by Rob Sinclair
He didn’t. And when a booming gunshot rang out a second later, Aydin was left with no choice. The driver’s side window exploded into thousands of tiny pieces of glass which filled the cabin around him. He ducked instinctively even though he knew the move was too late. There was no indication of where the bullet landed, but Aydin wasn’t hit.
He couldn’t hang around to figure out where the shot came from. He thumped his foot onto the accelerator and the van jerked forward. The man at the front, finally realising his mistake, tried to dive to the side at the last moment. He didn’t quite manage it, and there was a loud thud and the van jumped up as it raced over his body. Whether it was just his legs Aydin had crushed or worse he didn’t know, and he didn’t care.
The only thing that mattered was that he was tearing away, and as he looked into the side mirror and saw the men and their vehicles fading into the distance, he knew he was in the clear.
SIX
Berlin, Germany
Ismail Obbadi sat alone on a park bench, surrounded by an endless sprawl of discoloured communist-era apartment blocks. As the early morning commuter traffic bustled around him in the crowded district of Lichtenberg, Obbadi was almost entirely ignored by passers-by – just another anonymous face in another decrepit cesspit.
As strange as it might seem to many, it was a pleasing change of scenery and circumstance for Obbadi, given his more public image of late. Obbadi had dressed down for the occasion too, sporting battered old shoes, a pair of jeans and black cotton jumper rather than his more usual and more formal designer gear. His hair was unkempt and covered by a blue baseball cap and he hadn’t shaved for nearly forty-eight hours. His appearance was far from his immaculate norm, yet he didn’t feel at all scruffy – he felt powerful, knowing he could so easily assume different personas, and blend in to different surroundings so seamlessly.
He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He lifted it out and stared at the screen. It was a Skype call. He recognised the caller ID. It was far from ideal to have to speak like this, but under the circumstances he wanted to hear what his brother had to say.
‘Yes?’ Obbadi said, answering the call.
‘He got out, in the middle of the night we think. But we’ll catch up with him.’
‘How did you let him get away? You told me you were tracking?’
‘I said it felt wrong that he’d been so careless. I warned you it was a trick.’
‘You did. And I insisted you made sure. But you still shouldn’t have been that far behind.’
‘I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?’
‘Go back to your position. I’ll get your brothers to pick up the trail.’
Obbadi ended the call before either of them said too much. Seconds later, still grinding his teeth as he thought about the previous night’s events, he spotted the young man – short and squat – heading his way. His face was covered in a thick black beard and he wore a taqiyah skullcap. It pleased Obbadi to see the man’s traditional and more conservative attire, though with his brown jacket unzipped Obbadi could see his gut was much flabbier than when they’d last seen each other. Perhaps he’d become too used to a life of relative freedom in Western Europe. Or was it just that he wasn’t responsible enough to have kept himself in shape now that the elders weren’t there to look after him day in, day out?
‘It’s good to see you, brother,’ the man said as he sat down next to Obbadi, a relaxed smile on his face.
‘You too, Sab’ah.’ Number seven.
‘I’m sure my home here isn’t as grand as yours,’ Sab’ah said, indicating the grim housing blocks in front of them.
‘Brother, we may live in different places now, but there is only one place that either of us will ever know as home.’
‘True. I still think of the Farm every day. Do you?’
‘That place changed our lives, yet I’d be lying if I said it was somewhere I’d ever want to return to.’
Sab’ah laughed. ‘I think I know what you mean. Did you know I was actually born in this city? Germany is my home country. I lived in Berlin for six years. Until . . .’ Sab’ah bowed his head. ‘Until my mama died.’
Obbadi didn’t offer any response to that, though he was far from pleased with the clear sorrow that he sensed in his brother as he recalled his former life. That was behaviour that certainly would never have been tolerated at the Farm. The West was so quick to destroy the weak, though Obbadi was surprised to include Sab’ah, usually so headstrong, in that bracket. He’d have to think carefully about whether to report this to their Father. Perhaps he should just give Sab’ah the benefit of the doubt this one time. If he completed the tasks Obbadi had come here for, it would surely prove his brother remained capable and ready.
Sab’ah’s face turned sour. ‘I heard about Talatashar.’
Obbadi clenched his fists in anger. He was still reeling about what had happened in Paris. ‘Heard what, exactly?’
‘That he’s gone. He left us.’
‘Nobody leaves,’ Obbadi said, feeling anger sticking in his throat. ‘We’ll find him, and he’ll suffer for what he’s done.’
‘He deserves nothing more than what’s coming. I’ll help in any way I can. I’ll kill him myself if I have to. You just need to say.’ Sab’ah’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that why you’re here early?’
‘No, it’s not. I don’t want anyone else moving from position now. Talatashar isn’t in Germany. If he does come here, then I will seek your help. But right now, we stick to our plan.’
‘Understood,’ Sab’ah said with a determined and resolute look on his face. ‘How long will you be here?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want to stay with me, perhaps a hotel? There would be many to suit your taste here.’
‘I’m not staying. I’ll be flying out of Germany before tomorrow. Is everything ready?’
‘Of course. The van is round the corner. Are we going now?’
Obbadi looked at his watch. ‘Very soon. But first, I have something else to discuss with you.’
Obbadi saw the questioning look in his brother’s eyes. He reached into his jacket pocket. It came out clutching a rolled piece of paper wrapped around a small cylindrical object. He passed it to Sab’ah. Looking confused, Sab’ah unwrapped the paper – a black-and-white photograph – to reveal a small vial.
‘Do you know who that is?’ Obbadi asked.
‘Yes, but––’
‘Not buts. No questions. Do you know who he is?’
‘I do.’
‘Can you get to him?’
‘I’ll find a way.’
‘And you know what that is?’
‘I think so.’
‘Always wear gloves. My advice is to put the liquid into a sprayer. Get it into his face – his mouth, his nose. Once it’s in his circulation he’ll be dead within minutes.’
‘But I don’t understand. Why this? Why now?’
Obbadi looked at Sab’ah, but said absolutely nothing. Eventually Sab’ah got the message – no questions – and just looked down to his lap. He folded the photograph back around the vial and stuffed both inside his jacket pocket.
‘You should come and see where I live,’ Sab’ah said. ‘We’ve fresh food, you must be hungry. We can show you our work, make sure everything is to your satisfaction.’
‘That won’t be necessary. And there isn’t time. Just make sure this happens before the week is over. Can you do that?’
‘I’ll do anything for you. For the others.’
‘I know you will. Okay, then let’s get going.’
Obbadi got to his feet and Sab’ah followed suit. Obbadi reached out and put his arms around his brother, slapping his back and squeezing him tightly.
‘Are you ready for this?’ Obbadi said.
‘You shouldn’t have to ask.’
‘Of course,’ Obbadi said. He half-turned, making to go away, but then stopped.
‘Oh, and brother?’
‘Yes?’
‘If I ever hear
you talking about your childhood like that again, then I’ll kill you myself.’
The colour washed from Sab’ah’s face. ‘I understand,’ he said.
‘Good. Then let’s get this done.’
SEVEN
Obbadi sat in the passenger seat, looking out of his window as Sab’ah drove the van through central Berlin, heading west from Lichtenberg. They were soon passing the Brandenburg gates, then out of the window Obbadi caught a glimpse of the looming Reichstag with its lofty domed roof, moments before they headed onto the wide highway that bisected the dense green of the sprawling Tiergarten. Obbadi realised he was smiling to himself as they passed the famous sights. He’d been to Berlin many times before. He found the history of the city intoxicating, and could dwell in his mind for hours imagining what it must have been like to live there – anywhere in Europe really – through the Nazi regime, World War II and the Holocaust.
It was certainly ironic, almost fitting, that it was in Berlin of all places that Obbadi now found himself on this mission.
‘Are you sure this will work?’ Sab’ah said. ‘You don’t want to take the weapons in there with us?’
‘Of course it will work.’
They had two Glock handguns in the back of the van, a G36 assault rifle, plus all of the other equipment they needed. But they’d go into the meeting empty-handed. It was the best way.
‘And what if they decide to just kill us the moment we walk in?’ Sab’ah asked, still not sounding convinced at the plan.
‘Do you really think they could?’
Obbadi focused hard on his brother’s features as he waited for an answer, looking for any tell, any sign of weakness. He saw none. That was good.
They’d soon made it out of Tiergarten and after several minutes of driving past the grand upscale buildings of West Berlin, apartment blocks with wrought iron balconies and stone-arched entranceways, they were heading into the industrial periphery of the city. They drove past various forms of office and warehouse, new and old, brick and stone and corrugated metal.
‘This is the one,’ Obbadi eventually said, stooping low so he could look up at the huge red brick structure that rose up from weed-filled grounds behind a rusted chain-link fence. ‘Go in there.’
Sab’ah nodded and pulled the van off the deserted road and through what was likely once a car park but was now a pothole-ridden expanse of four-foot-high plant life. The greenery crunched under the wheels of the van. Obbadi spotted the two parked vehicles in a small clearing by a side entrance to the building. One of the vehicles was a luxury black BMW X5, the other a black Mercedes van – similar to the one they were in, but in much better condition. There were two men standing by the vehicles. Both white-skinned and burly, shaved heads, wearing jeans and leather jackets. Both were armed with assault rifles.
‘Park next to the van,’ Obbadi said.
Sab’ah did so and moments later they were both stepping from their vehicle. Obbadi caught the eyes of the men; the shorter, older one seemed to be the one in charge, by the way he stepped forward.
‘No weapons,’ he said with obvious distaste for the new arrivals, speaking in his native German, a language Obbadi spoke fluently.
Obbadi raised his arms in the air. ‘We’re not that stupid,’ Obbadi said, calm, accommodating, friendly. ‘But you can check us if you want to.’
The man looked slightly put off by Obbadi’s coolness, though the hostility in his expression remained clear. These men were not natural allies of Obbadi’s. They certainly didn’t believe in the cause. In fact they were most likely vehemently opposed to it. But this was a business transaction.
The short man nodded to his friend who came forward and quickly patted down both Obbadi and Sab’ah. He didn’t do a very good job. He nodded back to his boss.
‘They’re inside.’
Obbadi smiled then walked towards the large double doors, Sab’ah striding along with him.
‘What about the equipment?’ Sab’ah said.
‘Not yet, my friend. Just follow my lead.’
They entered the building, an old textile factory built in the 1930s, and found themselves in a gigantic open space with bashed-up wooden floors, paint-peeling metal struts and boarded-up windows that let through only slivers of light. Even though it was dark and gloomy, the air musty with a heavy stench of wood oil, it was clear there was no one there.
‘Next floor up then,’ Obbadi said, spying the metal spiral staircase in the near corner of the room.
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Sab’ah, if you haven’t got anything useful to say, then can I suggest you say nothing at all.’
Obbadi set off for the stairs and started up them without another word between him and his brother. The staircase swayed and rattled with each step he took. Obbadi soon found himself emerging into a near-identical space to the one they’d just come from. Nearly identical, except for two big differences. First was that several of the boards covering the windows had been removed, meaning the space was light and airy. Secondly the space wasn’t empty. There were four men, crowded around a makeshift table, in the centre of the floor.
Obbadi beamed a genuine smile – at least it looked genuine enough.
‘Herr Streicher,’ Obbadi said, outstretching his hand as he moved towards the disgusting fat blob of a man who stood, arms folded, at the head of the others.
Streicher, large round blue eyes that matched his overall rounded appearance, glared suspiciously, then uncurled his arms and gave Obbadi’s hand a crushing shake. Despite his obvious confidence and self-satisfaction, Streicher’s azure eyes were strangely dull, his rosy-red cheeks and sagging chin further adding to his dishevelled appearance. He was wearing casual clothes, a tight white shirt that was buttoned up to the neck, but Obbadi could still see the black of tattoo ink poking out of the top. Probably an SS insignia or a swastika, such was the lack of originality of men like this. In fact, Obbadi could see the other three men had similar swirls of ink creeping up their necks and one very clearly had a small SS symbol tattooed on his left temple. Another had teardrops inked under one eye. Obbadi resisted the urge to roll his eyes at these sad specimens.
‘You’re travelling light for a man who’s supposed to have fifty barrels of Uragan D2 for me,’ Obbadi said as he looked beyond Streicher to the table where he could see just two large metal canisters. Uragan D2 was written in big red letters on a white label across each of the containers, right next to various warning signs as to the contents’ potency.
Streicher shrugged. ‘And you’re travelling very light for a man who’s bringing me two million dollars,’ he said, his guttural voice croaky. He folded his arms again and Obbadi saw his minions tense up. Each of them had weapons in their hands, though they were holding them casually.
‘The wonders of modern technology,’ Obbadi said. ‘Your money is a click away. As agreed.’
‘And your Uragan D2 is a few metres away,’ Streicher said, which Obbadi took to mean it was in the van downstairs. Streicher glanced at the table, then back to Obbadi. ‘This is just a sample. You want the rest, I need the money first.’
‘I guess that’s fair. But we need to test the material before we can pay you. I’m not handing over two millions dollars only to find you’ve given us slug pellets.’
‘Is that some sort of joke?’ Streicher said. ‘How the fuck are you going to test the material here?’
‘Why would it be a joke? We have the equipment, in the van. It’ll be perfectly safe.’
Obbadi turned to Sab’ah, about to give him the instruction to head back to the van, but Streicher soon stopped that.
‘No,’ he said, his voice raised enough to grab the attention of everyone in the room. ‘You pay, otherwise you and your rag-head friend will leave this building in pieces. And you can be sure we’ll take as many of those pieces while you’re still breathing as we can.’
Obbadi stared at the man for a few moments. The animosity seeping through the big man’s every por
e was unmistakable. Quite simply, Obbadi felt exactly the same way about each of the revolting excuses for men in front of him. It was one of the reasons Streicher and his crew were the perfect source. Who would ever believe that these neo-Nazi thugs would be suppliers to the likes of Obbadi? Yet this was strictly a one-time-only transaction. Obbadi had hoped there might be a way to not pay. Perhaps it was easier to get the deal sorted quickly.
He reached into his jeans pocket. Two of Streicher’s men hauled up their weapons. Obbadi, not hiding his annoyance, pulled his empty hands into the air.
‘I’m reaching for my phone, you morons,’ he said. ‘You want your money, I need my phone to wire it.’
Streicher thought for a moment then nodded. His men left the guns pointed at Obbadi but relaxed in their stances. Obbadi took the phone out and with his eyes flitting between the gun barrels and Streicher and his phone screen he went through the process of transferring the money.
‘Two million dollars, sitting in a Grand Cayman bank account, just for you,’ Obbadi said, showing the screen to Streicher briefly before stuffing the phone back into his pocket. ‘I expect your accountant will call any second to confirm.’
Sure enough moments later there was a shrill ringing and Streicher picked his phone up from the table. He didn’t say a word. Just listened with the phone pressed up against his ear, before putting the device back down again.
‘You’re happy?’ Obbadi asked.
‘I’ve been worse.’
Obbadi turned to Sab’ah. ‘Go and fetch the equipment.’
Sab’ah nodded then scurried off, and Obbadi listened as his brother headed down the stairs and across the wood floor below to the outside. He kept his eyes on Streicher, who held his gaze.
‘Quite something to be working with a man like you,’ Streicher said.