by Rik Stone
Chapter 39
Mehmet slowed his pace on getting to Tersane Road in Galata. It was half an hour before midnight and Tunc had been leaving the club around one. The couple he passed in the alley would have raised the alarm on Tolga’s bodyguard by now so speed was of the essence. If Tunc had already been informed of the deaths, the task would be dangerous.
The Fleetwood Cadillac was parked outside the Tour Turkey office; the driver hadn’t left yet. Mehmet went in, but the driver said he had a client waiting and couldn’t stop to talk. Mehmet said he wanted to impress a girl he was meeting and if the car was going that way anyway, it would be money for nothing. Soon, they were crossing the Galata Bridge.
“If you take a left on the other side of the bridge, we can pick up my girl. She’s waiting for me at Gulhane Park,” Mehmet said.
“What? Gulhane Park at this time? I don’t think so.”
“It’s important, please. I’ll double the price.”
“Double the… Oh, what the hell. It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”
They came into Gulhane and rolled down a hill leading to Topkapi Palace, a spot where the road was tree lined enough to give full cover.
“This is it. She shouldn’t be long.”
The driver stopped and Mehmet pulled a gun on him. A look of surprise, but more surprisingly, it wasn’t accompanied by fear.
“I mean you no harm, but I need the car and a few answers,” Mehmet said. “Are you the only driver who picks Tunc up?”
“Mostly, yes. I was sick once and Hakan did the run until I got better,” he said, sounding a lot calmer than he should have.
“Hakan? Was that the other driver at the office?” Mehmet asked and got a nod. “Does Tunc know him well?”
“I wouldn’t think so; it was a long time ago.”
“Okay, out of the car and be very careful how you do it.”
Mehmet stood him against a tree, made him put his hands around the trunk and snapped Ahmet’s handcuffs onto his wrists.
“Don’t worry. I used to run with the Little Dogs and they don’t work this area. You’ll be all right,” he said and pushed a small roll of lire into the pocket of the unnervingly calm driver.
Mehmet hadn’t driven a car before, but with it being automatic he thought it would be similar to his moped. He drove about the park and everything moved smoothly as long as he didn’t jerk the accelerator or hit the brake too hard.
He drove off to the club without incident, but put too much weight on the brake when stopping in front of the club. Osman was in the doorway waiting. He shook his head and tapped on the window, gesturing for him to roll it down.
“Who’re you? You’re not dressed like a chauffeur.”
“My name is Hakan, Mister Osman. I don’t know exactly what happened, but your regular driver has had an accident and I was called in at the last minute.”
“Is he badly hurt?”
“I really don’t know, sir.”
The car rocked as Osman climbed into the back. “Okay. I suppose you know where we’re going?”
“Oh yes, definitely, sir.”
“Well, what’re you waiting for?”
Mehmet could see Tunc hadn’t heard about his brother yet and relief, or nerves, got the better of him: his foot accidentally jumped on and off the accelerator. The car kangarooed away from the pavement and Osman cursed. “Jesus, you need some fucking lessons, you idiot. I don’t want you picking me up tomorrow. Make sure another driver is available, do you hear?”
“Yes, sir, I hear. But I don’t think me picking you up tomorrow was ever going to happen anyway. Sorry, sir.”
They passed the Galata Bridge and pulled down a lane in Gulhane Park, on the opposite side from where Mehmet had left the driver.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he asked. “I thought you said you knew the way.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I was sure I was familiar with the route.”
Tunc was still cursing when Mehmet stopped the car in a lay-by surrounded by bushes. He shook his head in bewilderment and then opened the glove box. “Hold on, sir, I’ve got a city map.” He tucked his hand under the map, pulled out the Welrod, spun round and pointed it into Tunc’s face.
Tunc was a huge man. Too big. It shouldn’t have happened, but he lunged and somehow Mehmet found himself being dragged backwards over the seat by the throat, legs kicking. He tried jamming his feet under the dashboard, but Tunc’s strength pulled him away easily.
The pistol. He tried to aim the pistol, but Tunc smacked it aside with his free hand. The gun fell. Mehmet’s vision became blurry. He was losing consciousness. He had to give up the resistance and ease the pressure from his throat. When Tunc grabbed him he’d curled himself into a ball, jamming himself between the roof and the front seat, but by straightening himself out, he almost jettisoned into Tunc’s arms.
In seconds, Mehmet was on his back, Tunc pinning him down with a hand to the throat.
“Who sent you?” he demanded.
Thoughts raced through Mehmet’s mind. He needed a surprise, now. “Marlon! It was Marlon!” he lied.
The pressure eased from his throat, Tunc’s face took on a vacant expression and Mehmet tried to get his hand to his jacket pocket.
“Tolga’s Marlon?” he asked, staring off over the front seat in thought.
Mehmet got a hand inside his pocket and grasped his knife. Tunc’s mind was somewhere else as Mehmet put the weapon behind his back and freed the long blade from its confines.
Tunc pulled Mehmet to a sitting position. “The bastard, and has my brother had anything to do with this?”
“He didn’t give the order, but he knew what was going on.” Lucky guess saying Marlon; Mehmet seemed to have stumbled into a family feud.
Tunc shook his head. His grip eased a little. Mehmet brought the knife around front and thrust it up between their bodies until the blade met its target, driving through the soft flesh behind Tunc’s jaw. Tunc seemed paralysed. The knife met with resistance and Mehmet pushed with both hands.
Tunc’s paralysis probably meant Mehmet’s blade had pierced his brain, but he was alive – or breathing anyway. Mehmet retrieved the pistol, turned Tunc to face the window and shot him through the back of the head. The point of entry was a soft one and mess spattered from Tunc’s face with the bullet’s exit.
It was done. Other than the mystery man who gave out the orders, the people responsible for turning his life to shit were now dead. As for the mystery man, Yuri would know who he was.
Chapter 40
Icmeler, Turkey 1972
Beyrek Ozel read and reread the front page of the Hurriyet national newspaper. The main article carried pictures on either side of an editorial that took up the whole page above the fold: Killer Returns to Terrorise City. They’d used an old photo fit of General Volkan’s assassin and an artist’s impression based on descriptions by the latest witnesses. The pictures looked like different-aged images of the same man. Frustration drew Beyrek into reading the passage one more time. They were blaming Zeki, but Mehmet admitted to Yagmur that he’d killed Volkan.
He screwed the newspaper into a ball and threw it at the waste basket. The blood ran cold through his veins. “Fuck, fuck, fuck … fuck! Haven’t those fucking idiots worked it out? Zeki’s dead.”
Zeki, Yagmur, Ahmet, Tolga, Tunc – they were all involved with the killing of Levent, except Yagmur, but she had been Mehmet’s torturer. Mehmet! Could it somehow be Mehmet?
Gizem came in from the veranda. “Why all the noise, Beyrek? Keep it up and they’ll hear you in Istanbul.”
“On the floor next to the basket, try reading the front page.”
Ironing the newspaper out over the marble-top coffee table, Gizem read the story. “And you think … what?” she asked, eyebrows rising.
“I think Mehmet has escaped, somehow found out who killed Levent and is wreaking his revenge. That’s what I think.”
“I don’t want to call you a fool, Beyr
ek, but that’s what you’re acting like.”
Beyrek stared fire at her. “Oh, is that right? And what makes you so fucking smart?” he demanded.
“Because you have Selim watching over Mehmet in Synopi; he would’ve told you if he’d escaped. And to take the deliberation out of it, all you have to do is pick up the phone and call the prison.”
Beyrek was insulted she’d had the nerve to call him fool. He had built the empire he ruled, not her. But he had lost his grip on this one – what she was saying was right: he was acting like a fool. He stomped across the room, picked up the phone and flipped through a desktop rotary index. Stopping at Selim’s card, he squeezed the handset between his shoulder and face and traced a finger along the card while dialling the number.
The ringtone chirped until at last somebody picked it up.
“I want to speak to the sergeant of the watch.”
“Sergeant Akmed is walking the wall. Just a minute, I’ll get him.”
“No, no, not Akmed…” Too late; he was gone.
“This is Sergeant Akmed.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, but it’s Selim I want to speak with. Is he available?”
“Who is this?”
“Just tell him Beyrek needs a word.”
The phone at the other end clattered and another ten minutes passed. All the time frustration built, nipping at Beyrek’s spirit.
“Beyrek, this is Selim.”
“Jesus! At last. I was ringing to check on one of my prisoners, Mehmet Pasha.”
The phone crackled.
“Hmm, yes, what about him?”
Had Selim been slow to answer? Was he hiding something?
“Have you still got him?”
“Yes, of course. You know I have, otherwise I would’ve called. What’s the problem? Do you want me to bring him to the phone?”
The tension drained. “No, of course not. That would be stupid. No, it’s nothing, Selim, no problem – something’s happened to put me on a wrong footing. But if Mehmet’s with you then I’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Just forget I called.”
Without another word Beyrek put the phone back on the cradle.
“You’re right, Gizem, I was being a fool … but if not Mehmet then who?”
“Well, if you’re convinced this is about Levent then there’s only one person left who knew. My guess would be he’s involved.”
Beyrek brushed a hand the wrong way against the stubble on his chin. “Hmm, Yuri doesn’t fit the newspaper description, but he could’ve enlisted someone’s help. I can’t make out what’s going on. The truth is the whole thing might have nothing to do with Levent – after all, Yagmur and Marlon Le Clerc had nothing to do with the killing. It all made sense before I called Selim, but now I just don’t know… I’ll get Ilkin to put the feelers out for Yuri and see what he’s up to these days.”
Gizem nodded. “One thing’s for certain: you’ll be looking for new managers at the clubs,” she said and went back to the veranda.
Chapter 41
Yenikapi, Istanbul
A Russian soldier, on guard at the main door of the embassy, stood ramrod straight, legs apart and hands dutifully behind his back. As Mehmet approached, the guard held his gaze firmly above and away from Mehmet’s shoulder, but he was clearly aware of his every move.
“I’m working for General Michel Petrichova and I need to come in,” Mehmet said in Russian.
The soldier rested a hand on his button-down holster and replied without emotion. “Put your arms straight out from your sides and turn around.”
Mehmet followed the order and the guard patted, squeezed and ran his hands along the length of his arms, down his sides, up his back and over his shoulders until he’d worked his way to the front. He squatted and checked legs, crotch and butt. Mehmet squirmed uncomfortably under the close scrutiny.
“This way,” the guard said, tone firm, expression granite.
Following him through into the foyer, he was ordered to sit. The guard made a call and two more guards came in and stood on either side of Mehmet. No one spoke.
After close to an hour, an officer came into the hall. Mehmet stood, but the officer bade him sit and sat next to him. “I am Captain Fedorov, the duty officer. My apologies for keeping you waiting. It took a while to get patched through to General Petrichova’s office in the Kremlin. It helped that your name was on a list here.”
“List?”
“Yes, a list containing names of those who should be given urgent priority. Anyway, the general will be here in the next few days, until then you will have the freedom of the embassy, but Petrichova doesn’t want you leaving the building.”
“Okay yes, sounds good.”
*
He had no idea what orders Captain Fedorov had been given, but for the days following, Mehmet was given the respect of being … important. Early morning on the third day he was milling about in the garden behind the embassy. The whitewashed walls were high and a soldier guarded an open gate at the end of a short, winding footpath. Maybe he was there to stop him going out; he had felt like walking down to the quayside on the previous day and had been turned back at the main door.
A voice from behind made him jump. “It’s good to see you, Mehmet.”
Mehmet spun on his heels. “General Petrichova, you startled me. When did you get in?”
He went to the general with his hand out, but it was brushed aside as Petrichova took him in a clinch and kissed him on either cheek.
“Late last evening,” he told him. “I must say, we thought you were dead, but when Yuri’s paedophiles were found face down in the Bosporus, we reconsidered. Yuri made use of his contacts, followed up on countless Chinese whispers, but as you will be aware none of them led to you. Our hopes of your survival faded with time. I left your name on a list here in the hope that one day you might come in. And here you are. I think a debriefing would be in order, don’t you?”
They strolled around the garden as Mehmet outlined what had happened. He finished with, “And since getting here I’ve been treated as if I was important.”
“That’s because you are. After Yuri trained you, you became part of a crack covert unit. Although you are without rank, you’re on a sergeant’s pay.”
“A sergeant’s pay? For how long? Where is it?”
Petrichova raised an eyebrow. “How long? Oh, certainly since your first task, and where? Well, you’ve received some of it already. It was your money Yuri left in the cellar strongbox at the Ottoman house. But forget about that for now. Your turning up fits in perfectly with an operation we are about to mount.”
“But I have unfinished business of my own, General.”
“I’m sure you have and you will be able to complete it at some point, but you’re a soldier under my command and this assignment comes first.”
Disappointment weighed heavily in Mehmet’s gut. Of course, he always knew why Yuri had trained him, but he’d never been a soldier in the true sense of the word and being ordered not to do what he had in mind… Against his own wishes, he said, “Very well, General. What is it I have to do?”
“In good time. We have a meeting. Come.”
Mehmet followed Petrichova up the winding staircase. Halfway along the landing on the second level, the general opened a door into a large room. A huge conference table took centre stage and had seating for around twenty people. A woman sat alone halfway along its length and looked lost in its enormity.
She fixed a gaze on Mehmet and her dark blue eyes pierced his soul: cold, no friendship, no emotion. Having thought that, it didn’t stop her beauty radiating and setting his loins afire. She had blond hair pulled back severely from the face of an angel and was a few years older than him, but… but what a peach. She wasn’t in uniform – dressed more like an office worker – but her authoritative manner made it clear she wasn’t there to take notes. Mehmet’s eyes were drawn to her breasts, full, her white blouse pushed out taut by them. Suddenly aware he was staring he
lifted his gaze and caught sight of a haunted sadness in her eyes. His thoughts shifted guiltily to Nina and he cursed the genes he’d inherited from his father.
“Anna,” the general greeted, “this is the young man I told you about.”
Anna’s face opened into a smile and Mehmet became captivated once more.
“Then you must be Mehmet,” she said, standing, floating towards him so gracefully she didn’t appear to have taken a step. She took his hand in hers. Her voice was rich, sexy – he wanted to pull her to him.
“Hello, yes, I am,” he answered, keeping hold of her hand.
The general interrupted, “I believe you already know one of our other guests.”
Mehmet looked to the opposite side of the table. His legs wobbled. “Yuri,” he stammered.
Already, Yuri was on his feet and moving around the table as if in attack. Mehmet tried to get out of the way, but Yuri lunged, picked him off his feet and all but squeezed the life out of him.
Heavily dropping him, he bellowed out his enormous laugh while Mehmet rubbed at his throbbing shoulder. Yuri would be in his early fifties by now, but it was only through knowledge of him that Mehmet could possibly have known that. True, his fair hair had greyed at the temples and crow’s feet had crept outward from the corners of his eyes, but he looked as young and fit as he ever had. And his muscles seemed even bigger than Mehmet remembered.
“You look well, Yuri.”
Yuri cleared his throat and Mehmet detected uncharacteristic emotion. “And you’ve grown well, my boy, or should I say, my man?”
Yuri’s cheeks suddenly became damp; he was crying. Mehmet knew he’d been like a son to him and him a father in return, but to see him in tears… The moment of superiority died when Mehmet tried voicing his pleasure at the reunion. His throat choked and he wanted to turn his back, hide his feelings, but before he could he was up off his feet again with Yuri hugging him.
