‘Let’s go face the music.’
Finn glanced up as the receptionist appeared in the doorway, and then turned back to Emrah as she discretely closed the door to the room.
For the past twenty minutes, he and Steve had endured the full wrath of the Turkish military officer’s anger, while Hart tried to remain invisible, cowering in his chair.
‘This is a disaster,’ said Emrah. ‘My career could be on the line for this.’
‘If the comms equipment worked, we could have done a better job,’ snarled Finn. ‘And some proper back-up support would have helped – we were running around blind in there. Why weren’t any of your team watching the building anyway? We identified it as a target hours ago.’
‘You let a shopkeeper use you for his own personal vendetta,’ said Emrah. ‘Just because the garage owner was rude to his son, he chose to implicate him in the kidnapping of the American woman.’
Finn clenched his teeth, his fists balling. ‘It was a valid lead.’
‘She was never there!’ yelled Emrah.
‘We had the footage of Mustafa’s son dropping off the video,’ said Finn. ‘He’s involved somehow!’
‘Finn’s got a fair point,’ said Steve. ‘After all, you’ve got five dead men who are known criminals, and you’ve still got Mustafa in custody. He must know something about Kaan’s plans. Perhaps we could question him again?’
‘Pft.’ Emrah turned his back on them and walked towards the door. ‘I must go back to my office and explain to my superiors why we have failed to apprehend a known terrorist and rescue Ms Foster,’ he said. ‘You will continue to update me on developments – if and when you succeed in that endeavour.’ He paused. ‘I will see if I can arrange the interview.’
Finn waited until the door slammed shut, and then exhaled slowly, stretching his neck.
Steve stared at him. ‘No outburst? No punching walls?’
‘He’s right. We screwed up. I screwed up.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe? We just stormed a building with six Turkish special forces operatives, five blokes are dead, we have no bomb – and Kate is still missing. Which part of that wasn’t a screw up?’
‘They were there at some point, Finn. We know that much. Someone must know something.’
‘So what are you saying – we keep looking?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’
‘Emrah will kill us himself if he finds out.’
‘So let’s not tell him. Come on – I’ve got an idea.’
Finn rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms above his head, then peered at the computer screen once more, his gaze flickering over the text and numbers as he scrolled through the pages.
Across the desk, Steve used his laptop to pull up more documents, printing them out for further analysis.
For the past hour, the two men had worked their way through the tax records, calling in favours and gradually understanding how Mustafa’s business worked.
Finn sat with his chin in his hand, tapping his foot on the carpet as he reviewed the paperwork which the police had seized at the property they’d raided.
‘You realise he was probably dealing in cash most of the time?’
‘Uh huh. Got any better ideas?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Good. In the meantime, keep looking.’
Steve reached over to the printer, pulled a pile of paper across the desk and began flicking through the pages.
‘Here we go. Profit and loss statements.’
‘By the look of that building, he was making a loss.’
‘That’s what I would have thought, but these don’t look too bad. I mean, he’s only just turning a profit, but he’s not struggling.’
‘What are you – an accountant now?’
Steve glared at him. ‘Who do you think does all the tax paperwork for my hostage business? The same business which employs you?’
‘Ah.’
‘Exactly.’
Finn ran his hand through his hair and tried to concentrate on the lines of numbers on the computer screen.
His mind kept wandering, thinking back to Kate’s hostage survival training, worrying about whether she’d remember everything he’d tried to teach her. Whether he’d taught her enough.
At the time, she’d seemed overwhelmed, weak. Now in retrospect, he realised that it wasn’t him or the training she’d been battling against – only the memories from her past.
He swallowed, pushing down the panic which threatened to engulf him. The last thing Steve needed now was an irrational, emotional wreck to help him solve this crisis.
‘Finn?’
He looked up. ‘Sorry – what?’
‘You were miles away. Look at this.’
Steve pushed across a well-thumbed set of accounts. ‘Look at the sixth line down.’
Finn traced his finger over the page, until he found the cause of the other man’s excitement.
Assets.
Finn raised his eyes to Steve, his heart racing. ‘He’s got more than one business.’
‘We were looking in the wrong place.’
Chapter 24
Kate rested her hands on her knees, her back to the wall, listening to the commotion in the room below.
An hour ago, she’d heard a door slam downstairs, and Kaan’s voice carried through the building, the anger in his voice chilling her blood.
She’d caught words, phrases – something had gone wrong, but she’d been left alone so far.
She breathed out, then stood, gathering the chain until it was taut in order to silence it, then walked across to the window sill and her dusty markings.
The sun warmed the paint-strewn panes of glass, and she realised her captors were late in bringing her meal. She frowned and checked over her shoulder at the water level in the two litre bottle next to her mattress.
Enough to last until the morning.
Her thoughts returned to Finn. Time and again since her capture, she’d wondered whether she should have said something to him when she finished the training course in England. All too soon, the three days had been over and a minibus had turned up to take them back to the train station.
After shaking Steve’s hand, she’d approached Finn, but his goodbyes had been formal, brisk. He’d shaken her hand, then turned his attention back to her new employer, Ian Hart, and she’d felt like she’d been dismissed.
She shook her head. She didn’t even have the confidence to give him her phone number back then, so it was highly unlikely that he’d be interested in such a mousy person.
She frowned, thinking what sort of girlfriend Finn Scott would have, and then shook herself mentally. Thoughts like that at the moment would not help.
A shout from downstairs sent her tiptoeing hurriedly across to her mattress.
She sat down and ran her finger over the soft mortar. It was slow work, but she was making progress.
That morning, she’d torn a small hole in the side of her mattress and had begun to insert pinches of mortar dust, shaking the mattress to make sure it didn’t spill back onto the floor.
She put her finger into the wall, touching the ironwork. She still had work to do, and so, while the arguments ensued beneath her, she drew out the nail from under the mattress and continued to dig.
‘We need to move now, Kaan – we can’t stay here any longer!’
Yusuf paced the floor of the garage, his voice echoing off the steel double doors to the workshop.
‘They’re onto us – it’s only a matter of time before they find us here!’
Kaan held up his hand to pacify the other man. ‘The weapon is nothing without the parts from Hart.’ He pointed to where the electrician moved around a metal frame, checking his handiwork for the nth time. ‘Without the parts, we won’t have the effect we need to draw attention to our cause.’
He turned to the electrician. ‘If we detonate it now, what are the damage projections?’
Mehmet scratched
his ear lobe. ‘If you put it in the location we’ve discussed, then it will depend on passing traffic. The reinforced concrete of the target structure will absorb a lot of the blast. They would have it repaired within weeks using foreign labour.’ He spat onto the floor.
‘You see?’ said Kaan. ‘We wait. It is still hours until the original deadline. As it approaches, they will make more mistakes, until they realise it is hopeless and they must hand over the parts.’
Yusuf strode to where Kaan stood, lowering his face to the other man’s. ‘Please, listen to yourself. They are going to find us before we reach the deadline. We need to move now.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘And we need to cover our tracks – thoroughly.’
Kaan smiled benevolently, placing his hand on Yusuf’s arm. ‘Your haste to kill the woman is tainting your common sense my friend. If we go now, we shall be like stoned dogs – running with our tails between our legs while the authorities hunt us down.’
‘If we don’t go now, they will hunt us down anyway! We have only one man to guard us here. What will happen if we are attacked?’
‘There is no chance of that. The trail is cold. Mustafa will not talk.’
‘Please, Kaan – listen to reason!’
‘No – we stay here. They will meet the original deadline. My contact told me the American man cares for the woman too much to simply abandon her. It shall be his undoing.’
Mustafa Rizman paced the confines of the small room.
Already, he knew that the cell was nine feet by six feet. That it took precisely eight steps to walk from one side to the other. That a further twelve steps were required in order to walk the perimeter, skirting around the metal-framed bed with its thin linen.
The walls were strewn with graffiti – insults, pleas, names – all scratched into the plasterwork over the years.
He scowled at the stained porcelain toilet in the corner of the small room. The drugs which had been pumped into his veins when he was captured had taken their toll on his body, and the stench filled the room despite his attempts to flush it away.
A narrow, barred window at the back of the room allowed light to filter through, casting shadows across the bare concrete floor and over the wall of the corridor beyond the floor-to-ceiling steel bars.
He sat on the edge of the bed, resting his hands in his lap. He had spent the past few hours alone, lost in thought.
The only other prisoner in the cell block had been another man who had called out to him in the first hour, trying to make conversation. He had fallen silent eventually. He had been led away some time ago, accompanied by two guards who had flanked him as he’d walked towards the exit, protesting his innocence. One of the guards had slapped him round the back of the head, telling him to save his arguments for the court-appointed judge. The man had peered into Mustafa’s cell as he’d passed, curious to know who his silent neighbour had been.
Mustafa had turned his back to him, refusing to make eye contact, not caring who he was or what he had done. He hadn’t moved again, until he’d heard the security door slam shut behind the small group.
Now, he congratulated himself for keeping Kaan safe, not breathing a word to the authorities about the group’s plans already falling into place as the Turkish police desperately searched for clues.
He hawked and then spat onto the floor as he thought of the American who had taken his phone. It had been unfortunate, but none of Kaan’s numbers were saved in its memory. He had never met the man – had never been deemed important enough, but his chest swelled with pride at being a part of Kaan’s outer circle, and for providing a safe haven while the man finalised his plans.
He turned his head at the sound of a key rattling in the lock of the security door at the end of the passageway, and stood and walked towards the bars of the holding cell.
A guard stood in the doorway, talking to someone out of sight.
Mustafa leaned his head against the bars, craning his neck to see what was going on. Murmured voices reached his ears, and he watched as the guard nodded once, and then stepped into the passageway, closing the door behind him.
The guard approached his cell and stood for a moment, appraising him.
Mustafa jutted his chin out defiantly, refusing to break eye contact.
The man was a couple of inches taller than him, bulkier, better nourished. The collar of his shirt dug into his neck, his hair slightly longer than the regulatory standard the rest of the guards adhered to.
Mustafa waited patiently, his heart beating heavily in his chest. He desperately wanted to know where they had taken Halim, but he wouldn’t beg – not to this man, not yet.
The guard smirked and took a step towards the wall.
‘Move to the back of your cell, prisoner. Stand with your hands at your sides at all times.’
Mustafa emitted a noise of derision between his lips, then turned his back on the man and walked unhurriedly to the back of the cell. When he reached the wall, he turned, put his hands at his sides and stared at the guard, waiting.
Satisfied, the guard took a step forward, selected a key from a bunch chained to his belt, and turned the lock.
Sliding the barred section across, he stepped into the cell, his bulk filling the remainder of the small space.
He kept his eyes on Mustafa as he slid the bars back into place, then stood with his arms folded.
The garage owner felt the man’s gaze on him, and squirmed inwardly as the guard’s eyes travelled the length of his body. He’d heard stories about what went on in the prison – the guards’ peculiar tastes and their ideas of having fun.
He held his head up, refusing to look away or break the silence.
The guard moved closer, looked around the room at the repugnant surroundings and moved towards the bed, picking up the thin pillow.
Mustafa felt a trickle of sweat bead at his brow and resisted the urge to wipe it away. He wasn’t a fit man and had spent the past twenty years relying on his limited wits rather than his fists. He held his breath as the guard moved towards him, his movements fluid and precise.
As the man drew closer, Mustafa stepped backwards, until he felt the cool wall of the cell press against his shoulders. He swallowed.
‘What do you want?’
The guard smiled, lifted the pillow, and launched himself towards Mustafa.
The garage owner’s hands beat at his attacker’s head and shoulders as the pillow smothered his face, his muffled cries silenced as the guard pressed down harder, grunting with the strain.
Within seconds, Mustafa’s hands stopped beating the guard and instead began to pull at the pillow, trying to tear it away from his mouth and nose.
The guard shuffled, repositioning his feet and, leaning against Mustafa’s body, pushed the older man into the wall. He ignored the feeble attempts the older man made to fight off the attack.
A few moments later, he felt the man’s body sag, the arms falling away. He counted the seconds, and then slowly peeled the pillow away.
Underneath, Mustafa’s face had contorted in terror, his eyes wide open and bloodshot.
The guard reached out, placed his fingers on the man’s neck, and then smiled. He stepped away, letting the body crumple to the floor, before he fluffed up the pillow, obliterating the impression of his victim’s head, and tossed it onto the bed. He then slid the bars open and relocked the cell.
He checked over his shoulder at the body on the floor, and then walked back to the security door and knocked once. He handed back the keys.
‘It is done.’
Chapter 25
Emrah walked through the door to Hart’s office, put his hands in his pockets and turned to face them.
‘Earlier this morning, Mustafa Rizman was found dead in his cell.’
It took a moment for the news to sink in. Finn was the first to speak.
‘What happened?’
The intelligence officer shrugged ‘It looks like he had a heart attack.’
‘Did he have
a heart problem?’
‘We do not know. My team is trying to find out if he had a local doctor we can speak to.’ He paused and looked at his fingernails before continuing. ‘It does not look good – a terrorism suspect dying in custody. We can only hope that the drugs administered to him were not a contributing factor.’
‘Will there be an autopsy?’ asked Steve.
‘Eventually,’ said Emrah and held his hand up to stop their protests. ‘There is a – how do you say it? – back-log at the moment. It could be several days before we find out more.’
Finn leaned against the desk and folded his arms. ‘He was the best lead we had.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe this.’
Ian stood, his hands shaking. ‘This prison cell where the garage owner died – is my wife there? Is she alright?’
‘She is being held at a smaller police station,’ said Emrah, ‘and yes, she is safe – even I do not have clearance to visit her.’
Ian sank back into his chair and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Thank god. I mean – I know this mess is partly her fault, but, well… oh my god.’
‘What about security camera footage?’ asked Steve. ‘Did that pick anything up?’
Emrah shook his head. ‘Unfortunately there was a malfunction. There is no recording. My second-in-command is currently interviewing the officer that was on duty at the time.’
Finn pushed himself back until he was sitting on the desk, then leaned forwards. He closed his eyes, blocking out the other men’s voices.
His whole body ached with exhaustion, the tension locking his muscles. Fuelled by strong coffee and excess adrenaline, the helplessness overwhelmed every thought. He opened his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face.
‘How watertight is your investigating team, Emrah?’
The intelligence officer glared at Finn, before his expression softened. ‘It is something that has crossed my mind,’ he said. ‘That is why I am here in an unofficial capacity.’ He sighed. ‘Corruption is easily paid for – I am doing all I can to find out if I have a traitor in my ranks.’
Before Nightfall Page 15
