3 Great Thrillers
Page 26
Once through the exit, Ashe came to a plain white corridor, at the end of which was a double set of fireproof oak doors. A new card-swipe mechanism and a small pinewood plaque were fixed to the wall alongside. On the plaque was written ‘B5(b)’.
Ashe swiped his security card and the doors clicked open.
The office was bare but for a plush black leather seat and a fit-for-purpose desk. Ashe picked up the phone. There was a dial tone. There were also three buttons for different lines: internal, domestic, and security (red of course). The walls were white; there was no window. An adjoining area, suitable for a secretary, enjoyed one high window: fine for ventilation, but poor for daydreaming.
68
A tape-recorded muezzin echoed about the centre of Istanbul, summoning the faithful to evening prayers. Aslan released his rear-window button and called out a greeting to the corner street seller. ‘Merhaba!’
The green-shirted surly young street seller noticed Aslan’s suit and powerful car, and addressed him with the respectful honorific. ‘Bey Effendi?’
‘Simit!’
‘Ayran?’
‘Ali!’
Ali nodded and Aslan put up two fingers. The seller poured the drinks from a large aluminium jug. Behind him, a lady leant out of her third-floor apartment window and let down a basket on the end of a rope to be filled by a girl from the corner bakery.
‘Iyigünler!’
‘Salam Alukim!’
Aslan passed a sesame-seeded bread roll and a yoghurt drink to Ali in the front.
‘Hear what he said, Ali?’
‘What’s that?’
‘The street seller. When I said “Goodbye”, he said “Salam Alukim”. You can’t move for fundies these days!’
‘May not be fundamentalist, sir. Just old-fashioned.’
‘Sure, Ali. He’s very careful to say “Bey Effendi” when he sees the car, but the look in his eye tells you everything.’
‘What does it tell you, sir?’
‘It shows, young corporal, this arsehole wants God to avenge his poverty.’
‘And give him your car.’
‘My car, Ali? Goes with the job. Maybe one day it’ll be me selling simit on street corners! No, my friend, it’s not the car he wants. It’s the country.’
Aslan’s personal mobile rang. ‘Aslan here… Didn’t I make it clear? Never call me on this line without notice.’
Ashe, taken aback, stared at the white walls of the Shrivenham office. ‘Forgive me, Mahmut. But I expect your people know by now I’ve been on the trail of Yazar and Yildiz.’
‘What can I do for you, Dr Ashe? NATO, wasn’t it?’
‘Are you not free to talk?’
‘Oh yes, I’m free.’
‘Yildiz and Yazar got away. We were too late.’
‘Of course, Dr Ashe.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Because I’m on my way to arrest them right now. Goodbye.’
69
Karla was lying on her back in the small pool. Ashe’s trousers were rolled up to the knee and his tired feet dangled in the moon-kissed water.
‘It’s still bothering me, Karla.’
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘My call to Aslan. He was so… so completely different to the man I met at the Hemlock.’
‘I expect he wanted something from you then. Besides, you caught him while he was busy. You don’t know who was with him. He was probably annoyed about something.’
‘Me, probably. I forgot about his phone protocol.’
‘Might not have been you.’
‘He was so dismissive, Karla. You’d think… well you’d think that if he was about to arrest Yildiz and Yazar, he’d want to hear anything I had on them. I don’t understand his attitude at all. Makes a complete nonsense of my time in Iraq.’
‘Crayke obviously didn’t think so.’
‘If it was Crayke who arranged my promotion… You don’t think that Tower bombing has really messed my head up, do you?’
‘No, but it’s been a shock for everyone. We can’t even assemble ODDBALLS again until we know how the bomber discovered our meeting place.’
‘Maybe my memory’s been affected. Something’s been bothering me.’
‘So you said.’
‘And I can’t quite put it together.’
‘Keep trying.’
‘By the way, did you send that dispatch off to Mick Curzon today?’
‘Your erudite plea for Rozeh will be on the ambassador’s desk in Baghdad very soon, Toby.’
‘I suppose that’s something… But what I can do about the princess’s other requests, I’ve no idea. She must think I’ve got spies everywhere!’
‘Haven’t you?’
Ashe laughed, then gazed up into the night sky. He thought of spy satellites looking down over Europe. Could they pick out Laila’s brother? And the other fellow, the one her brother was supposed to be with… What was his name? Baba something… Baba… ‘Oh! What was his name? Baba…’
‘… the elephant?’
‘BABA SHEYKH! Baba bloody Sheykh!’
Karla screamed as Ashe’s legs splashed excitedly, kicking water into her eyes. ‘Thank you very much!’
‘Baba Sheykh! I knew I’d seen it before!’
Ashe padded his wet feet into Karla’s house and dashed upstairs to the spare bedroom. Pulling open his briefcase, he dived into the Aslan file. There was Aslan’s account of Turco-Kurdish politics, and there – his fingers gripped the sheets – was what he was looking for: the list of visitors to the Kartal Masonic Lodge the night of the bombing.
Yildiz and Yazar were on the list, their names heavily underlined by Aslan. And, further down the list, obscured among obscure names: ‘Baba Sheykh’. Before, the name had just looked like another New Age guru or whirling dervish on the Istanbul alternative philosophy scene. Guided by Aslan’s emphases, Ashe had had no reason to pay the name particular attention. But there it was. It had something to do with Laila and her brother. And this Baba Sheykh was connected to the Kartal Lodge bombing. For was it not Aslan who had insisted the Lodge bombing was linked to the Tower bombing?
Aslan…
Ashe’s mind was in turmoil.
A voice was calling him from downstairs. ‘Toby! Call for you!’
Head buzzing, Ashe raced down and seized the mobile from the dripping Karla. She gave him a filthy look.
‘Ashe speaking.’
‘Pardon me for my rudeness today, Tobbi.’
‘My… my fault entirely, Mahmut. Is this a secure line?’
‘Of course. And you are taking me down a very thin line, Tobbi. What’s your problem?’
‘Did you arrest Yildiz and Yazar?’
‘Internal Turkish matter, you understand. I’m under constraint of course. Should anything emerge of interest to your government, it’s possible we can discuss the matter further.’
‘Colonel, do you remember the list?’
‘List, Dr Ashe?’
‘The list you sent me. Yildiz and Yazar were invited to the Lodge. You underlined their names.’
‘Did I?’
‘There was another figure. One I never noticed.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Baba Sheykh.’
The phone crackled. ‘Well… nothing in our game is obvious, Dr Ashe. I cannot recall that name.’
Aslan’s manner seemed cold again. ‘Is everything all right, Colonel?’
‘Oh yes. Everything’s fine. So what is your request? Interrogation of the Kurdish politicians has hardly begun.’
‘Can you speak to the Lodge secretary in Kartal again? I’d like to know what this Baba Sheykh was doing at the Lodge the night of the bombing.’
‘I see. I see… Don’t make an official request, Tobbi. Leave it with me. I’m sure it’s all perfectly innocent. I must go now. I’m a busy man. Goodbye, Dr Ashe.’
70
Dear Dr Ashe,
With respect to your enquiry concerning the incident at the Masonic
Lodge, Kartal District. Further enquiries with the secretary of the Lodge show that the person you referred to did not attend the Lodge as a guest on the evening concerned, and is therefore irrelevant to enquiries.
For your further information, the invitation from the Lodge was issued in response to an enquiry from a man described as ‘a Kurdish doctor of medicine’ and known to a member of the Masonic Lodge. It was the belief of this doctor that the person who did not attend possessed knowledge concerning the origins of Freemasonry in the East. The Lodge was looking forward to an historical talk from the guest, a normal occurrence at Lodge meetings in Turkey. However, the talk did not take place, on account of the reason given above. Turkish authorities find no reason to investigate this matter further and are not authorised to provide additional assistance regarding internal Turkish affairs.
The letter was not signed, but the postmark was Ankara – the seat of the Turkish government. Since his journey with Jolo, Toby knew that a Sheykh was a Yezidi spiritual leader – and ‘Baba’ meant ‘father’, so he guessed this Baba Sheykh must be important. But that didn’t explain why he was invited to the Lodge in the first place – or why he had then not turned up. And who was the Kurdish doctor?
*
‘Call for you on red, Toby.’
‘Who is it, Karla?’
‘It’s me, Dr Ashe.’ The deep, burnished timbre and tobacco-rasped tones could belong to only one man: Ranald Crayke. ‘Settling in all right, Ashe? I hear you don’t care too much for your new facility.’
‘A few pictures on the wall and it’ll be like home.’
‘Not meant to be like home, Ashe. I read a most illuminating report from Major Richmond. You did the service credit. And paid your office dues. Value it.’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’
‘No, Ashe. Thank you. Men of your calibre make my job not only possible, but infinitely worthwhile. How did you like the princess?’
‘Laila, sir?’
‘I dare say you will be on first-name terms with her. I should never have dared.’
‘You know her, sir?’
‘A most remarkable family, Ashe. The Yezidis are a remarkable people. I’ve been studying the Yezidi religion for many years. Did you know Lady Drower?’
‘Afraid not, sir.’
‘Very special lady, Lady Drower. You were following in her footsteps. Ethel Stefana Drower went to Lalish with a British officer in 1940. Dark times for civilisation. She came back to London and wrote a book about her experience. The British officer happened to be my father. I was a very young man when Lady Drower’s book first appeared on my desk. Soon it will be landing on yours. I’m also sending you some of my own personal papers – the product of many years’ research in the Near East. You will see soon enough how they chime with your investigations. Show them to nobody. Discuss them with nobody.’
‘Nobody, sir.’
‘Nobody, Ashe. Not even me. At least for the time being. But cheer up! It’s not going to be all reading. There are people you are going to meet. Old friends of mine.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘I have waited a long time for one such as you, Ashe. I don’t intend to let you waste yourself on futile investigations. Or, for that matter, futile board meetings or so-called team-work, which all too often means less-work. Mrs Lindars may deputise for you. And by the way, Ashe, you will be interested to know that Hafiz Razak is once more on the run.’
‘What happ—’
‘Another suicide attack. With extras. They hit the US interrogation centre in Mosul. Messy business. Security’s busted. Razak must be extremely valuable to our enemies for them to save him from interrogation like that. At least the Americans can’t blame Major Richmond.’
‘And all that work!’
‘Not entirely wasted, Ashe. I believe Razak was able to impart something to Richmond and yourself that is unknown to our American friends. I trust you may find it useful in a friendly exchange with our cousins Stateside, for they surely know things that we do not. And we should not deny one another the things we need, should we? Good luck!’
Ashe stared at the blank notepaper in front of him. His pencil was sharp, but he had written nothing. When Ranald Crayke was speaking, you listened.
71
Thanks to Hafiz Razak’s forgery skills, Sami al-Qasr was now Serif Okse, a Kurdish migrant worker from southeastern Turkey. He had shaved his head completely, wore thick plastic glasses and displayed a gold wedding ring. His base was an apartment in Antonistrasse, a steep hill that ran from the port and fish market right up to the Hein-Köllisch-Platz in the St Pauli district of Hamburg.
Al-Qasr sat down on a bench opposite the Babylon bar and lit a cigarette. He had a hunch that chance visits to the square, repeated randomly, might secure him a first glimpse of his prey. This time it had been a washout. He got up, shook his legs, and walked briskly round the sunlit square to a corner newsagent. He fumbled in his blue zip-up cotton jacket for the requisite money, bought a packet of Marlboro and a Turkish newspaper, then slipped into the Teufel Café for breakfast. He had just enough German and more than adequate English to make himself comfortable in the trendy bar; his escape from the Americans on the transatlantic flight had made him feel big again.
Al-Qasr had no doubt that the Baba Sheykh was somewhere in the city; he had a spy.
Cemal Goksel was a thirty-two-year-old Kurd who had worked as a border guard on Iraq’s northeastern border with Iran. Unfortunately for Goksel, a large part of his family lived on the Iranian side of the border. It was short work for members of Ansar al-Sunna operating in the hills to find his family and threaten Goksel into cooperating with the insurgency. The terrorist network had arranged for Goksel to be brought to Germany via Chechnya, and Goksel had got himself a job at the Babylon after the regular cook had disappeared. He consoled himself knowing his family was better off with the extra money he received, but he missed his life at home. Here in Europe, the Yezidis were suspicious of the Muslim Kurds. That wasn’t so surprising considering that, in the homelands of the old days, Yezidis would be threatened with death if they didn’t convert to Islam, and their children would be indoctrinated in Muslim schools to reject what their teachers called ‘Devil worship’. But the reality nowadays was very different. In Goksel’s experience, generations of living in close proximity had created acceptance and tolerance – just last month he had attended a Yezidi rite of circumcision where a Muslim had held the baby boy.
The Babylon was popular with Kurdish Turks, and Goksel had already established contacts within the Yezidi community, which was based in a converted aircraft hangar and disused government supply centre near Giessen in the state of Hessen. There was currently great excitement in the community as two men had recently arrived from Istanbul, bearing the ancient bronze image of the Peacock Angel: the symbolic representation of Tawusi Melek, the Supreme Angel, whom Yezidis believed governed this world. These two men were named Sinàn and the Baba Sheykh.
Al-Qasr watched as Goksel crossed the cobbles towards the Teufel Café. Goksel entered, swept back his greasy black hair and surveyed the bar. The manager poured him an espresso. Goksel took the cup and ambled over to the narrow wooden table where al-Qasr was sitting.
Goksel took out some cigarette papers and rolling tobacco. He laid a cigarette paper out on the table. Al-Qasr looked over his newspaper at the rolling paper. On it was written a message in pencil:
Doktor. Freitag. 18.00
Goksel tipped out a finger-full of halfzware shag into the paper and rolled it up. As he lit it, al-Qasr turned two pages of his newspaper: an agreed code; they would meet at the same time in two days.
72
Lichfield
It was raining; autumn was in the air, crisp and moist by turns. The elegiac sweetness of Richard Strauss’s Four Last Songs filled Toby Ashe’s warm sitting room.
Scattered around the floor were sheets of paper covered in large felt-penned words:
SETH
THOTH/
HERMES
ABRAHAM
BRAHMIN
RA
BRAHMA
SHIVA
ARYAN
SERPENT
PILLARS
TOWER OF BABEL
MITHANNI
CHALDAEANS
KURDS
URARTU
UR
YEZIDIS
The results of a lifetime’s research lay before Ashe’s eyes: piles of Crayke’s now yellow-edged papers occupied the floor. Some of the typed and handwritten notes dated back to the Second World War. The most recent additions had been written in the last few years. For Ashe, every page was a source of fascination.
Crayke’s neat hand had embraced the most obscure textual resources, from the manuscripts of Arabic libraries in Istanbul and the Yemen to the private collections of maharajahs. The academic and private libraries of Europe and America had been thoroughly raked for anything that might sate Crayke’s infinitely patient curiosity.
For the last few hours Ashe had been ploughing through acres of notes made by Crayke during a trip to Sri Lanka in the fifties. As far as Ashe could tell, Crayke had gone there to visit the island’s many shrines dedicated to Shiva and the Shiva-lingam, the god’s phallic symbol. As in India, it seemed that in Sri Lanka the Shiva-lingam was particularly important to Hindu women who were either praying for fertility or giving thanks for it.
Ashe already knew that Shiva, the Destroyer, was one of the Hindu Trinity, alongside Brahma, the Creator, and Vishnu, the Preserver. He was aware that Shiva had three eyes – the moon, the earth, and the sun, and that his third eye was always open. But Ashe was intrigued to learn that Shiva had close correlations with the Canaanite and Syrian god Ba’al, as well as to the Roman Saturn, the Phoenician El, the Greek Typhon, and the Egyptian Seth.
‘Seth’, it transpired, was Sanskrit for ‘white’, and Shiva rode a white bull. The white seemed related to the ‘sour milk sea’ from which, according to the Hindu Vedas, Creation emerged. The Yezidis called Creation’s first beginning ‘the pearl’.