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

by Rik Stone

  The water taxi sidled up to and bumped against the public jetty on the adjacent shore to the marina. Yuri stepped from the boat first, turned, gave a worried nod, and began walking towards the bar-cum-brothel in Icmeler. Sergeant Kudret ran several whore houses as well as the drug trade and Sergeant Amoun had invited every policeman at the station, other than a young recruit on the desk, along to celebrate his birthday. He told them he was buying.

  Adam took to the jetty in a stride and Hassan followed. They walked in the opposite direction to the one Yuri had taken. About a hundred meters along the quay they came to a cream-colored, twenty-eight-seat coach parked in the road with the engine running. The decal on the side read Istanbul Tours. The words were in large, red letters and a lick swished back from the last letter, underlining the insignia with a swirl. The coach was facing the sea and the sixteen people Adam had brought from Ankara were spread out inside. The driver sat behind the wheel, cigarette between lips, sucking like a child with a dummy. He drew on the weed and smoke streams trickled through his nostrils while blue vapors crept from the edge of his mouth. The ash had grown long, the butt short, and the ensemble looked perilously close to setting fire to the overweight moustache resting on his top lip.

  Neither passengers nor driver acknowledged Adam’s approach. Ignoring the bus in return, he and Hassan went over to the opposite side of the road and passed time window shopping. Twenty minutes later, Sergeant Kudret appeared on the promenade with four of his uniformed officers and the three officers belonging to Adam. There were also three men in dark suits, detectives, with them.

  “They all seem to be in party mood,” Adam said to Hassan, as he watched the group playfully pushing at each other and laughing too loud. “Come on. Time to put this thing into action.”

  They crossed back to the rear of the coach and began beckoning the driver out onto the not-too-busy coast road. The police group approached and Kudret gave Adam a broad grin. “Mister Mannesh, working like a peasant,” he laughed. “You’re not going down in the world I hope.”

  His companions chuckled with him. No, I’m not, but you will be, Adam thought, but said, “Ah, Sergeant Kudret, isn’t it? Yes, you would think so, but me doing this is a one off,” he said, the thought bringing a cheesy grin to his face. “I think you know I operate a driving firm – land taxis, water taxis, stuff like that. Now I’m trying to set up a tourist operation for business people in Istanbul. Marmaris and Icmeler are still fairly untouched and seem like a good part of the country to launch the operation.”

  Kudret smiled. “Hmm, sounds good. What do you do with the people when you get here?”

  Excellent, someone must have given him a copy of the script. “Unfortunately that has just given me my first problem. The hotel I had made a deal with has overbooked and we have nowhere to stay. Not a problem in itself, one of my people is sorting something out as we speak, but I need somewhere to feed and water this lot. Somewhere to keep them excited until we’re sorted.”

  As he spoke, a couple of the passengers disembarked and began complaining. “I know,” Adam told them. “And I can only apologize, but bear with me and I’m sure my people will find an even better alternative.” They returned to their seats grumbling.

  Adam sighed and then Officer Nazar stepped up, smoothing a finger along the length of his fine moustache. “Dear me, does the farmer know they’re out of the pigpens?” he asked, loud enough for those on the coach to hear. “Not exactly beauty contestants are they.” He held his head up and back, Valentino style. The officers with him burst out laughing.

  Adam chuckled and quietly said, “No, but they are quite important business people.” He turned attention back to Kudret. “That’s why I’m organizing the trip myself. Anyway, they’re getting twitchy. I’d better find somewhere to keep them happy.”

  “Join us,” Kudret said. “We’re celebrating the new sergeant’s birthday and are on our way to The Zanzi-bar at the other end of the promenade – plenty there to excite them, believe me.”

  Adam looked at him, puzzled, as if he couldn’t understand the suggestion. He pushed the back of his fez slightly forward, scratched the back of his head, and then let his eyes widen. “Thank you,” he said, nodding agreeably.

  Kudret told his officers, “I’ll see you lot at the club. I’m going with the coach to show the driver where to park. Try conducting yourselves like proper policemen, please.” He shook his head and laughed at the scorn he got back from them. The policeman walked off along the prom, laughter and cheering dominating as Nazar continued to snort like a pig, enjoying his revenge against those who had laughed at his fat friend.

  Kudret climbed onto the bus, made a cursory introduction to the passengers, and sat in the front seat next to the driver, who had lit up yet another cigarette. The driver let a few moments pass before lifting a thumb and forefinger, and flicking the cigarette through the window. The red end splintered into sparks as it smashed onto the sidewalk below. The coach, which had part-blocked the road for the period Kudret chatted, took a quarter turn and moved off in the direction of Icmeler.

  The drive was a short one. “Here we are. Stop and let the passengers off then you can park over there,” Kudret said, pointing to a spot where the coach would have to park long-ways and take four or five standard spaces.

  At the entrance to the club, Adam stepped back and Kudret ushered the group in, laughing under his breath. “Funny lot,” he said. “Except for the long skinny one, they’ve all got purses.”

  Adam laughed along with him and, knowing what he knew, it was genuine enough. “I know, city fashions …” he said, raising an eyebrow skyward.

  They followed the last man into the bar. “They’ll be alright without you now. Sit at my table; I’d like to hear about this new venture of yours,” Kudret said to Adam.

  The sergeant sat down first and faced the entrance. “Here they come,” he said, as his police group shuffled in. “You’ll need to show a little understanding, Adam. After this lot has had a few drinks the roof will lift off.”

  “Don’t worry. I like a party where people go at it as if it’s their last,” he laughed.

  Two of the dark-suited detectives came over and sat with them. The rest of the policemen spread out, other than Adam’s officers, who went to the bar and stood with their backs to it. Adam’s group moved away from the bar and out near the walls, tentatively clutching drinks and purses. Adam shifted his chair to a position where he could see the entrance. There had already been two uniformed officers here when they arrived, including Kudret, that made ten in opposition. It was early, so the two barmaids would be the only collateral damage.

  “Your new sergeant seems a friendly sort.”

  “He is. I like him, but three more officers assigned for duty here seems ridiculous.”

  “Why?”

  “With the new people, we now number ten uniforms and three detectives. Oh, plus the one at the station now. It’s crazy.” Kudret shook his head in disbelief.

  “But I thought you covered a large area.”

  “Oh, we do, a huge district, but nothing much illegal happens that we’re not already on top of.”

  Adam shifted attention, broke free of the conversation. He had asked Yuri to stay outside until the last of the policemen had entered. His entrance had brought them close to the signal Adam had passed on to his crew when he came from the water taxi. All eyes would stay on Yuri until the fireworks kicked off.

  The timing was good. Everyone was settled with a drink. Yuri went to the bar and ordered vodka. Adam watched Kudret puzzling and then the sergeant’s shoulders suddenly stiffened. He stared harder. “That big man who’s just come in, he’s a Russian.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, I’m having him watched. He’s been spending a lot of time at the marina in Marmaris. Maybe coincidence … er, because he’s Russian, but he’s been hanging around ever since the murders. And my information tells me Russians were responsible. Did you hear about the murders?” he asked
Adam.

  “Beyrek Ozel, his family, and some of his people were killed. Yes, of course I’d heard,” Adam said. “I’d known Beyrek since way back, when we both lived in Istanbul. In fact, there’s been occasion we’ve worked together.”

  Kudret looked surprised. “You worked with Beyrek Ozel?”

  Adam smiled. “Yes, and not just me; Yuri knew him, too.”

  Kudret was positively frowning now. “Yuri?”

  “The Russian over there, the one you said you’ve been following. He’s Yuri Aleksii, and you’re right to watch him; he’s a player.” Adam laughed, knowing he wouldn’t have to explain the words. Maybe he’d heard the laughter, but Yuri turned towards the Kudret table. Adam nodded and Yuri responded by bowing his head. It had begun. The setup suddenly came to life and flowed like poetry. In response to Yuri’s nod, one of the bus passengers pushed a fellow tourist. The man toppled back against a group of policemen sitting at the centre table. Kudret raised his butt halfway from the chair and Adam placed a hand on his elbow to hold him back.

  Two officers got up to sort out the scrap and, with undeniable speed, Ata Abbas moved between them. He had positioned his lanky frame against the wall near the exit, a Srbosjek strapped to his hand: a Serbian wheat sheaf cutting blade molded into the side of a leather band with thumb hole and wrist fastener. He positioned himself to prevent anyone seeing what was happening and sunk the blade into the abdomen of one of them, dragging it upward. Withdrawing the weapon, he slashed it across the man’s throat, spun full circle, and plunged the knife into the spine of the other officer.

  Adam had watched, he’d known what to expect, but the sheer speed of Ata’s movement had even taken him by surprise. Ata stuck the policeman a few times more and both victims crashed through tables and onto the floor. Ata raised himself upright, stared around the bar, daring anyone to tackle him, and successfully took the attention from the rest of Adam’s people. His grin frothed and his face suggested he might faint with ecstasy.

  Kudret’s people were clearly confused, bewildered even. Adam’s crew had been furnished with the Type 67 silenced pistols favored by the military of the Chinese Peoples Republic. Already they had withdrawn the guns from their purses and were firing into the remaining policemen. As previously instructed, the cross bolt buttons had been locked, putting the guns into single shot, increasing the silencing effect, and safeguarding those in the melee who weren’t meant to die. In a few seconds, nine police officers lay dead.

  Silence stepped in. A barmaid spattered with blood had pressed back against the wall, as if trying to dissolve into it while the other girl remained frozen to the spot with her mouth open wide, trying to scream but unable to. Helga threw herself sideways over the counter and with a side-hand-chop, struck the girl against the wall in the throat. A sound like pulping wet clay and the barmaid’s larynx had smashed. She fell to her knees gagging. Atas Abbas had forsaken his knife and was pointing a pistol at the other girl. The joy on his face was palpable when he fired three bullets into her chest.

  Adam stuck his Czech Cz-70 pistol into the base of Kudret’s skull and scrunched the back of his shirt into a fist. Yuri took a senseless step towards the girl, holding her throat, as an assassin squeezed off a round and shot out her left eye. The remaining girl kneeled on the floor, groaning, and another tourist put a bullet into the back of her skull. To confirm the policemen were dead, each received a shot to the back of the head.

  “Well,” Adam said, jovially. “Looks like you’re the last man standing, Sergeant Kudret.”

  “But … I don’t …” Kudret replied and turned to face his counterpart. “Amoun,” he whimpered and Amoun came over and patted Kudret’s upper arm, as if they were friends.

  “Don’t worry about him, Sergeant Kudret, he’s with me,” Adam said. “Anyway, you’re safe enough. We’re going to the depots where you process the drugs. You’ll introduce me as your new partner and business will go on as normal.”

  Kudret’s paled skin visibly relaxed and mirth had Adam’s fleshy weight moving like the shifting seas. He took in the expression on Yuri’s face and whispered softly to him, “I told Kudret we’re going into partnership and he said he’d be pleased to get us into the drug depots.”

  Yuri didn’t respond. His face had turned as ashen as Kudret’s, but then he asked, “What will you do with these bodies?” and Adam thought he detected shaking in the voice.

  “The bus is backing into the side alley now. These poor souls will soon be boarded and it won’t be long after that they’ll be the very foundation of a hotel I’m having built just along the road,” he said, laughing some more. “You’ve probably passed it a hundred times. You might even know some of the people residing there.”

  *

  The bus had backed into the alley next to The Zanzi-bar. Yuri reckoned it must’ve left and returned after making a pickup because several men and women in overalls were getting off with cleaning equipment and then three young women got off dressed for bar duty. Clearly, it would soon be business as usual. There was no doubt; Adam had planned the attack down to the last detail. But why did they bring him along? Yuri wondered. Consideration came to an end as two black limos pulled up to the sidewalk. Adam told Yuri to get into the lead car with him. Hassan and Kudret got in the back and Helga climbed into the second vehicle with four men. Adam’s policemen began walking off in the direction of the station. That meant ten, maybe twelve, gunmen had been left behind.

  A ten-minute drive and the cars stopped about a kilometer from the drug depots. Adam got out and went to the rear of the car. Yuri followed, uninvited.

  “Listen,” Adam said to Helga, who had joined him from the trailing vehicle. “Tell the others I don’t want any of the processors hurt. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s go,” he told Yuri.

  The cars arrived at the depot and Kudret led them to the entrance. When the perimeter guard acknowledged him, all but one henchman walked through into an unused saloon and out through the back where another building had two more guards in attendance. They were relaxed. One nodded subserviently to Kudret and before anyone could say anything, Adam’s people shot them down. Yuri watched. They were organizing themselves like a covert special operations squad: neatly, swiftly, almost silently, two dead bodyguards at the door and four more inside. A young woman who wore a white face mask and nothing else had been caught in the crossfire and blood blubbed between the mask and her chin. Her dead eyes stared off into the unknown.

  Adam shrugged. “Casualties of war,” he said and grinned.

  It was crystal clear why Adam hadn’t wanted the workers hurt, of course; he needed the chemists and those who mixed and sorted the shit. They were one set of people he couldn’t do without. Yuri thought about the helping hand Adam had been so quick to offer when Anna was taken. The whole thing had been about him stepping into Kudret’s shoes, and taking over Beyrek Ozel’s empire. Before Yuri could curse himself further for his stupidity, a man rushed into the room.

  “Ata has just stopped by on his way to the seed barn. The whorehouse has been cleaned out and our hostesses are in control,” he said.

  Adam laughed, threw his arms around Hassan, and warmly embraced him. “We’ve done it! Now …” Yuri heard him whisper what seemed to be the beginning of a sentence, but it had been all he wanted to say. Hassan took a step back as Adam spoke to the sergeant. “All finished, Kudret. Looks like you’ve just become excess baggage.”

  “But you said–”

  Hassan had worked his way behind Kudret and pulled a pistol. He squeezed off a shot, a boom, and the dome of Kudret’s skull was smashed away from the rest of his head. Flesh, hair, and blood tufted and Kudret crashed to the floor. Maybe it was a demonstration to nurture fearful respect from the workers when Adam put two more shots into Kudret’s back. If that had been the idea, it worked.

  Yuri stepped over Kudret and faced Adam. “Not very clever, you–” But before he could finish, something thudded, shaki
ng the contents of his head, and an array of sparks splintered through his mind. Thoughts came and went without sense, and his whole being spiraled between dark and light before plummeting into a mental abyss. The confusion ended as he was absorbed by a nothingness that had become absolute.

  Chapter 24

  KGB Headquarters, Tula, Russia

  Afanasiy marched Borislav Georgy to the interrogation room he’d commandeered, and he was bristling – pebbles indeed! He slipped on his black leather gloves, the ones with pouches on the backs of the fingers and knuckles packed tight with powdered lead, and pushed Borislav through the doorway. The invoice sergeant turned in response and Afanasiy threw a roundhouse punch that deflated him like a balloon; his body withered and he crumpled to the floor. Afanasiy looked down at his unconscious prisoner, satisfaction calming his anger.

  It was the first time Afanasiy had worked in this particular KGB building, but it was like every other he had visited, other than this room had windows. But, like the rest, it was poorly lit; chilled, yet clammy; damp, yet dry and dusty. Wherever his work took him the smell of these rooms clung to him like shit to a blanket. He involuntarily shivered; even in the frozen wastes of Vorkuta he could imagine the smell. Weapons of persuasion had been brought into the room earlier by a duty guard. As Afanasiy had demanded, the tools were strategically placed on a table taking pride of place in the center of the room. They were always the first thing a prisoner saw on entering and their eyes seemed to grow ever wider on seeing them.

  Afanasiy smiled at the simple worktop on which the toolkit sat. It reminded him of his boyhood. He used to watch his mother scrub the cuffs of his father’s shirts on a table like this one. He would try to help; holding onto the sides, he would climb so his feet rested on the trestle bar and reach out a hand to pull the clothing straight. His mother would be leant over the bleached, old, wooden slats holding down a shirt sleeve, gripping a large block of funny-colored soap. The smell of steaming clothes would fill the room and she’d rub and rub, fighting the fight against unyielding stains. He smiled fondly thinking of how strands of hair fell over her face, and of how she’d stick out her bottom lip and blow them out of the way.