by Davis Bunn
Hakim shut his phone, joined her at the window, and handed Emma a slip of paper. “Tell them that Mehmut Ozman can be found at this place now.”
She read, “Ciragan Palace.”
“Harry Bennett has been in Istanbul before?”
Emma reached for her phone. “That’s the impression I have.”
“He will know this place. Tell them to hurry.”
She had time for a few terse words with Harry before the door opened. A battle-hardened officer entered the room, lantern-jawed, grey hair cut to nubs, eyes of cold smoke. He inspected them both, then spoke in French. Hakim responded. The officer had a remarkably soft voice, toneless and flat. Behind them, the guardroom banter had vanished.
Hakim said, “Colonel Bretin speaks some English, but would prefer that I translate.”
“I can wait here if you like.”
The colonel addressed her directly, his accent so thick it shellacked the words. “You have seen this man?”
“For a millisecond only. There and gone in a flash.”
The colonel’s implacable gaze swiveled to Hakim, who translated. Emma went on, “But I’ve interviewed the eyewitness to one murder in London and two further attempts in Florida. That is, assuming your guy is our guy.”
When Bretin reached out his hand, the subaltern had the file ready. He checked the contents, then handed Emma the folder.
One look at the mug shots was enough. “That’s him.”
Bretin asked directly, “You are certain?”
“No question. Who is he?”
“Yes. That is what we also wish to know.” The colonel indicated the door. “Please. Come.”
They were joined by two guards who carried long batons at the ready. They descended stone stairs, passed through another checkpoint, and were buzzed into the prison yard.
The cells had been built up the interior fortress walls, five stories of rough stone and bars. The cells faced inward, overlooking a broad exercise yard. The yard was rimmed by guard towers with downward-slanted mirrored windows. A wedge had been cut from the interior square by walls of steel mesh. The colonel led them across the main yard to a metal door. At their approach a claxon sounded and the door ground open. They entered the miniature yard, tighter than the walls were high. The heat was as vicious as the stench. The only sound was the door grinding shut behind them.
The colonel’s voice matched the prison’s atmosphere, all force and emotion concealed beneath a brutal exterior. He stood to Emma’s left, Hakim to her right. The effect was a sibilant stereo. Bretin pointed to a narrow steel-plated door and spoke. Hakim translated, “This leads to the prison’s oldest section, known as Les Bains. The narrow pits were once used as baths by the Roman soldiers. Now they are the punishment block. Do you wish to see inside?”
“Not a chance.”
“The exterior wall faces east by south. In the summer, inmates must hunch away from that wall because the stones will blister the skin. They stay there twenty-three and a half hours each day, panting like dogs and dreaming of the Côte d’Azur, where people sit in umbrella-shaded cafés and watch the naked bodies glisten upon the beaches.”
Emma stepped back to where a steel pillar offered a narrow slit of shade. “Is there a point to this?”
The colonel refused to be hurried. “At midafternoon a special claxon sounds. Every prisoner who has been inside Les Bains freezes for a moment. These prisoners know what it means to wait in desperation for that sound. They are granted thirty minutes in this exercise yard. There is no light inside Les Bains. There is no air. In the high summer, even the hardest prisoners are known to weep aloud as they are dragged inside.”
The colonel marched to the precise center of the courtyard. He stood at attention, defying the sun and the heat. The yard was so silent his soft voice carried perfectly. “On this particular day, there were only two prisoners in Les Bains. One had murdered three generations of his family. He is a huge man and brutalizes the other prisoners. The other is your man.” The colonel pointed to the corner by the fortress wall. “When the prisoners are brought out, the murderer crouches there. The afternoon shadows block that corner. The mass murderer does not move. Do you understand?”
“He was terrified of the little guy.”
“This is true of all the prisoners. Your man was known here as the Asp, after the only reptile who kills without warning and for pleasure. You must understand, this prison is intended only for the most dangerous criminals in France. Your man should not have been here at all. An eight-year sentence for two counts of involuntary manslaughter. His car struck another vehicle carrying a mother and daughter, pushing them over a cliff. He had an alcohol blood level that was only three points above the legal limit. He was originally assigned to a low-security prison outside Carmague. But he was sent here after murdering three inmates.”
Emma said, “Almost like he planned it.”
The colonel nodded, perhaps in approval. “He murdered another two here last month. A mistral blew that day. The mistral blows high and hot off the Sahara. It sucks the moisture from the body. The noise of it rushing through these tight valleys is like a huge drum beating constantly. A helicopter blasted up from the valley floor. Its approach was masked by the wind. The chopper angled its rotations so that dust clouds rose in the whirlwind. A rope dropped. Your man climbed into the loop. Everything happened so fast, it took a moment for the guards to react. Finally my men fired, but the chopper was heavily armored. Your man was protected from sight by the dust. The chopper rose far enough to lift him over the walls. Then it dropped. Down and down to the valley floor. We are fairly certain they escaped on motorcycles, your man and the two pilots.”
“We’ve tied him to a motorcycle theft and murder in Florida.”
“So.” He waved a hand. The same claxon sounded, the door ground back open. Emma told herself there was no logical reason why air was easier to find on this side of the wire-mesh wall.
They crossed the baking yard, passed through the security door, and climbed the guardroom stairs. The subaltern served coffee in a conference room as the commandant passed out two copies of the file. “The helicopter was stolen from a local construction company and found abandoned on the valley floor.” The colonel motioned for them to turn the page. Hakim translated as he read, “An arrest record for one Leon Cresceau, Romanian. Occupation given as professional bodyguard. Unemployed at the time of his arrest.”
The commandant said through Hakim, “Just before he arrived here, we finally heard back from the Romanian authorities. Leon Cresceau does not exist.”
Emma asked, “You checked his prints?”
“He does not exist on any system.”
“So we have no leads on a guy with no name,” Emma said. “Excuse me for asking, but why are we here?”
The commandant spoke, and for the first time Hakim smiled. “C’est vrai?”
“What is it?”
“It appears the colonel has contacted the avocat who represented Leon in the manslaughter trial. The colonel might have insinuated that Leon was back in custody and asking for him.”
“Leon’s attorney is here?”
“In the conference room next door.” Hakim rose to his feet. “The colonel is hoping that we might be able to apply pressure.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE CIRAGAN PALACE WAS A combination of historical grandeur and modern money. The former emir’s palace had been extended along the Bosphorus shoreline and now housed a five-star hotel run by the Kempinski Group. A majordomo led them along the lavish forecourt and out onto the patio. “You say Monsieur Ozman is expecting you?”
“Is there a problem?”
“The monsieur, he is a favorite guest. But he never receives anyone.” The majordomo wore a summer-weight tux and a pasha’s authority. He pointed them to a halt. “You will please to wait here.”
He strode beneath the canvas tent covering the indoor-outdoor patio to a table overlooking the pool and the sea. He bowed and spoke to the l
one gentleman seated by the railing. The old man’s eyes were hidden behind sunglasses and he might well have been asleep. The majordomo spoke a second time. The old man shifted in surprise. The majordomo maintained his bow as he pointed back toward them. The old man peered at them so long Storm feared he was going to order them away.
Instead, the old man extended his arm for the majordomo to help him to his feet. He fumbled slightly, reaching for the cane that the majordomo handed him. With the cane on one side and the majordomo on the other, he remained steeply bent and twisted slightly to one side. Even so, his smile was warm and his voice warmer as Storm approached his table. “There is no question in my mind who you must be.”
“Mr. Ozman?”
“Please, please. The child of my dear friend Sean Syrrell must call me Mehmet.”
MEHMET OZMAN WAS A COURTLY gentleman even when cloaked in the shadows of mourning. He refused to discuss business until they had been served a lavish mezze, a Turkish delight of miniature delicacies—smoked salmon wrapped about feta cheese, fresh grilled artichoke hearts, mousse of local snapper, stuffed grape leaves, flakes of roasted lamb, marinated and roasted chicken, hot flatbread, a salad of mint and shallots and coriander, on and on it came until there was no room on the table and more plates were deposited on a trolley parked between Storm and Harry. Tea was served in Limoges china cups. Three servants hovered in constant expectation. Every time she finished one miniature portion, they swept away her plate and brought another. When she finally refused anything more, Mehmet said, “Sean called me to say you might be in touch. I told him sadly there was nothing an old man like myself could offer the young.”
“Your nephew ordered me not to make contact.”
“Rolfy is overly protective. He fears for my heart. I have little to do with people these days. I wake, I come here, I sit while the hours pass, I go home. Just another day lost of meaning, just another lonely old man.”
Storm said, “I’m here because we think, well, we’re pretty certain, that Sean was murdered.”
An unseen string pulled his hand up, and then dropped it. His ability to give more of a response had been robbed from him.
“But Sean was your friend.”
“Young lady, I understand the destruction of loss. I appreciate your desire to search and to understand. I know there are whispers in the night that eat away your soul. I pray you are able to find a life again.”
Jet lag and regret formed a force as oppressive as the day’s heat. Storm feared the visit was wasted effort. But she had to try. “Could I please ask what happened to you?”
“Of course I don’t mind telling. Why should I? I live with it all the time.” He made an ancient’s attempt at pouring tea, and nodded acceptance when Storm took the pot from him. “We were in France on vacation. Côte d’Azur. My daughter’s favorite place in the entire world. I left them to visit a new client in Paris. A major dealer seeking to open ties with Istanbul. Yves Boucaud.” He lifted his grief-ravaged face and pleaded with Storm. “How could I have refused?”
Storm recognized the man’s need for forgiveness, even from a stranger. “I would have gone.”
“Would you?”
“Definitely. It’s who we are.”
“Your grandfather said the same.”
“What happened?”
“An accident. A drunk driver. A professional bodyguard, of all people. Someone who should have known better. My wife’s car went off a cliff, into a ravine. They say there was no pain. At least for my darling wife and daughter, there was no pain.”
“So you gave the company to your nephew.”
“I could not go on. It was my work that killed them.”
“That is not true.” But the gloom was too deafening for the old man to pay any attention to such comments. Storm changed the subject. “Did my grandfather ask you about all this?”
“Of course. I could refuse him nothing. He has been my friend since the very early days. A trusted ally.”
Storm took a breath. “I am sorry. I know I don’t have any right to ask you this. All I know is, my grandfather considered something about this connection important enough to plan a visit to Istanbul. I’d appreciate any details you could possibly share.”
“Sean said nothing to me about traveling here himself. Only that you might come.” A pause, then, “He asked me about Leon.”
“Excuse me?”
“The bodyguard. The destroyer of lives. I forget his last name. He was Romanian.”
Storm heard Harry’s chair scrape across the marble portico as he drew himself closer. She asked, “You saw him?”
“Of course. How could I not attend the trial? He was drunk. Did I already say that? The judge sentenced him to eight years. Two counts of manslaughter. Of course, it was three counts, but what was I to say?”
“What did he look like?”
“He is still imprisoned in France. Does it matter so much?”
“Maybe. It could matter a lot.”
“Leon was a wraith. An insignificant phantom. You could look at him for hours and not see him. He could make himself so small, so…”
“Like a silent little tan rodent.”
The old man stared at Harry. “But how could you know such a thing?”
“Right now, we’re just guessing.” Storm was already rising to her feet. “If we discover something definite, you’ll be the first to know. You have my word on it.”
THE ADVOCATE WAS A PRECISE gentleman with a distinctly patrician air. He was seated at a narrow metal table in a windowless chamber reserved for meetings between lawyers and prisoners. The advocate blinked as the three of them filed into the room, followed by a massive guard who shut and locked the door, then filled the doorway with his bulk. Emma took position next to the colonel against the rear wall. The lawyer asked the colonel a question.
Hakim slipped into the chair opposite the advocate and translated, “Monsieur Monnier asks if he is under arrest.”
“Not whether his client is joining us,” Emma said. “Interesting.”
The lawyer switched to perfect if heavily accented English. “I did not ask, mademoiselle, because your little parade suggests my client has not been, in fact, recaptured at all.” He extended a hand, revealing a gold Cartier watch and matching cuff link. “May I see your IDs?”
When Hakim and Emma handed them over, he smiled. “I must say, Mademoiselle Webb, Interpol is recruiting from a far more refined stable these days.”
Emma despised him already. “I am seconded from American intelligence.”
“Are you indeed. One obviously adept at harassing innocent people. Now if you’ll excuse me, this little charade has pulled me from some very pressing issues. I have real clients with real needs.”
Hakim said, “Not just yet.”
“Pardon me?”
“We require answers to a few questions.”
Emma slipped to the corner across from the door. She wanted to observe Hakim in action. He wore another tailored jacket, this one the color of sand. His tie was woven silk, a few shades darker than his jacket. Hakim’s movements were economical, sparse, drawn from a well so deep he remained unaffected by the room and the lawyer’s disdain.
Across from him, the lawyer was all affected motion. He shot his cuffs, adjusted his tie, smoothed a lapel. Even clearing his throat held the theatrical quality of standing before a jury. The lawyer replied, “That is quite impossible.”
“One or two questions only.”
“Out of the question. How dare you even propose such a thing.”
“The matters are of crucial importance.”
“You are suggesting I break the law, not to mention my code of professional ethics?” The advocate had the coloring of a silver fox, one dressed by Lanvin. “I regret I have no choice but to inform your superiors. Who shall condemn you most severely.”
“Even so, I must request your assistance.”
The language was far more refined that Emma was used to, the mannerisms much mo
re genteel. But the scene played out the same. An officer braced, an attorney blustered and played the law like his own personal violin. Emma decided she preferred the American way—less foppishness, more volume.
The lawyer set both hands upon the table. “I am leaving.”
“I regret, sir, that you are not.”
This time the anger was real. “Your actions are scandalous!”
“You are being held on the prevention of terrorism acts. They were instituted by President de Gaulle during the Algerian crisis. As they have been in effect for more than sixty years, you are no doubt aware of what happens now. A magistrate will be called in. You will be formally arraigned. Your rights are hereby suspended.”
“You are spinning absurdities! I defended a client on involuntary manslaughter charges!”
“Who escaped from this very prison, and has since been involved in murders both in England and the United States.”
“Even if true, which I doubt, this has nothing to do with me.”
Hakim leaned back in his seat. “You are a distinguished member of your profession. As you yourself said, you have any number of clients. It is therefore very interesting that you would choose to represent an unemployed immigrant who clearly had no way to cover your expenses. And did so in a court several hundred kilometers from your own city.”
The attorney removed an ironed white handkerchief from his lapel pocket. “It was at the behest of a valued client.”
“I need that client’s name.”
The attorney dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead. “Impossible.”
“Then this has become a matter of criminal complicity. You will be detained here while extradition papers are prepared. This being a case of such high priority, your transfer to the American prison system will be by government jet.”