by Rik Stone
And here he was, thinking about them yet again. He tried shifting his thoughts, looking for the positives in his life. There was Otto Mitrokhin for one. When Otto came along, everything had changed. And setting up the club, The Turkish Delight, had only been the start.
Not long after that, another Russian made contact with him. “My name is Borislava,” he’d told Beyrek. “I work for one of Otto’s military colleagues. We’ve been keeping an eye on how you’ve conducted things and have decided to set up a couple of new clubs between Icmeler and Marmaris. We want you to handle the business. The premises will have merchandise delivered from Russia. You will exchange those shipments for cargo coming in from the east.
“One proviso: Otto must never know of the venture. We like to keep our projects separate, so the day he finds out about our partnership will be the day it is over.”
The clubs were a front – caches for heroin from the poppy fields of Afghanistan. The drugs were moved across the borders of Persia into Iraq, through Syria and down the northernmost part of Israel to Haifa. From there they were loaded onto a Turkish gulet and sailed across the sea into Marmaris – by a religious Jew no less. Beyrek took possession of the heroin and handed over Semtex from the Soviet Union in exchange.
Beyrek’s chest expanded. Now it was one of the main transportation hubs for the shipment of drugs to the west. And he controlled it. He pressed his brow to the carriage window and Levent came back to mind. If he could see me now, he thought.
His brow bounced as the train jolted and his thinking returned to the present. Never mind Levent – to the business at hand. He’d stay at the apartment in the Sultanahmet Quarter for a few days, spend a little time meeting with his managers on either side of the Golden Horn. Finally, and leaving the easiest task until last, he’d deal with Zeki. Only a cash pickup, so he should be able to make a quick getaway back to Icmeler.
Chapter 5
Galata, Istanbul, 1954
More children joined the Little Dogs and some left; the leaving usually meant disease and an early death, but if not, they’d been caught by the police. Mehmet was now eleven years old and had become one of the most skilful thieves in the gang, his ability with a knife being easily the best amongst them. But, good gang member or not, he clung to what his mother had taught him about right and wrong, and if a chance were to show itself he would be gone and never steal again.
The day had moved into afternoon and Mehmet and Senturk had just put a safe distance between them and a market they’d just robbed. Pressure off, Senturk strolled by Mehmet’s side, preoccupied with his new toy, a baglama. Fooling around, he began marching like a wooden soldier, holding the long neck of the Turkish guitar balanced over his shoulder like a rifle.
Earlier, around fifteen of the gang had hit on three targets in a market crowd on the edge of Sisli, a neighbouring district to Beyoglu. As the boys made off, Senturk had swiped the instrument from under the arm of an unsuspecting shopper. Bringing the instrument across the front of his body now, he plucked at the strings and if his intention had been to draw out all the animals in the area and set dogs a-howling, he’d every chance of success.
Eventually, they came to the end of the dark alleyway leading to the jetty. Senturk had decided to give Mehmet a minute’s peace and had gone back to carrying the baglama over his shoulder. It had been a long walk back, twilight had crept up on a fading sun and only a few shards of crimson light remained. Mehmet watched as the shapes of minarets and domes turned to silhouettes across a darkening skyline. On the opposite side of the waterway, lighting ignited along the Sirkeci quayside and around the old city of Eminonu. But then Mehmet caught a glimpse of Zeki and grabbed Senturk’s arm roughly.
“Hey! What the…?” Senturk complained, pulling his arm away sharply.
“Shush!” Mehmet whispered. “Look. Zeki’s leaving the staging and he’s got the bag with the money in.”
“So?” Senturk said.
“So, he hasn’t got Oz with him. He’ll be sneaking off to meet whoever it is we work for, the one who gets the biggest part of what we steal. Wouldn’t you like to see who it is?”
“Not really, no. It’s probably the man you tried to rob. I know he collects the protection money from the market traders. Remember? He was the one who gave you your knife back when you did your first robbery,” Senturk sniggered.
“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Mehmet said and felt disappointed, but then he perked up. “Okay, even if it is him, it’s worth finding out for sure. And if it isn’t, if he and Zeki are working for someone else, there might be a chance of turning things in our favour.”
“How?” he asked.
“I’m not sure, but if you know something you’re not supposed to, it has to be worth something.”
“Hmm, it would be good to get something on Zeki. Okay, let’s follow him. Can’t do any harm.”
Senturk hid the baglama under a mound of rubbish at the end of the alley, pulled at Mehmet’s sleeve and they began following Zeki. As usual, Zeki sneaked his way through alleys and streets, cutting through bars and cafes. Occasionally stopping to light a cigarette, he’d sneak his head this way and that, checking to see whether anyone was on his trail.
The sun dropped from sight and workers, having ended their day of toil, drifted into the bars and cafes. Zeki went into one of them and the boys trailed after him at a distance. Smoke hazes rose and clung to the ceiling. Sweet fumes of roasted tobacco filled Mehmet’s nostrils. Men were bunched in groups, drinking, playing cards and cursing loudly as the drive to win generated excitement. Coming out of the bar, Zeki continued with the evasive tactics until coming to the Galata side of the floating bridge.
“It might be difficult following him across to Sirkeci,” Senturk said.
“That’s not where he’s headed. Look, he’s cutting down the steps to the lower landing.”
At the bottom of the steps, Zeki walked along the wooden promenade, stuck close to the edge near the water, but then he stopped, threw his cigarette over the side, took one last look around and strode towards a man standing in the shadows near the back wall. Whoever it was, it wasn’t the man who’d taken Mehmet’s knife. And he looked … smart. He wore shiny shoes, his hair was neat, he had creases in his trousers and the buttons on his jacket were done up. Nothing in itself, but people in that area, well, they didn’t look like that.
Zeki put out a hand for him to shake. The man ignored the gesture, but looked happy enough to reach out and take the money bag.
Suddenly Senturk, who was already under the balustrade, grabbed Mehmet’s arm. “Get down,” he hissed. “They’ve seen you.”
Mehmet crouched down next to him, but too late.
“Mehmet!” Zeki cried out.
Mehmet stood, covered a hand to his mouth and whispered. “Stay there, Senturk. Maybe they didn’t see you.”
Senturk stayed down while Mehmet went over to the two men. He swaggered slowly, trying to look calm, but his body trembled and for that moment, he thought his legs might give way.
Chapter 6
The timing had been sweet for Beyrek. He left a band of happy racketeers running things and now only had Zeki to deal with. Beyrek always made sure to dress nicely when meeting with a subordinate and stopped now to admire his reflection in the full-length hall mirror before leaving his Sultanahmet apartment. A new Armani suit, silk tie, Italian shirt and shoes, everything pristine, everything expensive; there was no doubt, he did look good.
But then his gaze lifted and he sighed in disappointment. His hair was still thick in the main, but he had to admit it was receding at the front. The widow’s peak seemed to get ever longer these days and his face looked a little puffy, his cheeks slightly bloated. Though typically Mediterranean skin, it seemed pale and dark circles around his eyes made him look like a panda … and that sweaty skin. He’d seen doctors galore. They all said the same thing, glands, like he was a monkey or something. But then he stepped back, took in the overall picture and smiled. No, y
ou’ve never looked better, he thought, and he left the apartment for his next meeting.
*
Beyrek stood near the back of the landing, close to the wall beside the Galata Bridge. He watched Zeki check out the area. Even when Zeki had been a young boy Beyrek had thought he had potential. Maybe he was ready for more responsibility. Maybe run the protection side of things, that position had just become available. Yes, he just might let Zeki do that.
Zeki walked over and put out a hand. “Hello, Mister Ozel. I hope you haven’t waited too long.”
Beyrek looked him up and down. A dirty little shit; no way would he shake that hand. “No, not long.”
Zeki handed the bag over, but when Beyrek held his face away to get above the stench, he thought he saw a head bob up and down near the lower level of the bridge. Was someone watching them?
“I don’t want you to look now, but I think you’ve been followed.”
“That can’t be. I…” Zeki turned to where Beyrek had indicated. “Little bastard. I see him.”
Beyrek shook his head. Doesn’t anyone listen? “Call him over,” he told him.
“Mehmet!” Zeki yelled.
The name sent tremors tingling up Beyrek’s spine. “Mehmet? Mehmet who?” he asked.
“Pasha, the boy you told me to look after, remember?”
“Remember? Of course I fucking remember! I told you to take care of him. What’s he doing here?”
“But we have taken care of him, Mister Ozel. He–”
“You fucking idiot. I meant you should kill him. Get rid of him. What other words do you need so you’ll understand?”
“Oh, but…”
Beyrek’s anger calmed. “Okay, okay, a misunderstanding. There’s still time to put it right.”
Beyrek watched the boy sneak over. He’d pulled back his shoulders attempting to look unflustered, but he failed to hold a straight line.
“What’re you doing, sneaking around here? Who told you to follow me?” Zeki asked when he got to them.
“No, Zeki, I wasn’t following you,” Mehmet replied. “We did a job at a market in Sisli. I didn’t want to go to the jetty so carried on a bit further, that’s all. When I saw you I wasn’t sure whether I should come over or not.”
“Is there anyone with you?” Zeki asked.
“No, I’m by myself.”
Beyrek was unable to take his eyes from Mehmet. Levent’s boy – and he looked like Emel. Buoyant feelings of going home on the midnight sleeper fizzled.
“You better make your way back to the jetty now, Mehmet, and no stopping on the way. Do you hear?” Beyrek said.
“Yes, sir, I’ll go as fast as I can,” Mehmet replied and left in a hurry.
Once the boy was out of earshot, Beyrek said, “He wasn’t the only one over there; there was at least one other, which means two of your boys can identify me. I want you to arrange for Mehmet and the boys he usually works with to hit the Galata Bridge market on the Sirkeci quayside. I’ll stay in the city for another night and organise it so Captain Ahmet will be on the scene. Don’t say anything until I tell you when the job is to be done. And don’t get mixed up this time. Got it?”
“Yes, Mister Ozel.”
Chapter 7
The man with Zeki had seemed friendly enough, so why did Mehmet feel like the worries of the world were burdening him? He couldn’t understand what, but there had been something strange about him. And to add fuel to the thought, Zeki had been too friendly since the meeting.
“Senturk, Mehmet, come over here for a minute, please.”
The pair hadn’t long been back from the markets and Mehmet was shattered. He’d been on his feet all day, walking, running, worrying for his security after a series of small robberies. It was too hot and humid for that time of year, especially under the jetty where there was no chance of picking up a breeze. He just wanted to be left alone. But now Zeki was calling them over with a sickly sweet voice. And he said please – so unbelievable. What was he up to? Senturk rose from his nest and Mehmet came into line beside him. They sat next to Zeki on the beam behind the ladder, dangling their legs over the side.
Zeki smiled. “I’ve been doing some thinking about the markets,” he began. “The two of you are a good team and it’s time to move you up. I want to expand the target area and start by hitting those markets on the other side of the Golden Horn. I’ve decided to let you two head up a gang there and I want you to start with the quayside market at Sirkeci. Take the cell you usually work with and do it tomorrow around mid-morning.”
“But that’s crazy,” Senturk said. “Nobody over there knows our reputation, so seven won’t be enough. You know from way back that if we’re not in a mob and the victim isn’t scared, he’ll turn on us. If the crowd see that, they’ll help. No, it’s crazy. We’ll be in prison by the end of the day.”
“If what you just said were true then yes, but there won’t only be seven of you. I’ve been collecting boys in Sirkeci for months now and I’ve set them up under a jetty over there. I told you to do it mid-morning because that’s when the new boys will be there. Including the boys from here, you’ll number about thirty. When the jobs done, they’ll take you to your new home. Any problems with that?”
“Are these new boys any good?”
“You know you don’t need to ask me that, Senturk.”
*
The following morning, Mehmet and Senturk hung over the railings on the upper level of the bridge and watched the activity in the open-air market below. There were stalls all the way to the barrier at the jetty edge, most selling fish. However, every so often, blankets of smoke clouded upward highlighting the kebab stalls. Buses lined up where the market ended and made a natural perimeter fence. Mehmet had been scouring the place for over an hour and was beginning to feel edgy. Until now, the only boys he’d seen had come from Galata with him and Senturk.
“Our group is clear enough, so where are these new boys?” Mehmet asked. “Maybe a few could’ve melted into the crowd, but more than twenty? I don’t think so.”
Senturk made no response.
“I don’t like this,” Mehmet continued, almost pleading now. “I think we should cut and run. This doesn’t feel right. You must’ve noticed how weird Zeki’s been since we followed him.”
Senturk gave Mehmet a long-suffering stare. “Look, I don’t like the idea of moving over here much either and that’s the only reason you’re worrying now. But there’s no need; if they don’t turn up, we leave – simple. And as far as Zeki goes, he didn’t even know I was with you at the bridge.”
Senturk wouldn’t be moved and Mehmet supposed he was probably right. If the boys didn’t show then they wouldn’t rob. Like he said, what could go wrong?
“Let’s see if we can get a better handle on things from below,” Senturk said. “They might be underneath the bridge where we can’t see them.”
They went down onto the lower jetty and Mehmet stared over to the floating pontoons that held the centre of the bridge up and watched a small boat motor through and towards the strait. Black smoke billowed as it chugged towards the main stream. The backwash from its wake lapped small white horses against the floats.
Senturk pulled on his arm and Mehmet went along – reluctantly. “Let’s get to the main part of the market. Maybe they’re there now.”
But they weren’t.
“Still no sign of the boys, but there are two of the gang we came over with,” Mehmet said and pointed to a couple of boys who stood making faces at the dead fish on the stalls and laughing. They went and chatted to them, but they hadn’t seen any potential gang members either.
It was midday now and the smell of food was everywhere. “I should be feeling hungry, but I’m not. Something isn’t right here, Senturk,” Mehmet said, and just as he finished speaking, as if the words themselves had signalled his demise, gunfire rang out and an undulating crowd flowed from whatever had happened. The boys went off one way while Mehmet and Senturk went the other. Two shots in
quick succession and then a third; someone was firing at the two boys who’d just left them. Mehmet picked up speed. A shot whizzed past close by and a child ahead of him fell. It could only have been the mother who screamed, as she bent over the boy, clutched his blood-spattered body to her breast.
“Quick, get along to the end of the lower level,” Senturk yelled. “If we can get to the rail, we can jump onto one of the floating pontoons and hide.”
They raced the length of the jetty but a crowd of people had gathered near the rail. More gunfire echoed, the boys raced straight at the throng and it separated into folds along the boardwalk, like Moses parting the Red Sea. They crouched down and arched arms protectively over their heads as if it were the boys who had the guns. As the minutes passed, the shooting seemed to be moving further away. There was still a chance they could make an escape. Mehmet’s heart pounded in his ears. Fear had stopped his legs working properly, but surely he could make it a few more strides. If he could get to the railings and jump to the pontoon, he’d be safe.
Another shot cracked out; they were closing in again. Senturk was running a couple of steps ahead when a sudden thud resounded and sent his body forward that much faster. His head turned sideways as blood spurted from his mouth and he fell to the jetty, his chest exploding in front of him.
Chapter 8
“Senturk!” Mehmet cried as he ran on past, but then he gritted his teeth and looked back. Senturk lay on the boarding, a curious crowd already moving in on him. “Oh, Senturk, please don’t be dead. Please don’t leave me,” he said, but the words that cracked in his throat were futile. Senturk had just become another dead street urchin awaiting disposal.
