by Rob Sinclair
‘I’m a journalist,’ he said.
‘And why are you returning to Turkey only now?’
‘I’m visiting family.’
‘And you live in . . .’
‘In Italy.’
‘Strange that you came to Turkey by train then. From Bulgaria. Much quicker to fly from Italy, I would have thought?’
‘I was working in Sofia,’ Aydin said, giving a casual shrug. ‘I travel a lot for my job.’
‘Very well.’ The guard closed the passport but didn’t hand it back. He began typing away on his keyboard and a few seconds later Aydin spotted movement off to his right. He glanced over and saw two other uniformed guards coming his way.
He felt his legs twitching, as though they were willing him to run.
‘Mr Kahveci, we just need to ask you a few more questions,’ the guard behind the glass said. ‘Then you can go. It shouldn’t take long.’ He handed the passport to one of his colleagues, who gestured for Aydin to follow.
Flanked by the two guards, he stepped forward, scoping out the building further, on the lookout for potential escape routes. Could he feasibly make a dash for the platforms – perhaps slip across to the other side of the tracks and break free of the station? Darkness would help him greatly, but something was willing him to stay calm. To see how the situation played out. Surely Wahid would not have let one of his identities become compromised. This was likely just a routine check, born in part out of Turkey’s recent tensions with its neighbour, Syria.
The other possibility was that Wahid had somehow put the measures in place for the very reason that he knew his passports had been stolen.
It was too late now. They’d made it down a narrow corridor to an interview room, which the guards shepherded Aydin into. One of them pushed him down onto a creaky metal chair.
‘Wait there.’
The guard left, leaving Aydin with the shorter and stockier of the two. He closed the door, took one quick look at Aydin, and then turned back to face the wall.
Something felt wrong. Who exactly were they waiting for? If this was a routine check, wouldn’t it just mean a simple set of questions?
Five minutes passed by. Then ten. After twenty minutes Aydin heard the chug-chug as the train on the platform slowly moved away into the night.
‘And what am I supposed to do now?’ Aydin said, his bitterness showing, deciding it was better to play the role of innocent-man-unnecessarily-inconvenienced than guilty man awaiting punishment. Despite feeling much more like the latter.
‘You wait, like you were told.’
‘And when’s the next train, exactly?’
The guard shrugged.
A few minutes later there was knock. The guard unlocked and opened the door. Yet another uniformed border guard was standing on the threshold. He was short and wiry, in his forties, Aydin guessed, with an air of superiority that suggested he was more senior than the others. He struck up a hushed conversation with the guard in the room, who, after a few moments, glared at Aydin before scurrying out of sight.
The older guard bounded over. ‘Selamünaleyküm.’
‘And may peace be upon you too,’ Aydin said, as the guard put his hand under Aydin’s armpit to lift him up.
‘It’s such an honour to meet you, Wahid,’ the man said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
‘The honour is mine,’ Aydin said as his brain quickly re-calibrated.
‘We don’t have much time. Come on, we need to go.’
The guard tugged on Aydin’s arm and pulled him out of the room and they soon came back out into the waiting area. They took a hard right, heading for another door that had a No Entry sign on it. Aydin noticed the waiting area was now deserted, just the outline of a couple of guards standing on the platform outside. The guard holding on to Aydin took a keychain from his hip and unlocked the no-entry door then shoved Aydin through before following and closing it behind them.
‘You’re lucky I was here tonight,’ the guard said. ‘Otherwise I’m not sure how long it would have taken to get you out.’
Aydin said nothing. He had no doubt the guy must be a genuine border guard. Just how far did the organisation’s claws reach now? And yet the man, although he knew of Wahid, had certainly never met him before. How could he have?
They scuttled down the corridor through two more doors before finally they were out in the cold, dark of the night once more, having exited through a service entrance that led onto a deserted road.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the record of your arrival is made properly. I’ll get in some trouble, but I hope you’ll tell your father how helpful I was. And you’ll have no problem leaving the country when you’re ready.’
The guard pushed Aydin a step further away from the door, at the same time himself moving back inside. He moved to pull the door shut.
‘But––’ Aydin said quickly.
‘Take this road,’ the guard said, pointing off to the right. ‘There’s a verge you can stay hidden in though there won’t be much traffic now anyway. In less than two miles you’ll hit the next town. You can take a bus from there at daylight. You’ll be fine.’
‘Thank y––’
‘It really was a pleasure to finally meet you. Good luck.’
The door shut with a slam, leaving Aydin to consider – for a change – his unusual slice of good luck.
Allowing himself a small smile, he turned to his right, took the knife out from his backpack, and began his trek through the dark.
FORTY-FIVE
The Mediterranean
Italy had faded into the distance behind Ismail Obbadi several hours ago. He had mixed feelings about leaving Rome again so soon. Of course, he would be back, but the world would be a very different place next time he set foot there. The plan had always been to depart Rome before the operation went live, so doing so early was far from a capitulation, merely a minor deviation.
Still, the circumstances behind the change of plan were increasingly irksome to Obbadi, knowing that it had been caused by Talatashar’s continued heroics. He ground his teeth at the thought.
At least Obbadi hadn’t left Rome empty-handed. He felt himself relax a little at that, as he sat on the top deck of La Signora Tranquilla – The Quiet Lady – looking up at the stars above. The one-hundred-foot yacht, that had cost nearly as much to build as the entire apartment complex in Rome, gently bobbed up and down on the dark waters below. Tired, and with the gentle rocking of the yacht and the lapping of the waves, Obbadi drifted off before he was rudely interrupted by Mustafa’s squeaking voice.
‘Mr Obbadi, it’s time.’
Groaning, Obbadi got up and followed the young man, one of several staff Obbadi had on board, two floors below to the office where the laptop computer was set up and the call already connected. He waited for Mustafa to disappear before he closed the door and sat down by the computer. He put the bulky headphones on.
‘Hello, my son.’
Obbadi flopped back on the chair. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, feeling genuinely ashamed by how matters were going against him. But shame quickly turned to anger.
‘You could not have predicted this.’
Yet Obbadi believed he should have. Talatashar had always been something of a black sheep in his eyes.
‘We will find him,’ Obbadi said.
‘Maybe he will find you first.’
Obbadi grimaced. His and Talatashar’s paths had so very nearly crossed in Rome. Obbadi clenched his fists, enraged not just knowing that Talatashar was evading his pursuers so well, but that he’d been to his home, had threatened his woman.
‘How much do you think he knows?’
‘Not enough to stop us now,’ Obbadi said.
‘How can you be sure? You know what he did in Bruges. Why do you think he went there? And now he’s been to Rome too. He’s everywhere we are.’
‘No, Itnashar was too careful. Talatashar won’t have found anything useful from him.’
‘And you? Are you careful?’
/>
‘We all are.’
‘I can only pray so. But Intnashar was his best friend, and Talatashar still saw fit to kill him to get what he needed. If he has our full pl––’
‘He doesn’t. And even if he did, he can’t stop us now.’
‘I wish I shared your confidence, son.’
‘Trust me.’
‘I do. But I also know Talatashar. He’s dangerous for you, for me, and for all the others. We need to move faster.’
‘Move faster?’
‘Asrutdinov is dead. Phantom is ready. You told me that yourself. And your brothers have each confirmed they have all that they need now, even Paris.’
Obbadi clenched his fists even tighter. Why had the Teacher been speaking to the others behind his back?
‘It’s time to set the clock ticking.’
‘That gives us less than three days,’ Obbadi protested. ‘I––’
‘Just get it done.’
The line went dead.
Ten minutes later Obbadi was still in position as he listened to the intermittent bleeps, one after the other, as each of his brothers joined the call. There was no preamble, no pleasantries as each man joined – just a thick silence as the group awaited news.
‘It’s time,’ Obbadi said without feeling. ‘The clock starts at midnight. In three days, this will all be over. You each know what you have to do from here.’
That was all that needed to be said. Obbadi was done. Neither wanting nor expecting any response, he reached out to end the call,
‘What about Talatashar?’ a voice piped up just in time. Itnan. Number two.
Obbadi was surprised. Itnan wasn’t usually one to question.
‘Talatashar’s not important now,’ Obbadi said.
‘He’s already killed Itnashar, how––’
‘Yet he hasn’t succeeded in stopping our plans in France or England or Belgium or anywhere else. We––’
‘Three days is a long time. If he continues to disrupt us we may not be able to see this through.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
‘We put all our efforts into finding him. Killing him. Before the clock starts.’
‘No. It’s too late for that.’
‘I beg you, don’t start it yet.’
‘The decision has already been made. Let me worry about Talatashar.’
Obbadi killed the call and held his breath until his lungs burned. It was the only way he could keep his rage from exploding there and then. When he felt calm enough to move he took the headphones off and stepped outside the room. Mustafa was hovering in the corridor.
‘I wondered if you needed me to do anything?’ Mustafa asked.
Obbadi ran his fingers through his hair as he thought. He’d been putting this next part off as long as he could, savouring the moment for when he truly needed it. The wait had been long enough.
‘Go to bed. It’s late. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘You’re going below?’
Obbadi nodded. ‘Don’t disturb me. Not for anything.’
‘Of course.’
Mustafa turned and left.
Alone, Obbadi made his way to the depths of the hull.
He released the padlock on the door of the box-like cabin. A desktop lamp illuminated the sparse space, its light reflecting sharply off the clinically white surfaces. Thick plastic sheeting ran all the way up to the feet of the forlorn figure who was tied to a chair, his head covered with a sack. Obbadi’s face slap roused him to life, and the man’s panicked gasps and wheezes filled the room.
‘Massimiliano Cabrini,’ Obbadi said. ‘Welcome aboard La Signora Tranquilla.’
The sack was whipped from the man’s head.
A wave of clarity flooded Obbadi as he saw the fear in the man’s eyes.
‘Remember me?’ Obbadi asked as he straightened up. Cabrini said nothing. The man’s chest rose in panicked breaths. ‘Hey, hey, take it easy. Big breath in.’ Obbadi took a long slow inhale. ‘And a big breath out.’
Cabrini began to breathe less erratically. Obbadi approached the table and unbuttoned his blue Brioni suit jacket, slipped it off and placed it carefully onto the padded coat hanger dangling from a hook on the cabin door.
‘I do hope you enjoyed your evening at Purity, my bar, and the free drinks I afforded you and your companions the last time we met.’
He rolled his shirtsleeves up past his elbows. Cabrini paid Obbadi his full attention as he slipped on an apron and tied it in place.
‘You’re such a good customer I thought it was only right that I should extend my hospitality to you once again, now that I’ve left Rome behind. Tell me, have you ever been to Spain?’
Obbadi pulled the thin blue latex gloves over his hands. Cabrini, confused, shook his head wildly.
‘No? Shame. That’s where we’re headed. A wonderful country actually, so much history. I’m from Morocco myself. You know, the history of my people is so very strongly linked with those of Southern Spain. The Moors. You’ve heard of them? A truly magnificent civilisation.’ Nothing from Cabrini now. ‘Anyway, that’s where we’re going, but I’m so sorry you’ll never get to see Spain for yourself. Don’t worry though, there’s plenty of time for me to tell you all about its rich history. We’ve a long journey ahead, after all.’
Obbadi stepped over to the table, upon which two shining stainless steel trays were arranged with a tidy array of silver tools. Gloved fingers brushing across the instruments, he fixed his eyes back on the man in the chair. The look in Cabrini’s eyes . . . an understanding. It was exactly the look that Obbadi had hoped to see.
‘But first,’ Obbadi continued, ‘perhaps I should tell you some more about me. After all, very soon we’re going to be intimately acquainted.’
He picked up the miniature bone saw and stepped forward, his heart thumping in gleeful anticipation.
FORTY-SIX
Istanbul, Turkey
On Flannigan’s advice Cox had spent the previous two nights in the hotel. Sparse intelligence suggested Aydin Torkal had been in Rome a number of days ago, in an apartment that belonged to a wealthy entrepreneur, but Aydin had fled and hadn’t been seen or heard from since. Flannigan had deemed it pointless for Cox to chase him where he’d already been, and she’d agreed. The entrepreneur – Ismail Obbadi – had himself gone missing, and Cox felt sure he at the very least had links to Aydin and the Thirteen. Why else would Aydin have targeted him? She was still waiting on results from Trapeze and Data Ops who were doing what they could to pick apart Obbadi’s life. So far he appeared squeaky clean, at least as squeaky clean as the mega rich could be, though everything Obbadi touched would now be heavily scrutinised by SIS.
The previous day Cox had met up with an SIS asset – a Turkish native who worked for a local government off-shoot. She’d given Cox quite the lowdown on the comings and goings of some of the most prominent figures in the city. Kamil Torkal, a well-respected professor who was wealthy not from his university career but from his dealings with various government-backed property development projects, was among the people she had talked about.
Interestingly though (or was it more surprising?) there was no hint at all that Kamil Torkal was in any way connected with any extremist groups, nor that he ever had been. The only dirt on him seemed confined to those property deals, where it was almost certain that palms had been greased and public money diverted into certain people’s back pockets. As far from lily-white as the professor was, there was a hell of a difference between corrupt fraudster and terrorist. What was the real story with the professor? Was his only link to the Thirteen the fact that he was Aydin’s uncle?
Cox looked at her watch. Nine fifty-nine. She opened up the call on her laptop, put her headphones on and leant back in the armchair, looking out across the sea that, on this unusually grey day, blended into the sky so there was no horizon.
‘Rachel Cox here,’ she stated when the call connected.
‘Clarissa Poulter,’ came the shar
p voice of the Trapeze supervisor assigned to Cox’s operation.
‘You said you had an update?’
‘Is Henry Flannigan on the line too?’
‘No. Just me,’ Cox said.
‘Oh. I would have expected a level four to want to hear this.’
‘I can fill him in later.’
‘That’s not really the way we work here.’
Cox had never met Poulter, hadn’t even spoken to her before, but she immediately had an image of what the woman looked like based on the sound of her voice and her arsey tone. A witch, pointy nose and hat, warts, striped stockings and all.
‘Sorry, Clarissa, but I’m in Istanbul. I don’t even know where Flannigan is right now. Possibly he’s on a flight back to London. I’ll absolutely update him next time we speak.’
Poulter sighed.
‘Very well. This is your first time using Trapeze, then?’ she asked, in a tone which suggested she saw Cox as something of an idiot.
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, well I’ll tell you how this works best. I’m not going to bore you with everything we’ve done, and everything we’ve seen and heard. Ninety nine per cent of our activity turns out to be fruitless so what I’m going to give you is the snapshot.’
‘I understand all that. I’m not unschooled in how surveillance works, or in how to pull a story together from snippets.’
‘Of course not. Anyway, of the persons of interest you’ve been looking into, we have several direct hits, by which I mean intercepted communications, in the locations we’re covering; namely London, Paris, Bruges, Berlin and Rome. But from there we’ve also linked communications to Barcelona, Tel-Aviv and, lastly, Aleppo.’
Cox frowned. ‘Sorry, what do you mean? How are the communications linked?’
‘They’re using large numbers of relays to effectively encrypt the data, but we’ve been able to pull apart the layers of the communications to identify the originating active servers, which are based in those locations I just mentioned. Needless to say, though, the security measures in place here are thorough and very deliberate, so it’s possible we’re not seeing everything, that not all of the cities I just mentioned are the bona fide locations of the people involved. We do however have strong secondary evidence in most of those locations. Hence the conclusion we’ve come to is that your target list of people are spread throughout those cities, and possibly others.’