Birth of an Assassin, Books 1-3: Killer Plots and Powerful Characterization (Birth of an Assassin - the series)

by Rik Stone

  “Russian activities we have to discuss when I’m well?”

  “You have shown heroic courage on this project, and you and Anna would make a great team. This is not quite the scenario I imagined when I took a shine to the pair of you, but you are the super soldiers I dreamed of creating. And while you were carrying out your work against Mitrokhin, we unearthed a high-ranking Kremlin officer running a few more like him, albeit we’re unable to prove it to the establishment. You and Anna as part of the team here would give us wonderful opportunities.”

  He cleared his throat and paced the width of the bed.

  “Of course, you’re under no obligations. You’ve been declared dead, and I’ve been informed you have quite a lot of money behind you. I’m going to leave you with your thoughts for a few days. You need time to come to terms with what’s happened.”

  The general grimaced and left – at last with a smile.

  The softness of Anna’s cheek warmed his. “I don’t want to be part of the decision making. The future starts here and whatever it is you want to do, we’ll do it together.”

  Weakly, he lifted an arm and embraced her. He loved her and it was important for him to make the right choice – for both of them. But what would that be? It would be easy to slip away and never be seen again. Working undercover currently left a sour taste in his mouth. He hated it.

  He tossed it around in his brain and the odds were heavily weighted to take the money and run. However, the same odds seemed to be leaning just that bit too much, and he felt a rational decision should wait until sometime in the future – when he had a fairer mindset. But with that rationale, he realized his decision had probably already been made, and his face scrunched as he started thinking of the new road he’d decided to take.

  THE END

  The Turkish Connection

  A Birth of an Assassin Novel

  Rik Stone

  For my Mum-in-law, Lily, who championed my every thought, no matter how scatterbrained

  © 2015 Rik Stone

  Rik Stone has asserted his rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in eBook format in 2015

  ISBN: 9781783017164

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.

  All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Prologue

  Galata, Istanbul, 1951

  Levent Pasha gazed mournfully over the Golden Horn, a natural waterway off the Bosporus Strait. Time had moved on but nothing could ease the pain of losing Emel. On the opposite bank, minarets surrounded the Suleymaniye Mosque and a blue haze shrouded the domes and towers in mystique. The mainstream carried ferryboats and light freighters between Asia and Europe, cries wailed out tunefully as the muezzin called the faithful to prayer, boats blew klaxons or horns and bells rang out along jetties. A myriad of activity, but neither the mayhem nor the exotic vistas made an impression on him. His wife was dead.

  In his heart, Levent believed Emel had died because he’d taken contaminated water from the fountain instead of the standpipe, only a few steps beyond. Images of the funeral flashed through his mind: bearers lifting Emel from her coffin, lowering her shrouded body into the sandy, sterile ground. His breath caught and he dropped his head, sobbing. When Emel died, Levent became lost in despair, but then Beyrek Ozel told him something and an idea centring on Beyrek’s apartment in the Sultanahmet Quarter grew into a plan. If the idea was successful, Levent could leave Istanbul and start a new life with his eight-year-old son, Mehmet, look after him the way he always should have.

  Levent had sat on the bank for hours without moving; the chill of the northeast wind – or nervousness – shook his body. He should go. Buttoning his jacket, he pulled on the peak of his cap, pushed his hands into his pockets and wandered towards the Galata floating bridge. He’d walk to the other side and hopefully find his friend Yuri Aleksii. If everything went to plan, Yuri would be his escape route. Arriving at the opposite bank, he saw people on the lower jetty gathering around vendors grilling kebabs or peddlers roasting chestnuts and, of course, there was the normal glut of fish stalls. Small ferries had rafted up against the landing upstream and ferrymen sat under tattered awnings near a bar.

  A bar. Levent had always allowed alcohol to control his actions: unfulfilled promises, women, gambling. But today thoughts of alcohol had been far from his mind… So why the sudden urge? His throat became parched and his mouth dry. He could do with a drink, just the one to calm his nerves. Coming from the bar holding a glass of Raki, he sat amongst the ferrymen and pondered his decision. Beyrek Ozel had always taken Levent for a fool, always showed off and told him things. But this time he’d told him too much. Apparently, Beyrek had struck up a relationship with a Russian and they were about to open a club together. Yesterday, he’d gone to Icmeler on the Aegean Coast to set up the deal.

  Thoughts of the man who had once been his best friend caused Levent’s mind to drift to when they were boys. “I tell you, Levent, one day I’ll be the richest man in Istanbul. You watch, you’ll see,” Beyrek had told him.

  “Beyrek, we live in the shittiest part of Galata. I don’t think so,” Levent answered.

  Beyrek stopped at a nearby stall, grabbed an orange from it, chewed off a bit of peel and spat it at the vendor. The man reached over and tried to grab him, but Beyrek turned aggressively, pulling a knife. The stallholder cowered back while grumbling into his chest. Levent laughed and Beyrek said, “See, there are ways…” And he had been right. He became rich in a very short time.

  Levent’s thoughts moved on to when he turned twenty and Beyrek took him to a nightclub.

  “Tonight, the place is yours,” he said, but his attention was taken elsewhere before he finished talking. “Oh, will you look at that.”

  Three young girls had sidled up to the bar on the opposite side of the dance floor. All attractive, but only one grabbed Le
vent’s attention. Shorter than her friends, her head was covered with a pale-blue chiffon scarf that she’d pulled together with a hand at chest level. She looked so demure. But then she stared at Levent across the dance floor and he was absorbed by her eyes: dark yet with a bright twinkle that enchanted him. He had to meet her. He left Beyrek standing and walked across the hall towards the girl, only to be caught by his friend who soon matched him stride for stride. They looked at each other, grinned and broke into a race.

  Beyrek got to the girls first and introduced himself. “I was just saying to my friend Levent here, if three beautiful women happen to wander in, I’ll buy drinks for them all evening. So, what are you having, girls?” he said, slightly out of breath. Levent came alongside and Beyrek put a hand on his shoulder to steady himself. Surprisingly to Levent, it was the smallest of the three that Beyrek centred his attention on, but she just smiled modestly at him before turning her gaze to Levent. “I’ll have a Pepsi Cola, thank you.”

  Beyrek looked a bit put out, but he forced a smile and ordered the drinks. As he did, the girl spoke to Levent. “Hello, my name is Emel…” At the end of the evening, Levent walked Emel home and a relationship began, but Beyrek couldn’t accept it. The competition had seemed friendly enough to Levent, but in winning Emel’s heart, he won Beyrek’s hatred.

  Yuri Aleksii pulled Levent away from the memories as he motored under the bridge and pulled in against the pier. “Levent!” the big man shouted. “Get me vodka while I secure the boat.”

  Levent gave a weak smile and went to the bar.

  He liked Yuri, but he was a bit of a mystery: supposedly, a Russian dissident disenchanted with the inequality of the so-called federation of equality, but Levent couldn’t picture Yuri as a dissident. He had more of a military bearing: tall, heavy physique, broad shoulders tapering to slender hips, muscles that bulged out all over the place and a rugged face that gave the impression that anyone entering his space did so at their own risk. A military man, maybe a deserter, but why…? Levent stopped in mid-thought. Nearly everybody he knew had something to hide; why should Yuri be different? Levent left the bar with the vodka and another Raki, and found Yuri at the small wooden table, idly swilling the last of Levent’s drink around the bottom of the glass.

  “I don’t know how you drink this shit,” he said. “The smell of aniseed alone makes me want to vomit.”

  Levent gave him a feeble smile. “To each his own,” he said and handed him the vodka.

  Yuri took a small gulp – “Ah, that’s better” – and gave his attention to Levent. “How’re you coping with life now, my friend?”

  “It goes on.”

  “Have you been waiting for me?”

  “I wanted to speak with you, yes,” Levent said. “I have a job for you.”

  “No, no, I don’t think so, Levent,” Yuri answered, hands up defensively. “Sorry, but I can’t be caught doing anything illegal.”

  “The offer couldn’t get you in trouble. I have something to do and when it’s done, I need transport for me and Mehmet.”

  Yuri sighed heavily. “What is it you want?”

  “Beyrek’s safe is stacked to bursting with money. I know. I’ve seen it. And I also know he won’t be at his apartment for days.”

  “And he just told you that?”

  “I know, he hates me, but he tells me about his success to rub my nose in it. You see, he’s gone to Icmeler to meet with a Russian, a man who’s part of some kind of military unit. Anyway, they’re going into business together, setting up a club on the coast.”

  Yuri’s eyes narrowed and he sat back, linked hands over the back of his head.

  “Military unit, you say. How’d you know that?”

  “I told you, Beyrek likes nothing better than to show me what a big man he is.”

  “Exactly what is it you’re hoping I’ll do?”

  “You wouldn’t be part of the robbery, Yuri. All I need is for you to stay here and when the job’s done, we’ll cross the Golden Horn in the boat, pick Mehmet up and then you can take us across the Marmara Sea to Tekirdag; Beyrek won’t be able to track me that way. If I’m caught, I swear to God I’ll tell no one about you. Yuri, I ask you because you’re my friend.” There was a pause. “I’ll pay you well.”

  Yuri grinned. “Pay me? Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” He roared out a belly laugh and held up a hand. “No, I don’t want your money. But I would be interested if you were to make an extra search of the apartment. See whether you can find the identity of Beyrek’s new partner. If you’ll do that, I’ll give you your ride.”

  Mystified, Levent bit his lip to stop himself asking why. “Deal,” he said and stretched out a hand.

  “Beyrek might well be out of town,” Yuri said, gripping Levent’s hand a little too hard, “but you’re not a safe-cracker. How will you open it?”

  “Beyrek treats me like goat turd, to the point that he doesn’t respect me enough to hide things from me. I know the combination.”

  *

  Levent shaded his eyes and stared from the street towards the three-storey building where Beyrek lived. But his gaze veered and a glint from the low sun caught his eye. Dry pain coursed through his head. He cursed. He shouldn’t have drunk that fourth Raki. The throbbing increased when a couple of duelling motorists honked horns and shouted abuse through rolled-down windows. A narrow street, too much heat, too much noise: he needed to get indoors.

  The lobby was high ceilinged and refreshingly cool. A hall porter sat at a small table next to a glossed sidewall with his head lost between the sheets of the Aksam newspaper. He lowered the paper and smiled. “He’s away on business. There isn’t anyone up there.”

  “I have to pick something up,” Levent answered, rattling his pocket.

  The porter nodded and returned his attention to the newssheet.

  Levent climbed the stairs. Only three flights, but at the top he was again reminded of the Raki. Up on the large landing, he took a breather while studying the lock on Beyrek’s front door: a three-pin tumbler. He took out the lock picks he’d rattled at the porter and sifted through them. Any other time, he might have laughed at the irony: Beyrek had supplied the tools.

  Inside, a long passageway ran half the length of the building, but it was the nearest door that was of interest: the sitting room – and more specifically, the safe within.

  The lounge had a single unit of cabinets against the far wall. Other than a small space for photographs, expensively bound books filled the middle shelf. One picture was of Beyrek’s wife and sons. His wife, Gizem, had the right features, but she wasn’t an attractive woman: thin lips underscored an unforgiving face.

  But why should Levent care about her? He just wanted the money and be gone.

  He turned his attention to the bottom-right corner of the units, knelt in front of it and opened the cabinet door. In front of him was the shiny green door of the safe.

  Right, remember what he told you, Levent thought. Two full turns clockwise – a click – now carry on in the same direction to the first number … and the other way to the second. He spun the dial back and forth until all six cams had clicked into position then pushed the handle down, gripped the lever and swung the door open to reveal wads of brand new banknotes.

  In the excitement he’d forgotten about Yuri, but a document at the bottom of the safe reminded him. A poor reader, Levent had to persevere to make sense of it. It mentioned a club in Icmeler, someone called Otto Mitrokhin – sounded Russian, but how could he be sure? He searched further afield, checking every part of the apartment where documents might be stored. Nothing. Mitrokhin had to be the man. He found a small suitcase and stacked it with the cash, but still he hesitated as he laid the document on top of the money. It must be what Yuri wanted, he told himself. It had to be.

  Daylight had faded. He’d been there too long; time to make his escape. He left the lounge and entered the long passageway on a cushion of air. For the first time since losing Emel, things w
ere going right. He opened the main door out of the apartment with a big smile on his face, but…

  “Hello, Levent,” Beyrek said, returning the smile. “The porter tells me I sent you for something. Did you find it?”

  *

  Levent stared, wide-eyed, and became aware of Beyrek’s wife and sons standing at his side – and his henchmen behind him, Tunc and Tolga Osman. And next to them a scruffy uniformed policeman with more pouches around his jowls than a hamster could respectably get away with.

  He froze. “But…” he stammered and without a thought in his head, he pulled back and slammed the door, wedging the suitcase against it. He had to get away. His shoulder pressed hard against the entrance panel, but the key turned in the lock and he and the case were forced back. Leave the money. Run.

  There were large windows in the living room; if Levent could get through them and climb up, he could disappear over the rooftops. He ran. The main door flew open and several crashes followed. Levent heard Beyrek curse and the children yelp. They must have fallen over the suitcase. But heavier footfall clattered into the hallway. Levent got to the lounge, scrambled up onto the windowsill and kicked the shutters open, but his followers were closing in, too quickly.

  Arabic latticework ran across the top of the window frame; he needed to grab hold of it, but it was a half-metre above where he stood and the ground was three floors down. No time. He jumped and secured a grip on the lattice. He was out of reach; at least he thought he was until a hand snapped around his ankle. Levent kicked out with his unfettered foot until the hold was released.

  His body lifted half its length – almost there, almost free – but the Raki, the Raki had weakened him. Stamina dwindled. His arms dropped and his body hung loose. Again, he tried pulling his weight up, but the strength was gone. Another grip on his ankle pulled him down and back into the lounge.

  Beyrek came in, brushing down his expensive suit while shaking his head. Levent stared at him open-eyed. Medium height, Beyrek had a square frame and his hair had begun thinning at the front. His Mediterranean skin was swarthy and Levent knew he sweated year round. The body odour he had carried in his youth was now masked with a strong scent.