by Rik Stone
“It already has, but I can see by your face you’re jumping ahead of yourself. I’ve manipulated the files so that my most trusted people stay with me.”
The relief overpowered Yuri and he let out a nervous belly laugh. “Will it mean changing anything about how I go about things here?” he asked, suddenly concerned he’d have to cut Mehmet adrift.
Michel pulled at the crumpled leather in an attempt to straighten it – to no avail. “No, Yuri, for now you should carry on exactly as you have been. Since Stalin died and Khrushchev took his place, policies have brought a certain amount of freedom. All well and good, but open the front gates to liberty and corruption sneaks in through the back door. I hope I’m proved wrong, but one day I may need my most trusted people by my side, which is why I’m keeping you with me now. My feelings are no more than gut instinct, but I’d rather pre-empt and be wrong.”
Scrunching his brow, Yuri nodded.
Michel looked at Mehmet who was still staring over to Europe. “Maybe we can use the boy.”
“How so?” Yuri asked.
“He’s wiry and appears strong. Teach him to speak Russian, see if you can get him up to military standards, tutor him and make him an asset to my new covert team. I’ll put him on the payroll.”
“Sounds good to me. Yes, Michel, I could do that.”
Chapter 11
Uskudar district, Istanbul, January 1960
The long esplanade at Salacak fronted the Anatolian shores of the Bosporus, a popular stepping-off point for those making the crossing to and from the old city of Eminonu. Mehmet had turned seventeen and since they’d moved to the Asian side of the strait, he’d spent the summer months sleeping on the boat. The winter had been a little more domicile, living at an old Ottoman wooden house that Yuri had owned since way before Mehmet had known him.
During the time it had taken for Mehmet’s shoulder to heal, Yuri had revealed why he lived in Turkey, at the same time telling him of the life-changing offer that Michel had made, finishing with, “Of course, you have no obligation to become part of the team.”
“But why wouldn’t I?” Mehmet had answered, unable to understand how Yuri could possibly think he might not want to.
That had been six years ago. Yuri had taught him to speak Russian and it was the only language they spoke when they were alone; he reckoned Mehmet’s unarmed combat was as good as any he’d come across and his stamina for physical exercise was better than most. Yuri went as far as to tell him that, for those particular disciplines, he would stand out as special even in Spetsnaz.
The physical wound was long healed, but a festering hatred burned within Mehmet: why would his father abandon him? Why would a stranger have Zeki murder his friends and try to kill him? Of course, he had no answers and was unlikely to get them, but that had never stopped him from dreaming of revenge.
*
A day’s work on the boat could be showing the sights of the city to tourists from the water, ferrying workers across the Bosporus or making deliveries. On this day, Mehmet and Yuri were delivering kegs of beer to a bar next to the Cubuklu University before going on to a park further along the road. It was a quiet place where they could practise hand-to-hand – with knives.
“I have to say, my skills with a knife are far better than yours,” Mehmet jibed, having enjoyed a winning session.
“So now you’re Comrade Perfect,” Yuri replied. “And I suppose your gun-handling is good as well?”
Ah, firearms! Still, he’d enjoyed the moment. The biggest failure so far in the training schedule was about to rear up against him – again.
“The last time you stripped a handgun, half the parts went flying and you hold a rifle in the hollow of your shoulder like a girl. No, you have some way to go before you can come the big ‘I am’ with me.”
Mehmet searched his mind for a reply, but could only sigh and shrug in defeat. He was hopeless at shooting and knew it, and he doubted he’d ever get the hang of it.
“Come on,” Yuri said, pinning a piece of paper to a nearby tree. “Let’s make the most of what you are good at,” and they spent half an hour throwing knives at the small target – something Mehmet really did excel at.
It was Sunday afternoon by the time they finished training. They got back to where they’d berthed the boat and motored back to Sirkeci quayside. Yuri checked his watch. “Good, time to spare before our meeting with Michel.”
“Why do you think General Petrichova wants to meet us like this?” Mehmet asked.
“I don’t know. He’s never arranged anything at such short notice and, up to now, meetings always take place on the boat, never a pier café… And call him Michel; you know he doesn’t like rank mentioned in Istanbul. That’s why he dresses like that, so he goes unnoticed.” Yuri burst out laughing at the words. “Covert, hah! He’s so scruffy he draws everyone’s attention.”
Mehmet laughed along, but he couldn’t help worrying about what Michel wanted. A pile of slush had been brushed near the edge of the pier. Mehmet kicked it over the side. Snow had fallen overnight and the promenade shone with a slimy translucence from the melt. The sight of it had him pull his reefer jacket tightly against his body and shiver.
Yuri smiled. “Think yourself lucky you’re not in Russia…” he said and left the conversation where it was.
*
They arrived at the café, Yuri pushed open the door, went in and Mehmet followed. Inside, Michel was sitting at a table eating baklava bread and sipping Turkish tea. He looked up and smiled, but the serious look in his eyes contradicted the gesture.
“Yuri, Mehmet, come, sit. Would you like some of the same?” he asked, lifting the sweetened bread to his mouth.
They shook their heads, no, but before they had a chance to sit, Michel put the pastry down, wiped his mouth and hands on a red-and-white chequered napkin that matched the tablecloth and stood.
“You look well,” he said, throwing the napkin to the table and embracing Yuri. “And you too, Mehmet.”
Mehmet nearly jumped back from shock when the general hugged him too. Instead, his face burned, but then fear crawled over his skin; Zeki had been nice the day before he betrayed him and Senturk.
“Yuri brags to me about your many skills, Mehmet, but apparently shooting isn’t one of them.” Michel grinned and Mehmet grimaced. “Still, the time is here to use what you have learned. Come, sit and I’ll tell you what I need.”
Shit, Mehmet thought, he wanted him to put what he’d learned into practice – like Senturk at the market.
“I look forward to it, Michel,” he lied.
The general wiped his mouth again and stood. “Come, if you’re not eating, we’ll talk about it in the strait,” he said.
They left the café and walked a short distance to the boat. General Petrichova climbed aboard and sat aft while Mehmet and Yuri fired up the engine and cast off. They motored a few hundred metres or so from the jetty before anyone spoke and it was Yuri who broke the silence. “I’ve been here for some years now, Michel, and you’ve never needed to see me urgently. This has to be something big?”
“Yes, it is.”
They took the boat beyond the traffic lanes and threw out an anchor fore and aft. Yuri shut down the engine and joined the general at the back of the boat. Mehmet set up a couple of fishing rods to satisfy possible watchers and then joined them.
“Right, let’s get started. Have you heard of General Murat Volkan?” General Petrichova began as his fingers drummed slowly on the gunwale.
“Yes, of course,” Yuri said. “He’s Turkey’s principal lieutenant. He answers to Menderes and Menderes alone.”
Adnan Menderes and his multi-party administration were a contradiction to themselves. They employed authoritative intolerance in home affairs, human rights were flagrantly abused and while external military and economic links were being forged with the West, Menderes actively encouraged the reawakening of Islam.
“Yes, and there are those who say he’s even more powerful
than Menderes because of his military links. Okay, good. Now, about the government itself… Yuri, you know the Menderes administration is unstable. One minute they’re pro-West, the next pro-Islam, and the next, anything that suits the pocket of some high-ranking government official.”
Mehmet had no idea what was coming, but he didn’t like the tone of the story so far. As usual, Yuri was without emotion.
“General Cemal Gursel, commander of the land forces, is unhappy with the situation. He feels the infrastructure is falling apart, that external, corrupt influences are damaging the country. I’ve received information from sound sources that he is going to make demands for changes within the government. He will be asking – no, demanding – a restructuring that will bring stability. If his demands are rejected, he’ll resign.”
Yuri nodded, but the general’s words were alien to Mehmet. So what was the big deal about a change in government? It wouldn’t affect him. Michel took an unusually deep breath and the pace of his drumming fingers increased.
“Up to this point, no problems, Gursel resigns. His military are loyal and refuse to accept the resignation. A bloodless coup follows. The armed forces here have no ambition to run the country, so after a settling-in period they bring in a new, more stable government. That being the scenario, the situation can only get better.”
Mehmet relaxed. Good, it wouldn’t impact him after all.
“So what possible task could there be for you, you ask? You might insist events are set on course for a smooth transition. And, of course, you’d be right if the circumstances I’ve just outlined panned out.”
His fingers now drummed like an advancing cavalry charge and Mehmet sensed a ‘but’ was about to be issued. A worry tingle stood the hairs up on his neck: this story was about to drag him into it, he just knew it.
“Unfortunately, things never work out quite as they should.”
And here it comes.
“That is why I began with General Volkan. Although no longer part of the military, he still has a big pull on some of the other generals. Turkey is a young country in an ancient land. If he were to succeed in talking some of the generals into joining him, a bloody civil war would ensue and the whole of the Black Sea area could be destabilised. The USSR, for one, would certainly feel the backwash.”
The wind blew cold across the aft section of the boat. The smell of sea air filled Mehmet’s nostrils and his bottom lip tightened into a straight line. Yuri stared over at him and sniggered, coughing into his hand to hide the mirth.
“Bottom line: General Murat Volkan has to be eliminated and you are the natural choice for the job, Yuri. Your contacts here in both local and government offices will be invaluable for setting up a hit. The only thing you have to remember is that the killing should appear non-political. Get to know his movements; perhaps make it look like a robbery that’s gone wrong.”
Yuri remained without emotion when asking, “How long have we got to get a plan of action together?”
“I don’t know exactly when General Gursel will make his demands, but I’m sure it will be some time in the next few months. So, the sooner you carry out the work, the surer we can be that our original view stays on track.”
To say terror had constricted Mehmet’s chest would be an understatement, but not so Yuri.
“I’ll start with the files at my house,” he said with a calm that Mehmet could only dream of having. “I need to determine his movements and I’m sure I have more than one person on my lists that can help with that. Is there anything more you can tell me before we return?”
“Yes. Volkan has corrupt links in Moscow and my people have picked up small offerings telling us of an alliance he has with rogue military there. Together, they’re operating criminal activities in a number of countries, east to west. The only part that might be of interest to you is that one of the Turkish associates is a man called Beyrek Ozel.”
Suddenly Mehmet noticed a shift in Yuri’s demeanour. His face turned to stone.
“Oh, you know him?” the general asked, raising eyebrows.
“No,” he snapped a little too quickly, “but I know of him. He’s a local gangster.”
The general nodded. “Okay, it seems Beyrek is the supplier for some of Volkan’s needs; nobody seems to know what they actually are, but I suppose that will be part of your remit – find out. It might help your cause. Whatever it is Beyrek does, Volkan uses his power to make sure that his activities are overlooked in the Turkish domain. And because of that, he just might be the main Turkish connection for whatever Soviet operations are running here.”
For most of the last part, everything had skidded over Mehmet’s head. But he had understood one thing: he was being ordered to kill someone!
“What I’ve told you about Beyrek is a little unclear. It’s cobbled together from snippets of information. Investigate him, sure, but don’t spend too much time on it; he might be of no importance to the task.”
The boat bounced on the backwash of a large ship passing through the strait. Mehmet’s fear must have been obvious to Yuri. He caught Mehmet’s eye, gave him a weak smile and a wink.
“Any questions?” General Petrichova asked.
Yuri shook his head and Mehmet stared blankly at each of them.
“Good,” he said.
The general had brought a bag along with him. Unzipping it now, he took out an Uzi automatic sub-machine gun and smiled at Mehmet. “Even you couldn’t miss with this.” Next came a handgun, large and black, ugly, homemade-looking.
“As you know, Yuri, these weapons are Israeli and British,” he said. “I chose them so the hit won’t be linked to the Russian federation.”
Yuri lifted the ugly pistol and squinted along the pipe-like barrel. “Nice.”
“What is it?” Mehmet asked.
“It’s a British silent gun,” Yuri said, “a nine-millimetre Welrod. If I hadn’t already known it was British there would be no way of telling. The gun is manufactured sanitised, no markings, no way of readily determining who made it.”
Michel cut in. “Enough talk; I must get back to the embassy. Yuri, if you need anything, you know how to contact me.”
The conversation turned to small talk until Yuri dropped the general next to the Yenikapi ferry terminal, which was as near to the Soviet Embassy as he could get with the boat. Later, they arrived at Salacak quayside.
“I know you don’t usually drink,” Yuri said to Mehmet, “but this is different. I’ve seen less rigid toy soldiers than how you looked out there. Tonight you will relax.”
Mehmet nodded, but barely took in the words. Yuri seemed so laidback about it, but he had felt numbness spreading through his arms, down to his fingertips. The knife practice, the shooting, learning to kill with his bare hands, he’d done it all, but he’d never actually hurt anyone since being with Yuri. And now he had to go the distance – he had to kill a man!
Chapter 12
It had been two days since meeting with General Petrichova, and Mehmet walked back and forth on the cobbled street outside the Ottoman house, occasionally looking across to the other side of the Bosporus. Apprehensive churning had turned to acid in his stomach, but he still had feelings of a more basic nature visit when a couple of attractive girls walked down the hill towards him.
“Good morning, girls,” he said, winking as they passed. They giggled, nodded and walked on.
Another time he might have seen the giggles as an opening and followed up on it, but today, today he shrank away from the possibility. Tension returned and his thoughts turned to the effort Yuri had put in trying to get him drinking the other night. Hmph, he would have had more success putting female flesh in front of him. Mehmet couldn’t work out why he was driven like that, other than to blame his father, but as soon as a good-looking woman came into sight, he wanted her.
But no, whatever his nature, the last person he wanted to be like was his father. He brought to mind the terrible rows his parents had because of the other women. And when he
had those thoughts, hatred bubbled to the surface. Yuri always threw a different light on matters; he’d known Mehmet’s father and only spoke well of him, so… The two girls came back up the hill and he pulled his head back. He couldn’t help himself; he posed, because they’d come back for him, but again they went straight on by, giggling.
A few gulls came inland a little ways and screeched out while circling the peaks above the Ottoman, probably looking for food; the smog had moved over the strait. Mehmet went indoors to check on Yuri. He was in the cellar. He hadn’t stopped reading those files of his since getting the order from General Petrichova.
“You’re certainly caught up with those papers.”
“I’m glad to be making use of the lists I’ve collected over the years,” he said.
“So anyway, how are we progressing?” Mehmet asked.
“Well, if you’d come down here when I started and tried helping a little, you would’ve known exactly how we were doing, wouldn’t you?”
Ouch. “Yes, err, sorry, Yuri.”
His granite face softened and he smiled. “Okay, not to worry. I think I’ve got everything I need. Help me secure the strongbox and we’ll go out and grab a bite to eat.”
Yuri had told him that when he bought the house he’d dug a couple of cubic metres out of the centre of the cellar floor and made an underground safe there. He’d lined the cavity with firebricks and fitted steel doors to the opening. Mehmet helped him drop the doors back into position and cover them with heavy wooden flooring. They then swept the dust about until it looked like any other part of the floor.
“That’ll do it. Let’s go,” Yuri said and they went to eat.
Both men ordered a cabbage dolma – sautéed rice, pine nuts, currants, spices and herbs, all wrapped tightly in cabbage leaves. Mehmet ate slowly, still struggling to get his head around the idea of killing a man.
Yuri spoke with his mouth full, saying, “We’re ready to make a start. We’ll go over to Sirkeci, berth the boat on the eastern shores of Eminonu and walk in. But watch your back. I want you to travel like a wisp of smoke, the way I’ve taught you.”