by Oliver Tidy
The Acer Sansom novels now number four. They don’t have to be read in order; they do all work as stand-alone novels. However, to get the most out of each it is recommended that they are read in the order in which they were written.
Here are the books of the series in order with their Amazon UK & US links.
#1 Dirty Business Amazon UK Amazon US
#2 Loose Ends Amazon UK Amazon US
#3 Smoke and Mirrors Amazon UK Amazon US
#4 Deep State
***
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016
A Kindle Scout selection
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Contents
Start Reading
Day 2
Day 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Day 2
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
Day 3
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Day 4
31
32
33
Day 5
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
Day 6
48
49
50
Day 7
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
Day 8
66
Deep State: a state within a state.
Day 2
A long way from home.
The cold water revived him – a bucket of it in his face. He came round gasping. He shook his head and blinked it out of his eyes. His vision was blurry, his mouth and tongue awkward. His ankles were strapped to the front legs of the chair he was sitting on and his arms were tied to the woodwork behind him. His shoulders ached where he’d slumped unconscious for he didn’t know how long.
It was not dark. The light was natural. Either he’d been out overnight or a few hours, maybe only minutes. He hoped for the latter because of what being tightly bound at the wrists and ankles could do to a body’s circulatory system.
He lifted his aching head and tried focussing on something in front of him. He felt nauseous. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He tried again: opened his eyes and blinked and squinted and widened them and blinked again. Slowly, very slowly, a figure came into focus, like something viewed through a sluggish telephoto lens.
It took him a long moment to realise that the person sitting opposite him was dead – strapped to a chair the way he felt he must be – effectively and professionally trussed. The man’s head lolled to one side. His eyes were open and fixed blankly on the floor. Wet blood from the man’s broken nose clung to his top lip, mouth and chin. The man was familiar to him but in the temporary fug of his confusion he could not immediately place him.
As his vision adjusted and cleared, he dragged his eyes away from the dead man to learn what he could of his surroundings. He was in a barn, or a big shed. The floor was dirt. The walls were planks of ill-fitting timber with fragments of daylight breaking through. The windows, high up along one side, were grimy and dirt-streaked. He smelled earth and wood and damp and decay.
He took an inventory of the body parts he could feel. Apart from the numbness of his dead limbs, there was no pain. He tried to lick his lips but his mouth was dry.
There was a noise behind him. He tried to turn his head but whoever was there was keeping out of sight.
He said, ‘I’m awake.’ His voice rasped in his dry throat.
A voice said, ‘So we see.’
He thought about the we.
A second voice said, ‘You can see your friend?’
He returned his gaze to the dead man opposite him. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you know we’re not into idle threats.’
He said nothing.
‘You want to know why you’re not dead yet?’
He said nothing.
Over his shoulder came a hand with a piece of paper in it. The first voice said, ‘Because of this.’
The paper was too close to read. It looked like something handwritten. He moved his head to see better. The paper was snatched away.
The voice said, ‘I can’t promise you’ll be walking out of here. But I can promise that things don’t need to be. . . prolonged.’
***
Day 1
1
Nearing the end of its four-hour flight, the midsize Boeing continued its descent to Istanbul’s Sabiha Gökçen International Airport, situated on the less-well-known Asian side of the metropolis. From his window seat, Acer Sansom looked down on the great, sprawling mass that was the Anatolian half of the historic city. He felt none of the holiday excitement evident in several of his fellow passengers. But there was adrenalin at work in his system, increasing his heart rate and dampening his palms.
The bright sunshine and blue skies gave him a good, clear view. The landmark sites, iconic buildings and celebrated skylines the city was famous for were across the far side of the Bosphorus strait – the European side of the city. The Anatolian spread of Istanbul was a carpet of jumbled concrete boxes with few apparent concessions to green or open spaces. Nothing obviously magical about it. The constant flow of tiny vehicles moved along the highways, like vital fluids running through the arteries of some great urban monster. Acer thought about normal life and whether he would be getting it back soon – along with the only thing that mattered to him now, the reason he was in Istanbul: to reclaim his daughter.
The plane banked to the right and his city view became a rectangle of sky. He looked across the aisle and saw through the opposite window the vibrant blues of the Sea of Marmara. A container ship, miniature in the distance, was on the move – a thin white strip of churned sea drifted out behind the vessel on the glass-like surface of the water, like a loose thread. As the plane turned, he caught a glimpse of the Princes’ Islands and his gaze hardened.
This was not Acer’s first visit to the city, a place that had been fought over for centuries, a place now more famed for its tourism and history than anything else. He had done some fighting of his own here, spilt blood in the ancient streets with the same murderous hatred that the world’s invaders had shown as he’d pursued those responsible for the devastation of his life. He never imagined he’d return. Back then he believed his daughter was dead.
The cabin announcement reminded slow-to-conform passengers to place their seats in the upright position, stow their tray tables and fasten their seat belts. Passengers were also reminded that Istanbul was two hours ahead of UK time and that it was one o’clock in the afternoon local time.
*
With only hand luggage and his visa already bought online, Acer was one of the first of his flight to get through passport control and customs and walk through the airport’s automatic sliding doors into the arrivals hall. He slowed his pace and looked at the handwritten signs clutched to the chests of the waiting and bored-looking drivers. He saw his name spelt wrongly – Samson – and crossed the floor to make himself known. The man did not ask to see identification. He did not speak, or smile, or offer to take Acer’s bag. He nodded in the direction of the doors and walked away. Acer followed him.
Light outside the terminal was bright. Acer put on his sunglasses. The air was crisp and still, polluted with the smoke of cigarettes, the horns of the vehicles and the noise of people. It wasn’t Istanbul’s major airport but it was still busy and bustling.
The man he was following did not hesitate in stepping off the pavement to cut between the slow-moving vehicles. It seemed to Acer that he didn’t even look at them. The man exuded a confidence that matched his height, breadth, bearing and smart appearance. He moved like a successful businessman on his way to an important meeting that wouldn’t start without him. He didn’t move like someone’s driver.
Indeed, he wasn’t Acer’s driver. The driver was behind the steering wheel. The man from the arrivals hall opened the boot of the big black Mercedes for Acer to stow his bag inside. With that done, the man slammed the lid and got in next to the driver. Acer opened his own door and got in the back. The car accelerated away from the kerb to join the traffic heading for the city. Still not a word or a grunt had been exchanged.
With the Mercedes clear of the airport and picking up speed, the man who had met Acer used his mobile phone to make a short call. Acer understood nothing of what the man said in his native language but could guess he was letting whoever was in charge know that he had been collected and was on his way.
They motored along through largely uninteresting surroundings and on clear roads for almost half-an-hour and ended up hugging the sea on the coast road. Looking to his left, Acer got his second view that day of where he was heading: the Princes’ Islands.
Acer had learned of his destination in a phone call from the woman who had his daughter and who was bringing her up as her own child. Acer’s daughter, a nine-month-old baby when he had been parted from her nearly a year and a half before, had been taken as a survivor of a massacre by the perpetrators of it. The incident had been instigated by the woman’s husband as an act of retribution against another man. It was an event in which Acer’s family and other innocent people had been unwittingly caught. Acer’s wife, along with every other passenger and crew member of the ship they had been on – all except Acer and his daughter – had been slaughtered at sea. Acer had escaped and survived, marooned for over a year on a remote Pacific island, believing that both his wife and daughter had perished together, existing only so that he could avenge them.
The man responsible for all that was now dead – killed by Acer on his previous visit to Turkey. Acer had not known then that his daughter was alive and living in the hills not two miles from his showdown with the man on Turkey’s Bodrum Peninsula.
Mrs Botha, the man’s wife, had contacted Acer some months after that episode. She had told him that ‘their’ daughter needed his help. A second phone call followed from a man who seemed well informed regarding Acer’s recent history. He had asked Acer whether he wanted his daughter back. Acer had said that he did. The man had told Acer to book a flight for Istanbul and to pack for a short stay. He was to come to the Princes’ Islands.
Acer had never heard of the Princes’ Islands. Internet research showed they were a collection of small islands in the Sea of Marmara, a short boat trip from the Turkish mainland and off the Anatolian coast of Istanbul. He had no idea which of the islands he would be going to or whom he was going to meet or what would happen when he got there. The way the man had spoken to him on the telephone led Acer to believe it would not be as simple and straightforward as being reunited with his daughter and then them both being waved off goodbye.
The Mercedes stopped at the kerb by traffic lights opposite a small ferry terminal. Acer read the words Bostancı and Princes’ Islands on a sign above the entrance. The man who had met him in the arrivals hall got out and opened Acer’s door for him. The gesture seemed more an instruction to get out than something courteous. The man retrieved Acer’s bag and stood at the kerb of the busy road. Acer joined him. The car sped away with a little squeal of warm rubber on tarmac.
The lights changed. They crossed the road with the crowd. The man did not enter the ferry terminal. He went left and through an entrance that looked like something more private and exclusive. They were on the same stretch of the marina as the ferryboats but separated from it by ugly, razor-wire-topped fencing.
Acer followed the man to a fine, sleek-looking craft built for speed over short distances rather than comfort over long. As the man stepped aboard, he exchanged words with another who was standing on the prow of the boat. Acer followed him up. The skin, hair and eye colour of both men and the driver suggested close and pure-blooded connections with Middle Eastern culture. The men were all smartly and similarly dressed in charcoal-grey suits, open-necked white shirts and polished black shoes. They all wore sunglasses. Acer noticed that the suit jackets were not expensively tailored to the level of hiding the weapons beneath them.
Learning that men employed by the person whom he was going to see wore guns as casually as he would wear a watch disturbed him greatly. He knew nothing about the man who had summoned him to Istanbul other than that he spoke excellent English with only the slightest accent. The picture that was developing did not encourage Acer’s expectations regarding a friendly welcome followed by a quick departure with his daughter.
The new man stepped forward to block Acer’s way. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart. There was something innately aggressive in both the man and the movement. He was broad, almost neckless, shaven-headed and with a gorilla’s brow. He was a few inches shorter than Acer but much heavier. The suit looked tight on him, especially across the shoulders. His arms hung loosely at his sides and his fingers flexed, like a weightlifter psyching himself up for a competition snatch. The man looked like he’d have been more comfortable in loose-fitting sweats. He resembled a gorilla in a suit.
The gorilla indicated that he was going to search Acer and he was unconcerned by – or just enjoying – the public exhibition he was making in front of the dozens of people waiting for the ferry only yards away. Acer lifted his arms. The man moved in and patted him down quickly and efficiently. Then he stood and stared at Acer with a blank expression. Acer smelled cigarettes and the man’s last meal on his breath. After a long moment, the man stepped aside and with an economical gesture pointed the way to the seats. Acer made his way across the nose of the boat and stepped down into the seating area to join the man who had his bag. He took a seat next to the rail, content to stare at the view since no one wanted to talk to him.
The man who had searched him sat behind the wheel and started the engines. Their idling tempo and tone suggested a lot of horsepower.
As they waited, the noise of the engine and the smell of burning fuel floated another memory to the surface of Acer’s thoughts. It was of the last time he had been in a speedboat: in the Aegean Sea off the coast of Turkey’s Bodrum Peninsula at the dawning of a perfect summer day. Acer had been at the wheel of that boat. A man had been shooting at him with a high-powered rifle. The boat had been disintegrating around Acer as the bullets had torn through its flimsy structure. Acer had taken the boat out into deeper water, turned it to confront the larger vessel bearing down on him and opened the throttles to
their maximum. The engine had spluttered and almost stalled. Then it had caught and Acer had guided it across the mirror-like surface of the sea like a missile at its target: the boat superior in size and strength where his enemies were.
Acer’s keenest recollection of the last seconds before impact was of his acceptance of his impending and inevitable death as he settled his score with Mrs Botha’s husband. Acer’s last glimpse of Botha had been of the man hurrying away from the railings in search of shelter from the promised collision.
Some life-preserving force had encouraged Acer to bail at the last safe moment – when he had been certain the damage he would do with his ‘missile’ could not be stopped – to plunge into and claw his way down through the crystal clear waters of the Aegean. The shock waves of the explosion as the two crafts converged had sent him spinning and disorientated under the water. When he surfaced, nothing recognisable remained of either boat: he saw a pillar of smoke, exploded ship parts and burning fuel covering the surface of the water in every direction. He had turned his back on it all and swum for the shore.
The gorilla called out, disturbing Acer’s vivid recollection. Acer turned to see the driver of the Mercedes hurrying along the concrete quay towards them. He hopped aboard, untied the mooring rope and, after stowing it, joined them in the seats. He was out of breath and sweating. This man was older than the other two. His face was lined with age and his hair was grey and thinning. His suit looked a size too big and his shoes needed a polish. Acer caught the sound of the wheezing breath of a heavy smoker.
The boat backed out. The gorilla opened the throttle a little too far and the craft moved forward a little too fast in a majestic arc of sea. Acer felt strongly that the younger man’s vanity was being stroked by the attention they were getting from those still standing on the quay. No one on board said anything. Probably they were used to him.
Once they were through the stone entrance of the small harbour, the gorilla increased the engines’ revs until they felt like something near their maximum. The lightweight boat reared up and they skipped over the Sea of Marmara in an arrow-straight line towards the Princes’ Islands.
