by Oliver Tidy
‘They’ll do you until I’ve had a chance to clean and dry what you arrived in.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sansom. ‘I could have seen to that.’
‘No, you couldn’t. The washing machine is temperamental. If you don’t treat it right it will make your life difficult. I know how to treat it right, you do not.’
He placed a steaming bowl of vegetables on the table and then served Sansom with rice and meat from the stove. Expressing his thanks once again, Sansom was aware that all he could offer this old man was his thanks and it sounded wholly inadequate.
‘Afiyet olsun.’
The Turkish equivalent of bon appetit reminded Sansom with a pang of Eda and Bodrum and the idyllic few weeks he had spent with her at her family’s villa on the coast. Thinking of Eda naturally led to him thinking of her safety now in all this. He hoped she had taken his warning to hide herself well more seriously than the last time he had told her to do so. Then she had almost lost her life, had nearly killed a man – a corrupt police officer – when she had ignored his advice.
Mindful of the man’s earlier words that he had no desire to know anything of Sansom or his business, but feeling the obligation to make some conversation with his host, Sansom said, ‘How long have you lived in England?’
The man settled himself at his table before he answered. ‘I arrived in nineteen eighty-five.’
‘Why? Why did you leave Turkey? Why England?’
The man studied Sansom over the top of his glasses as he chewed. ‘I had certain disagreements with those in power at the time. Many of my views were contrary to those being fed to the ordinary people of Turkey and I have never been one to keep my opinions, where I feel them important enough, to myself. I subscribe to the belief that if men do not speak out against wrongs, great or small, then wrong-doers will be encouraged to commit further and greater wrongs.’
‘So you were forced to leave Turkey?’
‘No. I chose to. I could have stayed, but I would have ended up under arrest and voiceless, locked away as a political prisoner. Many of my friends were.’ The man looked down at his food and Sansom understood that the memory he had forced him to revisit was not a pleasant one. ‘I escaped the round-ups and the persecutions, the arrests and imprisonments. I felt that abroad, in a safe country, I could continue to be outspoken against the evil and corrupt elements of my country.’
Sansom felt that he should not press the man further. He sensed in the way that he delivered his words that his hope had not been as fruitful as he had envisaged. They ate in silence for a while, Sansom focussing on hungrily devouring the food in front of him.
‘You are Eda’s uncle? Her father’s brother?’ said Sansom, again trying to make some conversation.
Again the man peered at him over the top of his spectacles. ‘Young man, you seem to have a talent for raising topics of conversation that I do not particularly wish to discuss. I am not surprised that you are in trouble. I sense that you have a gift for it.’ The comment was not spoken with detectable malice. Sansom attributed it to the cranky honesty of an old man who had lived a disappointing life for too long on his own. ‘How is my niece?’
‘Last time that I saw her she was fine and well,’ said Sansom. It was the wrong thing to say. ‘What I mean is....’
‘I think that you said what you mean,’ said the old man. ‘Is she in danger, also?’
Sansom doubted that he was a good enough liar to try to deceive his host. ‘She could be, yes. I have told her that she must hide herself. I hope she listens to me this time. She didn’t before and it nearly ended badly for her. I don’t know that those who are trying to silence me will also go after her, but we have to believe that they will. They are serious people with a lot to lose. Loose ends seem to be something that they do not like to leave untied.’
The old man put down his spoon and stared levelly at Sansom. ‘Eda is very important to me. She was a young girl when I had to flee my home. She is the only one of my family whom I maintain any contact with. I admire her, her spirit and the battles that she has fought through her journalism. She reminds me of me in many ways, not like my traitor of a brother. I think that you had better tell me now what trouble you are in, what trouble my niece is in.’
***
8
‘What a bloody fiasco. You’re supposed to be elite professionals. This sort of shit-storm is what you and your people are meant to prevent. He’s one man with nobody and nothing. He wasn’t even armed. You assured me that he’d be just a bad memory by now.’ Smith sat patiently listening to the former Minister rant, criticise, panic – understanding that he was observing a liability in action – someone else who might, in the fullness of time, need to be dealt with. ‘What are you doing about him now?’
‘Every police force in the country is looking for him. His picture is being circulated through all forms of media. As soon as he is in custody we’ll have him picked up and that will be an end of it.’
‘What about those two that had him, what was it, neutralised and trussed up like a chicken?’
This was one aspect of the ongoing saga that did cause Smith some concern. Osman and Sharp had been his most reliable and efficient team. The last he had heard from them they had Sansom in the boot of their car and were taking him out to the New Forest and a shallow grave with his name on it.
‘I’ve heard nothing from them since. The way things have turned out, I imagine that they’re dead. Someone will report their bodies soon enough.’
Bishop stared at the man seated opposite him, stunned by his apparent indifference for the passing of the lives of men with whom he had worked closely. They probably had families.
‘He’s got nobody and nothing,’ Bishop repeated. ‘What will he do next? Who’s the only person he’ll be able to find now to achieve what he came back for?’
They both knew that it was a rhetorical question but still Smith felt obliged to answer it. ‘You.’
‘Yes. Me. He’ll have no trouble finding me, will he? I’m a public figure. I have no doubt that as we speak he’s plotting how he’s going to get to me and what he’s going to do to me when he does.’
‘He might prefer to escape with his life. Run off back to his place in the sun.’
‘That’s not the opinion I have of him after Turkey.’
‘Then he’ll be a fool. If he succumbs to some ridiculous and misplaced sense of honour and decides to settle a score instead of clearing out with his life, he will simply prove my opinion of him. And then, of course, he’ll come after you. What else could he do? He would have little choice. He knows it and he knows we’ll know it. We’ll be waiting for him. He might have had some success in Turkey, but look what he was up against: a small, second-rate group of unprepared mercenaries. His position is rather different here. With our resources and influence, he hasn’t got a hope in hell. We’ll keep looking for him too, of course – he can’t stay hidden for long in this country, especially with the profile that we’re creating for him – but we know what he’s going to have to get around to sooner rather than later. And, I repeat, we will be waiting for him. In the meantime do us all a very big favour and try to get a grip.’
‘What if he decides to go to the media to get some publicity?’
‘If we get a sniff that he makes contact with anyone, or any organisation, we have emergency powers to make them hand him over or risk some very harsh penalties. They won’t be able to publish anything, either. Remember, you signed that one yourself? Thank God for terrorists.’ Smith made a show of checking his watch. ‘I repeat: he won’t get away again. I doubt that he can leave the country easily. As far as we know, he has no money. If he’s got any sense at all, by now he’ll have had to ditch the transport. He’s friendless and isolated, so, once again, try to remain calm. This will be over soon.’
‘I’m not a complete fool,’ said Bishop, pinning Smith with his stare, ‘so don’t treat me like one. If he’s knocked over two of your operatives – among your best, a
ccording to you – then he is now armed. He knows that he’s been betrayed and he can be in no doubt about what was planned for him. He saw his mentor executed in front of him. He’s going to be desperate. He’s also going to feel very, very angry. I would in his position. You might not have a very high opinion of his professional capabilities, but look at what he actually achieved in Turkey on his own in a foreign country against heavy odds and a powerful, nasty and well-protected man. So, do not tell me to fucking-well calm down.’
Smith stared impassively back. ‘He was lucky, that’s all. His whole operation in Turkey was one bumbling mess; it was laughable.’
‘And here? In the UK? Is it just luck, again? Is he bumbling along? What does that say about your service? There’s nothing laughable about what’s happening from where I’m sitting.’
Smith remained silent. There was no point trying to smooth the ruffled feathers of this headless chicken.
Bishop checked the time and reached for his jacket. ‘I’ve got to go. Have you organised security for my family?’
‘Yes. Twenty-four-hour.’
‘And for me?’
‘He’s waiting outside.’
‘Bring me some good news, soon. I do not need this – and let me remind you, I am not alone in it.’
Bishop collected his briefcase and left without the men exchanging another word. Smith, ignoring the thinly-veiled threat, stood, yawned loudly, stretched and went to the window to look down on London. He reflected, as he had done many times during his brief but colourful career in national security, how useful it was to be part of a little-known but extremely powerful – to all intents and purposes above the law – government department: virtual anonymity with carte blanche and little-to-no accountability. A self-regulating department with the single overriding remit to do whatever it takes to keep the great unwashed – the voters – safe from those in the world who held extremist and unsympathetic views. His kind were protecting the right of the West to pursue its own destiny, even if that did involve certain oars being stuck into the running of countries alien in culture and ideals.
The secrecy surrounding his department, created in haste in response to the ever-rising threat of terrorist attacks, threw up a paradox. Being so covert, powerful, uncompromising and decisive, it was able to get away with murder – literally – something that it was set up to prevent. As long as some tenuous link could be found or manufactured to suggest that a victim of the department’s shoot-first-ask-questions-later policy of policing was complicit in some planned atrocity then nobody appeared to want to examine in too much detail the whys and wherefores of it all. Compounding this, none of the very few need-to-know civil servants who were aware of them and their work wanted to dirty their hands or their CVs by taking responsibility for some of the dubious operations that the department boss, Smith, had seen fit to sanction in the public interest.
But it wouldn’t go on forever. It couldn’t. Things were fine while Bishop had been in a position of real power, especially as he had a few dirty little secrets of his own that needed protecting. But Smith understood that the winds of change were getting up and that anytime soon he was going to have to take his own not inconsiderable nest egg and get out. Go and find himself a nice little corrupt impoverished South American country with no extradition arrangement with the UK and live like a king for the rest of his days. Perhaps, he wondered idly, he should think about it sooner rather than later. No point in hanging on foolishly and going down with the ship. He’d like to clear this Sansom business up first, though. Sansom had the potential to really fuck them all up if only he knew how to go about it. No, best to sort him out first.
As Smith watched the dull little people going about their dull little lives several floors below, he had cause to consider, not for the first time since the department’s creation, that power certainly corrupts and that absolute power most definitely corrupts absolutely. When one can get away with anything, one is often tempted to do just that.
A little bit of private enterprise on the side was a perk of their position and what the British public owed them for risking it all and keeping them safe in their beds at night from the religious fanatics and fantasists.
Poor Bishop. Smith wasn’t surprised that he was shitting seven shades of worry. He was a very public figure. Providing Sansom could maintain his freedom, he would have no trouble locating him. Getting close would be a different matter. Smith would have to admit, only to himself, that he was more than a little concerned about Sansom being armed, angry and at liberty with a lot of potentially very damaging knowledge rattling around in his head. And despite the views he’d expressed to Bishop, he also had to confess a tinge of professional admiration for what the man had evaded and achieved. Getting away from all the law enforcement at the motorway services had been some feat. He’d made monkeys of the lot of them. But that was nothing compared to his Houdini-like escape from the custody of Osman and Sharp. They had been very good, among his finest foot-soldiers, may they writhe agonisingly in purgatory for their amateurish failings. And Botha had been, as Bishop had observed, very well protected – at least Sansom had managed to rid them of that odious little arms dealer. It was just regrettable that Sansom hadn’t perished in the explosion that banished Botha and his men to oblivion as well and done them all a favour. Yes, Smith had to acknowledge a grudging respect for Sansom’s resourcefulness and dogged determination. If it was only results that mattered, and so often in his business that was the case, then Sansom was heading towards the top of the class.
Smith allowed himself a smile. They didn’t have to go looking for Sansom, although it would be good if they could pick him up quickly. With Bishop as bait, Sansom would be lured in for the kill. No doubt in Smith’s mind about that. And with Bishop’s usefulness approaching the end of its shelf-life, the way Smith was thinking, Sansom was going to be blamed for at least one more fatality on his ‘crazed killing-spree’. With this knowledge secure in Smith’s mind, the intelligence man knew that Sansom was also heading towards his own death. As a ‘suspected terrorist’ on the wrong end of a shoot-to-kill order, his days were most definitely numbered.
*
Emre Ulusoy left Sansom to sleep late into the following morning. They had talked well into the night and by the end of it the soldier, who had by his own account endured much of a physical and emotional nature over the previous forty-eight hours, appeared exhausted.
When Sansom finally made it downstairs, he found the old man sitting in his kitchen puffing on his nargile pipe. Despite the window being wide open, the little room was filled with the fragrant smells of the flavoured tobacco. It was another prompt to his memory of Eda and Bodrum nights in Akyarlar’s little restaurant.
‘How did you sleep?’ said the old man.
‘Too well.’
‘Is there such a state?’
‘There is when there are things to do.’ Sansom lowered himself into a chair at the table with a grimace.’
‘You are in pain?’
Sansom shook his head. ‘I just ache.’
The man studied his face. ‘That should have been stitched,’ he said. ‘It will leave a nasty scar.’ He stood and began to busy himself preparing food. ‘You shouldn’t be in a hurry to get on with your business. You should rest. Let your face mend itself. Your cuts and the bruising around your eye will draw attention to you. That will not be to your advantage. After what you have described to me, I would imagine that your picture is being circulated in the media as well as with the law enforcement agencies and you will be fresh in people’s minds. Better to let some time pass for you to fade from the minds of the public. Let them find other bad news to fill their thoughts. And you need to have an idea of what you are going to do.’
‘I know what I’m going to do, what I have to do,’ said Sansom.
The old man turned to face him. ‘Last night, you said that finding and confronting this man Bishop is your only hope. You also acknowledged that that is exactly what they would e
xpect from you. How do you really think that things will end for you if you follow that path? Don’t you think that he will be a difficult man to get near, especially now?’
‘I don’t have a better idea. I cannot think of anything else because there is no other way.’
The old man laid food and tea before Sansom. ‘Eat. I listened to you last night. I have been thinking about what you said, what you are still saying, that you have no alternative. You do.’
As Sansom chewed hungrily on cheese and boiled egg, he eyed the man, waiting for his suggestion.
‘You are not up against a little man like Botha now; you are thinking of confronting the establishment, or at least powerful, commanding elements within it. With the propaganda that they can generate you are also going to be taking on every informed citizen in your country. This is a nation of patriots. Your position is very different from the position that you experienced in Turkey. Discretion can be the better part of valour. From what you have described to me of these people you will not live to have a public say against them. They could not allow it. They could not risk it. They wouldn’t need to.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Leave. Don’t waste the life that you will only live once on such a foolish course of action. You cannot prevail against them. I had friends, a long time ago, who thought that they could beat the establishment. Most of them died in prison. None of them ever achieved anything of what they set out to do. They only succeeded in martyring themselves. You won’t even receive that honour. You did your duty to your country and your friend – you came back. You risked your life for that and your life is almost what it cost you. You don’t owe anyone anything now. Your friend is dead and your country, if it allows itself to be governed by men like this Bishop, doesn’t deserve your sacrifice.’
Faced with Sansom’s silence the old man felt encouraged to continue. ‘You are a brave and honourable man; that much is clear to me. Don’t also prove to be a foolish one. That would be a waste. Perhaps you just need someone to excuse you from the obligations that you feel? My niece is a fine judge of character – she chose me over my brother, her father, after all. If she sees something good and decent in you then it must be so.’