Sleeper 13

by Rob Sinclair

  ‘It’s okay, my dear,’ he said, still wheezing, his weak head rolling about. ‘I think she was just about to leave.’

  His wife’s beady eyes locked on to Cox.

  ‘You heard him.’

  ‘Of course,’ Cox said. She had more than enough to think about already, and Torkal wasn’t going anywhere fast. ‘Thank you very much for your time, both of you.’

  ‘Have a safe trip back to wherever you’re going,’ Kamil said, his voice now far more coarse and wheezy than it had been moments ago. ‘London, Aleppo. Wherever.’

  ‘Oh, actually, I’ll be sticking around Istanbul a while longer yet. There’s a lot to see here, and you’ve given me a lot to think about. No doubt we’ll cross paths again soon. Have a good day, Mr and Mrs Torkal.’

  Smiling, Cox turned and headed for the door.

  FORTY-ONE

  Rome, Italy

  Being handcuffed and stuffed into the back of an Alfa Romeo police squad car was bad enough, but what was more worrying for Aydin was how long they’d been driving. The police had swarmed on Wahid’s apartment block within two minutes. They couldn’t all have been passing by; there must have been a police station nearby. But they’d been on the road for fifteen minutes already and heading out of the city, away from the tourist sites and hotel district.

  So where exactly were they taking him?

  On the plus side, the traffic was thick. It was rush hour and the multi-lane road was at a near standstill, save for the motorbikes and mopeds whizzing by on both sides.

  ‘What were you doing there?’ the policeman in the passenger seat asked in Italian, turning to face Aydin.

  Aydin said nothing. As far as the police knew, he didn’t speak the language.

  ‘You haven’t got any ID. No driving license, passport. Where you from?’

  ‘England,’ Aydin said.

  He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just stayed silent, but he was pleased to see the slight look of confusion, and annoyance, on the officer’s face.

  ‘Have you ever been to London?’ Aydin asked him.

  ‘Too wet.’ He shrugged.

  ‘That’s why I came to Italy,’ Aydin said.

  ‘No. You came here to steal from Ismail Obbadi.’

  The policeman turned his head again for a second and Aydin saw a confident smile on his face. Would a police first responder know of Obbadi?

  Aydin really wasn’t liking any of this.

  ‘It’s a long way,’ he said.

  ‘We’re not far,’ the driver responded.

  ‘I think I’m going to piss myself.’ Aydin clasped his thighs together and grimaced.

  He didn’t really need the toilet at all, nor was he expecting them to accommodate him. He was just fishing.

  ‘Nothing I can do,’ the driver said, shrugging. ‘You’ll have to wait.’

  ‘For how long?’

  Another shrug. Aydin didn’t think he’d be getting anything more out of the two of them, and his mind was made up. He’d calmly and very deliberately let the men arrest him, but only because the numbers had been so stacked against him. He’d never had any intention of spending time in a jail cell, if that’s even where they were headed.

  None of the other police cars were with them now. Why would they bother giving an escort for a simple lone man? Aydin liked these odds much more. Two on one. His hands were cuffed behind him, and there were no door handles in the back. He needed to get them outside.

  Suddenly screaming at the top of his voice, Aydin threw himself down onto his side, kicking out with his feet and legs. The back of the driver’s chair buckled forward under the impact. He turned his attention to the door, the rear window. The driver yelled, and pushed on the brake to stop the car.

  ‘Sit back up, now!’ the driver shouted.

  ‘Stop it!’ the other one called.

  Aydin did the opposite, ratcheting up the lunatic behaviour, going berserk as he writhed and thrashed, screaming so hard his throat roared with pain. The passenger lunged at Aydin from the front, trying to pin him down with his hands. His attempts only added to the strength and focus in Aydin’s movements. He jerked his body and crashed his legs against the window again and again as the glass shuddered, shook and bowed.

  The driver jumped from the car and opened Aydin’s passenger door. Most likely he would drag Aydin out and either beat him until he co-operated or stick a gun in his face to achieve that same result. Either of those scenarios was fine with Aydin. The officer holding him released his grip and rushed out after his colleague. Both men livid, they made to drag him from the car. To them, Aydin was out of control and force was the only way to subdue him. But Aydin had been bucking not to smash his way out of the car, but to manoeuvre his handcuffed hands from behind his back to the front.

  By the time the driver opened the rear door and grabbed hold of Aydin’s ankles it was too late. Both cops hauled Aydin out. He made them work for it, grimacing in pain as the officers dug into the tender flesh on his leg wound. He was on the road now. Faces pressed up against windows in the stationary cars around them. Here was a sight they wouldn’t see every day.

  Unperturbed by their audience, the officers punched and kicked Aydin, trying to dispel his madness. Tired from the onslaught, the two men soon stopped and brushed themselves off. Aydin locked eyes with the driver. There was a brief flash of recognition on the man’s face: he’d finally seen what Aydin had done.

  It was too late for him.

  Using all of the muscles in his core, Aydin bounced to his feet. Their victory short-lived, the policemen closed in. Aydin side-stepped and swiped his hands around the neck of the driver. He tugged sharply with his arms and the chain of the cuffs caught, the momentum whipping the driver to the ground with a crunching thud. Aydin swivelled and delivered a powerful elbow strike to the solar plexus of the second officer before he could get close, knocking him down to the ground, winded. He wouldn’t get up again before Aydin was gone.

  The driver was still in the fight, but only just. Aydin dropped his body weight and slammed himself down onto the prone policeman, digging his elbow hard into the man’s chest. Most likely the blow cracked several ribs, or at the very least sent the officer’s heart out of rhythm. He coughed and spluttered, barely able to breathe. Lying on the floor next to him, Aydin sank his hand into the driver’s pocket and grabbed the key to release the cuffs from his wrists. Then he jumped to his feet and dived into the open door of the police car to snatch his backpack from the passenger side footwell.

  A radio crackled from behind him, and Aydin turned to discover the driver painfully calling into the device, asking – almost begging – for assistance. Aydin left him to it – his only objective was to get away.

  Behind them the road was still clogged up. Some people were out of their cars, gawking at what they’d witnessed. One or two had their camera phones held aloft. Not good for Aydin. But a few Internet videos of his escape from police custody was far better than being locked in a cell.

  In the outside lane he saw a motorbike approaching. The rider gently weaved the machine through the stationary cars, but he hadn’t yet realised what was happening in front of him. Aydin jumped across the police car’s bonnet and swung into the bike’s path. The rider skidded the bike to a stop and Aydin lunged forward. The young man sensed the threat, and took a half step off his bike as Aydin came for him, and it only took a small shove to clear him from the bike. He was shouting at Aydin angrily but there was nothing he could do as Aydin pulled on the throttle and the bike surged forward.

  FORTY-TWO

  Ostend, Belgium

  It was amazing what you could make happen when you were rich, Obbadi thought to himself as he waited by the door of the Learjet. After a few moments the steps were lowered down towards the floor of the hangar. There were no security guards waiting, no police or border patrol to check who was arriving in the country. Obbadi had friends in the right places and he may as well have parked up in his own backyard for all of the scrutin
y that was placed on his arrival.

  He straightened out his cream suit then walked down, looking around the enclosed space in front of him that was lit by several fizzing strip bulbs above. The wide metal doors of the hangar were rolled shut, a silver Ford transit van a few yards away with two men standing by its side, and another sitting in a wheelchair. Obbadi knew the name of the man in the wheelchair was Omar, though they’d never met. One of the men standing by Omar’s side was Obbadi’s brother, Tamaniyyah.

  Obbadi, sullen faced, walked up to his brother and the two men hugged, slapping each other on the back.

  ‘Good to see you,’ Tamaniyyah said.

  ‘And you. Although the fact that Itnashar isn’t here too . . .’

  Obbadi trailed off as he looked over to Omar, who was unable to hold Obbadi’s eye.

  ‘Brother, this is––’

  ‘I know who he is,’ Obbadi snapped.

  Omar was one of their key associates in Belgium. Little more than a foot soldier really. He’d been part of the team deployed to help Itnashar capture Talatashar. In the end he’d been the only one other than Talatashar to come out of the mess in Bruges alive – shot in the chest in Itnashar’s apartment, the bullet slipping by the side of his Kevlar vest. Not only had he suffered a punctured lung, but the bullet had wreaked havoc with the nerves in his spine. The doctors said he might never walk again, but Obbadi didn’t feel an ounce of sorrow for the man. They’d failed in bringing down Talatashar, and Omar spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair was just punishment.

  ‘You said you wanted to speak with him?’ Tamaniyyah said.

  ‘I do. But first let’s complete what we need to. Do you have the drones?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tamaniyyah said, and he indicated to the other man by the transit van, his administrator, Yasser.

  Yasser nodded and moved to the back doors of the van. Obbadi followed and when the doors opened he stared inside at the two large crates, each about a metre cubed.

  ‘Everything’s been checked?’ Obbadi asked.

  ‘It’s all exactly as planned. Itnashar did us proud.’

  That was good enough for Obbadi. No point in repeating work.

  ‘Good. Load them onto the jet please.’

  ‘And your goods arrived just a few hours ago,’ Tamaniyyah said. The twenty-five canisters of cyanide pellets, transported from Germany to Belgium – half of the order Obbadi had received from Streicher.

  ‘So, you’re all set?’ Obbadi asked.

  ‘Just awaiting the final word.’

  ‘It will come soon, I’m sure.’

  ‘And what of Talatashar?’

  ‘What indeed. Let me speak with Omar for a moment.’

  Tamaniyyah nodded and Obbadi, eyes pinched in distaste, walked over to the wheelchair-bound man.

  ‘Wahid,’ Omar said, bowing his head and gripping Obbadi’s hand with both of his. ‘It truly is an honour.’

  Obbadi pulled his hand back. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for what happened.’

  ‘Perhaps you can try to explain it to me. Every detail. I need to know what my brother did there, what he took from Bruges. Where he will go to next. Anything you can think of, however small, you need to tell me.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Omar said, visibly nervous.

  Obbadi continued to glare, barely blinking, as Omar gave the detailed account of the failed operation. Obbadi felt his anger rising. How had Talatashar managed to evade them so easily? When did that little cretin suddenly become so accomplished?

  ‘So you’re telling me you just lay there on the ground while he stabbed my brother through the heart,’ Obbadi said, more or less spitting the words, when Omar concluded the story.

  ‘Y-Yes,’ Omar conceded. ‘But I couldn’t move. The bullet . . . I––’

  ‘What did he take?’ Obbadi knew Talatashar had an encrypted laptop but didn’t know exactly what else his brother had stolen – only Itnashar would have been able to confirm that and he was now lying in a morgue.

  ‘It was hard to see, I really don’t know.’

  Obbadi glowered, not sure what else to ask to the simpleton.

  ‘If there’s any way for me to help,’ Tamaniyyah said, putting his hand on Obbadi’s shoulder, ‘you know I will.’

  ‘He’s not in Bruges any more. And I told you before I can’t have you moving now. We’re too close.’

  ‘But do you know where he is?’

  ‘Mr Obbadi!’ came a panting voice from behind them. It was Mustafa, Obbadi’s aide who’d accompanied him on the flight from Italy. Obbadi turned and saw the young man striding over, his eyes twitching as he held a phone out in his hand. ‘I think you should take this.’

  Obbadi glared daggers at the young man, the unspoken question clear enough: Why are you interrupting me?

  ‘It’s Katja,’ Mustafa said by way of explanation. ‘She’s called several times already. I answered to see what the problem was. I really think you should speak to her.’

  Obbadi sensed more bad news was to come. He snatched the phone from Mustafa then turned away from the others while Katja explained what had happened. Obbadi barely said a word. By the end of the call he was squeezing the phone so hard he thought it might shatter in his hand.

  He passed the phone back to Mustafa.

  ‘Talatashar was in Rome,’ Obbadi said, first looking over to Tamaniyyah. ‘He’s been to my apartment. Threatened my girlfriend.’

  Tamaniyyah stared back but said nothing. Obbadi turned to face Omar.

  ‘He got away. Again.’

  Omar shook his head. He knew what was coming – everyone in the hangar did.

  Obbadi roared as he lurched forward towards Omar. He reached out and grabbed the injured man around the neck, the power of the move sending Omar – wheelchair and all – clattering to the ground, the structure of the chair failing under the force. Obbadi was on top, on his knees, squeezing Omar’s neck with everything he had. His victim’s eyes bulged, but when he tried to choke out words the grip on his neck, crushing his windpipe, was too much. Obbadi’s nails dug into the skin, pinching around the throat. He squeezed harder and harder, his fingers sinking deeper. Blood poured. No one came to Omar’s aid.

  Obbadi saw the strip of metal sticking up by Omar’s side. A strut from the wheelchair, six inches long. He reached out and twisted the thin metal off the frame then drove the spiked end down and through Omar’s left eye. He heard a gasp from Yasser. Obbadi pushed, the metal sank, squelching further and further into Omar’s face as blood and thick white fluid oozed out. Omar’s body twitched and shuddered for a moment, before it went still.

  Obbadi, chest heaving, released the metal and stood, staring down at the corpse while he brought his breathing back under control.

  He turned to see Mustafa holding out a handkerchief towards him. Obbadi snorted and took it from him and casually wiped at the blood that dripped from his hand. The sleeve of his suit was also covered in speckles of red. He stripped it off and dumped it on the ground next to the corpse.

  ‘Clean up the mess,’ Obbadi said to Tamaniyyah.

  ‘Yes, brother.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch soon.’ Obbadi turned to Mustafa. ‘Tell the pilot we’re leaving for Italy. Now.’

  Mustafa scurried off.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tamaniyyah said.

  ‘I know you are.’ Obbadi took one last look at what was left of Omar. ‘Never underestimate the punishment for failure, my brother.’

  FORTY-THREE

  Istanbul, Turkey

  ‘I think Kamil Torkal is lying,’ Cox said as she lay on the bed in a hotel room in central Istanbul. Outside her open window the high-pitched voice of the muezzin screeched – a call to prayer trumpeting from the Blue Mosque in the old town across the Bosphorus Strait. Cox rose from the bed and moved over and pulled the sash window shut, and the noise of the adnan and the busy city streets below disappeared.

  ‘Lying about which part?’ Flannigan asked, his voice comin
g through an earbud. They were on a white-line call, and although the hotel room might be compromised, she would rather at least one half of the conversation was too quiet for any bugs or eavesdroppers.

  ‘I think he’s lying about most of what he said, to be honest.’

  ‘What he said seems plausible to me.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Not at all. This Aydin is a psychopath. He’s leaving a trail of bodies everywhere he goes. Who knows where he’ll strike next. Do I think he’s capable of killing his own mother? Abso-fucking-lutely.’

  ‘There’s more to what’s happening here than that.’

  ‘Says you, Cox. You have to admit Kamil Torkal’s explanation ties with everything we know. I mean, factually know, not what we can make fit into a wild theory about elite jihadis.’

  Cox held her tongue, trying her best not to bite back too hard. She would never win a slanging match with Flannigan. He was too rambunctious for that. She needed to persuade him with cold, hard facts. Which, she had to admit, weren’t exactly in plentiful supply.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but I’m just not seeing the situation like Kamil described it at all.’

  ‘What don’t you see? We know Ergun Torkal took his son away from England. Okay, there’s a question mark over the intentions of that, but neither theory has any solidity to it. We do know they went to Afghanistan. What happened after that? Who knows? You’re saying Aydin went to a school to be trained as a ruthless jihadi warrior, but it’s just as likely his father took him there to turn him into a bloody mullah. And the story of drone strikes and innocent victims . . . it’s credible.’

  ‘No. What’s credible was the intel that led to the drone strike in the first place. Ergun Torkal was known to be affiliated to fanatics.’

  Flanngian sighed. ‘One man’s religious fanatic is another man’s devotee.’

  ‘That’s a load of crap and you know it. Since when have you ever thought that before about our intelligence?’

  ‘Sometimes intel is wrong. Sometimes the wrong person is killed, even. We have to accept that. WMD ring any bells for you?’