Above the store, Kashani had a small two-bedroom apartment. It had a slightly musty smell to it, but other than that, it was neat and would serve its purpose. Once inside, he removed his cell phone from his pants pocket. “I have some calls I must make to finalize arrangement of your equipment.”
The sun had set by then, and I was eager to scout the route the convoy would take from the prison to the airport. “I’m heading out.”
“Hold on.” Kashani covered the phone receiver with his hand. “Feza can drive you.”
“I appreciate the offer, but it’s not needed.” Traveling by foot would better familiarize me with the city than sitting in a car.
Kashani nodded and resumed his phone call. I left.
18
The large military truck sputtered black smoke from the rear exhaust pipe as it came to a halt at the entrance gates to Turkey’s infamous Diyarbakir Prison, its size imposing and ominous. The compound had been fortified with cement walls that were fifteen-feet tall and four-feet thick. Two feet of barbed wire added to the height. Spread out evenly along the wall were eight guard posts, each manned by a sniper and three armed guards.
A cigarette burned brightly in the shadow of the guardhouse before a man appeared. He wore military fatigues and black boots and had an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. Dark circles tugged at the bottom of his eyes toward his thick mustache. As he approached the truck, he took another pull on the cigarette before flicking the butt to the ground. Embers of red exploded upon impact.
“What is your business?” the guard asked in Turkish.
“Transfer. Twelve prisoners,” the driver grunted.
The guard gripped his rifle with both hands and proceeded to the rear of the truck. The driver motioned for another man sitting in the passenger seat to get out. He exited the cab and hurried to the back of the truck while fishing a set of keys out of his jacket.
“Hurry,” the impatient guard snapped.
The man fumbled with the lock for a moment before unlocking the doors and pulling them open.
Hot sticky air rushed out, forcing the guard to cover his nose with his hand before cursing. After regaining his composure, he unhooked a flashlight from his utility belt and shined a beam inside.
Sitting shoulder to shoulder on metal benches lining each side of the truck were twelve men with their wrists chained and feet shackled. Some appeared unconscious; others looked as if they could barely keep their eyes open. The man nearest the guard turned to him and, with a raspy voice, requested water. The guard ignored him and flicked his light off.
“Pull inside,” he shouted to the cab of the truck before heading back to his post.
The truck’s engine growled as the driver wrestled with the gearshift. A beat later the vehicle lurched forward along the dirt road, the gravel crackling under its hulking tires. The tall cabin tilted to the side as the truck rounded a corner and ground to a stop outside a medium-size building. Two other armed guards appeared at the entrance door to the facility and waited for the driver and his partner to funnel the men inside.
Inside the main reception hall, the prisoners had their information recorded and what little belongings they might have had on them confiscated. Each man was ordered to quickly change into a uniform consisting of a white shirt and belt-less pants. Bright florescent lighting lit the area, affording no one even a minuscule amount of privacy.
The prisoners kept their heads down, avoiding eye contact with each other and the guards who watched over them. Then, from somewhere deep inside the building, a piercing cry broke the eerie silence. The prisoners’ eyes darted from side to side. Their mouths hung open as they listened to what could only be a man experiencing an extreme amount of pain.
Over and over, the lone voice cried out, ricocheting off the cement walls with surround-sound effect bombarding the eardrums of Diyarbakir’s newest guests.
The screaming only intensified as the men moved out of the main room and into a dimly lit hallway. The guards laughed as one of the trembling men wet himself. “Don’t worry,” one of them said. “You’ll have a few days before it’s your turn.”
The guards led the group of prisoners through a series of corridors, eventually stopping in front of a blackened metal door. One of the guards, a short chubby one, used the butt of his rifle as a knocker. A latch inside the door could be heard unlocking before the door opened inward.
A guard picked one of the prisoners and shoved him into the small room, where two other guards were waiting. One had a potbelly, barely contained by the buttons on his shirt. His eyebrows matched the thickness of his mustache. “You are the lucky one today,” he said as he wiped bubbled sweat off his forehead.
The other guards erupted in laughter.
“You, my friend, get the big welcome,” he continued. The guards then took turns striking the man. Each time their fists smacked against the prisoner’s face, the others flinched, knowing one day they too would face that brutality. Every single one of them turned their heads away, but was quickly ordered to watch or risk being next.
The guards continued to beat the man until he lay on the wet cement floor, moaning. Blood ran from his mouth, nose, and a cut above his swollen eye. The guards lifted him by his arms and dragged him to a large metal container the size of a bathtub. It was filled with a revolting mixture of urine and feces fresh from the prison’s sewer system and swarmed with flies. Into the putrid concoction they dumped the barely conscious man. Then with wide smiles and punctuating fist pumps, they shouted in unison, “Welcome to Diyarbakir Prison!”
19
In the adjacent building from where the welcoming party had taken place, a man lay in the corner of his cell, huddled into a ball. He had no bed, no chair, and no washbasin—only a small metal pail where he could relieve himself. It had not been emptied in two days and had overflowed.
While faint, he could hear the welcoming cry through a four-inch by twelve-inch slit in the cement wall—the only access he had to the outside world. It wasn’t the first; he’d heard it numerous times over the last two years. He had even experienced it himself upon his arrival. The procedure never changed. The lucky ones survived the bath, and the others died from infections they developed. This cruel practice set the tone—a precursor to what the men could expect from their incarceration.
Since his arrival to the prison, he had lost a considerable amount of weight, dropping from a muscular two hundred pounds to a gaunt one sixty-five. Matted black hair covered his head, blending seamlessly with his scruffy beard. A long scar ran the width of his forehead, matching the others that littered his body. Almost all of them came from the countless beatings he endured at the prison.
He was lucky, though, and had a cell to himself. He learned that other prisoners didn’t have that luxury and were packed twelve to a cell, some more. But this man was no ordinary guest of Diyarbakir Prison; he was the Black Wolf.
Outside the door, he heard the familiar jingling of keys. The iron swung inward and two guards entered the cell. “Get up,” one ordered before kicking him with a heavy boot.
The Wolf grabbed hold of his side and let out a low groan.
“Get up, puppy dog.” The guards had given him that nickname to let him know that inside Diyarbakir, they were in control.
The Wolf rolled over to his stomach and pushed himself to his knees, using the wall to steady himself. The impatient guard grabbed the Wolf by an arm, yanked him up to his feet, and shoved him forward.
The Wolf knew exactly where he was being escorted. He had been taken to this room numerous times to be beaten, questioned, tortured, and made to feel lower than a mangy street dog. They always told him he was receiving preferential treatment and should feel lucky.
The Wolf was awaiting extradition, and because of that, he needed to remain alive. But that didn’t stop the general in charge of the prison, Rakin Demir, from doing his best to squeeze information from him.
Two years ago, Turkish soldiers caught the Wolf and two other men as
they crossed into Turkey. They were on the run from the Syrian Republican Guard. The Wolf survived the ambush. The other men didn’t.
At that time, his captors hadn’t known his true identity or the reason the SRG had been chasing him. Eventually, through contacts and informants, they discovered he was a notorious contract killer who had just completed a hit in Syria: the execution of a high-ranking officer in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
The Wolf should have been returned to the Syrians, but instead, he ended up at Diyarbakir under unusual circumstances. When Demir discovered the prize he had in his possession and the number of countries that wanted the Wolf, he saw an opportunity to capitalize on him monetarily. For the next two years, Demir stalled the extradition process with the help of a few close contacts in the Turkish government while he worked out a plan. The more he knew about the Wolf and his dealings, the better he could negotiate favorable terms. The highest bidder would win.
A guard used his rifle to prod the Wolf through the doorway and into a room that housed a single metal table with a stool, both bolted to the floor. The guards sat him down, shackled his wrists to the table, and then left him alone.
The Wolf sat quietly, slumped forward and resting on the table. What does that asshole want now? He would never reveal information the warden could capitalize on. Up to that point, the Wolf had fed him lies sprinkled with harmless, but verifiable, facts. It kept the warden happy and his beatings to a minimum. His physical condition may have suffered over the last two years, but he had worked hard to keep his mind intact and fresh. A month ago, the warden mentioned that negotiations for his extradition to Russia were complete, and he would be transferred in three weeks’ time.
The jingle of keys outside the door grabbed the Wolf’s attention. A second later, the door opened, and in walked Demir. He wore military fatigues including a black beret. A pistol and a sheathed knife hung from his belt.
Demir was a muscular man with a thick, black mustache and hair to match. His complexion was dark and weathered. He had served in the military for most of his life, achieving the rank of an officer. Five years ago, as a reward for his years of service, he was assigned to the cushy post at Diyarbakir Prison.
“Wolf!” Demir called out in a booming voice. The heel of his boots scuffed the floor as he walked over to the table. He sat on a wooden chair, opposite the Wolf, and clasped his hands together, kicked his heels out, and leaned back. “How are you feeling today? I trust my men have been treating you well and afforded you nothing but the best we can offer.” The warden laughed loudly. His shoulders bounced, and his head tilted back slightly. “In four days’ time, you will be handed over to the Russians. If you think you’ve experienced hell here, just wait.”
No, you just wait.
20
By the time I made it back to the old city, it was nearly midnight. I had spent most of the night scouting the convoy route. There were two locations that would work for an ambush, and the decision depended on whether or not Kashani could deliver the sniper rifle I requested. Until I had it in hand, I had to keep both options on the table.
I stuck to dark walkways and moved along the lower rooftops when possible to avoid contact with the odd resident still out at night. The shops had long ago pulled their wares behind metal gates, leaving the small lane in front of Kashani’s spice market dark and empty. A few dim lights dotted the various windows above the shops. One was above Kashani’s.
I spotted Feza sitting in the dark, just outside the shop’s entrance. From behind, I placed a hand on his shoulder, startling him.
“It’s me,” I whispered before continuing inside the shop and up the stairs.
Kashani sat behind a small desk while popping dried apricots into his mouth and speaking Turkish on his cell phone. He lifted the bowl and raised his eyebrows. I shook my head and disappeared in the kitchen to fix myself a cup of tea. While I waited for the water to boil, I helped myself to fresh bread, cheese, and olives.
Kashani had just finished his phone call when I returned. “So, what did you find?” he quickly asked.
“There are two vantage points that could work.”
Kashani held up a finger. “Hold that thought.” He opened a lower drawer and dug around for a bit. “Ah, here it is.”
He unfolded a map of the city on the desk in front of him and adjusted the small lamp. “Show me.”
I traced a finger along the route, tapping at the two locations I had scouted. “Here and here. This is the one I prefer. The road narrows between these residential buildings. I’ll have a clear shot from the roof of this one, but I’ll need that sniper rifle.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have your rifle.” Kashani chewed on another apricot. “So this ambush, it will work?”
“If the information my contact gave me is correct, then it should. I’ll immobilize the drivers first, then the guards as they exit their vehicles. Eventually I’ll compromise my position, at which point I’ll move to the ground and continue my assault.”
“Sei-Sei, you know I wish I could help you more.”
“You can’t help in a situation like this. I’m better on my own.” I took a sip of my tea and looked back at the map. “Any idea on how much time I’ll have before there’s a response?”
Kashani tilted his head from side to side. “Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Depends on the guards. They are arrogant. They’ll engage first instead of calling for backup.”
“That’s more than enough time.”
Kashani clucked his tongue.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Once you have the Wolf, you’ll be on your own until here.” He pointed to a field about a half-mile away. “It’s too risky to have my driver any closer.”
“Is Feza driving me?”
“No. I’ve arranged for another driver. My face is too familiar with the local police. I, even Feza, can’t be seen out that night.”
“And I should trust this driver? Is he competent? Can he drive well? I was told the Wolf’s health is questionable. I expect him to slow me down. I’m not being paid to babysit two people.”
Kashani brushed his hands together. “He won’t be a problem. You’ll have forty minutes to make it there. Take any longer, and he’ll leave. It’ll be too dangerous to keep waiting. Once the prison discovers the Wolf escaped, they’ll start shutting down the exits out of the city. I know the warden; he will use every resource, even the Askeri Inzibat, the military police. You don’t want to come into contact with them, trust me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, but I highly doubt I’ll have much control over that.”
“They’ll have the initials AS IZ printed across their helmets and on their vehicles.”
I nodded.
“This is serious, Sei. It’s no secret Demir’s arranged a sizeable financial deal with the Russians. He has much to lose should something go wrong with the transfer. You must get as far away from the city as fast as you can.”
“I heard you the first time.” The left corner of my mouth rose.
The tightness in Kashani’s face relaxed. “Sei-Sei, must you always be so tough?”
“It keeps me alive.”
21
The night of the prison transfer, I sat on the roof over Kashani’s apartment while waiting for my departure time. I took the opportunity to visualize my plan. I had memorized the landscape surrounding the ambush location, as well as various escape routes to the field. Success depended heavily on eliminating the guards quickly. There would be no way to keep the residents from hearing gunfire outside their windows, so the faster I put those men down, the better.
My contact, Tark, was unable to confirm the Wolf’s condition. That unknown variable concerned me the most. And if Diyarbakir’s reputation was accurate, he’d be in rough shape. The last thing I needed was missing toes or a broken leg. I had to move him on foot to the extraction point. There was no other way around it.
At a quarter to one, I came down from the roof for a final equipment ch
eck. Kashani had delivered everything I asked for and sat quietly in a chair, watching me.
I slipped the tactical vest on and loaded it with eight magazines, two fiber wires, a flashlight, and six throwing knives. The sniper rifle was stored in a lightweight carrying case that doubled as a backpack. I glanced at my watch. “It’s one thirty. It’ll take me thirty minutes to reach the building. I’ll have a little over an hour to settle in.”
“What happened to that black outfit you used to wear? I liked how it looked on you.”
“I retired it.” I still wore black but had traded in that form-fitting jumpsuit for jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, boots, and a wool cap to keep my hair out of my eyes. As usual, I wore black latex gloves, which I would ditch when I discarded my equipment.
Kashani stood and gave me a giant bear hug. “Be safe.”
I hadn’t experienced so much emotion from him, probably because I had never spent this much time in close proximity with him. He had really come through and made planning the job easier and the chances of my success much higher.
“Just make sure your driver stays put.”
“Be there on time, and he will.”
Once I left the building, I would no longer have any contact with Kashani—nor would I see him. I would be completely on my own, as he had warned me beforehand.
I was okay with that. The mission was textbook, with the exception of extracting the Wolf. Usually I kill my marks, not help them escape. I felt confident about exiting the city undetected. I had concern about the journey to the border, but thinking about reuniting with my daughter diluted any apprehension that I had. I gave Kashani another hug and left.
I moved swiftly through the night. Clouds dotted the night sky allowing a crescent moon to occasionally peek through. The air was cool and dry, and the only thing I could hear was the knocking of a diesel engine from a delivery truck the next block over. I reached the ambush location without any problems and quickly scaled the fire escape to the rooftop and to my predetermined spot. The roof had a perimeter wall around it, which allowed me to remain on my feet and rest my rifle on it. From there, I had an unobstructed view up and down the street.
Contract Page 6
