Deep State (The Acer Sansom Novels Book 4)

by Oliver Tidy

  Zeynep smiled at where her thinking had taken her. ‘For your daughter.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She likes giraffes?’

  ‘I hope so. Her mother loved them.’

  Zeynep did not move on. She said, ‘I’m very sorry for your losses, Acer. You’re a good man. I know that now. I’m sorry that my family ruined your life, took away your loved ones. Knowing how that feels now, I understand how awful things must have been for you, how desperate you must be to get your daughter back.’

  ‘Thank you, Zeynep. You’re a good person, too. We’re going to do this and then we’re going to get on with our lives. All of us.’ As soon as he’d said it, he realised it must have seemed insensitive – having lost her partner, Zeynep would not so easily bounce back.

  Acer asked if she would like to eat something before they left for Heybeliada. Zeynep shook her head and said that breakfast had been enough. He wasn’t hungry either. But it wasn’t because of breakfast.

  To Zeynep’s surprise, Acer got in the back of the car. He emptied out the duct tape, the scissors, the foam slabs and the craft knife and got to work on his ‘idea’. When Zeynep asked him what he was doing, he told her to mind her own business and watch the road. He didn’t say it meanly.

  She navigated her way down side roads lined tightly on both sides with parked cars with the ease of someone long familiar with the area and the knowledge of how to dominate its traffic. She never gave way to oncoming cars or pedestrians waiting to cross and she never gestured a thank you or an apology when she executed a manoeuvre that could earn her a fixed penalty fine and points on a licence in the UK.

  They joined the one-way three-lane road that ran back towards Bostancı and were there in a fast ten minutes. Zeynep parked the car in a secure parking facility on the seafront. Acer left the Sig Sauer under the front seat. Much as he would have liked to have taken it with him, he knew that if his last visit was anything to go by he would be relieved of it in a body search within minutes of their arrival. And then it would be gone.

  Zeynep turned off the engine and said, ‘Ready?’

  He said, ‘Nearly.’

  Acer hadn’t finished in the back. He’d had another thought as they were driving. Fuelled by his anxieties over their impending visit, his mind was racing to consider things he might be able to do should things go badly for them. There were naturally limits for what he could reasonably do to protect himself or extricate himself from danger – for instance, he wouldn’t be able to do much about being shot at from close range. But that didn’t mean there was nothing he could do. And he knew he would go into the meeting feeling better knowing that he’d prepared for the worst in some small way rather than having just thought about it, resigned himself to the possibility of bad things happening and not taken any defensive measures, which would leave him no options to deal with things.

  Zeynep said, ‘Will you be long?’

  ‘Almost finished.’

  Acer began undoing his belt. Zeynep made a face and said, ‘I think I’d better wait outside.’

  He joined her a couple of minutes later, tucking in his shirt and refastening his belt.

  She gave him a bemused look and said, ‘Feel better now?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Are you going to save us, Acer, if things go badly?’ She was definitely still being funny, which Acer took as a good and encouraging sign.

  ‘I don’t know. And I hope we don’t need to find out.’

  They walked the short distance from the ferry port’s car park to the departures area that Acer had seen a few days before when he had been taken out to the island in a private craft. Now he would feel what it was like to travel with the ordinary people. The prospect appealed to him more.

  Zeynep purchased two tickets and they went through the turnstile to sit on a bench in the full sun. Acer had the plastic box with them that contained the second set of copies of the originals. He held it on his lap and drummed his fingers on the lid. He did not feel as confident about things as he would have liked.

  The next sailing was due to leave in twenty minutes. They made themselves comfortable and stared in silence at the Sea of Marmara and the Princes’ Islands.

  The little quay slowly filled with a mixture of people heading out on the next ferry: workmen in overalls hefting tool boxes, mothers with buggies and toddlers, delivery men with sack barrows of boxes, tourists wielding camera-phones on selfie-sticks, businessmen in suits and ties enjoying a break from the automobile. There were a few loving couples intent on a little jaunt over the water, a horse and carriage around the small island, a beer and a meal, perhaps, before a leisurely boat back to the real world. Acer envied them their freedom and their obvious happiness as he sat unable to stop contemplating the possibility of his own short and unpleasant future.

  The ferry arrived from the island. It disgorged its assortment of passengers onto the quay and then the gates were opened for the new ones. Acer wanted to sit outside on the open top deck. Zeynep said that would be nice. Because of the design of the boat there was no outside seating facing the bow of the ship and so they took a bench seat in the last row of the stern and were soon watching the safety of the Istanbul mainland slowly recede as gulls wheeled and called and swooped around the boat’s frothy wake.

  Above the noise of the engines, the sea breeze and the noises of the boat ploughing through the water, Acer said, ‘How will we get to the house?’

  ‘We can either walk or take a horse and carriage.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  She half-smiled at him. ‘I’d like to take the horse and carriage. I do have some good memories of this place and they are part of them.’

  Acer nodded and smiled back his understanding. He was struck with the idea that she had assumed an air of someone resigned to a particular fate. It concerned him because the only other time he could remember feeling that way about a person’s outward manner was when an elderly aunt of his had been diagnosed with incurable and inoperable cancer. Acer wanted to say something, but Zeynep’s gaze and her thoughts seemed fixed firmly in the distance.

  ***

  53

  From the boat, Zeynep led them along the quay lined on one side with benches of people soaking up the sun and the view. On the other side, seafood restaurants and coffee shops and ice cream parlours stood shoulder to shoulder. Hopeful waiters offered tired smiles and worn welcoming phrases in a range of languages to potential customers. Then it was down a right turn into the bustling little town centre.

  Motorised transport was notable by its absence – no engine noise, no exhaust fumes, no impatient horn work, no lumps of glass, rubber and metal cluttering up the place. There were plenty of bicycles being used for pleasure, tricycles with storage capacity and small trailers for business, and the phaetons – horse-drawn carriages – hurrying along with their clip clopping. Their bells tinkled as a warning to those who dawdled in the motorless roads, forgetting that traffic without engines can still hurt you. The overall effect of a modern setting minus one of the world’s great evils gave the place a relaxed post-petrol-planet feel. Acer liked it instantly. And then he had to skip nimbly out of the way to avoid being trampled to death.

  They crossed the road to where the phaetons with their drivers waited for their next fares. The horses looked poorly cared for: malnourished, stringy and aged. Unhappy and unloved. The rank of phaetons stank of horse manure and neglect. They climbed aboard the first in the line and Zeynep issued her instructions to the sweating, obese man in the peasant’s costume. There followed a brief exchange before the driver grunted – rather ungraciously, Acer thought, considering the paper money he’d just received – and flicked his whip at the rump of the nag in the harness. Acer felt for the beast having to pull three of them and the weight of the carriage. But not enough to get out and push.

  It was uphill to begin with. Away from the shore, the shops and the shelter of the town. A gentle climb past houses in avenues lined with tree
s that had been there long enough to destroy the pavements. The lack of cars and vans after Istanbul made for a welcome change – a peaceful and calm environment with a relaxed pace and feel.

  The biggest difference between the properties was their state of repair. Design, material and finish-wise, there was not much to make one different from another. They were all timber built under tiled roofs. They were mostly finished with timber cladding with wooden windows and shutters. The bargeboards were often decoratively tooled. And they were mostly painted white. But some obviously had owners with deeper pockets and greater enthusiasm for property maintenance than others. Pristine showroom-finish houses over three or four storeys sat in lovingly maintained plots bursting with tropical plants alongside dilapidated ruins with missing roof tiles, peeling paint and rotting timber features, peeking out from unchecked and rampant greenery.

  The marked difference in the state of the dwellings added an extra point of interest to their journey. Something Acer was grateful for as he tried to distract his thoughts from a nagging feeling that they were doing something wrong. Acer commented on the dwellings, pointing out examples over the loud noise of the horse’s hooves, the metal-rimmed wooden wheels and the complaining of the iron wishbone suspension of the carriage as they creaked and clattered along. He was almost shouting at Zeynep and she was sitting right next to him. Not that she appeared the slightest bit interested in his prattling observations. She was still a long way away from him in her thoughts.

  It took around fifteen minutes to get to where they needed to be dropped off. The driver yanked back hard on the horse’s bit, making it whinny in pain and Acer wince. They alighted and the trap was quickly off to get in line for another fare. As Acer watched it disappear, he realised he was thinking how much he’d like to change the places of the driver and the horse.

  They were standing on the wrong side of a pair of big, solid-looking, wrought iron double gates that were locked shut. There was an intercom system set into one of the tall stone pillars that supported the gate’s brackets. Zeynep pressed the button and had a brief conversation with a Turkish man the other end. Acer looked up into the lens of a CCTV camera. There was another on the opposite post. They were taking no chances at this point of entry. Covering all the angles, again.

  Zeynep turned back to Acer and said, ‘They’re sending a car.’

  Acer put the box down on the gravel. It was very quiet at the back of the island. Just the noise of bugs in the undergrowth. The air was clean and cool, fresh and fragrant with the swathes of pine trees that marched out in every direction. Through them, Acer caught the gleam of the sea. It made him melancholic for a moment.

  Another phaeton came noisily and quickly along the road. Acer turned to watch it go by. It was crammed with smiling tourists on a quick circuit of the island. The sound of their passing faded and was replaced by the straining hum of a car approaching. It came up the hill towards them on the other side of the gate, making them both turn from their distractions to look at it. It was the four-wheel drive vehicle Acer had already been in.

  It stopped at the other side of the gate. Two men got out. One was the gorilla; the other was the man who’d driven him from the airport. Both wore sunglasses and blank expressions. Acer took a deep breath, dismissed all thoughts of beautiful views, wooden buildings and animal cruelty, picked up his box and focussed his mind on the immediate future.

  ***

  54

  The gate swung back without either of the men doing anything – a remotely and electronically operated opening. Acer and Zeynep walked through and over to the car. The men didn’t open the back doors for them. The gorilla gave Acer plenty of eye contact. Acer ignored him. The driver didn’t appear much interested. No one spoke. Acer took some encouragement from the fact that they weren’t searched.

  With everyone in the car, they made a three-point turn and headed back down the hill as the iron gates behind them completed their otherwise soundless closing with a brief metallic kiss.

  The car did not have the opportunity to make it out of second gear before they were pulling up in the same place Acer had been dropped off before – in front of the building. Acer wasn’t sorry the ride had been brief – he found the silent treatment everyone was giving each other more than a little oppressive.

  Kaan Oktay was not there to greet them. But two more of his security staff were. Acer recognised one of them as the man who had met him at the airport. If Zeynep knew any of them, she was playing them at their own game – a very quiet one. It occurred to Acer as he got out of the car that Kemal had been one of them, possibly a blood relation. They would think that Acer had killed him. Probably that would leave no shortage of volunteers on the staff to extract another eye for an eye.

  The men came down the steps and stood blocking their way. After a protracted silence, filled with and fuelled by hard stares from behind black plastic, the taller of the two eventually spoke, in Turkish.

  Zeynep said, ‘They want to search us.’

  Acer put the box down and held his hands at shoulder height. The shorter man moved in and patted him down thoroughly. Then he stepped back and tapped the box with his toe. Acer bent down and lifted off the lid, careful to keep the underside of that out of sight. He gestured to the box and the man bent down. He pushed the files around, picked up the cuddly toy and gave it a good squeeze, dumped it back in the box and stood back up. Acer put the lid back on the box and felt he’d scored a point. He picked up the box before anyone else could step in and take it.

  The shorter man moved in front of Zeynep to search her. She spoke to him and to Acer it sounded like a threat. The man did not move.

  Acer said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘I told him to keep his disgusting hands off me. I don’t want any of them touching me.’

  Acer said nothing. The taller man said something. Zeynep took off her jacket and turned around for them. It was clear from the thin clothes she wore that she was not carrying a concealed weapon.

  The tall man indicated that was enough and turned to walk back to the house. Everyone else followed.

  They entered the house as Acer had done before, through the front door, but they did not continue on out to the garden. They marched down a long corridor that celebrated the versatility and beauty of wood. It was in the panelling, the flooring, the wainscoting, the architrave, the doors, the window frames, the cornice, the dado rail, the furniture and the fretwork that added finishing decorative touches to everything. It was almost too much. If it hadn’t been work of the highest quality and proper wood of the richest brown it might have been considered over the top.

  They were led to a beautifully panelled door with gleaming brass fittings. In answer to a light tap, a voice called them in. The tall man opened it and went through first. Zeynep and Acer followed. The three other men stayed outside. Acer did not hear their footsteps receding as he believed he would have done if they’d left.

  The room was a gentleman’s study. Old-fashioned with solid, old and quality furniture. The wood theme from the hallway had been extended. There wasn’t a primary colour represented in the fixtures and fittings. Everything from the fabric of the curtains to the walls and from the furniture to the rug that covered most of the floor was some shade of brown, like dried blood or something rusting.

  Kaan Oktay sat behind a large brown wooden desk. Apart from his hands – linked together and twitching – there was nothing on the desktop. Not even a lamp. Oktay did not smile his pleasure at their appearance. He flicked his brown-eyed glance between them a couple of times and then let his disappointed stare come to rest on his sister’s face.

  The taller man said something to Oktay in Turkish. Oktay inclined his head once to show his understanding. For Acer’s benefit, he spoke in English. ‘Do you have a weapon on you, sister?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Barış is concerned for my safety. He says you would not permit a body search.’

  ‘I won’t have their hands on me.’

/>   Oktay nodded to his man. Acer saw him take a pistol from inside his jacket.

  Oktay said, ‘Then you must accept that Barış will keep his gun pointed at you. Just in case you have come here with schemes other than negotiation and dealing. Be warned: he’s very accurate, very fast and very loyal. Sit, please.’

  They sat in the two chairs positioned in front of the desk. Acer noticed Oktay’s eyes lingered on the plastic box before Acer placed it out of sight on the floor.

  Oktay said, ‘Weren’t there three of you? What have you done with your. . . friend? Where is she hiding?’

  ‘She is not hiding from you.’

  ‘No matter.’

  When they looked settled, Oktay said, ‘So. Here we are. Just like old times, no, sister?’

  ‘Let us get on with things,’ said Zeynep. ‘I have not come here to reminisce with you.’

  Oktay shrugged, a barely imperceptible lift of his shoulders. ‘As you wish.’ Then he spread his hands wide and said, ‘Tell me then. Why are you here?’

  Zeynep said, ‘You know why we are here. Are they ready to leave?’

  Oktay grinned back. It seemed genuine. ‘You haven’t told me what you have discovered. For all I know you might be bluffing. That box could be full of old newspaper.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Zeynep. ‘It’s full of documentation that will see you either imprisoned for life or killed.’

  ‘Surely you mean copies of documentation? You wouldn’t be so stupid as to come all the way here, just the two of you, unarmed, with no rescue team waiting round the corner with the originals, the only copies?’

  ‘No, we wouldn’t be that stupid.’

  ‘Naturally, I’ll need to have a good look at it all before I make any decisions.’

  ‘That’s why we’ve brought you your own copy.’