Birth of an Assassin, Books 1-3: Killer Plots and Powerful Characterization (Birth of an Assassin - the series)

by Rik Stone

  She shook her head. “Nothing is over until it’s over. We still have time on our side. And besides, we run Turkey, not the Russians.”

  “Hmph, I need a Raki.”

  *

  It had been two days since Nabokovski flew off into the horizon and during those days, Beyrek and Gizem had sat in the warehouse batting around ideas, trying to think of ways they might get rid of the Russians – but getting nowhere. The afternoon wilted, twilight stepped up and then dusk fell. It was late. They hadn’t eaten. Time had come to wrap it up for this day.

  Beyrek reached for a navy mackintosh that hung on the walnut hat stand in the corner. “Come. I’ll roll back the soft top and drive you into Marmaris for something to eat.”

  No time for reply; their eldest son, Ilkin, rushed in. Every time this son unexpectedly came into Beyrek’s presence he felt his chest expand of its own accord; he was the eldest of his two offspring, a tall, young man with thick, black hair full of soft, gentle waves, athletically built and a handsome face; he … he should have knocked. After failing to find a solution for the Nabokovski situation, Beyrek felt in the right mood to fire a few shots from the hip. But before he could berate him, Ilkin beat him to the punch.

  “Papa, we have trouble at The Turkish Delight,” he blurted out.

  “What, what kind of trouble?” Gizem butted in and Beyrek sighed in resignation.

  “Eren is in the back office with one of the Russians – err, Dmitri. They seem to have the same interest in dirty magazines and are sitting reading them together.”

  Eren was Beyrek’s youngest son and he represented everything he wouldn’t have wanted in a child.

  “Good God, Ilkin, you think that’s big trouble?”

  “Beyrek! He’s not finished,” Gizem spoke up protectively, her face hardening. “Just let him get to what he wants to say.”

  Beyrek pulled a chair out from under the desk and sat. He felt his face set into an expression of disinterest.

  “The trouble,” Ilkin said, “is that they’ve got hold of opium and brown sugar and they’re both completely wasted.”

  Beyrek straightened as if a broom handle had been rammed up his backside. His lips compressed purposefully. “Do you know whether Eren has said anything about the warehouses and has Dmitri spoken to the other Russians yet?”

  “I don’t know about the warehouses, but the other two Russians have drugs as well. They got them from the same dealer, but they’ve gone back to the hotel with theirs.”

  Beyrek jumped to his feet, but Gizem put up a hand. “Wait. Stop where you are, Beyrek, and think about what you’re about to do.”

  “I’m going to pull that idiot out of the club before he tells Dmitri everything. If he does that, it will be the death of us.”

  “No, no, I said think about what you’re about to do. We might be looking at the answer we want.”

  Beyrek turned from the door. “Answer? How?”

  “One thing at a time… Ilkin, make your way to Icmeler as fast as you can. Make sure Sergeant Kudret and his officers get to The Turkish Delight as soon as.”

  Sergeant Kudret had been on Beyrek’s payroll since coming to Icmeler as a cadet many years earlier. It was through Beyrek’s connections in Istanbul that Kudret got his promotion. Over the years, Beyrek made sure the only officers who got to work for Kudret were as easily corrupted as he had been.

  “Don’t hang about,” she continued. “Go now while I tell your father what we’re about here. He’ll meet you outside the club later. Go.”

  Ilkin left.

  *

  Beyrek liked watching and to meet that need, he had a small room built into the back of The Turkish Delight, a cupboard really. The entrance was from outside and the wall between it and the office had a two-way mirror. From there Beyrek could see his pimps teaching the Russian girls how to pleasure a man.

  His was the only key to the room and he’d made sure he had it with him when he left the warehouse. Now, he crept around to the back of the building and went into the cubbyhole to see what Eren and the Russian were doing.

  Papers were strewn about the office, a chair lay on its back and cupboard drawers hung open like the gaping mouths of overheated dogs. Eren and Dmitri were leant over the desk. Eren’s head nodded as he fought to pull himself upright and then he steadied a cigarette lighter under a piece of cup-shaped silver paper: Beyrek’s cigarette lighter. Clearly, the men had drugs but no fire, so they’d turned the office upside down until finding the lighter. The white powder nested in the silver bowl turned to liquid and fumes dribbled over the foil. Putting the lighter aside, Eren took a cardboard tube off the desktop, pushed it up his nose and chased the dragon.

  Dmitri took a switchblade from his jacket and used the cutting edge to tidy a line of dope. He pulled out a pack of Druzhba cigarettes and snapped the long cardboard tube off the end of one of them. He stuffed it into a nostril and snorted the opiate stripes. Sitting back, he brushed particles of white powder into his nose and sniffed hard. A distant look crept over his face: he’d been using a lot more than a few lines.

  Having seen enough, Beyrek left. He found Sergeant Kudret out front with Ilkin. The two men waited next to a police car while three other policemen guarded the club door.

  “Kudret,” Beyrek greeted. “Thanks for reacting so quickly. We have one very big fucking Russki in the back office. He could be trouble if he’s a mind to kick up. I want him arrested for drug possession. Take him to Marmaris and down to the far end of the quay near the marina. Also arrest my son, Eren. I want him to stew in jail for a couple of days. You go ahead. I’ll meet you in Marmaris. Oh, and Eren should be able to tell you who supplied the junk. Have your men pick up the dealer.”

  “And if he doesn’t tell us who the dealer is?”

  “Give the little bastard a kicking. He’s never been one for pain. Whatever happens, it’s important you get hold of the seller and take him to the marina.”

  “Okay, will do, Mister Ozel. See you in Marmaris.”

  “Ilkin, stand over here with me and stay out of the way.”

  They melted into the shadows and watched.

  Kudret brought Dmitri out of the club. Fortunately, it was a peaceful arrest: the Russian was huge, shoulders a bull would be proud of, a massive square head and Beyrek couldn’t even take a guess at how tall he might be. But, it hadn’t been a problem because the Russian walked out sedately between two officers and allowed Kudret to press a hand to the top of his head to ease him into the back seat of the police car. The officers climbed in next to him and the car yielded with a groan. Kudret got in the front next to the driver and they left for Marmaris.

  Eren tottered drunkenly out of the club with a policeman gripping his elbow and Beyrek suppressed an exasperated sigh. The officer snapped handcuffs on Eren’s wrists and pushed him into the back seat of the second police car. The car started up and they followed Kudret’s route.

  Beyrek took Ilkin into the back office to see the state of play. He shook his head despairingly then picked up the switchblade that Dmitri had left and put it in his jacket pocket.

  “This lot can be cleaned up later. C’mon, Ilkin, we have unfinished business.”

  A short drive brought them west of Marmaris. They left the car in the village, walked to the quayside and turned in a direction towards the marina. There was hardly a breath of wind on the ground, but high in the sky silvery, thin cirrus cloud chased across a full moon. It was only that moon and its starlit accompaniment that stopped them from being consumed by the darkness.

  A little way from the arranged meeting point, Beyrek saw Sergeant Kudret, Dmitri and a young man whom he assumed was the drug dealer. Dmitri was close up to the dealer but they’d been cuffed separately. Kudret paced the quay, handgun drawn, looking nervous. In fact, he was so twitchy that when Beyrek’s heels scuffed on a short length of wooden staging, he turned his gun on him. But then he nodded and returned focus to the captives.

  “Is that the dealer?” Beyrek
asked.

  “Yes, Eren gave him up as soon as my officer lifted a hand to him, didn’t even hit him.” Kudret sniggered and Beyrek shook his head.

  He went to the Russian and said, “Dmitri, oh Dmitri, I’m truly sorry it’s had to come to this, but Nabokovski just couldn’t leave things alone. And it’s never the bosses who suffer, is it?”

  Dmitri was yet to return to planet earth and the response he gave was goofy at best – unlike the dealer. The dealer reminded Beyrek of his younger son: around the same age, short, staring downward and fidgeting, looking shifty, as if getting ready to pick your pocket. Unlike Dmitri, this young man was fully aware of what was going on.

  Beyrek’s hand felt white-knuckled as he gripped the switchblade he’d picked up at the club. He knew he should relax, but it had been a long time since he’d been in this sort of mix. He laid a hand on Dmitri’s shoulder and smiled up at him, but then bowed his head while shaking it. Suddenly the silent night gave way to the swish of the blade and Beyrek thrust his arm forward. In a flash, the steel had driven up to the hilt into Dmitri’s lower intestine. Beyrek took hold of the handle with both hands and pulled upward. The sharp blade ripped through Dmitri’s groin until his guts were spilling out onto Beyrek’s wrists. Dmitri gawped in horror. Beyrek was pleased to notice Ilkin watch on without emotion.

  The big man’s life ebbed as his weight dropped, assisting the blade in slicing through his body. Movement stopped when flesh gave way to bone. Beyrek eased Dmitri off the dagger and with the help of Kudret and Ilkin, he lowered him to the quayside.

  Beyrek’s shirt and the cuffs of his jacket were saturated and glistening with Dmitri’s blood and entrails – But what choice? To get the Russian mafia to leave his turf, extreme measures were necessary; he and Gizem had agreed on that.

  Beyrek turned his attentions to the dealer and held his palms open. “I’m sure you don’t envisage this kind of end for yourself, do you?”

  Water ran from the cuffs of the dealer’s trousers. He’d pissed himself. “No, please, I’ll do anything. Please let me live,” he begged, voice trembling, weeping like a baby.

  “Well, let me see,” Beyrek mused. “Did you see anything here tonight?”

  “No,” the dealer stammered, “nothing. I haven’t even been in this area. I swear to Allah, I’ve seen nothing.”

  “Very well, release him, Sergeant Kudret.”

  “But…”

  “No buts, Sergeant, just release him. He isn’t going to tell anybody.”

  Kudret mumbled to himself as he undid the shackles, all the time keeping hold of the dealer’s arm to stop him from running. “Mister Ozel, I really don’t think this is a good idea,” he said.

  “He’s a drug dealer. Who would believe him over us?”

  “I still don’t…” Kudret began, but gave up and released the young man’s arm.

  “Walk away slowly,” Beyrek said. “We don’t want you drawing attention.”

  The dealer nodded gratefully, bowed with his hands together at chest level and moved away slowly. Beyrek let him walk a couple of steps and then whispered to his sergeant, “Quickly, Kudret, he’s getting away.”

  Kudret grinned, steadied his arm and squeezed off three booming shots. The dealer’s body lifted from the ground and flew forward before crashing to the quayside. A pool of thick, black-looking blood seeped from his mouth and his eyes stared into nothingness.

  Beyrek gave Kudret a congratulatory nod and said, “The other Russians are at the hotel. They also bought drugs from this dealer. They probably already used the stuff, but I want them arrested in possession of whatever the dead dealer has on him. Make the paperwork reflect that the dealer killed Dmitri and was shot while fleeing the scene.”

  Beyrek and Ilkin left Kudret stripping the contents of the dealer’s dead body. Beyrek wiped his hands down his bloodied clothing. He was furious.

  “Filthy, shitty blood all over my expensive clothes. Look at that! When we get back I’ll need to shower and bathe. When I do, you see to it that these clothes are incinerated.”

  But his spirits seemed to lift as they approached the car and he addressed his son again, smiling. “Ilkin… I was pleased to see tonight’s actions didn’t bother you much.”

  “Didn’t bother me at all. Why should it?”

  Beyrek laughed. “Good boy. Not like that stupid brother of yours.” He was covered in blood and shit, but it had almost been worth it to see Ilkin’s reactions. It was like having the power to look in a mirror of twenty years ago. But then his footfall stopped and he jerked his head as a new thought struck him. “Fuck!” he said. “I think we’ve been a bit hasty taking the dealer out.”

  “Why?”

  “The only person running drugs in Icmeler and Marmaris is me. If we’d kept the dealer alive, he could’ve told us where he got his hands on the shit, my shit.”

  Chapter 30

  The following morning, Beyrek went to the warehouse where the heroin mix was created and bagged up. He ran two depots: one for the raw intake and one to produce the finished product. When Dmitri and Eren were snorting their cocktail at the club it had already been processed, so the thief, or thieves, had to be working in this team.

  The baggers sat at long, rectangular tables, masked up to protect themselves from the white powder. Heads picked up sharply as Beyrek marched through with two of the security guards. He already had their attention, so he took centre stage and shouted, “It seems there are those here who think this is a cooperative – that it’s okay to take home a share of the produce.”

  Beyrek looked around his audience, saw eyes widen and eyebrows raise, but failed to see any sign of concern. No one had reacted to the words, but then his attention was drawn to an Arab chemist, Mahmoud. He stood in an open doorway to the office, looked twitchy and dropped his gaze when Beyrek focused on him.

  “Mahmoud, a word,” Beyrek demanded.

  Mahmoud’s head seemed to grow ever heavier, but he managed a nod and waited for Beyrek to go first before following him into the office.

  “Stay out here,” Beyrek told the security men on his way in. He then sat behind the desk and told the chemist, “Sit. The processed drugs, Mahmoud, you’ve been skimming – yes?”

  “No, Mister Ozel, but I do know about it. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid.”

  Sounded interesting; Beyrek couldn’t wait to hear the explanation. “Well, there’s no backing away from it now. I’m all ears. Fire away.”

  Mahmoud looked hesitant, but then his shoulders slumped. He sighed, clasped his hands at chest level and repeatedly bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Mister Ozel, but Eren has been taking bags of the stuff, as much as a half-kilo at a time. I was afraid to tell you because he’s your son.”

  Beyrek felt his jaw drop. But then he thought about it and realised the previous day hadn’t been a one-off for Eren. He’d been detached from reality for some time now and he’d lost weight. He always complained of tiredness and if it wasn’t that, it was stomach pains. It took a lot of shit to get in that state. All the same, taking it to chase the dragon was one thing, but the little bastard had gone into business.

  Beyrek slapped his head. “Stupid!” he shouted, spittle spraying out with the words.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I promise I won’t let it happen again,” Mahmoud begged.

  Beyrek became aware of the Arab sitting before him. “No, not you, fool. I’m talking about myself,” he said. “But you should have told me.”

  He studied Mahmoud: a good chemist. And only an idiot would tell tales on the boss’s son. But if one gets away with it, they all think they can get away with it.

  “Okay, Mahmoud,” said Beyrek. “I’ll let it go this time.”

  Relief and gratitude overflowed onto Mahmoud’s face.

  Beyrek brushed by him and left the office. “Derya,” he said to one of the guards as he closed the door, “the chemist is our man. Take care of him. Maybe a little sailing trip.”

  As for Eren’s punishment
, he could stew in the hellhole for a lot longer than was first intended.

  *

  Three weeks had passed since Dmitri was killed and the other Russians arrested, it was early morning and Beyrek stood near the end of the sandy runway at Dalaman Airport awaiting Nabokovski’s arrival. As before, the medium-sized aircraft came into sight low over the hills. And again, it’s hard lines distorted in shimmering heat that danced with the shape of the plane.

  Disembarking, Nabokovski nodded to the stewardess, approached Beyrek, embraced him and kissed him on either cheek. “It good to see you, Beyrek, just pity like this. My people returned Moscow yesterday, tell me all what happen. I think from now, we leave Turkish business to Turks.”

  Extreme measures are always the answer, Beyrek thought as his spirit lifted, but he retained his business-like front. “Turkey is a difficult place for foreigners at the minute, Vladislav. I was lucky to get your men out of prison. I say ‘difficult for foreigners’, but you’ll know my son was mixed up in the fiasco with Dmitri. He’s still in jail somewhere now, but I can’t find out where. The authorities have a habit of putting prisoners in the middle of nowhere and forgetting about them.

  “But enough of my trouble – sorting things out for you is what’s important. It’s just a great pity we lost Dmitri the way we did. Unfortunately, that kind of thing happens anywhere. Drug dealers can be violent people.” Beyrek nodded to himself as if in sympathy. “At least we got his killer.”

  “Yes, that good, and what you say true. But reason I come is because I do not dodge responsibility. I wanted tell your face. I wrong to leave people here. You to stay running business as did for Otto. I see now Otto knew what doing he was. So, as you say, pity Dmitri, but things happen. I not stay. I catch next flight back, only wanted tell you myself.”

  Beyrek felt his chest fill with triumph and relief as he watched the doors close and the aircraft taxi to a take-off position. He’d done it. But for now, his usual visit to the club and warehouses could wait. He wanted to get home. He felt the need to share with Gizem.