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

by Rik Stone

  After leaving the lodgings, Mehmet rode to Barkev’s unit, secured the moped at the back of the workshop and walked to the quayside to catch a water taxi.

  “Sirkeci, now,” the ferryman yelled, vying for last-minute passengers that might be passing by. The boat was small, a fact Mehmet wished he’d taken into account before clumsily jumping onto the gunwale and almost spilling two of the passengers over the side. He nodded and smiled apologetically at the judgemental faces before the skipper cast off, keeping the ferry close to shore until reaching the Golden Horn, turning into the channel and tying up near the main Sirkeci ferry terminal. Mehmet stepped onto the quayside and the skipper took his arm as if he were an old lady. Mehmet smiled graciously but it was done through gritted teeth.

  On dry land once again, Mehmet headed to the market and negotiated a price with a taxi driver for a half day of his time. “My name is Zeki,” he said, climbing into the front and giving the driver half the fare they’d agreed on upfront.

  The cabby gave him a broad smile. “I’m Abraven,” he replied.

  Like Barkev, Abraven was an Armenian, but the likeness ended there. This man was slim and well dressed, and girls would probably think of him as handsome. But more importantly to Mehmet, he was pleasant.

  “I’d like to start our journey at Sirkeci Police Headquarters, Abraven. There are vacant parking spots there most of the time, so you can hole up in one of those for a while.”

  “I know them, yes.”

  They parked a little way along from the station where Mehmet could watch the comings and goings, and chatted about nothing in particular. Ahmet eventually stepped out onto the pavement, leant against a wall and pointed his flabby face up to the sun. The Zephyr came alongside the front of the building and pulled up. The driver got out, gave Ahmet a cursory nod and went into the station. Ahmet took the driving seat and drove off alone.

  “Follow that car.”

  Abraven laughed, “You want me to follow a policeman?”

  The first two clubs Ahmet visited were in the same order as the previous Friday, so Mehmet had Abraven take him straight to a club called The Belly Dancer, because it was at the end of a narrow street. Abraven pulled up at the mouth of the alley and Mehmet paid him the second part of the agreed price, plus a bit more. He was still counting the money as Mehmet walked off and down the alley.

  But then Abraven shouted after him, “Thanks, Zeki, see you around.”

  It took Ahmet another hour before driving into the alley. He parked the car, got out belly first and went into the club without locking up. Five minutes passed and Mehmet sneaked to the rear and peered through the back window. The gear shift was fitted to the steering column and a long bench seat ran the full width at the front. He snuck in through the back door, pulled it shut behind him and stretched his body as thin as possible along the floor.

  Eventually, Ahmet came out of the club and gasped with discomfort as he squeezed his rotund frame onto the front seat. He fired up the engine and jerked the car as he pushed his way into the busy traffic on the main avenue. If Ahmet kept to the routine, they would be heading in the direction Mehmet wanted.

  But then self-doubt raised its ugly head. What if he’d taken on more than he could handle? The kidnapping of a policeman was about as illegal as it got. Failure here would mean a death coming much earlier than planned – his – and Ahmet’s colleagues would certainly make it a painful exit.

  Just do it, he told himself, but every part of his body was tingling with fear and the colours in his vision brightened as adrenalin, or fear, raced through his veins. He got up onto his knees and with his arm shaking alarmingly, pushed the Welrod hard into the back of the bench seating. The cover bowed and came to a halt as the gun made contact low between Ahmet’s shoulder blades.

  The car swerved towards the opposite lane and oncoming vehicles honked horns as the drivers stopped their vehicles.

  “What…? Who?” he stuttered.

  Ahmet moved forward and away from the seat, at the same time as pulling the car back into line.

  “Don’t worry about who or what. You just concentrate on keeping both hands on the wheel where I can see them.”

  Ahmet tried imposing his authority. “I don’t really care who you are, but you’re about to regret whatever it is you’re up to. Have you any idea who I am?”

  “Yes, Ahmet, I know exactly who you are. Listen carefully. My gun is positioned to blow a hole through your heart. Even if you try something and get lucky, move to one side, say, it would still puncture a lung. There, ahead, while you’re thinking over your options, take the next right onto Ataturk Boulevard.”

  Silence took command. Ahmet was clearly afraid and it made Mehmet confident; his prisoner wasn’t the heroic type.

  “Tell me, Captain, are you handling the shooting of Doctor Yagmur?” he asked.

  “Yagmur? Yes,” he answered, voice quivering.

  “And have you tied the killing in with Volkan’s death?”

  “General Volkan? No, why?” His back straightened.

  “Hmm, suppose not. You’re not a detective.”

  Keeping the rest of his questioning for later, Mehmet directed Ahmet towards the coast road. They drove through Yenikapi and on towards Barkev’s unit.

  “Slow down, Captain,” he ordered as they approached their destination.

  Ahmet eased his foot from the accelerator. Dread dominated his features and the flesh around his sockets tightened and paled. Mehmet understood the fear and warmed to it; he’d been there himself.

  “Now, unbutton your holster flap and remove the pistol. Do it slowly. Lift it by your thumb and forefinger at the edge of the grip.” Mehmet pushed the cold steel of the barrel hard against the mastoid bone behind Ahmet’s ear. “And don’t think about being brave or I’ll blow you away.”

  “All right, all right, just give me a second,” he said, slowly reaching down and popping the button on his holster flap.

  Mehmet leaned forward, watched his every move. “Be careful, Captain, we don’t want the newspapers describing how you went out in a blaze of glory.”

  Ahmet pulled a Browning HP from the holster.

  “A Browning? Where’s your standard issue?” Mehmet asked, suddenly concerned that Ahmet might have a concealed weapon. He cursed himself; he should have searched the car while Ahmet was in the club.

  “It’s in my apartment. This is my weapon of choice.”

  “Humph, okay… Right, be very careful and pass the gun across to your left hand.”

  He did as he was told. Mehmet reached over and took the pistol. They got to the lockup and Mehmet told him to turn in. Ahmet edged his way into the narrow unit, headlights illuminating the dimly lit cavern.

  Nearing the pit, Mehmet said. “Stop here – quickly.”

  He hit the brake too hard and the car jerked to a halt.

  “Cut the ignition,” Mehmet demanded and Ahmet switched it off, the hot engine running on for several seconds.

  “Give me the ignition keys and stay in the car while I shut the doors, but remember, I have the guns and there are no back doors here.” Mehmet almost got out of the car, but then noticed the radio. “Pull the jack plug from the radio and pass me the handset.”

  Mehmet went to the front of the unit and had almost closed the double doors when Barkev stuck a foot between them. He bobbed his head about, trying to peer over Mehmet’s shoulder.

  “You have a car in there. I’ve never seen you with a car before. Is there someone with you?” he asked, still trying to get a better look.

  To counteract Barkev bobbing about, Mehmet moved from foot to foot. And then patience snapped. He kicked Barkev’s leg away from the door and pulled the doors forcefully to a close while sidling through and out onto the pavement.

  “Listen, Barkev, I’m not answerable to you. I took this lease thinking I would have privacy. You haven’t quit pushing your nose into my business since I took the place on. And now it seems you want to be my partner. Or maybe you’
re attracted to me in a different way? I’ve heard things about you Armenians.”

  “Don’t be disgusting. I’m entitled to know what goes on in my premises. You could be causing damage for all I know, and I am Mister Barkev to you. I will have to think seriously before renewing your lease.”

  Barkev was wearing an off-white shirt; the material was sweat-soaked and clung to his flabby Pecs. Mehmet curled the front of it into his fist and Barkev winced as Mehmet pulled a handful of hair with it. The material tightened and pulled the half-moon armpits forward. He pushed him away.

  “You really are repulsive. And I wouldn’t renew this lease if it came free. But I have plenty of time left on the hire. So, if you don’t leave my rental right now, I won’t be responsible for my actions. You should also be aware, Mister Barkev, that I have influential friends in Eminonu. If you don’t stop pestering me, I just might have to have a word with them. And if that happens, not only will the tax people strip you of your businesses, you’ll be lucky to be allowed to stay in the country. So go, leave me alone.”

  Barkev scurried away without another word, but on reaching the base of his steps he shouted, “Bastard!” and then disappeared. Mehmet could have laughed, but reality came to the fore and the hairs on his neck itched; Ahmet was alone in there.

  No sign of pedestrians on the promenade, he pulled the Welrod and opened the door. If Ahmet had got out of the car and was waiting, all bets could be off. Ahmet was old, but he was bulky and… No, the worry was unfounded. Ahmet’s head was visible through the car’s back window; he’d been too frightened to move. Mehmet tucked the gun into his trousers alongside Ahmet’s Browning, shut the doors and secured them with the wooden bar.

  He sidled past the car on the driver’s side, but hadn’t noticed the door off the catch, and Ahmet slammed it open against him, hammering him hard against the wall. Ahmet then pushed his way out, using his weight to hold Mehmet in place. Mehmet’s feet had lifted off the ground, breathing was difficult and when Ahmet eased the pressure, he slipped to the floor. He couldn’t fathom how, but in a flash Ahmet was out of the car and on top of him, raining blows down onto his head and upper body.

  But Mehmet still had the pistols. He reached a hand to his waistband. They’d come out. They would be on the floor somewhere close by. He stretched out a hand and felt for a gun, but Ahmet must have been thinking the same thing because the offensive ended and he was staring beyond Mehmet. And by the look on his face, at least one of those guns was within easy reach.

  Chapter 35

  With the weapons in sight, they both lunged towards them. Being on top gave Ahmet an advantage and his fat gut rubbed over Mehmet’s face as he pulled ahead. Mehmet frantically worked his arms between their bodies, grabbed Ahmet’s belt and forced his way level. Now cheek-to-cheek, Mehmet’s hopes renewed: Ahmet’s breathing was laboured. The fight in him had dwindled.

  Twisting and writhing, their bodies worked up towards standing. But then Mehmet’s eyes ran like a stream when Ahmet twisted and elbowed him in the nose. His head drew back hard and slammed into the wall. Springing forward in reaction, he unintentionally head-butted Ahmet. Blood spurted and Mehmet heard a bone crack. The sac under Ahmet’s eye exploded. The policeman seemed to have lost consciousness immediately and his mass fell. It was with relief when Mehmet pushed him to one side and hurried to the guns.

  Ahmet groaned as consciousness slowly returned. He pushed himself up and lumbered around on hands and knees, stupefied. Mehmet worried that he might get a second wind, so rushed over, grabbed the scruff of his neck and dragged his stumbling body next to the pit. He pushed him flat on his face, placed a wooden plank across his shoulders and bound his wrists at either end with the oily rope he had found under the workbench earlier. Now, he threaded it through the eyelets, crisscrossing it around Ahmet’s arms, and attached it to the rope block that took the weight of his upper body. He swung him out over the pit, secured the rope to a cleat fixed to the wall and turned to watch the policeman’s body swaying languidly in suspension. Ahmet’s head hung forward and droplets of blood dribbled off his cheek like water from a leaking tap.

  He stilled and Mehmet lowered him until his knees were at eye level. Ahmet shook his head and blood sprayed like rainfall. His droopy eyes opened slowly and he stared at his captor in bewilderment.

  “Do you know who I am, Captain Ahmet?” Mehmet asked.

  “No, no I don’t.” His answer was a drunken slur.

  Sweat on his face blended with blood and fell pink from his chin. The hard man was indeed a sorry-looking sight.

  “Of course you wouldn’t. Let me see, maybe if I were to mention the name Pasha, Levent Pasha.”

  Ahmet’s brow furrowed. “But he is dead, you can’t…” His burbling lips stopped abruptly and his face hardened.

  “Yes, at last you’re beginning to see the light. I really am surprised it took you this long. Clearly, it doesn’t take much of a brain to be a policeman.”

  “Mehmet, you’re Mehmet. Please … Mehmet, I had nothing to do with your father’s death. I wasn’t even there when it happened. Please, I have a wife and children. I’m the only provider. Please.” He wept miserably and Mehmet despised him the more for it.

  “I really don’t care about my father. What bothers me is what happened to my life after you murdered him.”

  “But I told you, I wasn’t there.” His sobbing made the words almost incoherent.

  “No, and I don’t suppose it was you who ordered the gargoyle to torture me either?”

  “Please, don’t hurt me, Mehmet. I have medical problems.”

  Mehmet laughed. “You’re certainly about to have. But you can make the transition easy or painful. It’s up to you. Tell me who took my father out on the boat that night and you’ll be at peace. No torture, just an easy release.”

  “Yuri! It was Yuri,” he answered. His head dropped and he whimpered like a puppy left in the dark. Mehmet gave it a moment, but that was it. That was all he was going to get.

  He was in no mood for debate when he took the lump hammer from the workbench and stood where Ahmet could see him – and the hammer. Ahmet’s face withered. Mehmet skewed his head and raised an eyebrow.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Ahmet kept his silence and Mehmet smashed the hammerhead forcefully into his kneecap.

  Ahmet’s mouth opened and he sucked in a gasp. The pain was so severe his scream had locked in his throat and exited without noise. Mehmet reached out, grabbed at Ahmet’s trousers for balance, leaned over the pit and squeezed the damaged knee. A direct hit, but he shouldn’t have squeezed: the kneecap shattered inward under the pressure. Ahmet stopped moving. His expression froze. For a minute, Mehmet worried he might choke on the pain before telling him anything, but a sudden gulp of air and Ahmet was back to life, trembling convulsively.

  “Please, Mehmet. You don’t understand.” His voice was gruff, whispering, out of breath. “I have a medical condition.” An outburst of weeping shook him and his body juddered.

  “Yes, so you said and if it wasn’t true when you said it, it is now. I think it’s called a shattered kneecap. One more chance, Captain. Refuse to answer and I will destroy the other leg. Who was on the boat?”

  Ahmet’s fish eyes stared pleadingly and Mehmet couldn’t lie; he felt a callous satisfaction as the policeman’s face moved from a natural blue tint to a deep purple. It seemed the interrogation was breaking his spirit as well as his bones.

  Ahmet sighed deeply. “They did tell me how it was done,” he said. “They put weights on him and threw him into the Bosporus. The men who did it were brothers, Tolga and Tunc Osman.”

  For the first time, Mehmet felt a deep-seated sympathy for his father, picturing his anguish as he was thrown into his watery grave. “And where would I find them now?”

  “They’re club managers. Tunc is at The Belly Dancer, a club–”

  “I know where it is. What about the other one?”

  “Tolga
, he’s at The Saladin Retreat.”

  “And who do they work for?”

  His words had hardly passed from lung to lips when the unit doors rattled. If it was that Barkev again, he would have to come in and join Ahmet. He shook his head, lifted a silencing finger to his lips, as he left Ahmet dangling, lifted the bar from the door and eased through so the interloper couldn’t see in. Surprise, surprise, it was Barkev, but the little man just stared, wide eyed and fearful, and then rushed away before Mehmet had chance to grab him.

  He went back inside, closed the doors and brushed his hands down his jacket. Sticky. He was covered in Ahmet’s blood. Fortunately, both the jacket and silk shirt were dark, but the Armani trousers were bloodied too. They were grey and the red slime was noticeable. But no, Barkev had lost his nerve and run off before he’d had chance to see it.

  Casting aside the doubt, Mehmet went back to Ahmet, confident he would get the final piece of the puzzle, but the policeman’s head had dropped. His eyes were open, inflated like balloons, almost on the verge of bursting. The blood had stopped running over his chin and in its place, bubbling saliva dribbled. His face had moved from purple to near black and Mehmet could only think he’d had a heart attack. Whether it was the hammer blow or he’d been truthful about having a medical condition, he couldn’t guess, but one thing was certain, he wasn’t about to get any more answers. He was dead.

  Little point in cursing the loss. At least he’d given up two names and having followed Ahmet around, Mehmet knew where they would be.

  He unhooked the rope block and eased Ahmet into the pit until his legs disappeared into the darkness. Grabbing a handful of thinning hair, he fired a nine-millimetre slug into the base of his skull. His positioning made him hold the gun at an angle and he grimaced on seeing one of Ahmet’s bulging eyes explode from its socket as the bullet exited.