to impact our operations and impede our progress."
"I feel sorry for you."
"You should. As a result, humanity is now faced with even greater threats to itself than ever before, this just as we are on the brink of achieving something beyond what any of us has ever witnessed."
"You are the threat," Angel spat. "You and the nanites. When you create a weapon that allows you to murder at the flip of a switch—"
"A tool, not a weapon. And what you are referring to, this switch, is a temporary and limited security measure, a stopgap, meant only for employees and test subjects. I can assure you, it will not be a functionality in the final product. There will be no such need for it, once we have entered the commercial phase. Thus, any risks, including those currently in play, will become irrelevant."
Angel barked out a laugh of disbelief. "The French have a saying: Le génie est sorti de la lampe. It's too late for—"
"We know that we cannot put the genie back into the bottle," he snapped. "But then again, we aren't talking about magic."
"It is idiome, an expression."
The whistle of his exhale made it sound like he was losing patience. "We have invested significant resources to securing our property and our processes. Unfortunately, this has proven a considerable distraction, especially when we are also being attacked by organizations such as the ones you and your friend Mister Norstrom here belong to."
Iceland: An International Thriller (The Flense Book 2) Page 20
