by Rob Sinclair
Aydin pointed the gun at the windscreen. On seeing the weapon the driver panicked and pushed the accelerator and Aydin fired twice as the SUV veered and screeched past him before speeding up and away down the road.
Brave driver.
It didn’t matter, another car was coming his way, and the driver had taken the opposite approach. On seeing the gun she’d stopped the car and was fleeing, hands over her head, within seconds.
Aydin jumped into the drivers’s seat.
That was when he heard the thwap thwap thwap of a helicopter above. He slammed shut the door and thumped on the accelerator. There was a junction up ahead but he wasn’t about to stop. Unfortunately, someone else had the same thought – an armoured personnel carrier hurtled towards the junction, and by the time Aydin spotted it, there was no time to manoeuvre out of the way. The only thing he could do to attempt to avoid the collision was to swerve away and hope they missed.
They didn’t.
The massive vehicle ploughed into the back end of Aydin’s car, virtually cutting the thing in two. The force of the blow caused his head to snap to the side painfully, sending a searing jolt down his spine. What was left of the car was launched into a spin that only relented when the lump of metal crashed into something hard – a wall, a lamp post, another vehicle, Aydin had no idea.
This time he was dazed. His body had had enough, and as much as he tried to once again battle through the sense of disarray, there was simply nothing he could do to recover in time. Within seconds several black-clad figures were outside with their guns pointed at his head.
With no strength to offer up any protest as the car door was forced open, Aydin finally gave up as two hands grabbed him and pulled him from the wreckage.
FIFTY-TWO
Aydin wasn’t sure if it was the noise that woke him when the door to the dorm burst open, or if he was already half-awake, sleeping with one eye open like he’d become used to. Either way, he was only semi-lucid when it happened, and he offered up little response as the boots stormed across the concrete floor and the hands jerked him ruthlessly from his bed, sending him crashing to the cold ground.
A sack was pulled over his head with hands that were thick and strong and anything but delicate. In the process a bony knuckle smashed across his nose and he felt blood pour. The open end of the sack was tied tightly around his neck, and as the blood flowed he wondered whether it might fill the hood and drown him.
He was dragged by his ankles out of the dorm, his back scraping across the pockmarked surface. No words were spoken, the only sounds he could hear were his own panicked breaths and the rustle as the skin was rubbed and torn from his back.
Which direction they took him in he had no idea. A minute later he was lifted up and thrust down onto a hard chair. He wasn’t tied in place, not handcuffed or shackled, but he didn’t attempt to move from that spot. There was no flight or fight response, only panic and silence.
His head twisted with questions: why they were doing this to him? Was it a punishment? Had he done something wrong again? Or was this yet another of the Teacher’s unyielding exercises, designed to build him and the others up, to make them stronger men through pain? After years of it, he felt broken – like he could never be fixed.
‘This is not an exercise,’ came a male voice, as if reading Aydin’s mind. The words were English, the accent American. It wasn’t just the language that was unfamiliar for the Farm, but the tone of the voice too. Not someone that Aydin knew. ‘This is really happening to you. Do you understand?’
Aydin didn’t say anything, or give any indication of a response. He was so scared he wasn’t sure he’d be able to even if he wanted.
‘What is your name?’ the man said.
There was a lengthy pause where Aydin heard nothing at all. He had no idea which room they were in, how many men were there, or – more disturbingly – what they were planning next. Yet he didn’t respond. He knew the rules.
‘We have every person in this facility locked down,’ the man said. ‘Nobody is coming to help you. Some of your people are already talking. They’re going to be the lucky ones. You can join them. The choice is yours.’
Aydin whimpered. He was so confused. Had the Americans really raided the Farm? If so what should he do? Until he was brought to the Farm he’d never seen himself as an enemy of the West. But . . . the things he’d been told, the things he’d seen . . . and he didn’t want to betray his brothers. Nor could he betray his religion, but if it really was all over for the Farm, then wasn’t he now simply into self-preservation mode? Saving himself didn’t have to be the same thing as betraying the others.
‘What is your name?’ the man asked again.
But despite his conflicting thoughts, Aydin still didn’t answer. More than a minute passed with no response and no more questions.
‘Okay. You had your chance. Let’s take him out of here.’
With that the thick hands grabbed him once again and he was hauled off the chair. Moments later he was being dragged across the floor once more.
They drove for what seemed like hours. They were in a high-powered military style 4x4 – Aydin could tell from the unmistakable sound of the V8 engine and the rigid metal bench he was sitting on. They weren’t travelling on roads, but across uneven dirt tracks, loose dust and stones spitting up in their wake, the vehicle bouncing and crashing on its heavy-duty suspension. With no belt holding Aydin in place, and no warning of the bumps, he was aching and dizzy from being bashed against the metal side of the vehicle.
A mechanical clamour above the grumble of the vehicle’s engine whirred. It was coming from somewhere in the distance ahead of them, but growing closer and louder all the time. Soon the roar was drowning out the sound of the V8, and it wasn’t long before the vehicle stopped and the engine shut down. Only then did Aydin realise what the other noise was: the whir of helicopter rotors.
Dragged from the vehicle and across the dusty ground, the high-pressure blast from the rotors bombarded him as he was lifted up and placed into the helicopter. The noise was hellish, making his insides curdle. A man shouted, but his words were drowned out by the din. Seconds later he felt the jolt as the helicopter lifted off the ground.
They were in the helicopter for little more than ten minutes. After that it was back to a Jeep, and then Aydin found himself in some sort of facility, but he had no idea where or what it was. They weren’t outside, and they weren’t moving, that was about all he knew.
No one had talked to him at all. He was certain he’d been in the room for several hours already – perhaps more than a day. In that time he’d been forced to endure some of the many torture techniques that the Teacher had warned him about – that he and the other boys had been trained to resist: stress positions, white noise, water-boarding. All designed to disorientate, to instil fear and to gradually break a prisoner’s resolve. But this was far more severe than the training they’d been given in the past. His body was heavy and weak, his mind a bumbling mess. He was finding it hard to keep his eyes open, and every time they closed he wasn’t sure if it was sleep or unconsciousness he was then waking up from.
So when he next opened his eyes – perched atop a hard metal chair, a sack covering his head – it took a few seconds to adjust and regain any focus.
‘What is your name?’ came the American voice again. After everything that’d happened to him since he’d last heard the voice at the Farm, it was surreal to hear the same measured tone, the same question.
‘Do you know where you are?’ the man asked, when it was clear he was getting no response to his original question. ‘You’re no longer in Afghanistan. Your people have no power here. You’re now at a site operated by the US military, and you’ll stay here, under our care, like this, as long as it takes. No one is coming for you.’
Aydin was quivering with cold, exhaustion and fear. The questions kept on coming, the threats escalating. He was getting closer and closer to the edge. But he didn’t say a word. Not anythi
ng at all. Yet he knew that everyone had a breaking point. Was it really worth holding out?
‘Your name is Aydin Torkal,’ the man said. ‘Seventeen years old. Is that correct?’
Aydin held his tongue, but his fear had gone up several levels. How did they know his real name?
‘You’re English. I’m curious, how exactly does a teenager from England end up in that place?’ The man paused while Aydin’s brain swam. ‘The thing is, Aydin, we know what that place is. They call it the Farm. We know all about it. Like I said to you before, some of the other boys are already talking. We’ll help them, like we’ll help you. You’re not the bad guy here. It’s the men who are holding you that need to be stopped. And they will be stopped. They can’t hurt you any more. Do the right thing, help us.’
He stopped talking again, and Aydin realised that, for the first time in a long time, both his breathing and his heart were calming.
‘We’ve been speaking to your family. Your mother and sister. You can see them again. Don’t you want that?’
Aydin realised he was crying. The images of his mother and Nilay glowed in his mind. He still longed to be reunited with them, even after everything he’d been put through and all the things the elders had done to change him. Every night he dreamt of being able to hold them both.
‘This is the last time I’ll ask this question today. If you don’t give me a response, we’re not going to stop. We’re going to keep going. This is just the start. You have no idea of the lengths we’re prepared to go to. We will get through to you eventually, no matter how long, and no matter how many pieces of you it takes.’
‘Okay,’ Aydin said, and as the word passed his lips the pictures of his family disappeared. ‘Okay. I’ll talk.’
His voice was weak and coarse, quite alien to his own ears, as though it was coming from someone else.
‘Good. Then let’s start at the beginning. Your name is Aydin Torkal. Is that correct?’
‘My name . . . My name is . . . Talatashar.’
FIFTY-THREE
Ankara, Turkey
Cox watched Aydin Torkal on the CCTV monitor in front of her. He’d been in the locked room inside the Ankara safe house for several hours following the trip from Istanbul. Initially unconscious from the assault that led to his arrest, he’d subsequently been in and out of consciousness as a result of the drugs they’d plied him with. Now fully awake, he stared into space in the windowless room.
All in all, it was nearly twenty-four hours since his arrest outside his uncle’s home at the hands of the PÖH – the special operations department of the Turkish police. Cox was grateful that Flannigan had been able to so quickly organise the raid, though disappointed with how the confrontation with Aydin had ended so abruptly, and ultimately fruitlessly. She still felt sure that she could break through to him, and that doing so was likely now the only way to stop the Thirteen.
Although the Turkish government had been easily persuaded to lend a hand in capturing Aydin Torkal, they’d had no interest in holding on to him, preferring to wash their hands of the terrorist who held such close ties to their country. As such, Aydin had quickly been passed from the custody of the police and into the hands of Cox and Flannigan in Istanbul. But Flannigan wasn’t going to let Aydin stay in the safe house long. He was already putting into place the plans to extract Aydin out of Turkey and to a black site across North Africa in Algeria. Once that happened, it really was the end of the line for Aydin. Cox still held hope that she could force a breakthrough before then. But she had to be given the chance first.
‘He’s awake now. Let me speak to him,’ Cox said to Flannigan. He was sitting on a worn brown fabric sofa in the corner of the room, playing on his phone. Despite it being light outside, the curtains were drawn and the overhead bulb was barely bright enough for the room, the dimness making Cox feel sleepy.
‘And say what?’ Flannigan said, looking up and sounding irritated by the interruption.
‘I’ll try to get through to him.’
‘If I understand it correctly, the last time you tried getting through to him he ended up tying you to a chair so he could rip your toenails out.’
‘Actually, it was his uncle’s toenails,’ Cox said, with a wry smile. Flannigan didn’t return the look. He’d seemed perpetually pissed off ever since Cox had met up with him in Istanbul shortly after Aydin’s arrest.
‘Cox, what don’t you get here?’ he said. ‘This guy is a fanatic. He’s not one of us. He’s not going to help you – he hates you. Pretty soon, he’ll be exactly where he belongs.’
‘You think taking him to a black site and torturing him will get him to talk? And how long will that take? Weeks? Months?’
‘It’s the best chance we’ve got. We need to do everything we can to get him to spill the beans on his . . . group’s plans. Before it’s too late.’
‘Well there’s the thing, sir. We don’t even know how much time we have left. It could be days. Hours even.’
Flannigan stared past Cox to the small CCTV monitor on the round glass dining table, his eyes squinting in suspicion. Cox turned and saw Aydin, on his knees, his head bowed as he prayed. Or at least he did his best to, given he was shackled to the radiator.
‘Have you had any further word from Trapeze?’ Cox asked. ‘Anything on Obbadi or the others?’
Ismail Obbadi. Who, following the run-in with Aydin, Cox now knew to be Wahid. The mega-rich businessman wasn’t just a financier, he was one of them.
‘I would have told you if I had.’
Since Aydin’s arrest, Flannigan and Miles had together re-approved authority for Trapeze oversight, but so far despite the far-reaching power that the surveillance team had, there’d be no further useful intel on any of the Thirteen, what attacks were coming, or when. On a personal level at least, Cox was relieved that Flannigan still had her on the operation, and there’d been no further threat from him about the consequences of her original deceit over the Trapeze approval, nor over the fact that she’d again disobeyed orders by going to Kamil Torkal’s home instead of heading straight back to England. She could only assume those indiscretions would rear their ugly heads when the dust had settled – and certainly if the operation went further south. Cox would do everything in her power to make sure that didn’t happen.
‘Sir, just let me talk to him,’ she said, more insistent. ‘Seriously, I know more about Aydin, about the Thirteen, than anyone else. What harm is there in trying? All we’re doing is sitting here waiting. We’ve had absolutely no further noise from any of his people.’
‘We’ve still several addresses yet to raid,’ Flannigan said impatiently.
‘And you know as well as I do that more than likely we’ll find nothing. We’ve already had teams raid in London, Paris, Berlin, based on what was credible intelligence. We were too late. What makes you think the other locations will be any different?’
‘You might be right, but we still have to try.’
‘I’m not saying otherwise. But whatever we thought we knew about the Thirteen, whatever intel we had on them, we now need something more. Even with Trapeze, the movements of the Thirteen are currently completely dark to us. Something is up. We need to know where they are now, and what their next moves will be.’
‘Which is why you and Torkal sitting and having a pleasant chat is not exactly top of my list of priorities.’
‘But it’s worth a shot.’
Flannigan sighed, but Cox sensed he was coming round to the idea.
‘One shot,’ he said. ‘It’s worth one shot. After that we’re moving him out of here, and it’ll be time to put some real pressure on him.’
FIFTY-FOUR
When the sack was wrenched from Aydin’s head moments later, he was still brimming with confusion. He’d been in the dark for who knew how many hours. They wanted him to feel that way – disorientated and truly alone. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the sudden intrusion of light that seemed to bore a hole into his brain, but when he
could finally see the face in front of him . . .
‘Teacher?’ he said.
He realised he sounded relieved – indeed he was relieved. But the Teacher wore an expression somewhere between disappointment and quiet fury. Sitting next to him was a white man Aydin didn’t recognise. The American voice? But they weren’t at an American facility – that much was clear to him now. Beyond the man, standing in the background, was a much younger, fresher face. A smiling face. Wahid.
Aydin continued to look around the room – just four plain walls, but walls he somehow recognised.
They were still exactly where they’d started. The Farm.
‘What is this?’ Aydin asked, his anger clear.
‘What do you think?’ the Teacher said.
Aydin shook his head in disbelief. ‘An exercise? This was all just a test?’
‘Yes, Talatashar. A test. All of your brothers have endured the same.’
‘But . . .’
The Teacher held up his hand to stop him.
‘I’m sorry to say, son, but you failed.’
‘Failed? What . . . No! But I––’
‘You talked.’
‘No! Just one thing, I . . . I would never give anything away.’
‘You gave your name.’
‘Not my real name!’ Aydin turned to the American. ‘You called me Aydin. You talked about my family. I never gave you anything, about them, about this place.’
Aydin was surprised by his own strength of mind, by the raw feelings that were pushing upward within him, his resolve and determination to argue his position. He was furious that they’d put him through all of that, only to tell him that he’d failed.
‘Your family?’ the Teacher said, rising to Aydin’s challenge. ‘Talatashar, you have no family. Just me, and your brothers. And you never talk. Not a word. Not ever. Do you understand?’
Aydin said nothing; he simply couldn’t find the words.
