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

by Rik Stone

  He found her outside on the first-floor veranda, swaying backwards and forwards on one of the wicker rocking chairs, staring across the bay towards Marmaris. The evening had turned balmy and fireflies zipped around the half-light of the hanging kerosene lamps, tails lit up as the flies bustled about, looking for a mate.

  Gizem jumped forward with a start when she saw him. “Oh, you’re back. Well?” she asked, straightening.

  “Everything went smoothly. Both flesh and drug businesses remain separate and safe. The only real concern was Dmitri, which could’ve been difficult, but in the end Nabokovski accepted what had happened without question.”

  Gizem waved a hand dismissively. “Dmitri was collateral damage and Nabokovski knew it,” she said. “Even if he could have guessed what really happened he’d have reacted in the same way. He can’t afford to put the business on the line any more than we can.”

  She could say what she liked, but her relief was palpable.

  “That aside,” Beyrek said, “we have to do something about Eren. He was a risk to us. Somehow, he has to be reined in. Who knows what shit he might drop us in if he carries on like that.”

  “I agree. I don’t know, sometimes I wonder whether you and Levent Pasha had the same blood. Eren surely takes after him: lazy, with eyes only for girls and good times. He doesn’t want to work and when I look at him I swear I can see that man staring back at me.”

  Beyrek’s head spun. “What…?” He hadn’t given it mind before, but Eren did look a bit like Levent. But no, Gizem was always full of stupid notions.

  Chapter 31

  Istanbul, Turkey, 1972

  Escaping Synopi, Mehmet had felt it would be safer zigzagging overland towards Istanbul rather than travelling in a direct line. This was probably overplaying his hand, but that was how Yuri had taught him to do things. He used a little of Selim’s money for clothes and food, but generally they found work and made themselves blend in to whatever local atmosphere they encountered. All too easily, Mehmet also bedded women in every village and in two years that added up to a lot of women – he remained a constant disappointment to himself. It was easy for him to blame his father for the trait; it couldn’t be just the way he was.

  Now, he stood with Oz in Galata, on one of the higher slopes that looked across the Bosporus. His chest weighed heavily; another chapter in his life over and he still had no idea how he’d ended up like this in the first place. But he would find out and when he did…

  Never mind that; the time had come to get through the wrench of parting with Oz. They’d been together for so long and the relationship would end with a simple goodbye. Mehmet turned his attention to him. “Well, we’ve done it,” he said.

  Oz’s expression saddened. “Yes, and I suppose we must go our own ways.”

  “I’m afraid so. Look, here,” Mehmet said, changing the subject. He still had most of the money Selim had given him. He’d guarded it jealously, holding back for emergencies – that time had come. He took it from his pocket. “There’s quite a lot of money left over, Oz, and you’re going to need it more than me.”

  Oz’s face lit up, but then turned pensive. “But what about you?” he asked, trying to look guilty, failing miserably.

  “Don’t worry about me. But there is a condition attached. I want this money to stop you going out robbing.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “With this money I could go into business. Maybe open a market stall.”

  They laughed.

  “But I do feel guilty, Mehmet,” he said. “What will you do?”

  Right words, but a guilty man shouldn’t look that excited. Mehmet smiled at the false concern. “I have a friend who has plenty. I told you, don’t worry about me.”

  Oz thanked him again. They hugged for what seemed like forever before going their separate ways.

  Crossing the Galata Bridge into Eminonu, Mehmet intended to walk to the east bank and catch a ferry across the strait to the Uskudar district on the Asian side of the city. Of course, he remembered the fire well enough, but he still hoped he might find something that would give him a clue as to where Yuri might be. It wasn’t until he’d reached where the Golden Horn met the Bosporus that it struck him: he didn’t have money for the ferry. The fare wouldn’t be much, but with nothing in his pockets it might as well be a fortune.

  With no idea which way Oz went, there was no way of catching up with him. He looked around; too quiet here. If he was to get his hands on cash he’d have to go somewhere with more activity: he’d have to go back to Sirkeci quayside.

  He came to a market in full flow near the end of the floating bridge, the same market where they murdered Senturk. A shiver ran up his spine: it looked no different to when they were there together. A blind man sat on the steps leading to the lower jetty. He held out a cup and begged alms from any noise that came near. Mehmet crept up on him quietly and looked at the contents of the cup. Enough for the ferry, he reached out, but then an overwhelming feeling of disgust filled him and he sidled off, leaving the money untouched.

  But he needed some from somewhere. At the bottom of the steps, near the edge of the market, he found a post to lean against, watched, began feeling beaten for the lack of ideas, but then small groups of boys passed and walked idly into the crowd, maybe ten, maybe more, in twos or threes. A glimmer of hope: Little Dogs.

  He could only hope they hadn’t changed their practices and were now only stealing goods. His head bobbed around looking for somewhere to give him a vantage point, somewhere he could watch events roll out – the top of the bridge. Running back up the steps, he brushed by the beggar, leaned over a nearby balustrade, picked up on where the boys were and waited for them to make a move.

  They were quick to feel safe and came together as two groups on opposite sides of the crowd, moving towards each other in a Pincer movement. Two fairly well-heeled older men were caught between the boys, knives flashed and the men’s hands went out in crucifixion. In seconds, the money had been lifted and the boys were on their toes. They raced through the market, scattering the crowd as they went.

  A lone boy stood near the bottom of the steps where Mehmet had been earlier. His appearance was different to the thieves: clean from top to toe and wearing a neat school uniform. The gang rushed at him as a single unit, swarming all over him as they ran past. Roughly, they shoved him around and then trampled him to one side before running off to freedom. The schoolboy sat on the bottom step looking terrified and more than a little worse for wear.

  A smile forced its way onto Mehmet’s face as a vendor came from behind his stall and helped the boy to his feet. Mehmet watched with glee as the Little Dogs’ new trick panned out.

  “Are you all right?” he heard the vendor ask as he brushed the boy down and tousled his hair.

  “Yes, sir,” the boy answered, quickly pulling from the vendor’s prying hands and then he bit his lip to stop from crying, like the brave little soldier he was.

  The vendor seemed understanding that the boy might not want to be touched by a stranger and smiled. “Well, you take care now,” he said and left to join in with the commotion that had ensued at the opposite edge of the crowd. The schoolboy walked away slowly. Mehmet followed. If the recipe for success was still the same, the other Little Dogs would already be on the way back to the jetty, so Mehmet had nothing to fear from them. He kept his footsteps light, but then increased his speed until he was within a metre of the boy. The boy turned off the main boulevard into an alleyway, Mehmet hurried and grabbed him by the shoulder before he could run.

  “What…?”

  “I wish you no harm,” Mehmet said calmly, “but I need that market money.”

  “What market money?”

  The innocent plea stopped abruptly when Mehmet took a grip on the boy’s school jacket and lifted him from the ground. Being only too aware of what these little villains were capable of, the first thing Mehmet did was to reach into the boy’s clothing and fish out his knife. But there wasn’t a knife; ther
e were a dozen knives. The gang had made sure they had nothing incriminating should any of them get caught. They’d become sophisticated compared to what Mehmet’s gang had been. He laughed, threw the hardware to the ground and dropped the boy. The boy fell on his butt, squirmed and floundered as Mehmet took the money.

  “Sorry,” he said. “My need is greater than yours.”

  Like the Little Dogs, Mehmet raced off, zigzagging through alleys as he went. And he took the escape seriously; the last thing he needed was that lot following him.

  Chapter 32

  With a heavy heart, Mehmet stared across the burnt-out site where the old wooden Ottoman house had stood. Dirt and rubble were heaped indiscriminately; the scrapings near the middle were dark and appeared recently stirred. A hope, could it be…? But no; that would be wishful thinking. Thoughts turned to the good times he’d shared with Yuri and his mood sunk lower. All destroyed by Captain Ahmet – but why and for whom?

  Something about that had always nagged at him. It had happened too neatly – like pieces in a puzzle. But however hard he tried Mehmet couldn’t put the picture together. When he was taken as a child by Zeki to join the Little Dogs it wasn’t a chance kidnapping: Zeki had known both his and his father’s names. When he was shot on the Galata Bridge, Zeki had set it up and Mehmet felt sure it was because he’d seen him with the strange man at the jetty. And when he was taken to the police station, someone other than Ahmet and Yagmur had conducted events from the shadows, a man who had known Mehmet’s second name. To put the final pieces into the mix, Mehmet more or less knew he’d been moved to Synopi Prison so that he couldn’t be interviewed by the new junta. But why had any of it happened? There was nothing special about him. Whatever the reasons, it began when he’d waited for his father in the jail passage. Somehow, that day connected everything, but for the life of him he couldn’t see how: but if he ever did, someone would pay.

  He kicked at the grass verge, full of self-sympathy. From the word go he’d got the shitty end of the stick and life had gone steadily downhill from there. He was about to slip further into the abyss when an old man came out of a neighbouring Ottoman wooden house and hobbled slowly over towards him. Mehmet recognised him but because he and Yuri had kept themselves to themselves, he’d never known his name. The old man stopped and stood by Mehmet. They looked across at the site together.

  “How can one wooden house in the middle of a row of wooden houses be the only one to burn down?” Mehmet asked.

  The old man’s neck creaked as he looked up to answer. “This one was well up in flames by the time the firemen got here. It was too far gone. They contained the burnout by concentrating on saving the houses on each side.”

  Mehmet said, “I heard there were gunshots fired on the night it went up?”

  “Yes, and most of the shooting came from the police. I think it was either a mistake or political, because I’ve never heard another thing about it since that day. A cover-up, that’s what I think. What’s your interest? You going to buy the land?”

  The old man hadn’t recognised Mehmet, but why should he? He was older and bearded.

  “No, I was looking up an old friend, but he clearly doesn’t live here now.”

  The old man raised his eyebrows as he looked up again. A multitude of tramlines dug in across his forehead. He had large eyes, but the whites had lost their attractiveness to yellow and were crisscrossed with red lines. His neck was all loose skin and his head was bald. Mehmet felt like he was looking down at a little bird that had just broken through its shell.

  “The Russian or the young Turk?” he asked.

  The question sounded like it had an answer. “Err, the Russian. But how did you know that?”

  “The police had said when they questioned me. I don’t know where he lives now, but he comes back every so often. Doesn’t do anything, never speaks, he just stares the way you were and then kicks around in the rubble near the centre.” He mumbled into his chest. “Yes, a cover-up.”

  By now he wasn’t actually talking to Mehmet, but he answered anyway. “Yes, sounds like it. The centre you say – are you sure?”

  “Yes, every time, he went and kicked around in the centre.” He pointed at the obvious.

  Mehmet thanked him for his company and shook his hand. The old man smiled a wrinkled smile and nodded before starting his journey downhill towards the jetty. His footfall was slow, looked painful and Mehmet knew the trek back up the hill would be that much harder for him.

  When he turned the corner and was out of sight, Mehmet looked across the void at a stone-pine tree. Its top was domed and its branches entwined like a pit full of snakes: very much like the parts of his life he was unable to unravel. The old man said Yuri always stood in the centre of the burnout, so Mehmet stepped over the grass verge to see if he’d left anything tell-tale. Getting to the middle, the ground had descended a half a metre, more. His pulse quickened.

  He dropped to his knees and scooped away the earth. It was soft and easily moved, cindered wood crumbled into dust as he pulled it aside. With the last of the dirt smoothed off, Mehmet stared at the steel door covering the space where Yuri had kept his files. Mehmet had kept one of the Little Dogs’ knives and now stuck it under the cover for leverage. It gave up without a struggle and he found himself looking down at a metal briefcase. He pulled it out and bobbed his head about to make sure no one was watching. The area was clear, but it wouldn’t be safe to open it at the site. Taking the case, he replaced the cover, dragged the earth back over it and walked away slowly, formulating a plan in his mind. There was money left from what the Little Dogs had ‘given’ him and he would use it to rent a room for a couple of days on the European side.

  The ferry took him back to Salacak quayside where he took another to the southern end of Eminonu, Yenikapi: a port on the coastline of the Marmara Sea. He found accommodation in an old doss house on the seafront. Yuri had taught him not to live on the doorstep of an intended hit and not to leave himself having to cross waterways when escaping. He also said going over bridges provided a bottleneck that worked in the favour of those chasing.

  In the room, Mehmet set the briefcase on the bed and pushed the catches sideways. They clicked easily and the lid sprung open. Money! More than he could easily count. And Yuri’s Welrod was tucked in next to the bank notes.

  “What’s this?”

  Under the money there was enough ammunition to load the single-stack magazine several times over. To make sure he’d missed nothing, he tipped the case’s contents out onto the bed and found a note:

  Mehmet, I hope it’s you reading this. If so, good luck.

  Luck? Could it be turning in his favour at last? There was enough money for … well, for a long time. Yuri was alive; he hadn’t said where he was, but it was enough to know he was all right. No news of Nina; he could only hope she too was safe. But he wasn’t about to worry about other people at this stage. He had things to do and they had to be done without anyone’s help and without the burden of emotion. If he came out on top, he would seek his friends out later.

  The task at hand: Revenge – and it began with two targets. Ahmet; he was one bastard who was about to learn what it felt like to be a victim. However, the first hit would be Yagmur, the torturer. This lady had nothing to do with shaping Mehmet’s life other than what she did to him in the cells. And for that she would be first. He’d never killed anyone, so she would be the easiest option. He laughed softly to himself, “Someone to cut my teeth on.”

  Thinking of teeth, before he did anything else he had to have them seen to. The years hadn’t been kind.

  *

  Mehmet hung around the quayside near the Sirkeci Police Station where Yagmur had had her fun with him. But three days passed and he saw no sign of her. Then, on the fourth day, she came into view, hobbling along the pavement like the clichéd fictional torturer. It was not a warm morning and not cold either, but Yagmur wore a heavy, brown, tweed overcoat that hung long and low, almost touching her skin
ny ankles. Struggling legs and splayed feet shuffled her gruesome shape along, her every step riding the coat up at a slant, her hunched back pulling the garment further out of form. The coat was thick and weighty, but did nothing to detract from her disfigurement. Her head hung low as if the troubles of the world hung around her neck and her briefcase pulled mercilessly on her arm. Anyone else and he would have sympathised.

  When she approached the entrance to the police station a sudden new zest for life seemed to fill her, her stride quickened and her face lit up. She turned towards the entrance just as Captain Ahmet opened the door and came out to greet her. She put down her case, balanced it against her leg and began excitedly mimicking the actions Mehmet remembered from his captivity: rubbing at her stomach and laughing, she pretended to be hungry. She’d carried out those same actions when telling Mehmet how she got an appetite after using the burning throne and crown on a prisoner.

  Yagmur would be his first kill and her display of cruel intention left him without pity. He had no qualms about it; in fact, he felt nothing. But before he could plan her demise, he had to decide if she would be of any use alive? For instance, could she tell him about his father’s killers? Did she know the man who’d sat behind him in the cell when Mehmet was shackled to the chair? But no, Ahmet had that information. He would tell him all he needed when his turn came.

  The decision was made. He would kill Yagmur without fuss. When it was done, he would find a place to rent, somewhere to hold Ahmet after taking him prisoner. His mind started working on how he might do it, but then he caught hold of the thoughts. One thing at a time; concentrate on Yagmur.

  How would he kill her? Keep it simple: corner her and do it quickly, professionally. Where? Her trek home from the police station. Yes, a spot on one of the narrow roads or alleys – but she didn’t go to the station every day. What if she didn’t come again? No, that notion made no sense. It was just a matter of being patient and he’d had time enough in his life to learn that. He would wait until her next visit and shadow her as best he could until an opportunity presented itself.