I drew a deep breath as I took in the scenery. “If I’m not mistaken, I’d say that favor I did for you has paid impressive dividends.”
“I have you to thank for all of this,” Kashani said, gesturing to his estate. He placed his glass down, and his thick brows narrowed toward his nose. “Tell me, how can I help?”
I kept the details of the job brief and left out the nature of my payment. When I finished, Kashani said nothing and only ran a hand through his black hair.
“You made sure you didn’t waste this favor I owe you on something trivial.”
“This is the job. Can you help?”
“Getting you to Diyarbakir isn’t a problem. Providing you with equipment isn’t a problem. I don’t even think attacking the convoy will be much of problem. It’s what happens after. If you are successful, you will unleash a wrath. The city and surrounding towns will be on high alert, checkpoints will be set up, and a massive manhunt will begin. They won’t stop looking until they catch you and this Black Wolf.”
“I understand. Can you get me to the border?”
Kashani let out another breath and wiped his hand over this mouth. “You know this is a crazy plan, right?”
I smiled.
“I can arrange for transportation, but I cannot guarantee your travel will be without problems.”
“Fair enough.”
“My ability to help will be limited. You understand that?”
“I’ve gotten this far in life, haven’t I?”
“I’m serious, Sei-Sei. If you’re caught… I don’t even want to think of it.”
For a few minutes I stared off into the surf, contemplating the journey I was about to embark on.
Kashani broke the silence. “This Black Wolf, he could be a problem. You realize that? He might be difficult to control.”
I turned to my old friend. “Then he will end up dead or back in his jail cell.”
17
That night, Kashani decided to accompany me on the trip, stating it would be easier for him to make the arrangements if he were in Diyarbakir. The driver, whose name I later learned was Feza, would also be coming with us to tackle the five-hour drive inland.
“I have a small place above a spice shop in the old city. We can stay there without drawing attention. Plus, I have other business I can attend to while I’m there. Win-win, isn’t that the saying?”
I figured the real reason he wanted to come was that he worried about me. I didn’t need him to, but it was nice.
The three of us left early the next morning under the cover of darkness. Kashani had arranged for a boat to ferry us to Karatas, a small fishing village on the southern coast of Turkey. From there, we piled into a black sedan and settled in for the long drive ahead.
“Driving in a Mercedes S-Class is your way of staying under the radar?” I asked.
“Like I said last night. Getting there isn’t a problem. It’s getting out. There will be no Mercedes waiting to pick you up.”
“So long as you give me the equipment I need, I’ll be fine.” Before we left Cyprus, I gave Kashani a list of items I would need to pull the job off. I requested the same sniper rifle I kept in my personal arsenal. I also requested a Sig Sauer with a sound suppressor and eight extra magazines. Lastly, I wanted a fixed-blade combat knife, two fiber wires, a pen flashlight, and a black tactical vest to house all the equipment. I didn’t expect Kashani to have a problem providing me with my requests; he was a black market arms dealer.
On the drive to Diyarbakir, we breezed through a couple of checkpoints without so much as a second glance from the soldiers who manned them and stopped once for a bite to eat and to refuel. We arrived into the city just as the sun had begun to set.
“My place is located in the old part of town, on the other side.” Kashani said, pointing at the aging high wall that encircled the old city. “Inside it’s a maze of small streets, perfect for moving around undetected.”
Vehicles weren’t allowed inside, so Feza dropped us off just outside the city gates. I wrapped a scarf around my head before Kashani and I continued on foot.
“Where’s the prison?”
“It’s in the newer part of town. There you must be careful.”
We arrived at Kashani’s shop, which looked like the dozens of others that we passed. Large woven baskets stacked next to each other were piled high with a colorful assortment of fragrant spices and herbs. Two elderly women dressed in headscarves, black sweaters, and floral skirts sat outside tending to the edible merchandise. They paused their conversation and watched us with inquisitive smiles as we moved through the narrow walkway leading inside the store. I snatched a handful of dried apple from a basket and munched as we walked.
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 gat
es, 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.”
[Anthology] Abby & Sei Thriller Starter Page 28
