by Rik Stone
A position came up when an officer, a Captain Duygu, was killed while on patrol outside Dersim. Murat had applied for the posting as soon as he heard and was called to the tented field office soon after to see Colonel Aygul, the commander in charge of the Kurdish operation. None of the other officers had been foolhardy enough to volunteer for such a dangerous post, so Murat was assigned to the task without preliminaries.
The colonel briefed him, ending with, “…you know this revolt is ultimately under the command of Shaikh Sayyed Reza. He has organised squads all over the north-western region of Turkish Kurdistan and they’re causing problems. I want you to take command of several of the advance units. Root out these insurgents and either get the information of their whereabouts back here or, if the groups are small enough, deal with the situation.”
Murat had exited the tent like a man on fire.
It turned out that, for the most part, the men in Murat’s units were prison conscripts who’d chosen the army over being locked up. His unit sergeant was a man called Soner Khan and murder had given him a lifetime contract on the front.
“I hope you have a strong stomach, Captain,” Khan had said to him when they first met. “The way we get information from this rabble shit can be a bit messy.”
“Don’t you worry about that, Sergeant,” Murat replied, but hearing Khan’s words had given him an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Out on patrol, the unit captured two men and a woman, Kurds who’d been caught aiding the rebels. Murat watched as they were tortured for the locations of their allies. Of course, they told all. Murat took the information and led an attack that took out the rebels, the first sortie that got him mentioned in despatches. As it panned out, they were only talking about a few poorly armed people, so the accolades he received for his success seemed a bit exaggerated at the time, but amusing nevertheless. The torture, however – that had been something else. Up to that point, he couldn’t remember ever having enjoyed anything so much.
Sometime after that episode, his sergeant came to him. “You said you wanted to be present at interrogations, sir.”
“Yes. You’ve taken another prisoner?” Murat asked.
“Yes, sir, a Kurdish boy. We caught him with a regular army revolver tucked into the back of his trousers. The gun is one of ours.”
Murat felt his cheeks warm. “A boy, you say. How old?”
“Around ten I would think, sir. Not much more.”
Murat’s breath caught in his throat. “Bring him here to my tent. I’ll do the questioning myself.”
“You…? Very well, yes, sir,” the sergeant said.
A young boy, the sergeant had said and with the words, Murat had a rush of feelings he’d never had before.
He imitated the torture procedures he’d watched his men inflict and the boy surrendered his spirit. But the excitement reached an uncontrollable height. Murat sodomised the child, all the while watching the proceedings in a full-length mirror. He tied a belt around the boy’s neck and his pleasure reached new heights when the boy’s eyes bulged in finality. The child lost his fight for life and it became all too much for Murat. He climaxed as he had never done before.
His career had soared alongside his passion for cruelty and later, the power he’d gained brought Beyrek Ozel to him. When the deed was done with the young boys Beyrek supplied, he’d leave whichever club had been set up for him. The man called Zeki, who managed Beyrek’s clubs, had his people clear up the mess. In exchange, Murat made sure that no one in Istanbul interfered with Beyrek’s ever-growing enterprises.
The memories sparked the fire in his loins he’d come to know and love. “Be patient. Be patient. Your time is near.”
Slightly aquiver, he fastened the bottom button of his three-button, regular-fit jacket, straightened his tie, smiled at his reflection and dragged himself from the mirror. He left for The Sultan’s Choice nightclub with the blood pumping in his ears.
Chapter 16
“Ouch! Take it easy,” Mehmet yelped as Yuri used some sort of sticky paper to pull the hairs from his cheeks.
Yuri laughed. “This is the price a young lady has to pay for being beautiful.”
Mehmet came close to answering, but realised further bleating was pointless. He closed his eyes and accepted the indignity.
When Yuri finished, he handed Mehmet a black silk scarf. Mehmet covered his head and half his forehead, and finished by wrapping it around his neck and under his chin. More insult came when Yuri applied makeup to the bits of his face left showing. Mehmet looked in the mirror and his face flushed deeper than the rouge on his cheeks. His eyelashes had been long before Yuri started, but adding something black to thicken them and curling them upwards with a little steel tool made him look … like a girl.
Yuri laughed his belly laugh and shook his head. “You look more feminine than most of the girls around here,” he said, still shaking.
“We’re supposed to be doing a job here,” Mehmet retorted, irritated at the pleasure Yuri was getting from his discomfort. “Not enjoying making me up to look like a circus clown.” It was a waste of breath; the words only made him laugh the more.
At least the clothes weren’t as bad: a simple smock-like, grey-blue tunic blouse over baggy trousers nipped in at the ankles and Arabic-style shoes with long, curled toes. But the clothes and makeup clashed, making him look like a religious Muslim girl seeking to pick up a trick.
“Tuck the Uzi into your waistband… That’s it. Cover it with the smock,” Yuri said. “Try not to use the gun. It’s too noisy for this job. You’re just carrying it for insurance, in case things go wrong.”
Mehmet took it without replying.
Dusk was ready to play its part in the day’s progression and Mehmet stood, ready to leave.
“Just a minute. Don’t go running out yet. It would be handy if you had some idea what Volkan looked like.” Yuri laid a couple of photographs side by side on the table. “I got them from one of my helpers. Her name is Pinar Yeter, a senior reporter on the Hurriyet national newspaper. We’ll be looking to her for help over the next day or two.”
“Is there anyone in Turkey who isn’t on one of your lists?” Mehmet asked with a hint of sarcasm.
Yuri twisted his head and gave him a wry glance. “Is it my fault you Turks can’t stay out of trouble?” he said, grinning.
“And what did this Pinar do anyway?” Mehmet asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t. Now he’d have to listen to Yuri telling him every detail of how cleverly he’d unearthed the lowdown on this woman.
“Not much, but ladies who’ve been married shouldn’t have secret liaisons with admirers.”
“A bit thin, isn’t it? You can’t make her dance to your tune for a mistake like that, especially as you say she’s been married.”
“Maybe,” he laughed, “but she shouldn’t have fallen for my charms, should she?”
“Oh,” was all Mehmet could think to say. And then he realised that was why Yuri kept making trips to the old city without wanting him along. He had a girlfriend.
Still sniggering, Mehmet picked up a photograph of Volkan: he was leaning against the open door of a limousine with conceit written on his face. He clearly thought he had the features of a film star, but it didn’t look that way to Mehmet. His face was drawn too thin, too long and narrow. His eyes were mean and slatted. He had a longish yet not unattractive nose and thin, straight lines for lips. Of the few things Mehmet remembered of what his mamma told him, ‘never trust a man who has no lips’ was one of them.
*
Dusk surrendered to night and the two men hung around on a corner opposite and along from The Sultan’s Choice. Mehmet saw two enormous men come out of an alley about twenty metres down from the club. One was oriental and built like a super sumo wrestler; the other wasn’t quite as big, but he was still bigger than Yuri – so big enough.
“Well, well,” Yuri said, nodding in recognition.
“Don’t tell me, you know them as well,” Me
hmet said.
Before they could discuss the point, the big men stepped out on either side of the pavement and Volkan – easily recognisable from Yuri’s photographs – followed them from the alley.
Yuri said. “The oriental is known as Arti; his full name is Arataki. He’s a shit of the highest order and could most definitely be a problem for us. The other one is called Turk. He’s also a handful, but nothing compared to Arti.”
Mehmet looked at both man-mountains across the way and fear seemed the obvious choice. Even if he had been sitting behind the gun of a fully armed tank, he still would have felt that they had the edge. Relief came when Volkan and the heavies disappeared through the main door into the club.
“Instead of killing him in the alley when Volkan comes out, don’t you think we should maybe just follow them until the heavies are gone and then take him when he’s on his own?” Mehmet suggested, hoping that Yuri would agree.
“A nice thought, but not realistic; by the time he separates from these baboons he’ll have more security around him than the old Ottoman rulers had. Remember, down here he’s travelling covertly, so the two goons are only light security. No, we hold to the plan… And going back to it, I want you to stay here and keep looking sweet while I go through the alley they’ve just come from. I have to check something out.”
He crossed the avenue and disappeared into the black hole. Fifteen minutes later he still hadn’t returned and Mehmet hoped that he’d liked his idea of leaving it until later but had been too embarrassed to admit it. No such luck; he came out of a different alley further down the street looking confident and returned to Mehmet’s side.
“I’ve checked out why he came from that alley,” Yuri said. “The answer is obvious enough. There are two soldiers at the other end awaiting his return, and more soldiers hanging around a government limo further up the road. I wandered around before coming back through the other alley so as not to appear suspicious.
“So, we now know which route he’ll take when he leaves the club … and the soldiers make it even more important that the operation remains a silent one. If we station ourselves at the mouth of the alley, we can watch the club entrance until Arti and Turk come out. They’ll watch for a minute or so before Volkan joins them. When he does, we move along the alley and wait. We canoodle near, but not inside a doorway; we don’t want them thinking we’re hiding.”
Mehmet would have made a joke at the last part of what Yuri said, but he was feeling sick.
Chapter 17
Two hours had passed when Arti stepped out onto the pavement with Turk close behind him. They stopped, looked up and down the street and then gave the all-clear. Yuri pulled Mehmet further into the alleyway that Volkan would have to come through to get back to his limo. He took Mehmet in his arms and they waited.
The big men blocked what little light there was as they entered the alley a half-step behind Volkan. The walls weren’t far enough apart for them to walk two abreast and get past, but they still filled the width of the alley. Mehmet pressed hard into Yuri’s chest. Volkan neared.
Mehmet stared from the corner of his eye and saw Volkan closing in. His nerves tingled and he gazed down shyly, but his eyes went big and he involuntarily looked up and fluttered his lashes. Life at risk or not, he told himself there and then, I don’t ever want you to do that again! But Volkan looked at Mehmet with disinterest before turning his glare on Yuri.
“A bit young for you isn’t she?” he said.
Volkan’s stern expression folded into one of sarcasm and the lines around his slatted eyes crinkled a little before he moved on without waiting for an answer.
They let the bodyguards squeeze through and get a couple of paces beyond them when Yuri sneaked out the Welrod from between him and Mehmet. He fired a single shot. Mehmet was thinking Arti would be the first to go, but no. The muffled, near-silent burst from the barrel expelled a bullet that flew between the guards and struck Volkan in the upper centre of the back.
Volkan hadn’t yet hit the ground before Yuri had fired a second shot. Even in the dim light of the alley, Mehmet witnessed a piece of skull tear away from Turk’s head. But why leave Arti until last? Did Yuri have a death wish?
Only two seconds could have passed between the shots, but in that time the oriental had turned his large frame and moved faster than should have been possible for someone of that size. He reached Yuri and his huge hand took a firm grip on his throat. The pistol fell, Yuri was pinned against the wall and as big as he was, his feet dangled from the ground. Mehmet watched Yuri’s eyes pop and his face darken. If he didn’t react quickly, he would be dead.
His mind raced. Should he use the Uzi to spray shot into Arti and then … no; he was a lousy shot and was as likely to hit Yuri. Forget the gun, he thought and freed his knife from its sheath. He then ran at Arti and slashed at his buttocks. Arti turned his head and used his free hand to swipe Mehmet away.
Cutting Arti’s buttocks was as violent an act as Mehmet had ever committed. Now he had to go the full distance. He braced himself, worked out an angle and plunged the dagger deep into Arti’s thigh. Withdrawing the blade caused blood to spurt an arterial jet.
This time, Arti gave the response that Mehmet hoped for: he released his grip on Yuri’s throat, grabbed his leg with both hands and fell back against the wall, mouth open in silent agony. It was then that Mehmet remembered Yuri telling him Arti was mute. That would be the reason he’d left him until last. Yuri rubbed his throat, cleared his head with a shake and picked up the pistol. Blood now leaked from Arti’s leg, thick and strong, like magma. He was dying for sure. But he wasn’t about to give it up too easily. A renewed anger filled his face and he charged at Mehmet like a raging bull. Yuri aimed the Welrod and squeezed off a shot. Arti took the bullet in the side of his chest. He pressed his hand against the wound with a look of surprise. Maybe it was the realisation that he was as vulnerable to the fear of death as anyone else. Whatever, it was a short-lived revelation. Yuri reloaded the chamber twice and with each shot, put a second and third slug into Arti’s chest. His attention was then drawn to Volkan trying to pull himself along the alley, but his legs weren’t working and his chest wheezed as he fought to get air past the blood oozing from his mouth.
Yuri leant over and pressed the Welrod’s barrel aperture against the back of Volkan’s head. He pulled the trigger and not even the click of the hammer sounded, but Volkan was down and the smell of sulphur and cordite increased. If it drifted to where Volkan was headed, the soldiers waiting for him would soon be at the scene.
Yuri then returned to Arti. The oriental had taken many hits and yet he sat squashed between the walls in the alley, face drawn, eyes drooping, looking bewildered, but still alive. If Mehmet hadn’t witnessed it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it. Yuri must have had similar thoughts; he dropped to his heels, stared at Arti as if in respect, but then tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders as if saying, “That’s life.” Reloading the magazine, he shot Arti close up, scurrying out of the way of the fallout as the top of Arti’s head exploded. Arti’s body fell forward and Yuri put a bullet through the base of his skull. A breeze blew along the passageway and the smell of spent cartridges drifted away to the waiting soldiers.
A gasp from a doorway and Yuri swung round, aiming the pistol towards the shadows. Darkness changed shape and a girl stepped from a recess. Her rapid breathing sounded louder than any of the shots that had been fired. Yuri lifted his arm and was about to shoot, but Mehmet jumped between them and covered the girl with his body.
“No…” he said. Too loud; he quietened his voice. “No, Yuri, she’s an innocent. Please.”
Yuri looked exasperated. “Mehmet, we can’t leave her.”
“Then take her with us, but please, Yuri, don’t kill her.”
“I’ll come quietly. I won’t say a word, I promise, please,” she begged, words barely audible, but Mehmet detected an accent.
He had his back to the girl, but she’d probably
heard Yuri call him Mehmet. She moved in close and slipped a hand into his. It was long and slender, fragile and made Mehmet think it might crush if he squeezed too hard.
Yuri bowed his head in thought.
Mehmet turned towards the girl and the odour of tobacco sweetened by perfume overpowered his sense of smell. They came face-to-face and the notion of frailty dissolved. She was tall and trim, yet voluptuous, womanly. Heavy lips graced a full face and her simmering eyes approached black. Chestnut-brown skin glowed under raven-black hair that cascaded luxuriously over her shoulders. Mehmet stared deeply into her eyes, felt like a deer caught in the headlights. Something in his chest flickered and his abdomen grew warm. She caught his gaze. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating.
“Okay,” Yuri conceded, “but she stays with me. Now go and do what you’re dressed up for. You shouldn’t have any trouble getting in. These bodyguards are Zeki’s people, so the door won’t be covered… Just a minute. Give me your knife.”
Mehmet gave him the dagger and Yuri pressed the blade in Volkan’s blooded hand. He folded a handkerchief around the weapon and handed it back to Mehmet. Frisking Volkan’s dead body, he took a wallet from his jacket and gave Mehmet the ID card from it. Mehmet took it, but showed reluctance to leave the girl.
“Do it,” Yuri commanded.
“I’ll go, Yuri,” he said, handing him the Uzi, “but if you hurt this girl, I will never forgive you.”
“Just go, Mehmet.”
Chapter 18
Mehmet stood outside The Sultan’s Choice nightclub. If he’d said he was without fear he’d have been lying, but he took a deep breath and pushed the door open before his misgivings had the chance to change his mind. Warm air filled with sweet-smelling smoke rushed out to greet him and he had to stop inside to adjust his vision. The invisible mist of alcohol swamped his nostrils: alcohol, one of the reasons Turks could never be ultra-religious.
