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

by Rik Stone

  Shards of wood splintered from the frame as he ducked through the door. The throbbing pain in his shoulder slowed him. He couldn’t go on. But he had to. He had to escape. He raced downstairs and out through the main door, shuddering with grief. Gizem hadn’t been the only one. They’d killed Ilkin, his firstborn.

  He suppressed the sobbing as he ran in amongst the orange trees. Just short of the wall, he dropped to his belly, elbows digging into the ground. It was wet and the smell of urine rose to fill his nostrils. Those fucking guards had been using his orange grove to piss in. When he got his hands… Stupid, they were dead. And now wasn’t the time to think of the squalor or of ruining his expensive suit. He had to get free of this fix.

  His chest heaved breathlessly. He tried controlling it, calming his body, relaxing his mind and allowing himself to be absorbed into the darkness. But his hand ached: too tight a grip on the Browning. Fear welled up again, but he couldn’t let it take control; he had to calm himself, if he lost it now…

  The double doors to the house opened and closed. Shadows flickered and his heart flickered with them.

  And then the courtyard lit up as the doors were flung wide open. Yuri and Anna began scurrying back and forward along the drive. The lighting at the main gates was on and Beyrek could see they were carrying the stuff from his office and loading it into a small car there. Finally, they made a trip without returning. Car doors slammed. He didn’t hear the engine start, but it must have because he saw the car roll away.

  Forever drifted by. No one had moved in the house and Yuri and Anna hadn’t returned from the car – they were gone. He considered: in the house earlier he fired two shots. He definitely hit the little man. He must have killed the Turk as well. He rose to an elbow and then used the tree to pull himself to his knees. Pain seared in his shoulder, but he forced himself not to think about it: it wasn’t as if he hadn’t endured pain when working his way from the gutter.

  Time passed. He’d made it. He pulled in a sharp breath, filled his lungs with the fresh night air and, still fearful, rose to his feet.

  *

  Mehmet crouched in the grove, unmoving. The sweet smell of oranges was strong alongside the evening dew and his mind tiptoed through his past; from childhood through to Synopi, all the time, Beyrek’s dominance shaping his life. He knew he had to be extra careful here. He couldn’t afford to do anything rash on this his final assault.

  Quiet time drifted by.

  A noise, a heavy sigh – and coming from close by. His eyes tried to push the darkness to one side as he stared keenly into the grove. And then the dice rolled in his favour. The clouds opened. A glint, he saw a glint; for a moment the moon had reflected on Beyrek’s handgun.

  Mehmet had already chambered a round. Now he had to give his all to the target. For once in his life he needed to shoot straight. With absolutely stillness, he steadied the gun with both hands.

  Another noise. He’d moved again.

  The glint showed itself once more and in the same place. Mehmet pulled the trigger twice.

  A thud. Beyrek had fallen. Mehmet crept stealthily forward. His enemy could still be dangerous. But as he closed the gap it became clear he wouldn’t be responding. He lay next to an orange tree, his chest wheezing and him looking incapable of movement. He was down.

  Mehmet edged forward. Beyrek turned his head towards him. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Who else? I am Mehmet, son of your friend, Levent Pasha. I only tell you because I want you to know how life’s mistakes can come back to haunt you. Albeit, you can’t learn from it; this is your final lesson.”

  Mehmet stood and straddled Beyrek with the intention of finishing the job, but Beyrek twisted his body and lunged upward, stabbed Mehmet in the upper thigh. Mehmet dropped the gun, as he jumped back in surprise. Several steps back, he came to a stop against a tree and let it take his weight, took a breather, tried to work out his next move, tried to work out where Beyrek got the energy from to make the assault. Mehmet had hit him twice in the right side of his chest. His lung had to have been punctured. Didn’t matter how, it happened, take your time here, he told himself, don’t panic. But Beyrek got to his feet and rushed at him. Mehmet reached for his knife, pushed off from the tree, wrapped his arms around Beyrek and plunged the blade into Beyrek’s kidney area. Beyrek gasped and fell back.

  “You can’t kill me, please,” he said, staring up pleadingly.

  Mehmet couldn’t comprehend how this man could expect him to show mercy. Sincere, or another trick? Who cares, he wasn’t about to be caught out again. He stamped on Beyrek’s wrist until he let go the grip on his knife, and then turned him face down, straddled his feet on either side of him. He pulled his blade from Beyrek’s side and plunged the dagger deep between his shoulder blades. Beyrek groaned as his flesh submitted to the blade Mehmet forced between his shoulders, not stopping until it had buried up to the hilt. Mehmet walked away, left the corpse to rot in the sweet-smelling gloom of the night, but then he had to break into a running limp. Yuri’s incendiary bombs had begun exploding. He watched over his shoulder as he ran. The boom of the charges rang out, huge flames licked from windows and the ground shuddered. Yuri held the gate as Mehmet hurried towards him and through. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Anna as the final blast went up and the force washed past them. The explosion flared once more and the building was obliterated.

  The Fiat was parked against the wall, beyond the gate. Alik was on the back seat and wasn’t looking good, but he was alive. All the same, they would have to move fast. Anna climbed in with him to act as nurse.

  “We’ll have to leave the clubs for now, get Alik back to Istanbul,” Yuri said as Mehmet climbed into the front.

  He let his head flop against the headrest. Along with his breath, he felt like he was exhaling a lifetime of pent-up emotion. His nemesis was dead; the man who was born a dog, died a dog. Mehmet felt his heart might burst.

  It was over.

  Chapter 52

  Yenikapi, Istanbul 1972

  Mehmet sat with Yuri, thinking about the latter part of the operation. The leg wound Beyrek had inflicted on him was superficial and the journey back to Istanbul was without incident. Russian vehicles had raced to the jetty to pick Alik up and sirens screamed their way to the city’s main embassy where he could receive the best medical attention. The news awaiting Anna’s arrival had her making hasty farewells and leaving straight for the airport for a flight to Northern Russia to be by her man’s side.

  The general broke into the thoughts, almost stormed into the room and sat opposite him and Yuri. Fidgeting into a more comfortable position, he coughed to make it clear he was ready to speak. As usual, Yuri sat up straight as if a poker had been shoved up his back and, as usual, Mehmet wanted to laugh.

  “Everything that could have been done for Alik was done,” the general began. “But he didn’t make it. He died around midnight last night.”

  No one spoke for a minute and Mehmet gave mind to his own personal lament throughout the silence. He hadn’t disliked Alik in any way, but he had thought of him as a cold sort of man. Nevertheless, he’d been a good comrade and a fundamental part in Mehmet having his revenge. It was sadness that dominated his emotions.

  The general coughed again. “My intelligence officers here have gone through Beyrek’s files. This is by no means a complaint, but the man was overconfident. He kept meticulous records of his dealings and it seems not destroying the clubs could be a benefit.”

  “How so?” Yuri asked, sitting even higher and wider in his seat.

  “If you remember I told you one of the clubs was called The Sugar Depot and the other The Refinery.”

  “And the files told you what that meant,” Mehmet said.

  The general drummed his fingers hungrily on the desk. “Yes, and it was obvious when you think about it. They’re receiving and processing plants for heroin. Shipments of drugs delivered to Marmaris are being paid for with explosives – explosives from Russia. I do
n’t know what they’re used for, this is one place the files are a bit vague, but it’s not unreasonable to assume they’re facilitating terror attacks. We’ve determined when the next drug shipment is due, so you destroying the head of the operation will be nothing more than a hiccup to them. I would wager that someone has already stepped into the position.”

  “So quickly?” Mehmet asked.

  “Yes, it seems a shipment of Semtex is being stored in Icmeler right now. The files indicate exchange for the drugs has been arranged, so I would expect everything to regroup in a hurry.”

  A rush of excitement in Mehmet was followed by a surge of fear. His stomach knotted.

  The general continued. “We have a month plus a little bit more, so you have time to take care of any personal matters you might have here in the city. Still, I want the pair of you ready for action. The campaign continues. I’ll be coming here at short notice to discuss strategy, at least until we have a plan firmly in place, so make sure to contact the embassy daily to see if you’re needed… Now, unless you have more business, we’re finished.”

  Mehmet and Yuri shook their heads. The general stood. Yuri and Mehmet did the same and the general hugged them both in turn, gave them a wide-eyed expression, and turned and hurried off as if he was needed elsewhere.

  The corridors seemed extra stuffy to Mehmet as he walked through them with Yuri. His mind raced. He was in turmoil. The general could make as many plans as he liked, but could Mehmet allow himself to continue being a part of it all? Beyrek was dead and his life was in a different place because of it. Should he be thinking of a new beginning? If he stayed with the general’s unit then nothing would have changed. And now his vengeance was sated should he be looking for a different path in life?

  Passing through the entrance of the embassy, they were greeted by a warm sun. Mehmet opened the top buttons of his shirt as he and Yuri walked along the coastal road towards Sirkeci.

  “I suppose you’re off to see Pinar,” Mehmet said, at the same time realising he had no immediate plans – or future ones. In fact, he began feeling a little lost and empty. His life was without purpose.

  Yuri laughed. “Yes and the reunions we have after an absence are…” He laughed again. “What about you? You know you don’t have to go along with what the general is asking. You’re on the payroll, but it isn’t really official; you can walk away whenever you want. And why not? All the things that you feel messed up your life have been dealt with. You could make a new start.”

  Exactly, Mehmet thought, but if he were to walk away, what would he do? He had military skills and he knew how to rob people. Stealing was off the agenda and where other than with the general would his military prowess be of any use? He raised his eyebrows, a little puzzled by it all, but then a thrill suddenly filled the void in his vacant emotions.

  “You know where Nina is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, she’s not so far from Pinar’s place. I can take you there right now if you want.”

  “Take me,” he said.

  Thinking of Yuri going off to see Pinar had caused a sudden wanting in him and his stomach had lurched thinking of Nina. He’d never made love to her and its promise took a hold on his mind – and other places. He wanted her. But what of his intentions? Was it love or lust? A rush of guilt flattened the idea. Like Yuri said; he could start again, but even if she was still interested in him, could he really settle to a normal life with her, with anyone?

  He had to seriously ask himself: was this love he felt for Nina? Something inside him wanted a normal life and he supposed he wanted it to be with her. But there was another part of him that didn’t feel ready to settle.

  The rationalising took a dive as the fire in his belly grew. He would see Nina. But he wouldn’t make his decision about working for the general; there was no pressure there for the moment: the choice was his.

  THE END

  The Man in the Blue Fez

  A Birth of an Assassin novel

  Rik Stone

  © 2015 Rik Stone

  Rik Stone has asserted his rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in eBook format in 2015

  ISBN: 9781783018437

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.

  All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Northern Russia, January 1973

  Noon, the sun had begun its descent towards the western horizon and the promise of warmth was sinking with it. Gold and pink rays glancing off mountaintops spread as one over the frozen lake below. Midway up a mountain slope overlooking the lake and not too far from where the Urals trailed off into the wasteland, Pavel Rostislav lay in wait. A light wind whispered across the incline, bringing cold that found a way through his winter gear and set him shivering. He snuggled into the hollow cut from the compacted snow as far as he dared, but knew there could be no respite. He had to hold his vigil.

  With teeth gritted, he raised the standard issue field glasses to his eyes and scoped the fishing hole in the ice lake while trying to ignore the freezing barbs that spiked at his bones. Time pressed on and he took a moment of it to glance at the thermometer on the backpack by his side, shuddering to see the temperature had dropped to minus fifty. Mist clouds would be visible to an enemy, so he expelled his breath against the chinstrap on his snowsuit, but then small ice crystals bunched up there and he exhaled in exasperation, irritation nipping at his spirit.

  The sun dropped below the peaks and the ice lake turned bluish grey while the sky on the eastern horizon reflected mauve tiers on snow-knuckled mountains. Snow flurries lifted from drifts nearby and snaked down into the basin, dancing like ashes blown from a dead fire. Pavel’s goggles took the color down a notch further and his heart sank. All he wanted now was to get this thing done and return to camp. However, just as he began feeling that his blood might turn to an icy sludge or his body may be only moments away from paralysis, a blur on the landscape took human shape and his spirits lifted. Shrouded in a heavy arctic snowsuit, the man moved sl
owly yet gracefully towards the fishing pole sticking up from the ice. The garment he wore should have been brilliant white, but it had turned a dull bluish grey – same as everything else. He wore traditional Siberian snowshoes – same as Pavel’s – large teardrop-shaped hardwood frames with rawhide lacing crisscrossed into a strong latticework. Not a big man and because of that, and his deftness, he hardly left a print as the meter-long constructs dabbed and glided gently over the snow. Any imprints he might have made were swiftly covered as clouds of blue flakes curled around his ankles and stole all signs of his presence.

  After clearing newly formed ice from the fishing hole, he pulled on the cord attached to the pole and hauled in his catch. Four fish, equally spaced along the line, flapped on the ice. He cut the smallest free and cast it back into the water. Pavel felt that old excitement bubble up and adrenalin ran hot around his gut. His patience had endured long enough. It was time to end the task. His gloves fumbled as he unzipped the leather sleeve and took out the Dragunov sniper rifle within. The deep scar next to his left eye itched as it always did when the thrill of the chase got the better of him. He ran a finger along the crevice to ease the irritation and then tucked the hollow stock of the gun into the softer flesh under his shoulder. Resting his face on the gun’s cheek pad, he slipped his gloved finger inside the Arctic trigger guard, scoped the target through the range finder and smiled. This was all so easy. Almost too easy; for a rifle like the Dragunov, six hundred meters was an effortless distance. The crosshair settled on an elbow and he slowly panned the weapon until his aim was centered where the man’s temple would be.

  “Bang, you’re dead,” he whispered, and gently squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter 1

  Northern Russia, December 1972

  His wife’s disturbed moaning dragged Jez Kord away from packing his kit and he smiled sympathetically. Anna had been asleep for several hours and while he knew she would never admit it, her nerves were jangled before going out on the mission. They were in the married quarters of a Gulag that was once part of Stalin’s death camp infrastructure. In the Siberian plains, yet less than a thousand meters from where the last of the Ural Mountains trailed off, the forgotten compound lay two hundred kilometers north and east of the city of Vorkuta in the Komi District. Because of its distance from civilization it was ideally situated for him and the other eighty or so military personnel to live and train together.