by Rik Stone
Crowds filled the sidewalks – shoppers, moochers, tourists – enough that Mehmet could loiter without being obvious. Unlike Olga; her looks were drawing more attention than might be healthy.
“I want you to wait out of the way … over there.” He pointed to the arched doorway of a small bazaar that had already shut up shop. “I’ll give you the nod when I see him.”
“Why? Don’t you like to be seen with me?” she said with a sultry voice.
Mehmet cleared his throat and pulled a serious expression. “Too many people are staring at us.”
Still she embraced him and kissed his cheek before going to the other side of the road. He smiled a puzzled smile while shaking his head. He had never met a girl quite like this one and if he was honest, he had no idea how to handle her. He couldn’t fathom whether she had a thing for him, or was making a conscious effort to embarrass him. She was still uppermost on his mind when Hassan came out wearing a tonic suit with a gold shimmer running through the material. Another smile crossed Mehmet’s face; losing him in a crowd wasn’t going to happen.
Mehmet gave Olga a little wave and pointed to Hassan. She stepped from the shadows, kissed her hand, and blew it at him before turning her attention to the target. Mehmet grinned when she pulled a mocking face and let her tongue unroll from her mouth; she seemed to like the suit, too.
A hundred meters down the road, Hassan went into a restaurant bar. Mehmet followed, keeping his head down as he weaved through the small throng to the opposite end of the bar. He ordered a Raki and once served, moved away and squeezed into a seat next to a window, overlooking the street.
“Your table is ready,” a waiter said to Hassan. “Do you want to eat now, sir?”
“I’ll have a drink here first,” Hassan answered without emotion.
Mehmet traced a circle on the window and then wiped the area within: the signal for Olga to make her entrance. She breezed in like a film star and shrugged off a lightweight coat draped loosely over her shoulders. A waiter had rushed over and grabbed it before there was space between it and her body.
“Are you here to eat, miss?”
Olga smiled as she took in her surroundings. “Yes, but I think I fancy a drink up at the bar first.”
The waiter guided Olga to a seat next but one to Hassan. She sat, but then pushed her bottom up and out, smoothed her snug, black skirt with her hands and then pulled at a black, skin-hugging, crew-neck sweater. The jersey became taut and her ample breasts pushed out in rebellion. Mehmet watched Hassan try to appear nonchalant, but he was obviously as taken by her appearance as everyone else in the bar. She looked at him and smiled. He smiled back and asked, “Your first time here?”
“No, I’ve been coming here for a month now,” she answered, which made the hairs on Mehmet’s neck stiffen; if the waiters overheard the lie, her cover could be blown.
Hassan nodded and said, “I’ve been out of town. But if I’d known you were here, well …”
She giggled. The conversation quieted and Mehmet could no longer hear what was being said. Hassan looked a lot more confident and relaxed with Olga than he himself had been earlier.
Almost abruptly, Hassan stood. “Maybe you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner,” he said, imitating a gentleman.
Olga got to her feet and nodded as if she were about to curtsey. She linked arms with him and they went through to the restaurant.
Mehmet left a little breathing space before approaching a waiter. “I would like to eat if you have a table,” he said, and was soon seated. His table was two back from Olga and he sat facing her. He smiled and was pleased to see she was now taking her role seriously; she turned away without acknowledgement. Mehmet watched the couple share two bottles of red wine during dinner and then they finished with a Türk kahvesi, coffee. Hassan’s back was broad, but Mehmet could see the finely ground coffee beans settling through the liquid in the cup.
Olga pushed away from the table as Hassan finished his drink. “I need to powder my nose,” she rasped huskily. “Why don’t you order us another coffee and perhaps we can move on somewhere more comfortable afterwards.”
When coming back from the washroom, she tottered, lost her footing, stumbled a few steps, and fell clumsily over her own chair. She landed bottom first on the floor and laughed uproariously. “Too much to drink I’m afraid,” she said, giggling girlishly.
Hassan wiped his mouth on a napkin, folded it, and put it neatly on the table next to his cup. He rose from the chair and came around to pick her up. She steadied herself against him. “I’m okay,” she said, blowing through pursed lips, pulling the sweater down, pressing her breasts to his lower chest, and staring up innocently into his eyes. “Thank you … I don’t know what I’d have done without a big strong man like you to rescue me.”
Hassan eased his hold on her, but she wobbled and he reaffirmed the grip. They giggled, both appearing intoxicated with the game. Hassan still had his back to him when Mehmet got to his feet, stumbled against Olga’s table, and slipped a high dosage of chloral hydrate into the Türk kahvesi.
Chapter 42
Hassan picked up the cup, lifted his arm, and drank, and, according to script, Olga sipped at hers slowly to allow time for the drug to take effect. But only moments had passed when he said, “I think I need to walk off the meal,” and puffed as he eased himself away from the table. “I feel … light headed.”
Olga finished her coffee. “Oh, okay, if you’re ready to leave, I am too.”
He pushed the chair away, but grabbed at the table and pulled the cloth off as he stumbled. The cups and a small vase containing a single flower crashed to the floor. “Whoa!” he said, reaching for his brow. “I’m usually better with drink than this.”
Olga laughed. “Don’t worry. Here, rest on my shoulder. You said you live just along the avenue; I’ll help you get there.”
Hassan leaned on her shoulder, all the while looking groggier. One of the waiters took his other arm and they staggered to the exit door.
“Will you be alright, Mister Hassan?” he asked, letting go of him and opening the door.
Olga answered for him. “Yes, thanks, it’s not far to his apartment.”
Mehmet had stood at the bar and watched Olga struggle to keep her balance under the weight of Hassan. He paid his bill and squeezed past the bewildered waiter who stood watching her unsteady progress. The waiter turned, shrugged, and Mehmet said, “Perhaps it was something he ate.” He followed up with a boyish grin, but it wasn’t enough to stop the tirade of abuse that rained in on his head. “So much for the Turkish sense of humor,” he complained, and hurried along the sidewalk to catch up with Olga.
Hassan, while still conscious, seemed to have lost all sense of what was going on.
“Are you okay, Olga?” Mehmet asked and took some of Hassan’s weight from her.
She blew hard. “Hmph! He’s not exactly a lightweight.”
Mehmet agreed as they labored through the last few paces along the street. The door into the old apartment building where Hassan was staying was unlocked, the foyer inside a bit musty, but palatial; it must have been quite colonial in its prime. A sweeping staircase confined an open-cage lift, not unlike the one at the embassy. Mehmet hadn’t noticed, but a concierge sat hidden away in a corner and now his attention had been drawn and he ran over from the small reception desk to ask, “Who are you? Is Mister Hassan all right?”
Olga was relaxed. “Yes, we are friends. Hassan has just had a tipple too many.”
She looked up coyly and the concierge’s face softened. “Can I be of assistance?” he asked.
“No, really, we can manage. We’ll get him to his apartment, maybe have a nightcap and then leave him tucked up in bed. But we’ll be okay, thank you. Oh, unless you can go ahead and open his door for us, save us fumbling for his keys when we get him up there.”
“Of course, no problem at all,” he said and ran ahead, taking the stairs two at a time.
The doorman was leav
ing the second floor landing when the lift stopped there.
“Thank you again,” Olga whispered through the elevator’s meshed wall and waited until he was out of earshot before saying, “That saves us tracking down his apartment.”
They pulled open the mesh door and edged Hassan’s bulk awkwardly into the corridor. Inside the apartment, Olga kicked the door half shut with her heel. “Phew!” she said, blowing hard. “It felt like he’d been pressing his weight down on me.”
“I started feeling the same about fifty meters back,” he answered. “Let’s get him to the main room, so we can sit him down.”
The lounge furnishings looked jaded: a polished, yet scratched, dining table with three chairs under; two tatty armchairs next to a small coffee table with a top covered in mug rings, and a couple of drawers under it that were slightly askew and hadn’t been closed properly; an old dresser; a cupboard in the wall that was hidden with vertical strung beads; and plain wooden floors. The same musty smell of the old building Mehmet had noticed downstairs was also resident in the apartment. The inspection ended with alarm bells suddenly ringing out in his mind: Olga had said, “It felt like he’d been pressing his weight down on me,” and that was how Mehmet had felt. No one is that heavy … He was tiring them intentionally.
Mehmet stiffened, but it was too late to react; the weight on his shoulders increased as Hassan pushed down harder and then took a firm grip on his upper arm, pulled him back, and hurtled him like a ragdoll. Painfully, the fins of a radiator halted his progress and he spun away, landing with his back against the wall. Olga put up more of a fight and chopped the edge of her hand against Hassan’s face and chest, but the blows bounced off and he laughed, but then stiffened aggressively and punched her in the mouth. Her feet left the floor and her body took flight until crumpling against the wall next to Mehmet. Hassan took out a pistol with a silencer attached and Mehmet couldn’t believe he had forgotten to frisk him. He reached out, took Olga’s hand in his, and squeezed a silent comforter. Her mouth was bleeding and her lips had swelled instantly. She grimaced and then spat out a tooth. Her body began shaking as calmness left her and she sobbed pitifully. When Anna was captured and rescued, she had been tortured and who knows what else; she would never have reacted like this. Olga was newer to this game than she had been making out. His heart sank. How was he going to get her out of this?
Hassan brushed his jacket smooth. “You look surprised, Mehmet, a little puzzled even.” He laughed. “I’m not usually one to brag, but what the hell. When I pulled in front of the office block, you were on the other side of the Kennedy Cadessi watching. Surely, you saw me staring at you.”
Mehmet cringed.
“I must admit, Olga played me well in the restaurant. All credit to you there, Olga. But I knew it was only a matter of time before you made a move. When you stumbled against the table I didn’t see you spike the drink, but what else could you be doing? You watched me knock the table when I became groggy and if you’d been a little more vigilant you’d have noticed I hadn’t drunk the coffee … Oh, and this is not a movie, a Mickey takes much longer to take a hold, especially on someone as big as me. Truth is, you’re a pair of amateurs.” He cleared his throat. “To business, Mehmet, for one day only you are the chosen one.”
With that, Hassan raised his pistol and shot Olga. The bullet slapped and the grip on Mehmet’s hand weakened and slipped away.
“No!” Mehmet yelled, as he stopped her from toppling. Her head twisted to face him and her eyes stared straight through him. A gaping hole had cratered her forehead and his eyes burned as he looked upon her destroyed beauty. She slumped and then crumpled in a heap. In a snap, sorrow turned to anger and Mehmet vowed to Hassan, “Make no mistake, Hassan, I will kill you for this!”
Hassan laughed. “Yes, of course you will. Enough of your silly threats; the only reason I’m keeping you alive is because of your unnaturally close friendship with Yuri. But because of it, you still have choices. Give us Yuri’s lists and I might be able to persuade Adam to let you live … and that’s a good offer considering what you and your people have done in Marmaris.”
Hassan was now filled with his own success. He had been drinking and was relaxed, pleased with himself. This was about as vulnerable as he would get, Mehmet thought, and took advantage of his state, making a startled gesture towards the open door. Hassan turned his head a fraction and Mehmet accepted the moment. He rolled onto his belly, jumped to his feet, and pushed through the nearest door. A shot splintered the panel next to his head, yet he’d been an easy target; the lists were clearly very important to Hassan. Mehmet slammed the door shut, swung his back against the wall next to it, and felt for a light switch; he was in a bathroom. He shoved the bolt across the jamb at the same moment as the handle was pushed down from the other side. A curse and two shots fractured the lower panels of the door. Mehmet slipped a short-bladed dagger from a sheath strapped to his ankle and pressed back against the wall.
“Don’t be a stupid fuck, Mehmet! The bathroom hasn’t even got a window. Give it up; you’re not going anywhere.” Hassan’s voice was strong, but irritation hounded it.
A moment of silence and then the door thudded, the whole wall shuddering with it. Mehmet chocked the door with a wooden wedge that lay on the floor under the bath, but if Hassan didn’t stop the pounding soon, it wouldn’t just be the door; the whole wall would come tumbling down.
Hassan’s need for Mehmet to live seemed to lose importance when rapid fire peppered top and bottom panels. Another attack splintered a piece of planking from the upper section, the frame fractured at the point where the hasp was screwed in, and the door became twisted in the frame, leaving a gap big enough for Hassan to push a hand through. Mehmet switched the light off as Hassan stuck the gun into the hole and fired indiscriminately.
When Hassan withdrew the weapon to reload, Mehmet readied himself. Again, the gun was pushed through the opening and began firing. A flash from the weapon and Hassan’s hand showed itself. Mehmet came down with as much force as he could muster, stabbed the short-bladed knife through Hassan’s hand and forced the dagger back through flesh and grinding bone. Hassan squealed in surprised pain and the pistol clattered to the floor. Mehmet switched on the light, picked up the pistol, and fired into the broken panel. A noise moved across the adjoining room and Mehmet kicked the wedge from the door. Hassan had scurried across the wooden flooring, but not to leave the apartment; he was taking another gun from a drawer in the dresser. He turned and fired clumsily with his left hand. Take your time, Mehmet thought. He’s a big man and only three meters away; you can’t miss. He squeezed off two shots – and missed. He cast the pistol aside, took his throwing knife from his jacket and threw it. Deadly accurate, the blade flew and punctured the left side of Hassan’s neck. An arterial cascade sprayed over the wall beside him. The fountain of blood receded to mild blubbing and Hassan dropped to his knees.
“Hassan,” Mehmet said gently, “where will I find Adam?”
Hassan’s throat gurgled as he softly said, “Fuck … you,” and fell facedown onto the wooden floor.
Mehmet felt Hassan’s wrist and neck for a pulse but, of course, there was none. Michel wouldn’t be pleased. Mehmet should have taken him alive.
Chapter 43
The Russian cleaners turned up in a phony ambulance and Mehmet watched on sadly as they zipped Olga up into a tarpaulin body bag, lifted her onto a stretcher, and hurried from the apartment. Her handler organized the exit and had done it without emotion, but for Mehmet the guilt was crushing. Olga had been sent out into the field too soon; she hadn’t been ready.
“How old was she?” he asked.
“I think around seventeen,” the handler mumbled into his chest.
“What?” Mehmet exclaimed. “That can’t be right. She looked much older and she told me she’d been doing work like this since childhood.”
“No, not Olga; she’d been a relatively late starter. Some do come to us as children, that much is
true, but not her. If she pretended to be more experienced than she was, it would be a reaction to peer pressure. A wasted resource, this was her first task and she had been top in class for most disciplines, but from what you say, for this she was sloppy.” He spoke the words without sentiment.
Mehmet wanted to argue in her favor, but what could he say? What could he do? She was dead. It was too late.
The Russian gave him a stone-faced glare, walked over to where Hassan lay, got down on his heels, and began preparing him for a body bag.
“Leave him where he is,” Mehmet ordered. “He isn’t one of ours and I can make use of the corpse.”
The handler gave him a quizzical look but moved away from Hassan and then left the room without question. If somehow Mehmet could get Adam to the apartment then the sight of Hassan might disarm him long enough for him to take the advantage. But how could he go about getting him there?
*
General Michel Petrichova was in Istanbul to organize the unit’s return and to plan the exchange of Semtex for heroin in Icmeler. Mehmet was with him in the Yenikapi Embassy and was trying to convince him to keep the vigil for Adam Mannesh alive; he had an idea, but Michel wasn’t forthcoming.
“I think Mannesh knows everything that’s happened and will have gone into hiding,” he told Mehmet. “I’m pulling the plug on that business and concentrating our efforts on the Semtex shipment.”
Mehmet tried to protest.
“And before you pull that face, it’s partly down to you. I told you to take Hassan alive.”
“And I had a choice about that? I know you give the orders, Michel, but I don’t think Hassan was using the apartment to pull us into his trap after spotting me. The clothes we found indicate he’d been living there. We can easily confirm that with the concierge.”
“Okay and you’re suggesting what?”
“I don’t need help. Give me a few more days with it alone. I have a plan,” Mehmet explained.
