LeClerc: I am very sorry. I have made a terrible misjudgement. I should never have sent her. Forgive me.
Straker: Jesus.
LeClerc: I know where she is.
Straker, heart seized – those words, the anonymous message: Tell me.
LeClerc: Istanbul.
Straker:
LeClerc: Monsieur Greene?
Straker: What the hell is she doing in Istanbul?
LeClerc: Following a story. Several stories, actually.
Straker: Where is she staying?
LeClerc: We don’t know. She hasn’t checked in yet.
Straker: They torched her house.
LeClerc: Pardon?
Straker: Burned her house down. (But maybe you already know that.)
LeClerc: Mon dieu. (A long pause, LeClerc thinking something over, coming to a conclusion.) What will you do?
Straker: I’m going to find her. (I’m going to find her and get the hell out. Go back to Africa, sail off the map, just the two of us, untraceable. You and the rest of the world can go and fuck yourselves.)
LeClerc: Our Istanbul station chief will meet you at the airport. Let me know when you have flight details. I will do everything I can to help. Be careful, Monsieur Greene.
Clay had driven through nightfall, following strobe-lit snow ploughs and sanding trucks, the roads otherwise deserted, the snow gradually turning to sleet then freezing rain as he lost altitude. He joined the autoroute for Geneva and the airport, not caring who might be following. His mind was clear as the dark surface of the lake. LeClerc was hiding something. Of this, Clay was sure. What had he meant by ‘terrible misjudgement’? Unwittingly or not, LeClerc had used the lure of a story he knew Rania couldn’t resist to draw her from safety. And now he was driving them both to Istanbul.
Five hours later Clay stood in the cavernous arrivals hall of Atatürk Airport, queuing for passport control. The place looked and smelled like the jumbled chaos of the city it served, a faded, yellowing museum suffused with cigarette smoke and the blanketing thrall of burnt kerosene. Clay cleared customs, pushed his way through the arrivals hall and joined the human river moving towards the exit, just one more soul carried along in the flux. At the far end of the chute, he saw a white A4 placard held above a sea of bobbing heads. Scrawled on the paper were the initials DG.
He’d decided on the plane. He’d walk whatever pathway LeClerc set him. He had no other choice. Clay scanned the crowd and pushed toward the placard. The man holding the sign had sallow skin and bulging thyroid eyes. He introduced himself as Hamour, AFP Istanbul station chief. LeClerc’s man. In an ancient Egyptian-made El Nasr Fiat 128 copy, he launched them into the city.
Everything was as Clay remembered: the royal blue of the Bosphorus, the watercolour minaret skyline, the clash of culture and belief echoing along every confused alleyway, seeping from each palace museum and place of worship. The grey hulk of Sultan Ahmet mosque rose on their left as they sped along Kennedy Avenue, the Bosphorus calm and flat beyond Clay’s open window, brilliantly blue after the washed-out grey monochrome of the northern winter. He could smell the place, the sea, the exhaust of a million vehicles, and strong from the east, all of Anatolia, that vast Turkic heartland of wheatfields and winter rains.
Clay turned in his seat and faced Hamour. ‘Has she checked in?’
Hamour frowned, glanced into his rear-view mirror. ‘Not yet. But we know she is here.’ He reached over the seatback, pulled a sheet of paper from a battered leather briefcase and handed it to Clay. ‘She filed with Paris this morning. You see? The byline is Istanbul. She is to contact me. That is protocol. I expect to hear from her today.’
Clay scanned the single-spaced typeset page: A campaign of assassinations and intimidation in Turkish-controlled Northern Cyprus, bribery and corruption in the South, an island in turmoil. At the centre of it, Neo-Enosis, advocates of union with Greece, by force if necessary, and led, the story claimed, by wealthy businessman Nikos Chrisostomedes, whose family was forced from its ancestral lands in the north during the 1974 invasion. The story went on to describe allegations that companies owned by Chrisostomedes had for years been engaging in bribery and blackmail to ensure a near monopoly of the south’s lucrative upscale tourist industry, controlling hotels, resorts, catering, commercial districts and beachfront property. In an exclusive interview with Lise Moulinbecq, Chrisostomedes defended his record, pointing instead to the north, where he claimed illegal and systematic large-scale theft was virtually wiping out all traces of Greek society – an act of cultural genocide. Most damagingly, he claimed that the genocide was being bankrolled and directed from Turkey. If the government, the UN and the EU would not act, others would, he was quoted as saying. The Turkish Government was incensed and had immediately issued a stern denial and a comprehensive rebuke against what it called ‘irresponsible and dangerous radicalism’ in Cyprus.
‘When will this go to print?’ asked Clay.
‘Tomorrow, God willing.’
Hamour glanced again at his rear-view mirror. ‘I do not wish to seem paranoid, Mister Declan, but I think we are being followed.’
Clay adjusted his wing mirror.
‘The black one, three cars behind. He has been there since the airport.’
There it was, a late-model German sedan, an Audi A6, two men. Perhaps LeClerc’s man was not the stooge Clay had presumed him to be. Then again, maybe he was smarter than he looked.
‘Next street, turn left, up into the city,’ Clay said. ‘Don’t indicate.’
‘In Turkey, no one is indicating, Mister Declan.’
Clay smiled. ‘Well don’t start.’
Hamour nodded. ‘Perhaps I am imagining.’
‘We’ll see.’
Two minutes later, Hamour moved into the outer lane, waited for a few oncoming cars to pass then turned hard left across traffic into a narrow street lined with old, grey apartment blocks strung with wires and studded with decrepit, inefficient, first-generation air-conditioning cubes. The Audi followed a few seconds later, surging to catch up.
‘You weren’t imagining, arkadaşım,’ said Clay. My friend.
He brought up the map of Istanbul in his head, the old paper tourist one he’d used on that first visit, years ago now, when he was working in the east out near Diyarbakir and Van, the one he’d used to walk the tangled streets for hours and days till the paper was soaked in his sweat and the folds and corners had pulped and worn through.
‘The buyuk kapalı is close, yes?’ he said in Turkish. The Grand Bazaar, a dozen miles of arched and pillared labyrinth, a confusion of shops and stalls selling every kind of trinket and antique and adornment ever conceived.
Hamour nodded and urged the El-Nasr up a steep hill.
Clay reached into the backseat and grabbed his bag. ‘Drop me outside. Any entrance. It doesn’t matter if they see me.’
‘Where will you go?’ said Hamour, the folds of his neck quivering as he darted through the traffic. ‘I have a reservation for you at the Hilton.’
‘I’ll be at the Seglik Merkezi Hotel in Tepebaşi. Do you know it?’
‘I can find.’
‘Good. As soon as you hear from Lise, tell her to go there and ask for Mister Edward.’
Hamour nodded, opened his mouth, paused, closed it.
‘Got that?’
‘Mister Edward, yes.’
‘Sağol.’ Thanks.
‘The bazaar is near,’ Hamour gulped. ‘Less than a kilometre.’ His voice was strained, fearful.
Clay checked the wing mirror. The Audi was still there, five or six cars back now, struggling in the thickening traffic.
‘There is one more thing: Monsieur LeClerc asked me to tell you that Zdravko Todorov has escaped.’
Clay spun in the seat, stared at Hamour.
‘A deal was made between the Yemeni terrorists who captured him and the French government. Apparently something went wrong during the handover.’
‘Jesus. When?’
�
�About one month ago, according to our sources.’
A month. ‘Where is he now?’
‘We have no idea,’ said Hamour, slowing and pulling to the side of the street behind a small delivery van, its back doors open. Stacks of cut flowers filled the cargo space. Petals littered the gutter.
Clay had the door open before Hamour brought the car to a stop. ‘Çok teşekur ederım,’ he said, swinging his feet to the pavement. Thank you. He paused, hand on the edge of the door, glanced at the Audi drawing near, leant into the car. ‘I’ll be waiting for Lise at the hotel.’ And before Hamour had a chance to reply, he closed the door and strode through the crowd toward the big Ottoman archway and the entrance to the market.
15
Weapons Ready, Hearts Racing
By now Clay was pretty sure that LeClerc had been compromised. His erratic behaviour on the phone, the fear in his voice, the sudden change from recalcitrant and defensive to apologetic and helpful – all suggested something was seriously wrong. Was he being manipulated? Had he been paid off? Knowingly or not, and for reasons Clay could only begin to guess, LeClerc had sent him into a trap. Rania, too, most likely. The tail from the airport was proof enough. Whether Hamour was a willing participant or a witless pawn made little difference. Medved’s people were here, and they were closing in.
But in chaos was safety. The bazaar was packed. He had a sixty-second head start and a thousand possible routes. Clay calibrated his internal compass for east, veered left into a narrow-arched passageway and emerged into a snaking artery walled with oriental carpets. Medved’s people – he was assuming that they were Medved’s people, or Crowbar’s, working for Medved – would have no idea where to start. There were too many alleys, too many people, too many shops and turnings, and far too many exits to watch. He moved quickly through the throng, turning right into the broad, high-arched gold souk and quickly left again into the clutter of brasswares, moving steadily north and east. Ten minutes later he emerged, eyes blinking, at the Nurosmaniye Mosque, the domes and minarets on his right, the gardens green and cool, the trees ancient, trunks as thick as cars. His pace was quick but unhurried as he came out onto Bezciler Street. It took him less than thirty seconds to hail a taxi. He jumped in, haggled a price and sank down in the back seat for the ride through the Golden Horn and across the Galata Bridge.
Twenty minutes later the taxi dropped him in one of Tepebaşi’s narrow side streets. Rubbish overflowed from ancient bins ranked along the pavement, stinking even in the cool of late afternoon. A cat limped from behind one of the bins, scurried across the road, disappeared down a laneway. Clay found the door he was looking for, pushed it open and moved along a dimly lit corridor, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. The lobby was small, an extension of the corridor, but better lit. He’d stayed here a few years ago, and it didn’t look any better now than it did then: the same few plants along the front windowsill, the faded one-star tourist-hotel emblem on the door, the badly laid tile floor, the DIY wood veneer front desk. Clay booked a single room with a phone, one night, paid cash.
The second-floor room was small but clean, with a view of the street. He flung open the shutters and scanned the street below, the modest façade of the Seglik Merkezi Hotel directly opposite. Like most of this part of the city, the buildings were a monotony of grey stone, monuments to another era. Diesel fumes wafted through the open balcony door. A bray of car horns. Clay positioned a chair near the window, placed the telephone nearby, sat and started his vigil. He thought of lighting a cigarette but he didn’t smoke now, hadn’t since the war. Instead he pulled out a cheap switchblade he’d picked up in the bazaar, weighed the thing in his hand and flicked out the blade, turning it over in his fingers.
The street was busy, cars trundling past, a trickle of pedestrians. An hour passed. At dusk a troika of tourists returned to the hotel, an older couple slung with cameras and umbrellas, a younger woman, their daughter perhaps. Later a taxi pulled up, discharged another couple, idled there a moment and continued on its way. The Akşam came, the evening prayer, the first he’d heard in months, a thousand voices scattering shards of hope across the city, the sun lost now to the world, the start of a new day in Islam: God is Great.
Waiting was always the worst part. Those hours before an op, the chunks of time that stuck inside you like a tragedy, endless moonlit wanderings through forests of doubt, blown away once you were in the Puma’s open cargo bay, the Angolan bush tearing away below you so close and green, a blur, the wind in your face, all of you packed in tight, shoulders and arms and backs pressed close, men’s bodies fused, weapons ready, hearts racing.
God, he could use a drink.
Zdravko free. Jesus Christ. It had been Zdravko, ex of the Russian war in Afghanistan, who had done Rex Medved’s dirty work in Yemen: money laundering, assassinations, murder of unarmed villagers. After Clay had put the nine-millimetre slug into the bastard’s knee, one thing was sure: he’d be limping.
The room was dark. Passing cars painted the walls with drifting wedges of yellow light. Clay stood, stretched his legs and was about to call down to the front desk for a bottle of water when a lone figure appeared at the corner opposite and started towards the hotel. A woman, covered head to foot in a burqa – not nearly as common a sight here as in Yemen, but not unusual. Her stride was steady and smooth, her head still as she swayed beneath the black cloaking. Clay watched her approach, slow, stop then stand facing the entrance to the Seglik Merkezi Hotel. She was carrying a small case. Her back was turned, her shape silhouetted against the yellow lights of the hotel’s windows. She glanced quickly left and right and disappeared inside.
Clay grabbed the phone and dialled the number for the Seglik Merkezi’s front desk. The number rang.
A clerk answered in Turkish: ‘Iyi Akşamlar.’ Good evening.
‘Good evening,’ Clay repeated in Turkish. ‘Lütfen,’ he began. Please. ‘A woman has just walked into the hotel. Can you see her?’
‘Yes. She is here.’
Just then, a taxi pulled up in front of the hotel. A man stepped out onto the pavement. He was broad-shouldered, dressed in jeans and a dark jacket. The black spearpoint of a pronounced widow’s peak split the pale expanse of the man’s forehead, signposting a wide, much-damaged nose.
‘Please ask her to come to the phone,’ Clay said. ‘I need to speak with her.’
Clay heard the clerk put down the phone and call out something.
Spearpoint paid the taxi driver, turned and disappeared into the hotel’s entrance. Clay stood, heart and blood and breath stalled, the receiver to his ear.
‘Sir?’ came the clerk’s voice, unsure. ‘She, the woman, she has gone, Sir.’
Clay dropped the handset, grabbed his bag, flung open his door, took the stairs four at a time. He burst out onto the street and sprinted to the hotel. The lobby was small, a narrow foyer flanked by a reception desk set along one wall. Beyond the desk, towards the back of the lobby, a single elevator and a windowed service door. Rania was nowhere to be seen. Spearpoint was standing at the front desk talking to the clerk. He looked up as Clay entered. His eyes were grey, the colour of weathered concrete. He looked youngish but stressed, prematurely aged somehow, as if he hadn’t slept for a long time. He looked Clay up and down with a quick flick, then lowered his eyes and returned his attention to the clerk. Clay continued across the lobby towards the desk at a slow walk and stood behind Spearpoint as if waiting to check in, bag in hand.
The clerk pointed to the back service door. Spearpoint nodded and started towards the door with long, steady strides.
Clay looked at the clerk. ‘Bayan?’ he asked. The woman?
The clerk gave him a quizzical look.
‘Where did she go?’
The clerk pointed again towards the service door.
By the time Clay burst through into the corridor, Spearpoint was three-quarters of the way to the rear exit. Clay called out to him. Spearpoint slowed and glanced back over his shoulder. Then he stopped
, turned and faced Clay, squaring himself.
‘Problem?’ Spearpoint shouted, the same meaning in Turkish as English.
Clay didn’t answer. Just kept closing the fifteen metres that separated them, his hand in his jacket pocket closing around the switchblade’s grip, watching Spearpoint’s shoulders coil, the fists starting to take shape, and in that action telling Clay everything he needed to know.
Clay was about five metres away when Spearpoint turned and ran, crashed through the back door and into the night. Clay followed, out into the alley. Spearpoint was running east towards Tepebaşi Street, his footfall echoing across the brick. Clay checked back in the opposite direction. Here, where the rooftops were higher, it was dark. But further along, dim city light rinsed one side of the alley. In the facing shadows, a black shape emerged from behind a rubbish bin and moved away towards the intersection. The woman. Clay swivelled round just in time to see Spearpoint reach Tepebaşi Street and disappear into the traffic. By the time he turned back again, the woman was gone.
Clay sprinted along the alleyway to the intersection. A narrow street with a few shops, the occasional tree, a mosque further up, a couple of pedestrians. He scanned the street up and back. More shops, a couple of delivery vans parked half up on the narrow concrete pavement. And just beyond, a flash of black passing under a streetlamp, a shrouded figure moving away at pace.
Clay looked back along the length of the alleyway, the leaking bins and talus slopes of rubbish, the stained concrete, the windowless rear walls of buildings serried like ranks of half-held secrets. He started after the woman.
Evolution of Fear Page 10
