The middle-aged man at the reception desk slowly lifted his eyes from whatever he was reading and regarded Matt thoughtfully. He rubbed his chin with his giant hand, and looked Matt up and down. ‘You can check in now, if you like, sir,’ he offered. He started his computer. ‘And I can hold your bags here until the room is ready later this morning. May I have your name?’
‘It’s Rix, Matt Rix.’
‘Very good, sir. Can I have your passport and credit card, please?’ He extended his hand.
Matt handed over his passport, checking it was indeed his and not Regan Dransfield’s, and then thumbed through the cards in his wallet. He found the CIA American Express card that Steph had given him and moved it to one side and then located his personal card and handed that over.
‘Gee, it’s early. What time did you start?’ Matt feigned a yawn and stretched his arms over his head.
‘I started at six last night, sir. Only an hour to go now and then I am finished for the day.’ The man finally gave Matt a wry smile. After a pause, he added, ‘I double as the night watchman, too.’
Matt sensed a message in that comment. He looked at the man more closely. He was powerfully built, and with his shaved head he didn’t look like the standard Turk. Maybe he was Armenian? A power lifter or wrestler, perhaps.
‘We don’t seem to have any reservation for you, sir.’ He looked at Matt for another long moment and stroked his chin.
‘What? Well, there must be a mistake – my travel agent assured me it was all confirmed.’ Matt leaned over the counter as if to check the screen himself.
‘Please don’t do that,’ said the man behind the desk, placing his giant paw on Matt’s shoulder and slowly pushing him back. ‘It isn’t a problem; we are not fully booked this day.’
‘Oh, well that’s a relief. I’m going to have something to say to that travel agent though.’ Matt pulled out his phone as if intending to send a message.
‘There you are, sir, it is all fixed up for you. If you come back at ten, the room will be ready. There’s a lovely little bakery behind our building.’ He drew a quick circle on a small tourist map with a red biro. ‘And some of the cafes on the road in front of us are very good for watching the morning float by. Most of them are open. You may leave your suitcase with me.’
‘Great, thanks; I’ll keep this one though.’ Matt folded the map and stuffed it in his jeans pocket, then slung the leather bag over his shoulder.
‘Just be careful of your valuables, sir,’ the man called after him. ‘There are many people in Turkey who would take advantage of a weary traveller, especially at this time in the morning.’
Matt made his way outside and decided to go for a quick walk around the area. He checked the laneway that ran alongside the hotel; there was a back entrance, he noted, with a double door that looked like it had an alarm. The narrow street behind the hotel was packed tight with low-rise buildings. He walked down it, then turned into a street that snaked its way up the hill. The place was already a hive of activity. Large groups of skinny, tanned men with varying degrees of facial hair hauled boxes off small trucks. The street was lined with shoe shop after shoe shop. In between the shoe shops were belt shops and accoutrements for men, all the latest and oldest brands in stock. Each shop had a group of at least five men running in and out, gathering stock and setting themselves up for the trading day. Matt sensed a nervous energy hanging in the air.
A lanky kid hauling a trolley piled high with boxes banged into Matt’s side. He shouted some abuse in Arabic, confirming Matt’s suspicion that he was Syrian.
Matt glared at him; he knew better than to say something in English and be exposed as a foreigner, especially in the back streets of old Istanbul. With his olive complexion, Matt could fit in, much the same as he could in Italy, but if he spoke then the game would be up.
The kid shouted something to his older mates and they paused in their work. Looked like they’d clocked him anyway. Matt did a quick scan of his surroundings. There were no fewer than twelve guys in his immediate proximity and at least one hundred up and down the street. Of the twelve, two were much older, so he discounted them. There were four in their teens, so they were less of an issue. That left Matt with six middle-aged males to contend with. There was a clear space just up ahead, on the other side of a pile of boxes. Matt kept walking casually to get into this space, securing his leather bag over his shoulder as he went. Further up the hill he spied a side street; Matt guessed it ran back to the main road.
‘What’s your name then, boy?’ The question, in heavily accented English, came from a burly Syrian. He wore jeans and a black t-shirt and his face, etched with deep lines, looked like it had been made from brown putty. He had to jog to cut Matt off.
Matt stopped walking and the other men put down their boxes and moved in to surround him. He noticed that two of the men held box cutters in their hands.
‘So this is how it’s going to be, huh?’ Matt cracked his neck from side to side and clenched his hands into fists. They might not realise it, but he represented a very real threat to these guys.
‘Let me tell you, we don’t like strangers here, not at this time of morning. Especially not Americans, it’s just how we roll.’ After delivering this string of clichés, the burly Syrian spat on the ground.
Matt didn’t bother to respond; there just didn’t seem like much need for talking at this point. Hollywood movies were full of examples of one man beating a dozen, flying kicks and back fists reigning supreme. The truth was that when outnumbered it paid to be extremely violent. Don’t go to ground at any cost and get the hell out of there once the initial damage has been done, that was the rule. Matt was now in beast mode, the state of mind that can only be achieved by years of training with the specific intent of using your body to fight for survival.
Feet shoulder-width apart, left foot slightly forward, Matt pointed his finger at the nose of the self-professed tough guy.
‘I’m not looking for a fight,’ Matt said, poking at the Syrian’s face with each word, as if to reinforce his point.
The Syrian laughed as Matt spoke and looked around at his friends, raising his bushy eyebrows.
He stopped laughing quick smart, though. Matt poked him one more time and then closed his hand into a fist and slammed it into the Syrian’s nose. Matt then pivoted at the hips and threw a murderous left hook at the Syrian, who was still holding his face.
The sound was horrific, stopping everyone in their tracks; there was no coming back from an impact like that, not in the short term.
Matt then spun around and threw a punch at another nearby target, the full weight of his shoulder behind the strike. The young man collapsed, his head hitting the ground.
The rest of the men stood dazed, dumbfounded by the speed of the assault.
Matt thought about throwing caution to the wind and dropping them all right where they stood – and why the hell not? They were a bunch of opportunists who thought they could prey on a stranger. But he didn’t want to cause more of a scene than he had to. He punched one more guy in the throat, just to give himself an exit, and then he broke into a sprint, charging up the hill.
By the time it occurred to the Syrians to give chase, he was gone, darting down the side street and off up to the main road, melting into the crowds of workers pouring off the trams into the old town.
Matt made his way back to the hotel and settled himself in the cafe across the street; from his table he had a perfect view through the doors to the reception desk. He watched the shift change and waited another hour. Three Turkish teas, a cappuccino and a pastry later, Matt returned to the hotel to check in, this time as Regan Dransfield. He received the swipe card for his room, then headed to the elevator.
Later in the day, when the shift had changed again, he would go and get the key for the room he’d checked into under his own name. Instinctively, he knew it would be best not to stay in the room Steph had arranged for him. She had set up the alias, and would be monitoring his
movements, no doubt, but he wasn’t yet convinced that his safety would be her priority. Staying in another room, under another name – even if it was his own – would afford him some protection, and it might just buy him some time when he needed it.
Matt sat on the edge of the bed and flicked through the channels on the remote control, bringing the BBC up on the screen. He lowered the volume.
Pulling the secure GSM out of his leather bag he typed in the four-digit pin to unlock it and then hit the speed dial button, followed by the same number to go secure. A garbled voice indicated that they were trying to establish a connection.
‘You are now secure – go ahead, please.’
‘Hi, Matt, are you settled in?’ Steph asked.
‘Yes. When’s Khan getting in?’
‘I’m not sure. I know he made it safely over the Turkish border, but his movements now are up to him. He’s going to be staying down the road from you, in the Hotel New House. He’s coming by train and he was briefed on the hotel and the locations for the pick-up and drop-off. It’s all straightforward, really.’
‘Hang on,’ said Matt
He grabbed the notepad off the desk and scribbled down the hotel name.
‘Where’s the equipment I asked for, Steph? When can I get it?’
‘It’s locked in the safe, right there in your room. The code is 3443. Everything you wanted is there.’
‘How? You have someone in the hotel?’ Matt asked as he wrote down the code. He heard her laugh on the other end of the phone.
‘Like I’ve told you before, Matt, I’ve been playing this game for a long time.’ She paused. ‘Find Faisal Khan, Matt. Track his every movement and make sure that he remains safe until he hands that weapon on to my guys.’
‘I understand, Steph. I don’t understand why your guys are travelling here to pick it up though. Surely it would be better for Khan to take it back through the way he came in?’
‘It’s not going to the Middle East. My guys have arranged to get it to a boat in the Bosphorus and bring it back here to Italy, where it will be delivered into the hands of the CIA. You just need to make sure that Khan is monitored from the point he receives it from the Russians until he delivers it safely to my guys, understood?’
‘Right. And how will I know they’re your guys?’
‘Faisal will set up an exchange with them. I’ll let you know when it’s to take place.’
‘So, I’m to shadow Faisal, make sure he stays safe and wait for him to deliver the weapon to your guys? Easy.’
‘Exactly.’ She hung up.
Matt turned off the mobile and tossed it on top of his leather bag. He stretched out on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. Something was splattered across the plasterwork. He wondered what it was; bodily fluids of some sort, he suspected. He rolled onto his stomach and thought about the task at hand and then looked at the hotel safe. Time to get to work.
12
LONDON
‘Tell me, Sandra, what do you know of this Milko Orelik?’ In the back seat of the black Mercedes, Rachel placed her laptop bag at her feet and fastened the seatbelt over her plain black skirt. She looked across and watched as her superior rifled through her own handbag for something.
Sandra produced a little black band and with one hand she deftly pulled her sandy grey hair back into a tight ponytail then used the band she held in the other to secure it. She then checked her makeup in the mirror of a small compact. Stylish and sophisticated, Sandra had learned how to be admired by women and desired by men. However, Rachel hadn’t seen her go to so much trouble over her appearance when they’d met with other ministers in the past; her superior’s behaviour now struck her as a bit odd.
Folding her hands in her lap Sandra raised her chin in the air and cleared her throat, turning slightly to face Rachel. ‘Well, he certainly likes to fuck,’ she said.
Rachel caught her breath, but she knew better than to reveal her shock, though this was clearly the effect Sandra was after. ‘I see, but what about his connections? Everything I’ve seen suggests that he wasn’t a particularly big player in the grand scheme of things. Connected, yes, but not someone who would consider pushing a WMD across Europe.’
‘He was considered small fry back in the day.’ Rachel saw a small smile flit across the older woman’s face as she recollected some private memory of years gone past. Finally, she spoke again. ‘Milko’s problem is that he likes to live like the rich Russian mafia; I assume he got into trouble with some real players and now he has no alternative but to do their bidding. I might be wrong, but ten years ago he was all about money and hookers. He was easy prey and we extracted a lot of information about the lower levels of the Russian establishment from him, that’s for sure.’ Sandra turned to stare out the window and Rachel sat in silence, wondering what horrors Sandra had endured in the service of her country. What would her previous life have been like?
They didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive to Whitehall.
...
‘The minister will see you now.’ The Minister’s secretary led Sandra and Rachel out of the anteroom and down the white hallway. Rachel read the brass plate on the wall opposite the oak double doors: Secretary of State for Defence, The Rt Hon Michael Faulton MP. The three women walked into the corner office, the secretary clearing her throat to herald their arrival.
Faulton turned from the window. A tall and powerful older man, his presence dominated the room and his authority was further emphasised by his sharp black suit and crisp white shirt. His blue and red Household Division tie hinted at a man who had been handy in his day.
‘Ah, MI6.’ He approached the pair with his hand extended and then saw Sandra and stopped in his tracks. ‘Good lord – Sandra. Well, well, this is a pleasant surprise.’ The minister’s face went bright red; his white hair seemed to turn even whiter. ‘Please, have a seat.’ He gestured towards the huge leather sofas in the far corner of the room.
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you,’ Sandra said. ‘May I introduce you to Rachel Phillips, sir? She’s the operations officer for the MI6 Department known as Global Pursuit.’
The minister nodded at Rachel and again gestured to the sofa. He sat down opposite them.
Rachel looked quickly around the room. It was massive, and sparsely furnished, other than the gigantic desk opposite the window, the leather sofas and a coffee table. The desk near the window had an old computer monitor and a notebook on top, but other than that the surface was bare.
‘Catherine, get us tea, please – and a weak coffee, one sugar, for Sandra.’ He smiled at Sandra. ‘See? I haven’t forgotten.’
The secretary left, closing the oak doors behind her, and they heard her footsteps retreating down the hallway.
Faulton turned his attention to Rachel. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me what this is all about.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Rachel said. She took her laptop from her bag and the screen came alive. She handed the minister and Sandra each a printed copy of the PowerPoint presentation she had been working on and updated the minister on the backstory as well as outlining the progress that Global Pursuit had made in recent months in tracking down various weapons of mass destruction. When she had finished, she withdrew a manila folder from her bag. Inside the folder was a document; on the first page was a photo of a man and on the second an image of a suitcase bomb.
‘This brings us to Milko Orelik, sir. We have varied intelligence to support our theory that he is seeking to deliver a nuclear weapon to an extremist group. He has been very vocal over recent weeks trying to get the item moved. In fact, he has received some rather large payments over the last few days into his personal bank account from an agricultural business in Turkey, indicating that a deal has been made – and leading us to suspect that the handover will occur in Turkey.’ Rachel produced the banking transcripts and laid them in front of the minister.
They paused the discussion as Catherine returned with a tray of tea and coffee and served it.
After she’d left, Faulton sipped on his tea and ran his eyes over the transcripts. ‘I see. Well, we must stop him.’
‘Yes, sir. Our understanding is that the weapon he’s selling is a Soviet-era suitcase bomb, which makes the task more difficult as he can move reasonably easily with it.’
‘That’s nasty stuff,’ Faulton said, genuinely shocked. ‘Where on earth did he get it?’
‘Yes, sir – and nasty is an understatement,’ added Sandra. ‘It would be devastating if it fell into the wrong hands, such as ISIS or Al-Qaeda. It’s our theory that he’s working for someone else, probably not state-sponsored but someone with access.’
‘What steps have you taken so far? To prevent him from delivering it, I mean.’ Faulton dropped the folder back onto the coffee table.
‘Well, sir, I have notified the French and Croatian governments, as well as the Italian government, and of course I have notified my Turkish counterparts since the transactions were initiated there. They checked out the agricultural business but it’s already been wound up.’
‘Of course it has. So, what makes you so sure that he will go to Turkey?’ Faulton sat back on the sofa and loosened his tie slightly.
‘Well, someone has been there already to set up the fake business; they’ve had to launder money there and not small amounts either. It’s possible that they’re trying to throw us off the scent, but I don’t think they even realise we are watching. So, it seems likely they’re either in Turkey or they’re going in and out.’
‘So the person paying for the weapon is either in Turkey or will be going back to Turkey to take delivery, which means that’s where our man Milko is headed?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s my belief,’ said Rachel.
‘Well, I’m not sure about all of this. It seems we would be very exposed if we went hunting for Milko Orelik.’
‘Sir, Rachel has done some concrete work on this.’ Sandra leaned forward and made eye contact with the minister. ‘You know, sir, if we could get your approval to proceed, we could make this department – you – look very good. It’s a fantastic opportunity.’ She smiled at him and nodded, then sat back.
Off Reservation Page 10