Table of Contents

1. Birth of an Assassin

2. The Turkish Connection

3. The Man in the Blue Fez

Birth of an Assassin

Rik Stone

How odd of God to choose the Jews

But not so odd as those who choose

A Jewish God, yet spurn the Jews.

Grey Skipwith 1912–1942

© 2013 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.

Published by Silver Publishing

First published in eBook format in 2013

eISBN: 978-1-78301-099-8

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.

eBook Conversion by www.ebookpartnership.com

To my beautiful granddaughter Lucy Marie Irvine

Forever Young

Contents

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

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Epilogue

1

2

Chapter 1

Moscow, Russia: 1947

Early September and autumn advanced alongside a cold north wind. Fifteen-year-old Jez Kornfeld pressed on, passed through the grounds of the Kremlin and stopped in Red Square to admire the splendor of St Basil’s Cathedral. Thoughts of how Ivan the Terrible had blinded the architect to prevent the creation of another edifice as beautiful sent a shiver down his spine. But then he turned full circle and his heart beat rapidly. He sighed, “Moscow.”

He’d stood too long and his body shook with the cold. Threadbare clothes hung loose on his narrow frame and the chill marched through without resistance. He hunched his shoulders, pulled his muffler tighter, pushed it under his collar, and hugged the jacket close. He should move on. If he could find a recruitment center and enlist today, he’d be in a comfortable bed by nightfall and would have taken his first steps to becoming a soldier.

He’d snuck away from his hillside home after his father had told him to put foolish dreams aside, wait a year, marry and settle down. He couldn’t do that – he wouldn’t. He hadn’t wanted to slink off in the shadows like a chicken thief, but he had to follow his destiny: he would be a soldier – whatever the cost.

Recollections faded as two young soldiers bundled through the Kremlin gates behind him. They pushed and shoved at each other like children.

“You’re a good lad, Private Krupin… huh, sergeant’s little creep, all you did was go for his cigarettes,” the taller of the two taunted.

“You’re jealous because he said I’m doing well. And he thinks you’re a bit – what did he call you? – oh yes, dim.”

Before the laughter cleared Krupin’s throat, the taller youth had hooked an arm around his neck and wrestled him to the ground. They tussled in the street but the one who’d taken the initiative held firm.

“All right, all right, I give in,” Krupin squealed.

“First, tell me what you are… come on.”

Up until now, Jez had watched without expression, but when the soldier ground his knuckle into Krupin’s shaven scalp, he winced.

“No, don’t… oh… what am I?”

“You’re a creep, come on, tell me.”

“Yes, I’m a creep, a creep. Ouch, fuck, that’s enough, let go.”

He let go his hold and both men got to their feet, dusted off their uniforms and slapped their berets against their thighs. Krupin put his cap on askew, took out a crumpled pack and tapped a couple of cigarettes from it. Firing up both, he handed one to his comrade.

Jez was about to walk on, but then he brightened and went over to the soldiers. Maybe they could help.

“Excuse me, sirs,” he said. “I’m looking for a place where I can sign up to become a soldier of the Red Army.”

Krupin sharpened his glare, looked Jez up and down, and for a moment appeared to turn away. But then his gait changed, he smiled, gripped Jez by the shoulder, switched his attention.

“Red Army,” he sniggered, “yes, of course. If you carry on straight up Nikolskaya Prospekt, you’ll come to Dzerzhinski Square. Cross the plaza and pass the statue. Beyond that, you’ll see a yellow building with grey brickwork at ground level. That is the place you seek.”

The taller of the two pursed his lips, leaned over and exhaled a thick blue line of smoke that clouded and fogged around Jez’s head. His eyes watered and the fumes from the cheap cigarette rasped his throat. He wanted to protest, but instead said, “Thank you, sir. I’m grateful for your help,” and walked away with the directions firmly in his mind.

The soldiers continued with their banter and Jez heard snippets. “Krupin, you are a bastard”, “Dzerzhinski Square”, “Red Army” and “but the way his eyes watered…” Even with a good distance between him and the men, he still heard them scream with laughter.

He shook his head and smiled. The soldiers weren’t important. He had the information he needed.

*

At the square he crossed the plaza, and there it was beyond the statue: the yellow brick building. Excitement hammered through his veins and he strode purposefully. He got to within a couple of steps of the entrance when an official in a heavy greatcoat and Ushanka fur hat halted him. Jez’s footfall flattened.

The man towered over him like a giant. “Stop, where do you think you’re going, boy? Let me see your papers… quickly. You do have papers?”

Nervously, Jez unbuttoned his side bag, fumbled with its contents. “Yes, sir… I do have papers…” He noticed epaulettes on the official’s greatcoat. They had pips – an officer. Hurry, a chance to impress. The papers, he patted down pockets and cleared his throat. “… And I’ve come to enlist in the military of the people, sir, the Red Army.”

“Enlist? Young men usually wait for conscription – and you look too young. What are you running from?”

Too young, he hadn’t thought of that. “I’m not running, sir. The army is my destiny.”

An almost imperceptible shake of the head and the official held out his hand. “Papers,” he insisted.

Positive he’d put the cards in his side bag, Jez pulled them from his jacket and proudly handed them over.

“Jezer Kornfeld, you’re a Jew. Why are you volunteering for the Soviet Army?”

Jez couldn’t understand the attitude. Hadn’t the man listened to what he’d just said? And there must’ve been Jews in the army before, at least in the Great Patriotic War.

“Could it be your family has put you out as a result of the famines?”

“Famines?”

“The famines caused by our Scorched Earth policy when we were in retreat from the Nazis. Are they so insignificant that you can’t bring them to mind?”

“Oh, the famines, no, sir, of course I know of the famines. I was confused because you thought my family might turn me away. They would never do such a thing. Not for any reason.”

“Then is it because we’re no longer at war you believe you could be in for a soft ride?” he goaded.

Rebellion prickled Jez’s skin. “No, sir, I follow no religion and all I want is to learn and serve. As far as wars are concerned, there’s always one waiting to happen.” He shrank at saying the words “no religion”. True, but it would break poor Poppa’s heart to hear him say it, and to a gentile.

“Well, that’s quite an answer for a little fellow, and it must be said you are a little fellow. I’m not sure it would be wise for you to pursue this line of work. You look a bit… fragile.”

“Not so, sir. I train every day. I’m probably as fit as anyone in this building.”

“Oh, is that so?” replied the official, his granite face softening as he raised his eyebrows. “And have you completed any education?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve studied as much as was available and did well in each subject.”

“Hmm,” his interrogator nodded. “You’ve come directly to Lubyanka. Was there a reason for that?”

Strange question, thought Jez. “Yes, sir,” he said, “it’s an army recruitment center.”

The other’s face opened into a smile. “Oh, I see. Very well, and what is it you expect to achieve as a soldier?”

“I want to know all there is about the army, sir.” The thought grew in Jez’s mind and excited him. “And I want to be an officer – like you.”

A snigger huffed through the larger man’s nose. “Right, Comrade Kornfeld, come with me. We’ll see what you’re made of.”

Jez marched a half step behind, through large wooden front doors, into a maze of identical corridors. On one of the higher floors, the officer went into an office and Jez waited at the entrance for further instruction. He peeked inside and saw a highly polished dark oak desk with a large red and gold leather inset, elaborate bookcases snugly hidden against dark paneled walls, and a square rug that virtually covered the whole of the floor. The grandeur of the room redeemed the image of military pomp previously tarnished by the soldiers at the gate. But again, he felt overshadowed.

“Come in, boy.”

Nervous, he strutted so as not to show it, but he was thrown out of kilter by the deep pile that tried to swallow his feet. He hurried to the chair and sat. The officer frowned and Jez realized he should’ve waited to be told what to do – too late now.

The man looked about Poppa’s age, mid thirties, but the likeness ended there. Never had Jez seen anyone so big, as tall as a house and such massive shoulders. His natural expression appeared stern, but then he relaxed and looked caring, even kindly. Maybe younger than Poppa, he thought.

After he’d hung his greatcoat on a rack in the corner, he sat down opposite Jez. But then his eyes rolled upward: he’d forgotten to take off the Ushanka hat. He shook his head and slung the hat towards the coat rack. Briefly forgetting his nervousness, Jez struggled to keep a straight face.

“I’ve kept an eye on new recruits and… I don’t know. There’s something about you. I’ve nurtured an idea for some time and maybe you’re a person I could discuss it with.”

What could an official want to discuss with him?

“Before I begin, I should tell you this is not an army recruitment center. It is in fact KGB headquarters; and the statue in the center of the square is Felix Dzerzhinski, founder of the first communist secret police – the Cheka. Surely you’ve heard of Dzerzhinski Square or Iron Felix?”

“No, no, sir, I haven’t.”

Right enough, he hadn’t known of the place, but he suddenly knew why the two soldiers had laughed so. A wry smile crossed his face.

“You think that’s funny?”

He stiffened. “No, sir, sorry, I was directed here by guards outside the Kremlin and…”

The official raised a hand. “Enough, I understand. I am Colonel Michel Petrichova, an officer in a Federal Security Services command that goes under the name of Spetsnaz. You’ve heard of it?”

“No, sir,” his face burned. He thought he’d known so much about the army, but he hadn’t known any of this.

“Don’t worry. I see from your papers you’re from a rural area, so no reason why you should.”

The colonel shuffled into a different position and drummed a tattoo on the desk. “The reason you’re here is because of my father. A prominent Bolshevik at the time of the People’s Revolution, his belief that the workers were capable of military greatness was unshakeable.”

The colonel stared, eyes penetrating. Jez had no idea how to respond, so he pulled his shoulders back, sat up straighter and did nothing. If he held an intelligent expression, maybe he would look as if he understood what was going on.

“His idea,” the colonel continued, “was that with enough time invested in a peasant, Mother Russia could have the greatest armed forces in the world. What is your opinion?”

Was he amusing himself like the two soldiers at the gates? Whatever his reasons, Jez reckoned he should answer as well as he could. “I think he was proven right, sir. We have recently become a superpower. How could he have been wrong?”

“Well answered, but I think he meant each military individual could be the best, and that certainly isn’t the case, is it?” The colonel sat back, folded his arms, waited for an answer.

Jez stumbled in his mind. “…I’m sorry, sir, I can’t say. I don’t know any soldiers.”

The colonel leant forward, planted his elbows on the desk, made a church with his fingers and bowed his head. Jez wondered if he was praying. If he was, the prayer quickly ended and he sat back abruptly.

“The fact is, Kornfeld, your attitude has a certain appeal. And because you’re such a little mite, if I were to turn you into the complete fighting machine it would verify my father’s beliefs.”

A surge of adrenalin made Jez become spirited and he jumped to an answer. “I would be honored to prove your father right, sir.”

“Good, first things first, which means that we have to put you through basic training. Do you think you’re up to the task?”

Jez had dreamt of this for as long as he could remember. “Yes, of course, sir, that is why I came here.”

“Then that’s all there is to be said. Oh, just one thing: you are forbidden from telling anyone of this discussion. And I mean anyone. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” he said, but couldn’t imagine why anyone would care anyway.

The colonel picked up the phone and within moments of him putting it back in the cradle, an officer entered the room.

“Yes, sir,” he said, stamping to attention.

“This young man wants to join the Soviet Army. Take him and see he is signed up without anyone questioning his age. I want you to arrange a dossier on the boy, and at the end of the preparation I want the paperwork – and the boy – back here.”

Surprise crossed the officer’s face, but he acknowledged the demands without query and left the office. Jez trailed raggedly behind. Tiredness had reached the stage where it was fast becoming his master.

Chapter 2

Jez sat in the back of an old Studebaker truck, bouncing in unison with other recruits as they drove through the Moscow military district. The fact that he was the only one whose greatcoat was too big for him cast his thoughts back to when he was younger.

*

Early 1941, and not quite 8 years old, Jez was sitting at the table in their hillside cabin. Sabbath supper had finished and he hung around wondering what to do next.

“Can I go out and play please, Poppa?” he asked.

Outside, the sun had become a memory and a sudden certainty told him he and his wooden rifle might be needed round the back.

Poppa combed his fingers through his great beard. “Yes, Jezer, for a little while anyway, but come straight in when Miriam tells you, okay?”

“Yes, Poppa.”

Who knows, there could be a threat from night prowlers. He eased from the chair as his younger brother Nat squeezed by, and horror filled Jez on noting it. Nat was just as tall as he was. Not that Nat’s height was important, but he was only six. Jez wasn’t growing fast enough.

Dreams of life as a soldier shattered before his eyes. Too small, the army wouldn’t want a little man. He looked down at his arms and things got worse: he was too skinny. He had to get out of the cabin, now. Picking up his wooden gun, he rushed through the door. If it hadn’t been for the tough character required of an infantryman, he might well have been close to tears. All the same, he had to find his big sister Miriam, and fast.

She was round the back gathering up Rachael and Lydia so she could get them ready for bed. She spun at the sound of his approach and, with a swiftness surprising even his military prowess, grabbed him tightly.

“My beautiful little soldier,” she said, and swung him round until they fell on the grassy bank that ran down to the cabin. “I don’t know how you would manage without that rifle by your side.”

They laughed, but then the mirth faded and his bottom lip pushed out.

“Whatever’s wrong with my little man?” she asked, and her smile paled as she dabbed a finger at the offending article.

His big sister was the only one he could talk to about his passion. “I don’t think the army will want me, Miriam,” he replied, and pouted some more.

“Whatever makes you think that?”

“Already Nat is taller than me, and I’m even skinnier than the girls. Why would the mighty Red Army want a skinny little man?”

Miriam pondered without expression and then said, “Silly, there’s still plenty of time for you to grow and become as big as you hope to be; but even if you don’t, they would want you for your strength and swiftness. And you’re clever. Don’t worry, Jez, things will work out – you’ll see.”

Of course, that was the answer. He would study hard. He would be faster and stronger than anyone could be. Already he was more powerful than his older brother, and much more so than Nat. He could do it. Heart swelling back to full size, he hugged Miriam and she laughed out, as the wooden gun poked between them.

*

His smile dulled as he wondered whether he’d ever see his family again. But… he’d imagined being a soldier for as long as he could remember: he had no choice. He sighed, straightened his back and pulled the greatcoat tighter across his chest in an attempt to fill it.

Without notice, the vehicle shuddered to a halt and the recruits roared as they bundled into a pile towards the front. The tailgate dropped and the tarpaulin flaps separated. Jez followed the others from the truck and smiled at the NCO who awaited them. A blow snapped his head to one side and his cheek burned with a blistering heat.

“What…” he began, and dropped his kitbag so he could lift a hand to cover the pain.

This time a slap rattled his brain and his beret slipped over his newly shaven head. He reached to straighten it and a sidekick sent him sprawling to the ground. But before he could get up the NCO had leaned over him and his alcohol-laced breath wafted into his nostrils, turned his stomach.

“When I tell you to speak, fucking speak. If I don’t tell you to speak, then keep your mouth shut and your stupid face straight. Now follow me, smartly…”

The group followed him into a large wooden hut where, apart from hosts of rusted steel-framed single bunks with wooden stools between, the quarters were unfurnished. Faded green gloss peeled from the walls. Wood plank flooring had shrunk and expanded so often it no longer butted together and a chilled wind whistled through.

Another assembly of cadets stood at the foot of their allotted bunks. The group included girls, but that hadn’t mattered to the NCO. Each of them held a small wooden stool at arm’s length that wobbled under a weight that increased with time. The lines on the cadet’s foreheads deepened, and their faces changed from red to white and back again. Whatever they’d done, they were paying a stiff penalty.

The NCO walked the length of the hut, turned and stopped with his hands behind his back and his feet apart.

“Don’t just stand there like a bunch of fucking idiots. Put those stools next to your billets,” he said, belting out as much noise as he could.

Somehow, the other recruits squeezed the stools into almost non-existent gaps.

“The rest of you, take off the greatcoats, grab a bunk and stow your gear.” He ambled back to the door from where they’d come and gave them a minute to get back to the foot of their beds.

“I am Corporal Nikolas and you will address me as Corporal or Corporal Nikolas. You do not call me ‘sir’. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Corporal,” Jez shouted along with the others.

He’d been under the impression that, since the war, women were no longer used by the military and his curiosity got the better of him. What kind of girl would volunteer when she didn’t have to? The NCO turned his back and Jez sneaked a look at the girls. He stopped when his eyes came to rest on the bunk opposite and gulped. A blonde girl stood to attention. Attractive without doubt, but that wasn’t what fascinated him. He’d never seen anyone so obviously a soldier in the making: such hard determination, eyes unyielding, yet stunningly embroidered in dark blue against a pale skin, unforgiving, yet such angelic features.

But then he withered under her gaze as a fierce glint in her eyes made him avert his own. She’d thrown him. He’d forgotten about the NCO and lifted his head, pulled the “little boy” face he used when Miriam got angry with him. He was sure the girl’s eyes softened, so he followed up with a coy smile. Before he saw a response, a dull clap left him staring up from the bed.

“Are you some kind of fool? What did I tell you about stupid faces?” the NCO screamed.

Jez panicked. This would be reported back to Colonel Petrichova. He had to make amends. “I’m sorry, sir, it won’t happen again, sir,” he said. Too late, he remembered what the NCO had just told him.

The corporal grabbed him angrily to pull him up by the shirt; Jez screwed up his face as fingernails clawed into his chest.

“I won’t tell you again: speak when I tell you and not before.” He cast him back to the bunk, almost turned away, but then came back and bunched Jez’s shirt into a fist. “And I thought I told you to address me as corporal.” Jez remained silent. “Well?”

“Sorry, Corporal, it won’t happen again, Corporal.”

“Lights out in ten,” Nikolas shouted, and slammed the door as he left, almost taking it off its hinges.

Jez sat on the lumpy old striped mattress and rubbed a hand over his still stinging head.

“Are you all right?” a stern voice asked.

He looked up. The girl had come over. Without permission, his chest beat out a drum roll. “Yes, I’m fine, thanks.” He tried to appear laid back and stood to offer his hand. “I’m Jez Kornfeld, pleased to meet you.”

She looked at the hand, hesitated, but then sighed and offered hers. “Anna Puchinsky,” she said, and shook his hand.

His fingers crumbled under the pressure of her grip – but that was only because he hadn’t expected her to grab him so hard.

The introduction finished as quickly as it had begun. “I’ve got to sort my kit out,” she said, and left.

He wanted to say something that might hold her there, but only nodded.

She got to the foot of her bunk, turned and smiled, and his heart leapt.

*

Two weeks went by and Jez tried all he knew, which wasn’t very much, to win Anna’s friendship. The thing that actually won her over was his ability. He stood out at every discipline and she warmed to him because of it; for her, anyway, the term “friend” had become reasonably accurate.

Another intensive day finished and Nikolas called her to his quarters. For five minutes, then ten, Jez lay on his bunk and anger festered. It wasn’t his business, he knew. So he couldn’t intervene, or Colonel Petrichova would finish him. No, there was nothing to be done. But career or no, if Nikolas laid a hand on her he’d kill him, he thought.

His mind was still in a red haze when she stormed back into the dormitory, head bowed, rubbing her face with the back of her hand.

“Anna,” he said, jumping to his feet, “that’s it.” He turned towards the door.

“Whoa,” a few of the cadets chorused.

“Jez is going to sort Nikolas out for screwing Anna,” a boyish girl called Popov yelled.

They all laughed, Jez glowered, and they laughed the harder. He tried to push past, but Anna grabbed his arm roughly, stopped his progress.

“No, Jez. I can look after myself,” she said, and then she glared at the other cadets. Under her gaze, they all seemed to notice that their bunks were untidy.

“Your lip is bleeding… he can’t…”

She nodded. “You’re right, he couldn’t.”

Jez lowered his shoulders and tried to relax the stiffness. “What happened, Anna?”

She guided him to his bunk and ordered him, “Sit. He tried to grope me, but I got my knee to his balls before he had a chance to do too much. He did manage to backhand me in the mouth before I left. But it’s over, leave it, this is my worry…” She smiled, “but thanks.”

Chapter 3

Corporal Nikolas pulled a white vest over his head and tucked it into his shorts. The material strained against a girth that bulged so much that if he could move it round to the back he’d be a hunchback. He shook his head miserably.

“Not so long ago it was solid muscle. Now look at it: pulp.” He filled his chest with a massive breath and pulled in his stomach enough to get definition on his rib cage. “That’s better,” he consoled himself. “It was just the way I was standing,”

But then Kornfeld crossed his mind. The little shit. Who the fuck did he think he was? Okay, he knew he’d been spending too much time in the mess with the other NCOs, and maybe he did down a few too many vodkas and look a bit out of shape because of it, but the way that little bastard gawped at his paunch...

And Puchinsky, what did she see in the little fuck? There she was drooling over him but trying to look as if she was the one in control – and Kornfeld believed her. Fucking idiot: she was panting for it and the moron had no idea.

“He must be a virgin,” Nikolas chuckled.

She was the tastiest bit of meat they’d had for… forever, and she had to fancy someone like Kornfeld. The final insult came when she’d kneed him in the balls. He should’ve had her arrested – and he would have if she hadn’t had such an effect on his balls in other ways.

But now was “getting even” time. Today they had unarmed combat. “This time the corporal gets to use his dagger,” he laughed.

He’d worked it out: he would hold the lovebirds until last; inflict the usual cuts on the other cadets, get Kornfeld in the arena before Puchinsky, wind him up and then accidentally stab him. He couldn’t kill him or he’d put himself under the spotlight –he’d been there before and didn’t like it. But if he punctured a kidney and got him sent home, it would leave a clear path to the girl. The way she was so obviously committed to the army and with Kornfeld out of the way, she would be easy to manipulate.

His stomach had relaxed again. He pulled it back in, flexed his muscles and went into the combat hall with a grin on his face.

*

Dressed in white shorts and vests, the cadets gathered in a gymnasium void of equipment. Stripped to the waist, Nikolas held a dagger, trying to affect a muscular pose, but with too much belly and slack muscles. Well, put a pig in a pair of shorts, and it’s still a pig. Hold on to that picture, Jez thought and grinned.

One after another, the cadets attempted to evade an armed strike from the enemy, but not one returned to the outer circle without clutching at a gash. Jez watched nervously. He knew he was fitter than the NCO, and bringing him down for what he’d tried to do to Anna was a fantastic thought; but if he kicked against the system... Whether he’d fully understood what the colonel had said back in his office he wasn’t sure, but he was sure his mentor wouldn’t tolerate aggression towards a senior soldier. And besides, it was clear the NCO was expert at what he was doing. Out of shape or not, he’d beat Jez easily.

A yell from Popov and she left the circle suppressing a sob, clinging to a wound high on her right breast. That was it then, only him and Anna to go.

“Centre circle, Kornfeld,” Nikolas commanded.

He sighed and moved forward.

The corporal, to Jez’s surprise, sheathed his knife and announced, “Athletics, shooting, seems you’re a bit better than good. But you’re a skinny little runt and somehow…”

A sickening thud sank into Jez’s chest and pitched him to the ground.

“…I don’t think this will be your specialty.”

He tried to get up, but Nikolas kicked him in the side and rolled him onto his back. Jez had moved with the blow, but it still left him staring at the ceiling, winded. He needed a breather, but Nikolas came at him again. Jez fought nausea and darted to one side.

“Oh, girlie tactics. I didn’t expect that from a big shot like you. I might have expected it more from Puchinsky. Ah, Puchinsky, yes, you’re up next,” he said, and turned to Anna, grinning, breathing heavily. “And we still have a little debt left unpaid.”

As he considered the words, Jez got to his feet, but his attention had shifted. Nikolas pulled his knife and slashed it sideways. The tip of the blade scratched a red line across Jez’s now slit white vest. The corporal holstered the weapon and flexed his physique, readying for hand-to-hand.

“Come on, Kornfeld, one on one. Do your worst.” He laughed. “You have my full permission to set all your might against me.”

Nikolas suddenly lunged, and the heel of an open-palmed strike knocked Jez heavily to the floor. Somehow he had to keep out of the way, but getting to his feet he was surprised to see the trainer had paled. He’d overdone it with the other cadets and his lack of fitness was there for all to see. A chance presented itself as he took a more casual swipe. Jez followed with gut reaction. The punch flew and he reacted with a nimbleness that left his opponent in slow motion. He grabbed the corporal’s wrist with both hands, made a half turn, held the grip, brought the larger man’s arm onto his shoulder and whipped it down as hard as he could. The limb snapped to the sound of bone breaking and gristle tearing. Then came a shriek, as Nikolas screamed out in agony. Jez stepped back, but a surge of arousal had warmed the pit of his stomach and the stimulus urged him to finish the job. Why not? His career was over after this. He fixed his eyes on Nikolas and moved forward.

“Jez, no,” Anna shouted.

He stopped just as a hulking silhouette emerged from the shadow of a doorway to assist the crippled trainer. Jez returned to the group and joyous murmurs flowed through the circle. Suddenly, he’d become the most popular cadet in the hall.

The man helped the trainer out of the hall and the cadets separated into smaller groups, hanging around, awaiting further instruction. Jez and Anna sat together with their backs against the wall, he staring at the door expecting guards to come and get him any minute.

“I think the others are worried they might all be in trouble,” Anna said.

“Maybe they are, but it’s me who’ll come under fire,” Jez said, voice miserable, emotions much the same.

Anna cleared her throat. “Thanks,” she said, with a softness he hadn’t heard from her before.

“For what?” he asked.

“I know you lost it because Nikolas tried it on with me, and I know how important the army is to you… I’m sorry it had to happen. I’ll always be grateful.” The words were sweet, but the voice was stern.

He was embarrassed, just as when his older brother and sister had ribbed him about looking like a pretty girl.

He had no reason to say it, other than being stuck for words, but he responded, “You’d have done the same.”

She came back at him in a flurry of decisiveness. “No, Jez, no, I wouldn’t. I’m like you in as much as the army is everything to me. But believe me, I wouldn’t have done anything so… irrational. Not for any reason. I would protect my career at all cost.”

He smiled. “Or maybe it’s just that you don’t like me as much as I like you.”

Her shoulders dropped, her face relaxed and her eyes sparkled. “No, it isn’t that. I like you well enough.”

His cheeks were still burning when a cadet from one of the other huts came into the hall.

“I’m at the end of my training and have been told to command this unit for the rest of today. I don’t know how far you’ve all got with your preparation, so we’ll just go out for a run… I want to see you in front of the hut in full kit in five minutes.”

*

The next day, after a sleepless night, Jez worried that he was about to be kicked out of the army – maybe after serving a prison term. His life’s dream had ended before it began. He wouldn’t mind, except ever since he’d arrived he’d steeled himself against Nikolas’s verbal abuse, constantly put up with being picked on, and obeyed orders like a toy soldier who’d been wound up and pointed. How could he have been so stupid as to react like that? The trainer was worn out and Jez knew it. He could have walked away, but no…

Now was the day after he’d broken the man’s arm and no one had mentioned it yet; but a new NCO had assembled the squad outside the hut and Jez was standing at attention in line with the others. He knew there was no way out of this one.

“Kornfeld, one step forward at the double,” the man shouted.

Shit, here it comes. He stepped from the line.

The NCO stared at him blankly and then grinned derisively. “Are you sure you’re the only Kornfeld?”

“As far as I know I am, Sergeant.”

He shook his head with a bemused expression. “Right, back into the ranks.”

Several weeks passed without incident, other than that his fascination for Anna grew out of all proportion. The military preparation had finished and he was ordered to return to Lubyanka. He’d got through the first stages, but his heart ached. For some stupid reason Anna had become as important to him as the army itself and he’d probably never see her again.

Chapter 4

Colonel Michel Petrichova read the dossier as Jez stood to attention in front of his desk.

“At ease, Kornfeld… You said you were as fit as anyone here and it appears you weren’t far wrong.” He looked up over half-framed glasses. “And according to the man I had at the camp, you’re a natural rifleman, and your ability to deal with military strategy and leadership, as far as it went, is excellent. I commend you… but he also said you broke your NCO’s arm in response to a bit of bullying.”

He turned back to the report and Jez was sure it was to hide a grin. When the colonel’s words had sunk in, he realized who the man in the shadows had been.

The colonel lifted his gaze but his face had soured. “Of course, you realize you could be in a prison cell right now?”

“Yes, sir, but…”

He held up a stilling hand. “No buts. If my man hadn’t been there to stop any further action, that is where you would be. Watch your temper.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, but felt cheated.

Petrichova sifted through the paperwork. “It says here that you became cozy with one of the girls in the unit.” He sounded foreboding.

“We were friendly, sir, but now we’ve gone our separate ways,” Jez replied, but hoped he was wrong.

“Good. I’m about to have you assigned to a special unit and I don’t want my time wasted by you messing around with girls. Understand?”

“Yes, Colonel. And I look forward to the opportunity you’re giving me, sir.”

And he did. He wanted to jump up and punch the air. But more than that, he wanted to run from the office and find Anna. He’d love to hear one of her blunt responses.

*

Jez was already fit, an excellent shot, and he could fight – or at least that’s what he’d thought. But after more than six months of intensive training with Spetsnaz, he realized he’d only been scratching the surface.

He’d not long been back from an exercise in Northern Siberia and he was tired, dirty. They’d given him a tent, a knife, no food, and enough clothes to keep out the brutal weather conditions – barely. When they dropped him off in the middle of nowhere, the unit sergeant shouted, “Let’s see if you can find your way out of this,” and drove off laughing – all part of the process.

He’d lived off the land for three weeks before he got back to base, and the first thing on his list was to shower. He soaked up the tepid water until his skin wrinkled, and then he dressed. No sooner was that done than a soldier pushed the tent flap back. “The sergeant wants you,” he said, and left without another word.

“You want to see me, Sergeant?” Jez said, going into the unit commander’s tent.

“Yes, come in, Kornfeld. Colonel Petrichova has looked at feedback on your performance since you’ve been with us.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Jez said.

His time had come and he’d be on his way again, he was sure. He only wished he could tell Anna, and wondered where she would be now. Perhaps she’d already set out plans for world domination. He smiled inwardly.

“I don’t know what world affairs you keep up with, Kornfeld, but the Greek communist party, the KooKooEh, is at civil war with the conservatives.”

“Yes, Sergeant, I know about as much of the situation as is made public.”

“Good, because that was about as much as I was going to tell you. Pack your kit, soldier, you’ll be flying out to join your new unit in about four hours.”

“Sergeant!”

*

Jez listened to his heart pound as he made his way to the militarized airplane. The propellers of the Lisunov Li-2T whumped as they waited patiently for heavier work, but patience wasn’t a condition he suffered from. The blood had raced through his veins non-stop since he’d been reassigned.

Only a handful of passengers crossed the airstrip; and boarding the right-hand side of the aircraft revealed why: cargo took up ten of the twenty seats. Probably it was munitions for the KKE, or Soviet personnel. He found an empty window seat behind the wing, stowed his kitbag and sat.

A regular army captain flustered along the aisle and bundled awkwardly into the seat next to him. He was a short, thickset man with a kindly, but weathered face.

“Ah, the uniform, you’re with Spetsnaz.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re very young. Are you new to the group?”

“Yes, I am, sir.”

Conversation over, the captain nodded, settled his briefcase onto his lap and busied himself with its contents. He hummed so tunelessly that Jez reckoned the composer would have trouble recognizing it.

Not long after the last passenger had boarded, the beat of the aircraft’s engines increased and the vehicle started to move slowly, turned a quarter circle, stopped and then turned a bit more before beginning its journey up the runway. Jez tingled as he felt the bulk of the machine try to get airborne. Several times it lifted from the blacktop only to bounce back to earth and waft small clouds of blue smoke from the tires.

Jez kept vigil out of the window until the plane had enough power to keep the wheels in the air. He knew that this, his first flight, would be the most exciting of all flights. The drone of the engines increased. The plane rose up to the clouds, reached its desired height and changed the angle of elevation towards horizontal. They hit turbulence and the passengers bounced fiercely in their seats.

“Is this the start of a long tour of duty, Private?” the captain asked.

“The truth is, sir, I don’t know.” Even if he had, he wouldn’t have been willing to discuss his remit.

The captain seemed to sense what Jez thought of the question, smiled graciously and returned his attention to the briefcase. The aircraft rode through every available air pocket and Jez enjoyed each twist and turn, until at last they arrived at the KKE landing strip.

In 1948, with two-thirds of the country in communist hands, coming down in a safe region wasn’t difficult. This strip was north of the Balkan Peninsula in a southern area of Macedonia. Historically, the Greek right-wing conservatives had used tyranny to subjugate the Macedonians, which made for an easy alliance with the KKE.

Jez was last off the plane, because the captain took forever to repack his case. When he did leave his seat, another officer rushed by and Jez was held up further. By the time he reached the bottom of the gangway, his travel companion had met his contact and most of the other passengers had left the strip. Workers were unloading the cargo from a rear hatch, and beyond that a young KKE soldier stood by a UAZ-469 Soviet jeep.

The soldier looked too young to be there. His long unkempt hair hung straight, stuck untidily out from under a weather-beaten beret. His features typically Greek, his dusty olive uniform was an exact match for the color of his skin; and his large brown eyes, should he live long enough, would draw the girls like flies to sugar.

He held out a hand to halt Jez. “You Kornfeld?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m Private Kornfeld.”

The boy remained solemn-faced and nodded towards the jeep.

“Good luck, Private,” the captain bid, as he and his associate passed. “I hope the ride you have here is not as bumpy as the one we’ve just shared.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jez forced a friendly grin, but found the lackluster in the KKE boy’s gaze had unnerved him. A face without expression and eyes without life. Jez wondered what lay ahead.

The young soldier crunched into gear and pulled away at breakneck speed, while Jez jerked backwards as they flew from the dirt runway. The jeep formed a sand cloud that trailed their movements. After fifteen minutes of dusty roads they reached mountainous ground, and Jez hung on as the jeep danced over the rough terrain. Rocks jutted dangerously from the track or the road hung precariously over precipices, and he bit his lower lip at the boy’s avant-garde attitude to driving.

“You must have seen a lot of action here?” he said, and hoped he hadn’t interfered with the boy’s concentration.

He looked only around fourteen, but his character seemed a lifetime older. His eyes left the road to give Jez a cursory glance. In the meantime, the jeep took the twists and curves as if on automatic pilot. “No Russian speak,” he replied, and without a line of expression he returned focus to the job.

Jez wished Anna had been by his side. He was sure she’d have something to say about the boy’s erratic driving and stone-faced comments. Whatever, he concluded a great friendship wasn’t about to be forged with his Greek driver, and he turned his attention to the elevations around them. The journey took them south, nearer enemy territory, and finally to an open stockade in a dustbowl nestled at the foot of a line of low-rise mountains.

The jeep raced to the center of the compound, the wheels locked up and they skidded to an emergency stop. The dust cloud didn’t follow suit and Jez learned what it was to be enveloped by a sandstorm. The powdered dirt settled, and without a word the young Greek soldier shut off the engine, nodded and left. Jez threw his kitbag over his shoulder and turned full circle in the hope there might be someone more companionable.

Soviet soldiers had gathered in a group near a cluster of tents and a sergeant held center stage. “Excuse me, if you’re Sergeant Viktor Sharansky,” Jez said, breaking the loop, “I believe you’re expecting me. I’m Private Kornfeld.”

The sergeant looked him over derisively. “What’s this? Now they send me little boys to take care of in the middle of a war. Maybe I should stick a broom up my ass and sweep up as I go, because I’m not doing enough already. What say you – err – Private Kooornfeld?” He stretched the name sarcastically, and the others laughed.

Around forty years old, Sharansky was medium to tall with square shoulders that tapered to slim hips. Muscles fought to burst the confines of his short-sleeved combat shirt, and he looked every centimeter the definition of a boyhood hero. A cubed head with rough features on the front of it, creases that denoted laughter and eyes displaying a cheeky twinkle – Jez wasn’t put off by his words.

“You’ll find I’m able to look after myself, Sergeant. I’ll give you no cause for concern.”

The sergeant laughed. “Don’t let that distress you, little one, I have no intention of offering any such thing. What happens to you is down to you. What’s your first name? I’m not giving you Private Kooornfeld every time I’m ordering you around.”

“My name is Jez, Sergeant.”

“Right, Jez Sergeant, I’m busy. Find somewhere for your kit and we’ll see what we can do with you later.”

Chapter 5

For three weeks, Jez watched his peers leave for the front while his presence wasn’t even acknowledged by the sergeant. He had to face up to him, and find out why.

“Excuse me, Sergeant Sharansky.”

“Yes, private, come in.”

He bent as he pushed through the flaps and into the tent. “If I may, Sergeant, I’ll get straight to the point.” Sharansky sat back and nodded. “You seem to be of an opinion that I wouldn’t be of much use in the field. I’ve trained KooKooEh ever since I got here and…”

“And?” the sergeant broke in.

He stood further to attention. “Sergeant, I know this war is bitter and casualties high. I just don’t understand why my skills are not put to better use.”

“Oh – a tantrum. The boy isn’t getting his way.”

Rankled, Jez discarded caution. “It’s not like that, Sergeant, no, I…”

“All right… all right,” the sergeant conceded, and lifted a hand to silence him. “We’ve received information of a rooftop party for a group of significant conservative officers. I’ve looked at your records. Seems you can shoot, but you’ve never killed. Do you think you can go the distance?”

Had Sharansky waited for him to make this approach?

“Yes, Sergeant, you’re right, I haven’t killed, but there has to be a first time for everyone. I’m ready, it won’t be a problem.”

“It’d better not be. Get your combat gear together and make sure you’re ready to travel at first light. Don’t worry about weapons, I’ll sort them out.”

Night still contested with day as Jez emerged. The KKE boy sat behind the wheel with Sergeant Sharansky next to him. It was so early that his mind hadn’t kicked in properly, or was it that he hadn’t clipped his belt buckle properly? Whichever, he got in a tangle and fell.

“Don’t worry,” the sergeant said, “you’re not late.” He turned to the driver. “Let’s go.”

Friendly enough, but Jez could’ve sworn he’d sniggered.

Then it got worse. The accelerator hit the metal before Jez had sat down, and he crashed over into the rear seat. This time the sergeant laughed for all he was worth.

“After the boy drops us, it’ll take him an hour to get to his KooKooEh comrades and let them know we’re on our way,” Sergeant Sharansky said. “We’ll have that hour and another three to get to our position and set up. Oh, one more thing: you’re Jez, I’m Viktor, and we’re without rank. You’re trained, so there’s no need to explain.”

“No, Sergeant, sorry, Viktor, but why the time limit?”

“We’ve arranged for KooKooEh to make a diversionary attack on a military village in the town’s suburbs. When their firepower can be heard we must be in position and ready to open fire.”

They hadn’t driven for long when the jeep left the main road in favor of dirt tracks and paths that wound along low gullies and high mountainsides. But now the boy drove tentatively and made sure the vehicle didn’t kick up dust. Eventually they stopped on a hillside and Jez pulled his rattled body from the jeep. A spattering of houses lay to the west, or at least he guessed they were houses: from that distance they looked no more than an anomaly in the terrain. Viktor took a bag from the jeep and the boy drove off without a word.

“Will there be opposition between here and the town, Viktor?”

“There’d better not be, or the mission is over. Until we’re ready to hit, low profile is the name of the game.”

They crept silently over sterile ground, and the nearer they got the more patrols they found to skirt around. When necessary they bellied out, slung the bag over the back of whoever’s turn it was to be mule, and crawled. When they reached the halfway mark, Jez was up on his feet and trotting crouched with the bag over his shoulder.

“You want me to take a turn with that bag?”

“No, it’s not a problem.”

The lifetime of physical training had paid dividends and his body thrived on the workout. But his mind was full of the task ahead: he would kill; that was why he’d trained so hard. It was a necessary step in his military evolution. Even so, sweat popped on his face – and it wasn’t through physical exertion.

They arrived on the town’s outskirts and nestled into a niche at the base of a hill. Viktor took two AK-47 submachine guns from the bag: a recently developed weapon created by a young unknown called Kalashnikov. Jez had trained with the rifle and liked its responses – accurate to 800 meters and still a kill shot at 1,500 meters. Viktor laid the guns side by side and dipped back into the bag. He took out enough ammunition to fill the magazines twice over.

“Load up, Jez. Then take off your trousers and shirt, and fasten the ammunition belt with the spare bullets in front of you.”

Jez relaxed and grinned. “We’re going to look a bit obvious if we walk into town like this.”

Viktor sighed. “We’re not quite finished,” he said. “Sling the gun over your back.”

Jez obeyed, and as Viktor pulled out sandals and a couple of hooded kaftans, the fog cleared.

“Get into these,” he said. “Reports say there are Arabs in the town, so we should go unnoticed.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Well, I don’t think the conservatives will lose any sleep over killing us slowly.”

“Right, Viktor.”

Reality sobered his thoughts – death was feasible.

“Noticing the AK-47 won’t be a problem as long as you don’t bend to pick anything up in town,” Viktor continued.

Jez held out the kaftan like a girl in a dress shop and nodded. “I could pass as an Arab without the kaftan. And you’re… well weathered.”

He watched Viktor pull the kaftan over his head. His muscular frame could have been a problem, but in the loose-fit garment he just looked fat. Jez grinned.

“What?”

“Nothing, Viktor, just thinking.”

They moved into side alleys of what Jez presumed was a typical mountain town: houses with dark adobe sun-dried brickwork, mainly flat-roofed but some slanted and tiled. Orange trees bore bitter fruit that had been left to over-ripen and wither. Their skins had already bleached to a pale shade of yellow, and the branches they hung from stretched over sandstone walls to reach for the shade of olive trees, whose aged trunks had bloated to more than a meter in width. These olives lined the street, proudly adorning the sidewalks. Their long, heavy branches provided shade for the passersby, while the white paint around the trunks gave guidance to night traffic.

On a main street, Jez watched donkeys pull rickety carts piled with firewood. Rusted old cars belched blue-black smoke so thick that it rasped the throat. An uncovered army truck chugged by, full of soldiers who looked over-heated as they leaned wearily on their rifles. Vehicles had parked on either side of the road, which slowed the traffic. A black chauffeur-driven convertible stopped just ahead with a military officer sat in the back seat, tapping a swagger stick on his forearm and staring straight ahead. His pompous expression raised the hackles on Jez’s neck. The blonde woman sitting next to him was just the opposite: she craned her neck in every direction and showed interest in all she looked at.

They turned off into a side alley and Jez was glad to leave the mayhem behind; but within a couple of meters he found himself pressed against a wall to let a heavily-laden donkey pass. The large wooden cases that flanked the animal looked over-burdening, but it never faltered. A woman led the beast from the front and stared directly at Jez. Her tanned and shrunken face seemed to admonish him, but then he realized she wasn’t looking at him, but through him.

After several alleyways into town they came to an open plaza where Arab vendors manned vegetable stalls. On the opposite side of the square a number of conservative soldiers hung around, smoking, talking.

“Take my hand, Jez,” Viktor ordered.

“What?”

“Just do it,” he said with resignation.

Jez took the sergeant’s hand and they walked diagonally across the square. Viktor clung to him and chatted in Greek – or whatever language it was; it all sounded Greek to Jez. They bumped and pushed their way through a throng of people who eagerly cleared their goods in readiness for an evening of freedom.

Halfway across the plaza, anxiety tingled over Jez’s skin as he brushed against a man. Perfumed and smartly dressed, he looked how a key official might. The stock of Jez’s AK had clipped the man’s arm, not hard, but enough for him to reach up and rub it. With face contorted, he stared at Jez in puzzlement, probably wondering how someone so much smaller than him could cause such pain with a minor bump.

Jez brought his hands together and bowed remorsefully. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, using the only Arabic he knew.

“Yes, sir,” Viktor added, “I’m sorry too. This is an idiot boy and I don’t know why I keep him.”

By the look on the man’s face, he hadn’t understood a word. Jez guessed that’s what Viktor thought too, which would be why he turned on Jez, swiped at his head, and pushed him across the square. He continued with the angry charade until they got nearer to the soldiers, he quieted, took Jez’s hand and returned to jabbering. They cleared the square and the handholding abruptly ended.

“That’s a relief,” Jez said. “I like you well enough, but not in that way.”

Viktor laughed warmly. “It’s not unusual for male Arab friends to hold hands. It doesn’t mean the same with them, and we need to blend in as much as possible.”

“Whatever you say.”

The sergeant shook his head and laughed as he took another swipe at Jez. His directions brought them to their first destination: a red sandstone house with off-white steps that led to a door on the first floor.

“Isn’t there someone here to meet us? You can’t just go in without knocking,” Jez said, as Viktor reached the top step and grabbed the door handle.

“Don’t worry, we have all the information we need, enough to get the job done. That way if we’re caught we can’t let anybody down.”

“What if the house is found after we’re done? Won’t that lead to our informant?”

“You ask too many questions. Me, I just get on with what I’m given. Truth is, I don’t know what cover has been set up. I only know what we have to do and how we have to do it.”

The windows were small, but inside was bright because a French door was positioned to catch sunbeams that reverberated on the stark white walls. A ladder to a trapdoor stood against a teak-colored ceiling beam. Jez slipped the kaftan off over his head and removed the rifle. “Oh,” he groaned, and stretched and arched his body. “I’m glad to get rid of that. When I bumped into that man, the gun moved and the stock was stuck between my shoulders.”

“Ah, such a sensitive little button,” Viktor baited.

Jez nearly rose to defend his words until he realized he was being sent up. They sat in underwear, tucking into the Feta cheese and bread that had been left out on the table.

“Right, Jez,” Viktor said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “We have a good hour before the fireworks begin. According to my information there are a good few rooftops to cross before reaching our position and it’ll be easier to get there while it’s light, so we should make a start right away.”

“That’s not a problem, but do we go in under-shorts and vest? Not a very dignified way to die if we’re caught.”

“Don’t worry about that, there’s no such thing as dignified dying – just dying.”

Maybe, but Jez would prefer it if he had a bit more on than a pair of underpants.

Chapter 6

The trapdoor opened out onto a flat roof that was a little higher than most of its neighbors. Up top, Jez crouched by Viktor’s side and surveyed the other rooftops for signs of life. He took off his sandals and slung the AK over his shoulder. Viktor went ahead and he followed.

Swiftly, they crossed from one building to the next, jumped over narrow alleys, and occasionally used the apex of a slant roof to get a broader view. On the streets below, the bluster of the working day had calmed. But closer to the town centre a man stood on a rooftop, smoking. A big man with too thick a black moustache, incongruous under a baldhead. He stared blankly into the twilight sky as he drew long on a dark cigarette, maybe a cheroot. A Levant kaftan cloak hung open, revealing a collar and tie from earlier toils.

“Shit,” Viktor exclaimed. “He would have to be on one of the roofs we have to go over.”

“Do we take him down?” Jez asked, and, hearing a voice that sounded a little tinny, was disappointed to recognize it as his own.

Viktor made no answer and Jez spun round to see what had happened to him. He’d gone, but then Jez spied him as he crept up behind the man to deliver a powerful blow to the back of his head. The cheroot blew from the man’s lips and he fell. Jez shook his brain, and tried to rationalize how Viktor had managed to get where he was without him noticing. Viktor waved him over.

“Right, he’ll be out for some time.”

They navigated over more rooftops until Viktor stopped and looked around.

“This is it,” he said, and gripped Jez’s arm, getting him to lie low at the peak of the slanted roof. Viktor swung the AK-47 round from his back. “Ready yourself, it shouldn’t be long now.”

The only thing left from a dimmed evening was a remnant of blood orange on the horizon, and Jez could see all around from the elevated rooftop; someone had chosen well.

Viktor took the compass he’d clipped to his waistband and worked out his position. “Ah, there, see?” he said. “The roof lights have just come on and a couple of officers are already there.” He pointed about 600 meters to the north.

Jez stared intently. “Funny party, they’re still in uniform.”

“Of course, you haven’t met with that sort of conceit. They could never allow anyone to forget their rank. Doesn’t matter that they’re partying.”

Jez’s eyes narrowed as he noted the cynicism. People filtered in and he counted nine men on the roof of the two-storey adobe structure, while three more leant against a criss-crossed fence on the veranda below. That made twelve officers, but with about seventeen women milling around there could be more due, or inside; or else they were plain greedy.

“Lie back and relax,” Viktor ordered. “There’s nothing to do now until the KooKooEh party begins, and it will fire up from that direction.” He gestured west and looked at the compass. “When the distraction starts, I want you to concentrate on those on the right half of the roof. I’ll take the others. Wait for my first shot, then fire at will. Try not to hit the women, or at least give them time to get out of the way. Are you comfortable with the situation, Jez?” Viktor gave him a soul-searching gaze.

“Yes, no problems,” came his answer, but his heart had moved into his throat. To become the soldier both he and the colonel wanted, he knew this played a big part… but it didn’t hold down the nausea.

“Good, when it goes off, take out as many as you can in twenty seconds, and then we’re away.”

The faint orange sun on the horizon changed to a thin red line, but not for long. An onslaught of firepower blew up from the west and daylight was resurrected. Jez followed his sergeant’s lead and rolled onto his front, watched, waited for the first round from the AK to spit out. When the shot came, he winced to see flesh and bone torn away from the top half of an officer’s skull. The head separated, the brain was exposed, and before he’d even hit the ground he had to be dead.

Jez was overawed. At 600 meters, a good distance, but he could have sworn he’d heard the bone break, and thought for sure he could feel the warmth of blood spray. Viktor released a second round, and another officer fell. Still, Jez didn’t respond. The activity from the party crowd seemed to have almost slowed to a stop, but then animation returned. Women screamed, unable to work out how to get to an exit. They scurried about in panic, occasionally stopping and looking down at their blood-splashed dresses.

Viktor busied himself with his own work, but Jez knew that if he didn’t get on with the job he would’ve failed. He tried to get his thoughts together, but light-headedness had taken command. He stared numbly through the sights and held a finger snugly against the trigger. But surely he wasn’t gazing down that barrel at his chosen target; and surely he wasn’t the one who gently squeezed the trigger?

People ran, frantically searching for shelter, but all too late for the target he’d singled out. It was the officer with the swagger stick, the one he’d seen in town earlier. The bullet flew and pierced the center of his forehead. A gaping hole opened… but not much blood followed. He thudded onto his back and his body writhed and wriggled. Jez watched without emotion – because still it wasn’t he who’d rapidly fired the AK? He’d been no more than a presence who’d watched from afar.

Twenty seconds passed. Viktor tapped his arm and Jez set his weapon to automatic. They sprayed the roof with the remainder of the magazines and, as far as Jez could make out, each of the targets took a hit. But the women who hadn’t made an exit also lay dead or wounded. The blonde from the limousine crawled on her belly and her blood-soaked hand reached upward. She screamed for mercy, beckoned for help – but none came. He imagined Anna lying in the woman’s place and his insides shriveled. The mission had succeeded and anyone on the outside would have seen him as a true veteran; but he felt no sense of victory, only an empty hollowness at what he’d done.

The KKE battle continued on the west edge of town, but the surprise here had gone and the conservative troops who guarded the partying officers had responded to the attack. They inched forward, pulled wounded to safety and fired indiscriminately at the higher rooftops.

“Okay, Jez, that’s enough. They’re still not sure of our position. Let’s go.” As Viktor spoke, the occasional wild shot whizzed over Jez’s head and he ducked lower.

“Leave the rifle. Bend the barrel in the drain-off holes in the corner of the roof. Speed is important, but we don’t want to leave good weapons behind.”

Jez damaged the gun as instructed, and was glad to be rid of it. For that moment, the carnage had been the gun’s fault, not his.

It was much quicker going back over the roofs, until they came upon the smoker Viktor had subdued earlier. He’d regained consciousness. Up on one knee, he rubbed the side of his head, but then he turned and saw Viktor loom over him. He jerked back. “Oh,” he said timidly.

Viktor shook his head wearily and delivered a close-fisted blow to the man’s temple. “You can believe me when I tell you, Jez: this man has great recuperative powers.”

They made it back to the house without further incident.

“It will be safer to travel during daylight, so we stay here tonight,” Viktor said. “Put the kaftan on and bed down on the floor. Tomorrow shed all clothing other than the kaftan. If we’re stopped and stripped, the nakedness under the cloaks might win our freedom.”

Sleep didn’t come easily. Jez had killed without provocation. Maybe the death of the officers could be justified. But the women... How could he rationalize the killing of innocent women? What would Anna think if she knew about this: would she judge him? And what about his sister Miriam? She would never have encouraged him to join up if she’d known this could happen. But that wasn’t it; the truth was that he couldn’t cope with taking life. Tiredness teamed up with delirium, and memories drifted to his childhood.

*

Back in 1941 Jez was still 8 years old. The Germans had invaded Moscow and he’d fled to the safety of the forest with his family. Poppa taught him about survival on what the earth had to offer and the art of living in dug-out bunkers. The experiences added fuel to an already determined military ambition and he loved every minute.

“Come, Jezer,” Poppa said one day, “I’ll take you out near to the edge of the woods and teach you about the roots that can be eaten.”

Snowflakes fell lightly and were yet to lie thick, but they would soon enough. “Stay inside the thicket,” his father said, “we don’t want to leave footprints.”

The sun fell and spread the last of its golden glow over the edge of the forest, weaving silk threads through bare branches and casting a reddened flush over those still waiting to shed leaves. His father suddenly jumped back from the edge of the thicket and Jez’s eyes bulged as Poppa’s hand clamped his mouth and dragged him from the boundary. He pulled his son to his knees and whispered a barely audible “shush” in his ear. He removed his hand and pointed. Jez’s heart beat double time.

He tiptoed to the edge of the woods, and expected to see a wild animal. But no, it was a German rifle squad of maybe fifteen soldiers preparing a makeshift camp. He still gaped, as Poppa hauled him away deeper into the thicket.

“Maybe,” he whispered, “they only want a place to sleep overnight and will go on tomorrow. But whether they will or no, we need to play safe and move over to the other bunker on the far side of the forest.”

They raced silently through the woods, exhilaration charging through Jez’s veins. They reached the dug-out and he was proud to have made it without being seen – but a soldier had gone ahead of them.

Jez stood and stared grimly at his captives. His brothers and sisters huddled around Momma, who cowered on the forest floor. The soldier’s Mauser rifle straddled horizontally across the middle of his winter uniform. Jez hated him, but couldn’t help admiring his military bearing.

An oakleaf-camouflaged bonnet covered a hard helmet strapped down and secured by a snood-like scarf. The muffler part swathed his head down to his shoulders and left only a letterbox gap where ice-blue eyes glowered mercilessly. His camouflage trousers were tucked into green and brown leather boots, and an over-tightened ammunition belt nipped the waist of his tunic. The huge digits in his padded gloves had barely enough room to tuck into the rifle’s trigger guard. Still mesmerized, Poppa’s hand again clasped over Jez’s mouth and pulled him back to deeper cover.

Now Jez could only see the soldier’s back, but he heard him mumble and then shake his head and reach to his belt. A bayonet, he took out a bayonet and fixed it to the Mauser. He was going to kill Momma, and his sisters and brothers. Poppa mouthed that Jez should be silent, and motioned with his hands for him to wait. Without further ado, Poppa sprang to his feet and rushed the soldier. Momma’s face lit up in recognition and the soldier turned to see what had caught her attention. Though bigger and stronger than Poppa, no doubt, he didn’t have the speed to turn and keep hold of the rifle at the same time. He cast the gun aside, spun round and threw a punch that glanced off Poppa’s cheek.

Poppa fell to the ground; the soldier dropped on top of him and groped for the rifle, but it had fallen out of reach. He took a knife from his belt. Terror grew in Jez. He rose from his crouched position and piggy-vaulted onto the German’s shoulders, wrapped his legs tightly around the man’s neck, clasped arms around his face, and pulled the snood up over his eyes.

The German struggled as he tried to get his thick padded fingers under Jez’s wrists, but Jez evaded the offensive and dragged his arms back and forth over the soldier’s face, clearly aggravating him. The soldier dropped his knife, worked his fingers under Jez’s arms, and levered them apart.

Even in recollection, Jez couldn’t figure why the soldier went about it the way he did. He should’ve used the knife to end the arm-hold, not drop it. And he’d forgotten about Poppa. He climbed to his feet and held Jez’s arms out as if he’d won a great battle, but in an instant his head jerked down. The grip on Jez’s wrists eased and he plucked up the courage to peer over the top of the helmet.

Arrogance had lost out when Poppa picked up the Mauser and speared the soldier. He twisted the bayonet and gouged a wide hole in the man’s torso. The German remained motionlessness as Poppa pulled the weapon and skewered him again. The soldier dropped to his knees. Warmth covered Jez’s legs as red gore spluttered from the enemy’s spewing mouth. Then his lifeless form fell forward and rolled over onto its back.

*

The death hadn’t evoked pity in Jez, even as a child. At home in the cabin, he’d watched chickens die as they hung by their feet from the veranda roof. Poppa killed in the kosher tradition and suspended the fowl above the buckets until their sliced throats drained them of life’s blood. The blood dripped into the buckets while the almost lifeless bodies twitched. Jez had always sympathized with them, but had no such feelings about the soldier. Now he knew why: it was because the German was the enemy. But more importantly, Jez hadn’t killed him, Poppa had. Only on this night could he understand what killing meant to the killer.

Jez’s thoughts haunted him, and more than once panic jerked him upright. But by morning he’d relived the event so many times that his sensitivity had dulled. Even his worries about what Anna might think had changed. She was a soldier, so of course she’d understand. And Miriam, well, Miriam would never know.

Viktor jolted him from thought. “How did you sleep, Jez? Are you still comfortable with the situation?”

“Yes, I’m good, and I rested well,” he said, not wanting Viktor to know how he’d agonized over how he felt about the killings.

“I’ve looked around while you slept, and KooKooEh had left humus and pitta bread in the larder cupboard. Here, get that inside you.”

Viktor handed him a half share and Jez ate greedily, but not without surprise. He would’ve sworn he’d been awake all night.

“Time to make a move. Are you sure you’re happy with the situation?”

“Yes, Viktor, I’m good.” And by now, fully awake, he wondered why the sergeant fussed.

Around mid morning, they left the safe house holding hands again. They made their way through alleyways and main streets. Troops popped up everywhere, hammered on doors, barged past whoever opened them. Jez relaxed: no one had so much as looked at them. They reached the suburbs and walked hand in hand towards the open mountains, as dusk invaded.

“So far so good,” Viktor said, as they arrived back to where they’d left the uniforms. “But I think it’ll be safer to stay in kaftans. The troop search is amateurish, but anyone can get lucky.”

“I don’t care what we wear, Viktor, as long as we don’t have to hold hands.” Jez grinned for the first time since the killings, and Viktor laughed.

It had taken the Greek boy only hours to drive in by jeep, but the trek back to base took more than a week. The journey revealed a lot of common ground between him and Viktor: both had total commitment to the job, a similar sense of humor and girlfriends waiting back home. At least, Jez liked to think that was true.

As the stockade came into sight, Viktor said, “You were a bit slow to start, but when you got going you gave a first-class performance. Well done.”

The anxiety and shame of killing dissolved. Jez felt that something inside had changed, and he knew more than ever that the army truly was his destiny.

*

It hadn’t been so long since the Greek boy with a lifetime of experience in his face had met Jez at the landing strip. The boy’s characteristics had seemed odd then, like no other Jez had met, but now his own demeanor had altered. He had killed, and there were no beads of sweat, guilt or shame, and no detachment from reality. He held an inside track in the race of life and death, and was happy to keep that position.

After a number of similar missions by Viktor’s side, the sergeant called him to the tent. “There was news for you when we got back. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but you’re no longer required as a private in this special unit,” he announced.

“But why?”

The question of what he’d done wrong reared up in Jez’s head. But then Viktor continued, “Because you’ve just won a couple of stripes, Corporal Kooornfeld.” He stretched the name as he had when Jez first arrived at camp. “Well done.”

Both shock and relief jolted Jez’s body. “I… you...”

“Careful, Corporal, you don’t want to lose those stripes on the same day you get them.” His huge frame shook with laughter.

“Thank you, Viktor,” he said, and grinned as his heart rate returned nearer normal. “I know none of this would ha…”

“Yes, yes, enough. There’s no room around here for that sort of talk. You only got what you deserved, and you worked hard enough for it. It was inevitable, so no more, please.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” He rose to attention and suddenly, before Viktor had a chance to pull back, he rushed forward and embraced his friend.

Sorties had now become second nature, and the intensity he felt on them was like a drug. But nothing lasts forever, and in June 1949 Sergeant Sharansky ordered his complement into the main tent. It was unusual that they should gather as a group, and murmurs rippled through the unit as to why they might be there. Everything suddenly went silent as the sergeant entered.

“At ease, men. I know you’ll all be beside yourselves wondering why you’ve been mustered together, so I’ll get straight to the point. Your tour of duty here is at an end.”

An initial silence broke when, to a man, they asked why.

“Quiet… Diplomatic relations between Stalin and Tito have broken down,” Viktor told them. “You knew it was likely and you know we’re here because Tito is a staunch supporter of the KooKooEh. So now it’s a blow to him that we have to leave.”

“But the KooKooEh will fall without Soviet support,” Jez said with disapproval, as his thoughts turned to the serious young Greek who, along with his comrades, would be abandoned.

“Not our worry, Corporal. We just follow orders and support, fight or retreat when told. Okay, enough talk, the meeting’s over.”

Chapter 7

The 1950s brought increased trade relations between the Soviet Union and Afghanistan. Jez and Viktor posed as trade technicians in the Afghan terrain, but were there to give military help to the Afghans: a friendly gesture to give a boost in morale to those caught in the conflict with Pakistan. A successful period won him another stripe, but he remained with Viktor. Jez liked to believe Colonel Petrichova was getting positive feedback and thought it good for his advancement.

Jez had just returned from a single-handed task when Viktor sent one of the Afghans to get him.

“You couldn’t come for me yourself?” he asked.

“Jez, come in,” Viktor said. “Apparently this is urgent, so I had a man watch out for you.” He held up a letter. “I think this is a transfer order. In a sealed envelope, no less.”

“Oh.” Jez took the envelope and tore it open. His hands trembled. He felt unsure that he was ready for the next step. He liked working with Viktor, and didn’t want the partnership to end. But… he tore open the envelope.

It was a direct order from Colonel Petrichova: return to Moscow.

*

Jez walked along the bank of the Moskva River with Colonel Petrichova, his back to the Kremlin.

“Have you kept your silence about our arrangement?”

“Yes, Colonel, of course, sir, I don’t see anything’s changed.”

“Good, keep it that way. You’ve learnt much about Spetsnaz during your foreign assignments, and your promotions were awarded on merit.”

The afternoon was in decline. They reached the Bolshoy Ustinksy Bridge and turned back. Jez watched the sun wither behind the Bell Tower of Ivan the Great, while a cold swirl of mist hung low over the river. He shivered. It had seemed forever since he’d had to endure a Soviet winter. He gathered the greatcoat under his chin and glanced at the colonel. He looked weary.

“Do you keep abreast of politics, Sergeant?”

“Not really, Colonel. I carry out my orders and they usually fill my time…”

“Yes, understandable,” Petrichova halted him. “When Stalin died, there were no natural successors. So, from the internal struggle, Nikita Khrushchev has emerged as our leader. He’s a reformist, an anti-Stalinist. Destalinization means that those who spoke out against Stalin when he was alive have a chance to progress their careers.”

“I didn’t think anyone dared speak out against Stalin when he was alive, sir.”

The colonel chuckled. “That’s a good point. What I should’ve said is ‘those who spoke against him in carefully chosen company’. I told you my father had been a prominent Bolshevik, and seeing as how Stalin rooted out and purged them all, I was obviously one of those in opposition.”

“Yes, I can understand that, sir.” Jez was pleased to hear the admission. Stalin had been an anti-Semite, so Jez had no time for him either.

“Anyway, you’re probably wondering where I’m going with all this; so, to get to the point, I’ve just been made lieutenant general.”

“I see, sir.”

So that’s why he’d been brought back so quickly. But what would that mean for his career? Surely, he’d proven himself? He’d won his stripes fairly, hadn’t he? Yes, the colonel… the general had just said so. His mind raced and the general’s presence faded, but then he spoke again and Jez felt his insides jump.

“As I said, up to this point each of your stripes you’ve earned irrelevant of any support I’ve given you.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate the words.” In fact the relief on hearing them again was immense.

“But I’ve organized another promotion, maybe a bit earlier than it should have come, maybe a lot earlier.”

“A promotion? But why, I don’t understand, sir.” He tried to keep the excitement from his voice – but everything had just turned full circle.

“I’m about to leave Lubyanka for the Kremlin, but I want to move you on before that happens. You’ve been made lieutenant, and the rank is assumed with immediate effect. Your assignment will be with internal security here in Moscow, Osnaz. But first, you’ll need to attend military academy. You can do that?”

“Yes, sir, I believe I can. Thank you, sir, this means so much.”

“Believe me, I expect much greater things in return. Don’t let me down.”

“No, General, I won’t, sir.”

Chapter 8

Three years later, in KGB headquarters, Dzerzhinski Square, Moscow

“Welcome to Osnaz, Lieutenant Kornfeld,” Jez was greeted with a smile. “I see you’ve graduated from the Dzerzhinski Military Academy with distinction…” Giving his attention back to the file, his new unit commander read on. “…And your Spetsnaz duty is very impressive.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jez said, and stuck his chest out that bit further.

Jez had left Spetsnaz for a position with internal security and would now be under this Captain Isakova. A chubby-faced man in an overly tight uniform, his long thin moustache balanced on the edge of cherub lips and his heavily oiled hair was parted down the centre. He sat behind his desk reading the document through pebble glasses, looking as if – well, if he wasn’t doing that, he’d be doing something similar in a post office.

Isakova nodded. “You should slot in nicely here. With the recommendations attached to your files, if you keep on top of what you’re given, you’ll soon see yourself on the move. The job isn’t particularly strenuous. Hold a low profile and, providing there are no uprisings,” he laughed, “not a lot to worry about.”

And that was near enough the last thing Jez wanted to hear.

*

No action, definitely no excitement, but internal security gave Jez plenty of free time, so he thought he’d look Anna up. But why couldn’t he find her? There was not a placement, not a sign that she’d ever been in the army, not even a record to say she’d done basic training. And he knew she’d done that – he was there. But according to the files, or lack of them, she’d never even been in the army.

Time passed and duties in internal security became ever more dismal. To fill the boredom he studied languages, the cultures and geography of the Soviet Bloc, anything to fill his interest – and to forget the silly dreams he’d nurtured of Anna.

It was in the summer of 1965 when the sergeant acting as his aide came to him. “Captain Isakova wants to see you immediately, sir.”

A transfer back to the front? At last. He rushed to the captain’s office and entered without knocking. “Oh sorry, Captain Isakova. I should have knocked. Excuse me, sir. My sergeant said you wanted to see me urgently.”

“Yes, yes, never mind that, come in, Lieutenant Kornfeld. You may as well remain standing. This job needs a quick response. I’ve just received direct orders from the Kremlin and you’ve been specifically requested to carry out the task. Information has come in about a demonstration about to take place in Red Square. It will require immediate corrective action. Disperse and arrest.”

“What is it about, sir?”

“Apparently there are some Jews who think they have the right to leave Soviet soil in favor of Israel.”

“Oh… right, sir, I’m on it now.”

He left with haste, but his enthusiasm had dwindled and he mumbled his way back to his sergeant’s office. “Disperse and arrest. What difference does it make if a handful of people want to live somewhere else? And not necessarily because they’re Jews. Anyone should have the right to come and go.”

All the same, with orders to disrupt the demonstration, he couldn’t help feeling he’d been turned against his own people. Whatever his emotions, he had to carry out the order. Refusal would shoot down his career, probably get him arrested, and someone else would do the job anyway. The task was inevitable, so he mustered the people he wanted. But by the time he got to Red Square his head was throbbing. “You’re trained, think… Follow procedures softly and make sure no one gets hurt,” he told himself. “You could be a benefit to them.”

It seemed reasonable, but he became confused again on seeing the secret police. That he didn’t need: Smersh, the rogue 79th unit absorbed into KGB, and still renowned for their brutal tactics. Jez trembled when he saw the crowd the demonstration had attracted: he had become a traitor to his own people.

Another surprise – the demonstrators were all women. A pang speared him on imagining Miriam and his younger sisters amongst them. The protesters were banded together, linking arms in a pitiful attempt to stand proud. Ridiculous. Still, Jez’s chest swelled with pride at the display of his people’s bravery.

Most of the onlookers around the women were just curious, but others jibed, trying to get the crowd to hustle the protesters. Secret police, Jez could see them harrying the throng.

“How do I keep a lid on a situation like this?”

The bustling began, the onlookers broke rank and the resolve of the demonstrators looked near panic. If they scattered, violence would surely ensue. He shuddered to think what that could mean.

This was unacceptable. It had to remain orderly, no violence. He let his eye wander through the crowd and saw foreign press amongst them... He could use that as a reason to defend the soft approach.

“Sergeant Abram,” he called. “I don’t need to tell you which of those in the crowd are secret police. Bring their senior officer to me immediately.”

The operative in question was a woman, tall, thin, hair unkempt and the obligatory poker face for a Smersh agent.

“Tell your people to go in gently. I don’t want any violence,” Jez ordered.

“But, Lieutenant, I don’t understand, you can’t…”

“Stop! I thought this was my operation and that you should follow my orders without question. Since I owe you no explanation, I will save further argument… and you from being put on report to your senior officer when the task is over. Foreign press number nearly as many in the crowd as secret police.” Sergeant Abram tittered and Jez withered him with a glare. “There are similar tones of discontent throughout the capital. If we allow the press to exaggerate what’s happened here, it would not be viewed favorably in the main assembly. So, save me from reiterating my orders and just do as you’re told… now.”

It wasn’t long before the trucks thundered into the square from every direction, and slowly but surely soldiers herded the seventy or eighty women towards them. Contrary to orders, secret police jostled the demonstrators, banners fell, trampled in the wake of the crowd, but still the dissolution went smoothly, almost orderly.

And then Jez became spellbound as he stared at one of the women; in fact he gawped, dumbfounded. “It couldn’t be.”

His sergeant turned, but hadn’t heard what he’d said. “Yes, sir?” he questioned.

“What… oh, I’m not sure I don’t recognize some of them.”

He thought maybe if he stared long enough the vision would go way – but it didn’t. It was his older sister Miriam. She was being pushed and jostled, and stumbled between two of her comrades. The comrades, the women Miriam linked up with, they were Rachael and Lydia – his little sisters. He had to think quickly. Had the Kremlin known they would be there? Was he given the job to test his reaction?

But that didn’t matter right now. His sisters had been arrested. The girls hadn’t seen him yet, which was how he would keep it. If they recognized him they might say something, make it known to his colleagues.

“…Ah yes, Sergeant, those three, the ones still linking, load them into that empty truck. I think they could be the ringleaders. Take them to the office I use in central Moscow and post a guard. I’ll interrogate them separately.”

He had no ideas in mind. But with his sisters in danger, he needed to get them out of harm’s way. He’d work out a plan later. He would go to Dzerzhinski Square, make his report to Captain Isakova and then speak with the girls.

Chapter 9

“…And finally, Captain, the trucks brought the protesters here for questioning.”

Captain Isakova’s moustache stretched thinly as he beamed with delight. “Excellent, Lieutenant, a smooth job. Whoever arranged your part in this will be well satisfied.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, squirmed, and felt his neck itch against his collar. Army rules were his rules so he’d let both parties down.

He left Lubyanka early, but darkness had already fallen. “That finishes your duty here, Private. I’ll take over,” Jez said, and dismissed the guard who had watched over the girls.

In the office, the younger women cowered, but not Miriam. She stood firm and studied him with her head held high. But then her expression changed to one of puzzlement.

“Is that you, Jez?” she said. “Is it really you?” At first contempt colored her face, but then her countenance softened. She rushed across the office, threw her arms around him, and turned to the other women. “It’s your brother.” She held him at arm’s length and then pulled him to her again. “I see you still look as if you need a good meal inside you,” she laughed.

His tough shell couldn’t conceal the little boy smile that involuntarily spread over his face. But the seriousness of the situation jarred him back to reality. “Please, Miriam,” he said, “I’ve been frantic about how I’m going to get you out of this. You don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation you’ve put yourselves in.”

“Oh, but I do, brother. You’re not the only one in the family who follows the path they see as right,” she replied.

He wriggled from her grip and looked at Rachael and Lydia. “You both look so grown up,” he said. “I only recognized Miriam.”

They looked confused and kept him at arm’s length, but they smiled shyly.

“Why haven’t we seen anything of you, Jez?” Miriam asked, and sounded wounded.

He sighed. “I may have a few things to answer for at some point, but now is not the time. We have to think of a way out of this mess. The whys and wherefores of the past won’t help.”

For now, he was delighted to see his sisters, but his mind still acknowledged the work before him. Smersh couldn’t be trusted. They had no offices here, but they could have followed the truck and might still be monitoring them. He had to get the girls out of Moscow – and soon. The question was, how? Miriam had always been rational. He’d take her for a walk and talk over the options. And it would give him a chance to check if the building was under surveillance.

“Walk with me, Miriam,” he said and turned to his younger sisters. “Rachael, Lydia, whatever happens, you don’t leave this office. Understand?” They nodded as one.

Outside, a light rain made the street glisten. Jez noticed the damp evening chill shiver through Miriam, so he linked up. She snuggled close.

“Did the army live up to your expectations?”

“It did, yes, but I met someone in basic training, and… well, you know.”

“A lady soldier?” she asked and he nodded. “…A gentile?”

“And…?”

She held up hands in surrender. “I only asked. After living under the shadow of Stalin, I won’t be the one who tells you to live your life in prejudice. Are you still with this girl?” She nuzzled back into his shoulder as she asked.

Embarrassment burned his cheeks at the thought of how little had actually happened between them. “To be honest, we were never really together. She was my friend and I let myself think there could be more – you know, an unspoken understanding.”

“But…?”

“But nothing, we had to go our separate ways for the sake of our careers and I couldn’t track her down when the chance came.”

“And you still feel the same way? It’s a long time to nurture such feelings.” She paused. “But knowing you, I can’t say I’m surprised. You become committed and it takes over your life.”

“I don’t know about that, but she’s gone and I can’t forget her. This sounds immature, I know, but I think I love her, Miriam.”

She stopped and embraced him. “Don’t worry, little brother, these things have a way of sorting themselves out.”

Just for a moment, he felt the glow he’d felt as a child – but then reality kicked in and they walked in silence for a couple of blocks.

“This problem with the demonstration, Miriam. I’ve given it a lot of thought and we have choices – but each carries problems.”

“Nothing comes easy in this life, Jez, you should know that.”

“Yes, yes, very profound, but this will be dangerous. I’ve had many ideas, but only two are even vaguely realistic.”

She turned her face to him: well.

He continued. “Should I be trying to get you back home to Vladimir, or smuggle you out of the country?”

Her grip tightened on his arm. “Out of the country, you can do that?”

“Whether I can is not the issue. It means I would betray a man I have the utmost respect for and I would be flying in the face of everything I’ve believed in.”

Her face wizened. “Then what you’re saying is you have a choice of standing by your family or handing us over to the authorities.”

His head jerked as he stopped in surprise, almost laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But you’re right, Miriam.” He sighed. “In which case, you have two choices while I only have the one… So what is it to be?”

She exhaled a deep breath. “I’m sure the girls would want to go home.”

“Well, that would be the easiest, but that brings the first of the problems. If you demonstrated again and Smersh got hold of you, you would betray me. Unless... promise me you won’t demonstrate?”

“What? No, I couldn’t do that. I will carry on with the demonstrations whatever the cost – this is about justice. But I would never betray you, what do you think I am?”

“Naïve, for starters. If Smersh get their hands on you, you’ll tell them anything and everything. Accept me on this.”

She tilted her head: okay.

“You say there’s a chance to leave the country: to where, how?”

He groaned. “I haven’t worked out how yet, so there’s a chance that there’s no chance, but... maybe it would be possible to help you on your way to your Promised Land.”

She squealed with delight and threw her arms around his neck. “Israel? Oh, Jez,” and then stood back, hesitant. “Yes, but we must tell the girls as if it is the only choice.”

Back at the office, Lydia looked jittery as they entered and Jez considered why. “It won’t do your nerves any good here,” he said. “I have an apartment in the downtown part of the city, we’ll go there.”

“An apartment?” Miriam said and her brow rose in surprise.

“Yes, Osnaz officers get perks.”

*

A few days passed, the girls relaxed and Miriam positively basked in the luxury of what was really a Spartan, but clean, two-bedroom apartment. Jez slept on the sofa, the girls in the spare room and Miriam in the main bedroom. He came from his office on the third evening with briefcase full and a map rolled up under his arm.

He’d barely got through the door when Rachael came at him like an ankle biter. “Jez, we’ve been here for three days. Surely, we can’t still be wanted criminals? Why can’t we just go home?”

“Because they’re still looking for you and it wouldn’t be safe outside, not for you, me or the rest of the family. Just bear with me until I can work things out,” he said, annoyed that Miriam hadn’t yet told them what they’d planned, fed up how none of them appreciated how he’d put his life’s record at risk for them – maybe even his life.

The evening passed quietly, and the younger women went to bed – bored.

“Have the authorities really been looking for us?” Miriam asked.

“Yes, they think that somehow, between interrogation and the guard going absent from his post, you just walked out of the office block. Don’t worry, there’s no great outcry and they haven’t even questioned that it might have been my fault. They’re more worried about security.”

Jez moved the table against the wall and unfolded the map on the floor, emptying the contents of his briefcase next to it.

“I’ve studied the collective in detail over the years. If I can’t prepare an escape route, no one can.”

Miriam laughed and Jez sighed.

“I’ve worked my way through these files over the last few days and Eastern Russia has promise. Air travel would be nice,” he said, sniggered and ran a finger down one side of the map, “but not realistic. If movement around the state were that easy, you wouldn’t have found it necessary to demonstrate.”

With a patronizing tone, she said, “I am impressed, Jez, you’ve done so much work… but have you found a route?”

“Are you mocking me?” he asked, hurt.

“Heaven forbid,” she said, and burst out laughing, grabbed and hugged him before he could take it further.

“Okay, okay…” he said, shrugging her off and pointing out the River Volga on the map. “The slowest route will be safest. We’ll use rivers and canals.” She looked… uninterested. “Miriam, it took me a long time to find these loopholes. I thought you’d be a bit more enthusiastic. It’s you who wants to go, after all.”

She grinned, then looked down apologetically. “I am, Jez, and you’ll never know how much. I was only playing with you.”

He shook his head. Miriam had always been a wonderfully supportive sister, but goodness, had she aggravated him as a child! Nothing changes. “Yes, I know, but I’m worried. I’ve been through a lot over the years, but it’s different when you and the girls are at stake – and me and my career. Anyway, what I’ve been looking at reveals weaknesses. Whether we can exploit them, well, only trying it out will tell. I’ve arranged a security trip for next week, so I won’t be missed here.”

“Another Osnaz benefit?”

“Not really, it’s part of my job. So, to coincide with the trip, we must be ready to leave next Wednesday, early morning.”

She started showing an interest in the map, so he gave her a bit more.

“The journey takes us into the military town of Saratov, right into the jaws of the security forces. I had thought the railway would be too dangerous, but after studying these files I’ve changed my mind. Security has such a big presence there, they are slack and think only a fool would use it for criminal activity.” He looked up at her. “And, of course, that’s what this is.”

“Do we get a train south from there?” she asked, brushing off his words, but looking sheepish.

“No, the train would only be safe for entry into Saratov. But it will break the back of the journey. As for the exit, we’ll bribe our way by barge, travel south to Volgograd, and finally do the same across to Rostov. If we can reach the seaport, there will be foreign ships. With luck, we’ll find you a passage out. Only then will it be safe for you to go it alone.”

*

Jez struggled through the door into his apartment with parcels awkwardly bundled under his arms. He got into the lounge, maneuvered around too much furniture, tripped and most of the stuff fell from his arms.

“Whoops,” Miriam said and the three women tittered.

He steadied himself and threw her the only package he hadn’t dropped. And that irritated him even more, as Miriam caught it as if he’d gently passed it over.

“Thank you,” he said, “I don’t know how I’d have managed without your help…” He picked up the parcels. “I’ve brought you city clothes. Wear them when we leave tomorrow, but pack what you have on, you’ll need that later.”

Miriam took a skirt from the bag and examined the stitching. “Hmm, good quality,” she said, turning the material and checking the inside seams. “Did you get it in the city?”

“Where else would I get it at such short notice? …But enough of clothes, we are now in a position to get you out of the country.”

“What do you mean, out of the country?” Rachael asked, face filling with horror. “I’m not sure I want to do that.”

“What about Momma and Poppa?” Lydia piped in.

Jez grimaced – so Miriam still hadn’t told them. “I expect you’ve heard of the Lubyanka prison cells?”

“No,” Rachael answered defiantly.

“Well, they say it’s the tallest building in Moscow – because you can see all the way to Siberia from the basement.”

No one laughed.

“But I don’t want to leave Momma and Poppa,” Lydia cried.

“You should’ve thought of the consequences before you demonstrated against the state. If I hadn’t stepped in, already you would be enjoying the hospitality of Lubyanka. To try and go home now would be suicide.”

“We protested to be given the right to choose what we want to do,” Rachael said, “not so that our family would be separated across nations. Surely you can understand that, Jez?”

She wept.

“I do understand,” he said. “But I’m sure the rest of the family will be able to join you in your promised land soon enough.”

Miriam raised an eyebrow. “Our promised land, Jez, not yours?”

“No, Miriam, not mine. I chose the military life. And I agree with Marx when he said ‘religion is the opiate of the masses’. Some people need a crutch, fine. I don’t.”

She shrugged him off and turned to her sister. “Rachael, he’s right,” she told her. “It will be safer all round if we leave.”

“Look, what’s done is done,” Jez cut in. “It’s too late for regrets. You made your choices when you demonstrated, so get used to the idea.”

Chapter 10

Olga Klippe paced the platform at Kazansky railway station. It was her second week on the job, but the first on early shift. Her new boss, Inspector Vlatchko, seemed to watch her every move, but what could she do? Nothing happened here. She would like to impress him, but it seemed impossible to make an impact. Stillness filled the hall and only a few ivory-colored faces had stirred to make their way to one of the drone factories.

Olga knew that her attributes had a favorable effect on men, and if something didn’t happen to improve her job prospects soon, she might have to work them on the inspector.

She wandered towards the station entrance and saw an old truck pull up. A man got out and helped three smartly dressed women from the back. The man had a word with the driver and the lorry drove off. Why were office workers getting down from a dirty old truck?

At last, something amiss.

*

Jez left early. He’d arranged for an old civilian truck to ferry them to Kazansky railway station. They found it at the end of the avenue.

“Is it safe being out on the street in broad daylight?” Rachael asked, tugging parts of her clothing over curves where they didn’t quite fit. “Jez, your guess at our sizes was good – but not that good.”

“Well, nobody’s perfect. And don’t worry, it’s early, you’ll be safe out here.”

He helped them into the back of the truck and saw what Rachael had meant. The clothes were too tight. As he hoisted the girls up, he had to stop himself from laughing. Their knees were pulled tightly together by ill-fitting skirts, his shoulder shoved against rumps, his hands pushed butts, anyone watching would be entitled to think he was loading up for market.

He climbed in with them, tapped the back of the cab, and with its rattles, noises and choking fumes, the lorry chugged its way through a city yet to rouse. They arrived at the station and Jez helped his sisters from the truck and then released the driver from conscript. Plenty of time, they’d arrived half an hour before the first train to Saratov. He would take it easy and settle the girls ready for the long haul. But in the hall, they were halted by a young female official.

“I saw you get off that old truck,” she began. “What was its purpose? Why are smartly dressed workers traveling like that? Where are you headed?”

Jez wished he hadn’t discarded his uniform in favor of a black leather jacket and grey trousers... The official’s aggression grew alongside his own nervous excitement.

“Open that bag,” she insisted to Miriam.

“Just a minute,” Jez said. “I’m on official military business here and I think you’re allowing your position to go to your head. Before you go too far, let me show you my ID.”

As he moved to take out identification, the woman’s agitation jumped up a notch. She unbuttoned the flap on her holster and her hand trembled. Comrade Melodramatic. Irritated by her antics, he pulled his jacket open too quickly and exposed three single-piece double-edged throwing knives snugly sheathed into scabbards sewn into the lining.

Her face turned ashen as she withdrew the pistol. “Don’t… don’t move a muscle,” she stammered, arm unsteady. “I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if I have to.”

Jez looked at his sisters. Rachael and Lydia had huddled together. Miriam wore a face of concern. What a fiasco. And worse, another official, a huge billowing man, ran over, gun in hand. So much for the unobserved exit. The only thing they didn’t have was an American brass band and tickertape.

The vast man came alongside, pointed his weapon at Jez and, breathing heavily, took the weight of his upper body with a hand to his knee.

“Ease off, Olga,” he said, puffing out the words and wiping sweat from his brow. “I’ll take it from here. I don’t know what’s going on, but for the moment put your hands up, please.”

The official was polite, but Jez took little comfort. “There’s been a misunderstanding,” he said. “While trying to get out my ID for the young lady, she misread what she saw. If you allow me I’ll get it now.”

“No, keep your hands where they are. I’ll take your papers.”

He stuck the barrel into Jez’s ribs and rummaged through his leather jacket with his free hand. He held the gun firmly and took out Jez’s warrant card. It seemed to take him an eternity to check the details, maybe choosing the right reaction. But then he made his decision and lowered his weapon, straightening almost to attention.

“Yes indeed, there has been a mix-up here. I’m sorry, sir, my assistant is new and inexperienced. Please relax your arms.”

“Okay, but we need to carry on with our business – quietly.”

With arms straightened out by his sides, the official nodded in salutation. Jez took back his identification, and the big man turned to his colleague. “Olga, please, you must learn to show a little more restraint. This man is a senior Osnaz officer.”

Olga flustered and the scent of her cheap perfume gained in strength. “I shouldn’t have stopped you, sir,” she stuttered. “I had no idea… I… I’m sorry.”

“Not a problem,” he lied. “It’s good to see we still have people who put their duty first. I too would have had concerns if I’d been in your position.”

“Thank you, sir, you’re very generous.”

The railway inspector nodded to Jez, smiled at the girls and left with his young colleague.

“That could’ve gone smoother, brother,” Miriam said, as the functionaries moved off.

Jez mustered a weak smile. He would have preferred his sisters to see him in all his glory, not being rescued by a minor official – from another minor official.

While they waited on the platform, he came under constant scrutiny from the young railway bureaucrat. He’d look her way and she’d smile sheepishly. Discomfort had him smiling ironically; why was he paying the price for her mistake? His collar pushed against his neck and he fidgeted. By the time the red train with the yellow stripe pulled in it had only been a matter of minutes, but it seemed much longer.

He’d chosen a slow train that stopped at every station. It dropped off and picked up mail; loaded and unloaded parcels; boarded and disembarked short journey passengers. He’d hoped it would mean less security, which it had, but the price was eighteen hours of poor sleep and boredom.

In Saratov, the early light broke through low cloud and diffused the bleak arrival. Jez left the women in the park-like gardens of Cathedral Square and made his way to the dockside promenade in search of a vessel. There were few non-military people about, but then a worker walked by. Jez stopped him.

“Excuse me, Comrade. I’m looking for a friend of mine. He said he would meet me where the bargemen drink. I had directions, but seem to have lost them.”

“The only place he could mean in this area is about 200 metres along that river wall,” the worker said, and wiped the back of a dirty hand across his cheek and nose before pointing the way. “Turn right and it’s another 50 metres on the left, where the road bends. But you won’t find drinkers at this time. They’ll all be at work – or looking for work.”

“I expect you’re right, but thank you anyway, sir. I appreciate your help.”

Jez followed the directions in the hope that it would be where people met to find work. At the bend in the road, he got a slight buzz seeing a small group of men.

One scruffy skipper who poked around the crowd caught his eye. He didn’t look as if he had an interest in picking anything other than his nose. Jez got the idea this man was a loner. If he made an offer to him, and was refused, he wouldn’t run around discussing it. He watched until the man became bored with window-shopping and left the main throng.

“Hold on a minute, Comrade,” Jez said, as he caught up. “Were you looking for crew?”

“No,” the other answered, belching, the effort causing him to fart. He wafted a hand behind his butt. “None of them appeal. And neither do you, with that silly grin on your face, so you needn’t ask.”

Foul smelling, dirty, obnoxious – but he still seemed a good bet. “I don’t want work, but if you’re going the right way, I might pay for a ride.”

The man’s face brightened. “I’m going to Volgograd with a barge-load of clinker.”

“And that’s where we’re headed. I’m sure if you’re willing to take us we can settle a price without too much argument.”

“Why would you want to go by river when it’s faster by train?”

“We’re in no hurry. I have my three sisters with me, and we want to watch the scenery and enjoy the ride. If there’s enough room for all of us, I can pay.”

“Enough room, yes, there’s enough room,” he told Jez. “I suppose if the money was right I could do it. And I ask no questions. That skin-low haircut of yours: convict, are you?”

“Certainly not, and it wouldn’t make a difference if you did ask questions, we’ve done no wrong.” The right words – but spoken too quickly.

Chapter 11

Rudi Olav’s father was a bargeman and his father before that, and he saw no reason not to follow the line. Hard work to load and unload, true, but easy enough between ports and the freedom was everything. Nothing could better being alone. He didn’t know what misanthropic meant, but was quite aware of how much he hated people. Money, a little gambling, and vodka – now they were another story; he loved them all with a passion. And if a few extra rubles could be made without too much fuss, he would happily take the money and drink to the venture.

Current business looked good too: the slim man didn’t look much, but something wasn’t right. An escaped convict or maybe a soldier on the run? Rudi would put money on it. Obnoxious, too. No, he didn’t like him. He smiled and burped – no surprises there… But he could see there was money to be made. He’d agreed a good price for the trip and when “Slim Jim” paid the first half up front, he’d pulled a huge wad of currency from his jacket. Rudi had an idea that the rest of it would soon be coming his way.

*

“Here he comes now,” Miriam said. “Why did he want us to wait downstream?”

Jez noticed her bounce on her toes as she spoke – nervous excitement. “I don’t know. I suppose he had reason not to want witnesses, but as far as we’re concerned that’s a good thing.”

Jez stayed up on deck while the girls went below. When Miriam returned she stood by his side as they watched the rush of the wide Volga River stream by.

“I can’t believe how our lives have changed in such a short time, Jez. I would never have believed we’d be together again.”

“We still have a long way to go,” he said. “I don’t want to dampen your spirits, but we are in danger until you’re aboard ship and on the Black Sea. At that point, you can relax and enjoy the trip. Until then, please think with care.”

“We’ll be fine, but I do understand...” She pushed her hair from her face. “I think the bargeman’s a funny old fish, don’t you?”

“Yes, and I’ve met tidier people.”

As he answered, Lydia came on deck. Hands clasped and shoulders narrowed, she shuddered. “Ooh that Rudi, now I can imagine the smell of the stygian boatman.”

Jez and Miriam looked at each other and laughed.

*

By the time it was nearly midday, Jez and Miriam found themselves alone, watching the countryside drift by. “The barge doesn’t turn a bend in the river without Rudi asking one of us why we’re on the run,” Miriam said.

Jez looked back to where Rudi sat, and even now he was carefully studying them. “He can’t be trusted, no doubt, but that was why I chose him. An honest comrade might have reported us before we’d left Saratov.”

“The girls are afraid of him. He gives them the creeps.”

“There’s not much left of the journey and nothing comes easy, remember?”

Silence settled as they watched the gentle ripples race to the riverbank, the barge ploughing a pathway through, impervious to the water’s resistance.

Miriam pulled her long hair from under her collar with both hands. “Do you ever think of Momma?”

“What sort of question is that? Of course I do.”

“After all these years she still cries for you.”

“Oh Miriam, I am wrong, I know, but what could I do? What can I do? I’ve always sent part of my salary home. And I wrote – without response.”

“No, but Momma cherishes those letters. And Poppa doesn’t want to answer letters, he wants you home.”

He looked into her face. It hurt being reminded of family duties. But he didn’t reply. He wouldn’t know what to say. They turned a new bend in the river and another tributary joined them; the barge picked up speed as the new flow pushed at the stern. They gazed out in silence.

The next afternoon Rudi moored up and approached Jez. “We part company tomorrow,” he began, “around midday. Would you like to make the final payment now? And talking of money, I think we need to reconsider the price.”

“Oh and why would you think that?”

“You’re obviously on the run. I want more cash or I’ll report you to the authorities when we get to Volgograd.”

“Look, Rudi, I try to be reasonable. Believe me we’re not in any kind of trouble. Your tone sounds aggressive and I have no desire to hurt you, so I suggest we just forget this conversation and stick to the agreement we made in Saratov.”

Jez questioned why he had felt the need to provoke Rudi. A much bigger man, he looked down at Jez and gave a guttural laugh.

“Oh right, no desire to hurt me. Yes, of course you’re right. I mean, I wouldn’t want to stir the mud in those waters, would I?”

As Rudi laughed again, Jez brought a hand up under his chin and locked a vice-like grip on his trachea. Using what he’d learned in Spetsnaz, he tightened the hold and added pressure to the jugular. A little tighter and he’d crush the cartilage. Saliva dribbled and Rudi’s face contorted. Panicked hands grasped at Jez’s wrists, but then stretched out in surrender as he gurgled and sucked at thin air.

Jez held the grip and Rudi’s eyes rolled. He lowered the dead weight to its knees as Rudi’s face drained of color. His eyes watered and became red-lined. Like a rabid dog, bubbles blew from his lips. Jez knew that if he didn’t free him, Rudi would die.

“Jez!” a voice shouted.

He turned to see Miriam with a face of panic, and his mind jumped. The task. He had to get the girls out of the country. If he killed Rudi, they’d be hunted down by the authorities. Let him go.

“Have we cleared the air?” he asked as he released his grip.

Sanity came back to Rudi’s face, his eyes shrank to size and his lungs pulled for oxygen.

“Yes,” he croaked. “I had it wrong.”

He crawled a distance before he got to his feet.

Jez said, “I didn’t want to hurt you and I don’t want to cheat you. Here, take your money and we’re even.”

Rudi took the money and staggered to the end of the jetty. He brought both hands up to soothe his neck, and disappeared from sight.

Jez turned to Miriam. She was no longer alone. The three girls stood together with their arms linked, as they had in Red Square.

“Was there really a need for such violence?”

His head felt heavy and his gaze fell to his feet. But he forced it back up defiantly. “I’m sorry, Miriam, but what you saw was a glimpse of the real world.”

“Oh Jez, what have you turned into? Do you really believe you can justify such brutality?”

“It was necessary,” he said, and brushed past the women as he went below deck. He wanted to be out of their sight. He wanted to find a place where he wouldn’t feel sullied.

*

Rudi returned in the small hours and drunkenly crashed into everything in his way. But the next day neither alcohol nor aggression deterred him from being up and ready to leave. By the time the girls breakfasted, the barge had begun its final lap for Volgograd. If Rudi had been right about the arrival time, there’d be plenty of daylight to find lodgings.

Chapter 12

Volgograd represented intensive urbanization out of control, but they found shelter more easily because of it.

“You had a choice of three different rooms,” Rachael said, “and you had to pick the worst. They’ve even had to move their children out for us. Poor little mites look half starved.”

Jez stared out over a plethora of smokestacks that pushed up murky silhouettes and scarred an otherwise clear skyline. “They’re the lucky ones,” he replied. “I’ve seen poverty you’d find hard to imagine. Many parents put their malnourished offspring into state-run homes just to get food in their bellies. Once they’re in those places, they are forgotten. Even now, the state doesn’t recognize the existence of orphans.”

Miriam appeared to have forgotten the “Rudi” episode, and smiled. “You’re not so tough, are you? You took this room because of the children.”

He shrugged. “I should worry for the sake of a few rubles? But now I think I may have jumped too quickly. There’s a workers’ bar we have to go through to get in or out of the building.”

“But there’s no one there,” Lydia said.

“Not now, but there will be. If we get back late, who knows?”

By mid afternoon, they’d found and made a deal with a bargeman due to leave the following morning. But because food was scarce it took a long time to find it, and they returned late, as Jez had feared. In the bar, workers gathered in small groups and their rowdy drinking sessions were already in full swing.

Lydia rushed ahead before Jez could stop her. A man reached out, grabbed her arm and used her to pull himself to his feet. He wrapped his free arm around her and laid it heavily across her breasts, drawing her close to him.

“Now you’re a pretty little thing,” he said, and pressed his face against the side of her head, sniffing deeply into her hair. “I’ll wager you hoped I would reach out to you?”

Lydia looked like a small trapped bird. “No,” she cried, “I wasn’t, please let go.”

Terror filled her eyes. This situation was worse than with Rudi. Here, there were witnesses to tell the tale. Jez pondered too long and Miriam stepped forward.

“Please don’t manhandle my sister like that. You can see she’s only a slight girl,” she said, mouth set in a straight line, brow creased in concern.

The worker laughed. “She doesn’t feel so slight to me,” he said, and pulled his arm tighter over her breasts.

“I should have said frail... She has a terrible disease. That’s why we’re traveling, so she can see our parents one last time.”

The man freed Lydia quicker than if she’d had leprosy. “Diseased? Then she shouldn’t be allowed out in a public place,” he said, and wiped the palms of his tainted hands on trousers that only made them dirtier.

Heads lifted towards them. Worried expressions revealed white circles around dark eyes in sooty faces.

“It’s not contagious,” Miriam assured them. “It’s a degenerative disorder, but incurable all the same. Please show a little compassion.”

The drinkers mumbled amongst themselves and turned away. The molester tried melting into them, but didn’t quite get away with it. “Well how was I to know…?” was the last Jez heard him say, as the crowd berated him.

Upstairs, Jez smiled but was embarrassed. “I don’t know, Miriam: still the great storyteller?”

“That’s right,” Lydia interjected, her bottom lip quivering as she rubbed at her arm. She took off her coat and dusted it down. “Just a joke to you, but it wasn’t funny. Have you any idea how much that man frightened me?” She dropped her coat, cupped her hands over her face, and wept.

“Oh Lydia,” Jez said. “I’m so sorry.” He embraced her. “I wouldn’t want to upset you, my sweet little sister. I made a joke of it because I’m relieved it didn’t get any worse, that’s all. I was worried. Are you hurt?” He caressed her back.

“No,” she picked up her coat. “I think he pulled the stitching on the sleeve, but I’m all right. I know you didn’t mean anything. It’s just… I was scared,” she said.

Miriam rolled up the sleeve on Lydia’s dress, revealing a few near invisible red marks on her arm. “No skin broken,” she said wryly, kissing the blemish and giving her a little hug. “You’ll be all right.”

*

Next day they rendezvoused with the bargeman, a German Engel who’d brought timber downriver from Dubovka. He’d enjoyed a couple of days in Volgograd before going on to Rostov with the load.

The journey progressed. The barge left the Volga, took a canal that joined the River Don, and went downstream until they stopped at the town of Kazach-na-Donu to refuel.

“Keep your fingers and toes crossed, Miriam. With luck, you’ll soon be free of Soviet soil and out of danger.”

“Yes, but without you,” she said.

They got to Rostov early afternoon, Jez paid the skipper and they left the jetty in search of rooms.

“The people here are more cosmopolitan than we’ve seen so far,” he told the girls, “and ships from around the Black Sea are everywhere. I have to find a captain who can be bribed into taking you on one.”

“You need to find a captain? Does that mean you don’t want us tagging along?” Miriam asked.

“Yes, that’s exactly what it means. It wouldn’t be right for you to go where I have in mind.”

“Oh… I see.”

*

Jez settled his sisters into a room that was no better than a fleapit, and left for the bars in the dock area. He needed to find a place where alcohol wouldn’t be the only attraction.

“Excuse me,” he said, to a passerby. “Can you suggest a place round here where a man can get a drink – and perhaps a little more?”

“Yes, surely,” the man replied all knowing. “There’s a small club that should be open about now. Down there,” he pointed along the quay, “two doors past the seamen’s mission.”

“Thank you, Comrade, believe me the timing is just right,” he said. The man nodded and walked on.

The hinges on the door creaked as Jez entered. He smiled. A place used as often as a brothel shouldn’t have squeaky hinges. He hadn’t noticed from outside, but the windows were boarded up. Early or late, the club would give the impression of night. He supposed it made sense: easier to get a sailor in the mood.

Inside was an empty bar where only the scent of perfume and liqueur lingered, but then a girl popped up from nowhere and asked, “What can I get you?”

Under the dim lights, he hadn’t noticed the small quarter-circle counter she now filled. He joined her at the bar and smiled into an open, pretty face. “Just vodka for now,” he said, and winked.

“Sit down, I’ll bring it over.”

He found a corner where he could watch the human traffic, and sipped slowly at the vodka. Four sailors walked into the bar who weren’t from Soviet soil: slip-on leather shoes that ran to chiseled points; long soles that came past the end of the shoe and wrapped over the toes; baggy trousers, loose white shirts, dark waistcoats and, to rubber-stamp the notion, two of them sported heavy black handlebar moustaches. There was no doubt: they were Turkish. They took a table in the opposite corner, and their entrance must’ve hit the magic number because, almost immediately, half a dozen women filtered into the room.

One of the girls sauntered over to Jez. “Would you like a little company?” she asked. “Maybe buy me a drink?”

He looked her over. “Yes, sit. You will have vodka,” he said, already knowing the reply.

“I’d rather have champagne.”

“I’m sure you would, but vodka is what I offered.”

She was a young girl, possibly too young. Slim and pretty, she wore a low-cut black dress that exposed too much of a generous cleavage. “Vodka it is then,” she smiled.

Jez bought her a drink and they chatted. Older than he first thought, she was easy on the eye and good company. Desires of the flesh might have won out under different circumstances – but there was no time for distractions.

He heard the sailors speak Russian – poorly – but the way their business went with the girls, it was good enough. The women took them through a curtained doorway, and it wasn’t a lifetime before they returned to the bar – alone: business done. Time to try his luck. He finished his vodka in a gulp.

“Sorry,” he said to the girl, “I’ve a little business to attend to.” She looked a bit bemused when he left her and approached the group. “Err, may I join you?” he asked, centering his attention on the one with a skipper’s cap.

“Why, what you want?” he replied, in a Russian dialect so bad that Jez wondered how a deal had been struck with the girls. But then he smirked and thought again. Don’t be silly.

The adjacent table had a free chair. He pulled it up next to the captain and sat down. “Let me buy you a drink and I’ll tell you.”

On a need to know basis, he shared his hopes with the skipper, telling him honestly of his quandary.

“Istanbul next port,” the captain said. “If money good, we women board, they cabin share. Already women crew, be okay.”

A tortuous conversation outlined a plan of action, and Jez agreed to bring his sisters to the dockside at nine the following morning.

Chapter 13

Hidden in an alleyway as near to the dock entrance as possible, Jez waited for the Turks to show. He’d positioned himself close enough to the gatehouse that he could hear most of what might be said and would be able to see what went on at the same time.

“It’s almost ten, and the plan is already off target. I think the skipper’s let me down. I’ve been stupid.”

The girls looked chilled to the bone and he didn’t need to wonder why. The grey harbor stones were wet and the wintry mist was penetrating.

“What was stupid about it?” Rachael asked, teeth rattling.

“Believe it or not, I gave him half the money up front.”

“But surely, if you hadn’t made payment there wouldn’t have been a deal,” Miriam said.

“The way things look, there wasn’t a deal. Not on the Turk’s part anyway.”

“Be patient, it’s not over yet.”

True enough, they just had to wait and watch. Which they did, willing someone to show from the ship, but no one did. Another hour passed and even Miriam looked nervous.

But then Rachael pointed to the gangway. “Look, you were expecting women?”

“Yes,” he said, with renewed hope.

Several women shuffled onto the ship’s gangway, four, no, five. Three wore white scarves swathed around their heads, half-length skirts with baggy trousers beneath, and blouses with waistcoats that matched.

Lydia’s face creased. “Three of them are a bit on the bulky side,” she said. “They must work in the galley.”

“Don’t be ungrateful,” Miriam said, but grinned.

The girls walked through the dock gates and giggled like schoolchildren as they did. They turned off into the alley where Jez waited.

“Welcome, you’ll never know how pleased I am to see you,” he said, but the girls stared blankly. “Do you speak Russian?” he asked. They didn’t.

Two of them unwound headscarves and fashioned them on Rachael and Lydia. When they did the same with their skirts and baggy pants, they became much slimmer.

“See, Lydia, you should feel ashamed,” Miriam said. Lydia pretended not to hear, but smiled.

“While they don’t speak Russian, Miriam, they must know what is expected of them. Just follow their lead.”

He looked at the young Turks, who giggled. His face flushed and he was glad not to be going with them. Two of the women weren’t dressed traditionally. They handed his younger sisters their ID cards, linked arms with them and steered them off towards town. Lydia broke free and Rachael followed closely behind. They almost threw themselves on Jez.

“Bring Momma and Poppa to us in Israel. We can all be together again.”

Jez ignored the plea and hugged Rachael. “Look after our little sister,” he said.

She smiled. “I will.”

They marched off with the group, and neither looked back.

“Oh, Jez,” Miriam said, putting her arms around his neck, pulling him close. “It’s been wonderful seeing you again.”

She’d changed into the clothes provided by the third Turkish girl. Tears popped and she turned away to join the women. They set off in the opposite direction to that of the other girls. He’d never thought about it before, but it was the first time he’d seen her cry. Because of it, he had to fight back his own emotions.

An hour went by and Rachael and Lydia returned to the dock gates with the Turkish girls. His sisters showed passes and the Turks watched but kept their arms linked.

A second guard leaned against the gatehouse. “Speaky Russian?” he asked. The girls shook their heads. “You want come back of hut for fucky?”

One of the girls used a lewd voice to say something in Turkish. She laughed uproariously and the soldier shrank back.

Another half hour and Miriam arrived at the gate with one of the remaining women. She showed her pass and the vulgar soldier ushered her through. Her comrade tried to follow.

“Halt,” he demanded petulantly. “Pass, show me your pass.”

The woman patted down her clothing, searched her pockets – nothing. Miriam walked on, hurried over the dockyard. She stopped at the foot of the walkway, but the skipper, who’d rushed down the gangway, collided heavily against her. He brushed himself off, cursed and stormed off to the gatehouse to show the guard the Turkish girl’s pass he’d just taken from Miriam.

The soldier who hadn’t been rude earlier shrugged and released her into the captain’s custody with a gentle rebuke. “Next time you’ll spend time in prison,” he said, but Jez saw him wink at the captain.

“You fool,” the skipper shouted at the girl in broken Russian. “How many times must I tell you about identification?”

He dragged her across the dock, shoved her against Miriam and pushed both women onto the gangway. At the top, Miriam briefly looked over to where Jez stood, turned and disappeared onto the ship. A well-rehearsed contingency plan. Impressive… but then sorrow came. Already he missed them.

He’d given Miriam most of the money he had and no longer worried about their safety, but he still waited several hours for the ship to sail before walking off. It began its journey: first it would cross the Sea of Azov, on into the Black Sea, then the Bosporus Strait and Istanbul.

“Bon voyage,” he whispered under his breath. “I hope your god goes with you.”

*

With a heavy heart, he left for Rostov station and boarded a nearly full train; he squeezed into a hard bench seat next to the window and allowed thoughts of the previous days to run their course. An involuntary smile set on his face as each episode repeated in his head. His gaze wandered off towards the opposite platform as his mind trawled through events.

For some reason a woman caught his eye. She stood on the opposite platform and stared intently at him. He squirmed. Why did she do that? But he had to admit, she was smart, very attractive – in fact, quite lovely. She wore a mid-length leather coat and stood with hands in pockets, feet slightly parted. Straight and upright, she had a military bearing. His initial discomfort turned to fascination. Certainly a beautiful woman: blonde hair plaited and coiled around the top of her head crowning an angelic face. Now, he stared at her with equal intent. That would be just how he would imagine Anna to look.

Anna! But it couldn’t be, not possible. Anna? He got up. He had to get off the train – although no, he shouldn’t do that – the authorities. But he couldn’t lose the opportunity. The train had pulled away from the platform. He rushed down the aisle, he could still do it.

“Is there something wrong, sir?”

His insides dropped, a railway security guard blocked his exit. The police would be brought in if he jumped from a moving train. He stopped and searched his pockets.

“Oh, there it is,” he said, and pulled out his wallet. “For a minute I thought I’d dropped it on the platform.”

The guard rolled his eyes and Jez returned to his seat. There was time to look back, give her a sign. But she was walking away. Oh, Anna, could that really have been you?

Possibilities thundered around his head, but then he decided he’d just imagined what he wanted to see. It couldn’t have been her. She was just a pretty woman who’d waited for a train. And she hadn’t stared at him. She’d been deep in thought as he had been.

Chapter 14

The oak door dwarfed Anna and she knocked, feeling like a small child awaiting a rebuke from the teacher. She didn’t usually let things get to her, but this was different.

“Come in.”

She pushed down the handle and used her free hand to shove the heavy door open. Inside the office, she let her eyes measure General Petrichova. He didn’t look so great: as he stared down at the report, he looked as if he wanted to wash the document clean. In that case, wouldn’t they all? He lifted his gaze with darkened eyes.

“You’re not on parade, Sergeant Puchinsky – relax. I’ve read and reread your report and still find it difficult to believe. Of those I’ve put my trust in, I thought Kornfeld least likely to let me down.”

She thought it best to remain silent.

“Sergeant Puchinsky, I want to hear the main points of your task in your own words.”

She pulled a skeptical face. “Of course, General, but they won’t vary from what’s written.”

“I understand, but I want to get your gut reaction to what’s happened. I want to know if something in Kornfeld’s actions can be justified.”

She cleared her throat. “Very well, sir. I knew the lieutenant when he first trained and I’ve since read his career profile. Before I tell you what happened, I must say that none of what I knew or read matched the man I’ve reported on.”

“Why so?”

“In my opinion, sir, his behavior seemed out of character. He acted erratically. Not like an officer of an elite unit. I think something threw him.”

“How?”

“When you first assigned me to observe him, he did everything textbook smooth; but after he’d rounded up the women, his actions became unpredictable.”

“Have you any idea who the women were, Sergeant?”

“No, none, sir,” her voice caught.

“Well, according to their fellow protesters they were Kornfelds.”

She felt a little of the stiffness fall from her face and looked down. The general leaned forward, caught her eye, and signaled she should continue.

“Oh yes, right, General. When the women were arrested, he had them loaded into a truck and taken to a government office in Central Moscow. He returned to Dzerzhinski Square and reported the demonstration back to Captain Isakova, his section commander.” She drew in a breath. “He then sneaked the women from the offices and took them to an apartment in downtown Moscow. They stayed there for several days without making a show. Within a week, he got hold of clothing for them and arranged for a civilian truck and its driver to take them to Kazansky railway terminal. They began the journey the following morning.”

“Do you think he was unsure of his actions, spur of the moment maybe?”

“A possibility, sir, yes. He certainly seemed nervous… yes, in fact, when they arrived at the station a commotion ensued, mainly because he wasn’t prepared.”

“And according to your report, he over-reacted.”

“Well, yes, sir, but he got out of trouble by using his authority.”

“I see. He smoothed out the problem by abusing his power – for the second time.”

“Yes, sir.” She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and looked down to the floor.

“You look uneasy, Sergeant. Settle down. You’re not the one under the spotlight here. I just want to get the full picture. Be patient, I’ll explain why later.”

“Yes, General. There was another incident travelling from Saratov to Volgograd. The lieutenant assaulted the bargeman who’d taken them there. I’m not sure why.”

“No ideas?”

She brightened. “Nothing concrete, sir, but I suspect blackmail. The bargeman, a man named Rudi Olav, reported the incident to the local authorities. He accused the Kornfelds of forcing him to take them on the passage.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“Definitely not, sir. At the same dock, after Olav had been assaulted, he went out on a drinking binge. It happened on the day before they reached Volgograd. He had plenty of opportunity to go to the authorities there, so why wait until his captors could melt away into the big city?”

“Quite. Are the authorities pursuing the matter?”

“No, sir, you ordered me to keep everything low profile. I used my authority to make sure there would be no further action.”

The general nodded his approval and ran his finger down to a specific point on the report. “You say here that there was more trouble in a bar in Volgograd. That Kornfeld froze and the elder of the three women stepped in to sort it out.”

The bar in the apartment block had been packed and Anna thought back to how she’d dressed as a bedraggled worker and sat in a corner cuddling a pot of vodka. No one had taken notice of her.

“Yes, sir, but my report may have been harsh here. Now I know that the women were family, I can understand why his reactions might have been slower. He would’ve tried to think of the safest way out of the situation. The woman happened to react before he had a chance.”

“Yes, but he should’ve been quicker off the mark than an untrained peasant.”

She moved on without acknowledgement. “When they reached Rostov, the lieutenant bribed a Turkish captain into taking the women onboard his ship,” she said. “Everything went smoothly for him there. When the ship sailed, the lieutenant parted company with his family and made his way back to Moscow.”

“I may be disappointed with Kornfeld, but the detail of your report and the way you attained it show an extra dimension to your abilities, Sergeant. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“Oh, did he see you at all?”

“Err … yes, General, at the station. I was on the opposite platform. I think he saw me, but I don’t think he recognized me.” To her disappointment, she wasn’t lying.

He stood up, brushed a finger over books stacked on shelves against the back wall then walked to the window. Anna had noticed his eyes glaring and glassy, sunken so far back in his face that he was in danger of losing them.

She watched and waited.

“Sit down, Anna.”

Anna: he’d never called her that before.

He turned from the window and opened a hand, gestured her towards the chair in front of the desk. She sat and folded her hands neatly in her lap. The general took his gaze back to wherever he’d been staring.

“You’ll remember the beginning of your career, when I chose you for special training?”

“Yes of course, sir.”

“Of all the female cadets available across the Soviet Union you were the most promising I found.” He went to his desk but stayed on his feet and poured a glass of water. “On the very day you came for your final interview, when I outlined my vision to you, I left Lubyanka and happened across young Kornfeld. He seemed like a gift from above, so much so that I halted the current search for a male cadet and took him under my wing. He’d been exactly what I had in mind for my project.”

He returned to fingering the books.

“I placed you both together in the hope of producing a super team. I didn’t want either of you knowing of my intentions, so I asked you not to tell anyone of our agreement. But a report came back saying you clearly had feelings for one another, so I had you placed as far apart as possible. I didn’t want your progress disrupted, and up to this point your careers have developed exactly as I’d hoped, albeit on separate paths.”

“But why didn’t the lieutenant try to get in touch?” She failed to suppress the desperation in her voice or the inner question she asked of herself – why hadn’t you tried to get in touch with him?

“Your files were transferred to secure areas in the Kremlin. He wouldn’t have been able to verify that you ever existed, let alone get in touch with you.”

“Oh, right, sir.” Her heart sank.

“Because I was tied up with the various reforms Khrushchev introduced, I had to neglect my protégés. But then Brezhnev and his associates removed him from power and the reforms dwindled. I became free to concentrate on what I wanted to do, and that included regaining control of Federal Security Services and bringing the two of you back together.”

He picked up a pair of reading glasses and reread the report. “Hmm,” he shook his head.

Silence hadn’t time to settle before he picked up the thread.

“Stalin’s death opened doors to justice, but those same actions caused law and order to relax, and organized crime crept in. I decided, on my father’s behalf, the time had come to begin a crusade; and I intended that the two of you would spearhead the campaign.”

He looked over the top of his glasses.

“You were both in line for further promotion. I got wind of a demonstration in Red Square and thought it would be a good opportunity to justify Kornfeld’s next grade. And with the women being Jewish, it would prove his unbending loyalty.”

“And me, General?”

“Yes, as I told you, I knew there was a time when you carried feelings for Kornfeld. I had you follow him to make sure you reported accurately.”

“But if I’d lied in the report, you’d be none the wiser.”

“You reported to me that he’d separated the women from the others at the demonstration. That was enough to win my trust.”

Her face tightened. “So, by following Lieutenant Kornfeld and not betraying to him that he was being watched, I passed your test?”

“Exactly right, Sergeant, or as you might have gathered by now – Lieutenant.” He smiled, lips thinning.

“Thank you, sir.” She gave no hint of being pleased.

A still quiet fell for what seemed an eternity, until the general emptied the glass of water in one quick swallow and said, “You must remember: if Kornfeld had played by the rules, you wouldn’t have been able to give negative feedback.”

“No, sir, thank you, sir. What will happen now?”

“I’m posting you here to the Kremlin. You will carry out covert tasks on my behalf, but officially you will act as my aide.”

“And Lieutenant Kornfeld?”

“By doing what he did, and knowing our terms of agreement, he lifted his hand against the state… But I won’t take action. The report will be stored here as top secret, but his ties with me are broken. I’ll show no more interest in his progression.”

He walked back to the window and fixed a gaze somewhere beyond. Silence reigned and Anna wondered if he’d ever speak.

“That will be all for now, Lieutenant.”

At last.

“Yes, sir.” She stood and left as fast as protocol allowed.

In the hallway, dizziness swayed her. Army life was everything to Jez. She leaned on the balustrade at the top of the stairway. “What have I done?”

Chapter 15

It had been more than four months since he’d broken up the demonstration and no one had even mentioned it. He’d been so sure General Petrichova had shown a renewed interest. How wrong could that have been?

At least there’d been no aftershocks with regard to him getting his sisters out. But with the demonstration, he’d been led on and then thrown back to the everyday of Osnaz. It just didn’t seem right. Of course, the general might not have been responsible for the order, but if it wasn’t him, then who? Someone in the Kremlin had specifically asked for him. No, it could only have been Petrichova.

And he wouldn’t be able to find out from his unit commander, Captain Isakova: the captain was about to be transferred. His replacement was someone called Mitrokhin. Jez had to be positive. He’d give the new captain time to settle in, and make an appointment. The frustration of this job couldn’t be allowed to take control. There’d been times in his past when he’d waited days for a target to show, virtually without moving. He had to act like that now, stay calm and be patient; carry on with the job, and if in the long term Mitrokhin didn’t help develop his career, he’d put in for a move back to Spetsnaz.

*

“Not a lot of sunshine, but my head is baking,” Otto Mitrokhin said. He brushed a hand over his thick blond flat-top haircut and crossed Dzerzhinski Square with his sergeant, Adrik Mayakovski.

“You look like an American GI with your hair like that,” Adrik said, admiringly.

His own pate suggested he had dark hair, but he’d shaven it so close to the skin only a feint shadow remained visible. Otto smiled: Adrik copied everything he did, but he couldn’t copy the haircut.

“Maybe,” he replied, “but mine looks better.”

“Modesty is your only imperfection,” Adrik laughed – Otto didn’t.

They passed the statue of Iron Felix and drove forward with menace. Otto got a buzz from unsettling people. Both men were large, very large, and even in a busy military area they dwarfed all others.

Otto wore his olive-green tunic shirt with a stand-up collar and darker green shoulder boards, the green of the boards complementing his dark breeches. New uniforms – because he and Adrik had moved in from Spetsnaz: a move instigated by General Irishka, the director behind Otto’s money-making ventures.

He’d had Adrik by his side for longer than he could clearly remember. Always there, he mimicked every move Otto made. Even now, he carried his cap under his arm in the same way as him, held his shoulders and head back yet kept his gaze fixed downward, same way as him, and marched alongside as if keeping in step on the parade ground. Otto’s size measured more than height and width: his muscles had muscles, and because of that Adrik trained enough so he would look the same. A case of good old-fashioned hero worship, and Otto couldn’t have found the situation more appealing.

Otto had decided earlier that this would be a lazy day for him. He usually liked the pomp of full uniform, but today battledress would do. After all, this was only a fleeting visit to look over his new office.

The throng in the square hustled and bumped as the two soldiers strode across. But natural intimidation radiated and a pathway opened without one passerby so much as brushing against either of them.

“I still don’t know why we needed to transfer to the capital, Otto. We were doing all right where we were.”

Otto frowned. “Always one step ahead, Adrik. How many times do I need to tell you?”

“I know, I know, but there wasn’t any sign of danger in the set-up.”

Otto brushed an irritated hand over his flat-top. “For Christ’s sake, Adrik, the scam is in place. We leave others to run it and get out. If they’re caught, they fall alone. That’s how our organizational tiers work, and that’s how they’ll always work.”

“Yes, but I was just…”

“Adrik, do not make me go through this again or we’re going to fall out in a big way – trust me.”

Stillness filled the air.

Adrik had a terrific memory for faces and detail, which helped in their little enterprises, but why he needed to go over ground already familiar …

Otto gazed around the entrance hall in Lubyanka as a corporal goose-stepped towards them. “Can I help you, Captain?” he asked, in a manner Otto thought more appropriate for subordinates.

“I’m Captain Isakova’s replacement,” he said. “Do you know the whereabouts of his office?”

The corporal retrieved the office directory from a table pushed up against a sidewall and fingered through the pages. “Yes, sir,” he said and gave detailed directions.

“In future, show respect to rank,” Otto said.

The corporal began to answer, but Otto cut him off. “Fucking idiot,” he cursed, and stormed off to his office on the fourth floor.

Inside, he brightened. “Not bad,” he said, and ran a finger over a desktop that had been warmed by the few sunbeams breaking through a clouded sky, “in fact, one of our better postings.”

He slid a hand from desk to bookcase, stopped, leaned against the windowsill and took in the rest of the room. Oak filing cabinets butted up in the corner; he went to them and swished the empty drawers in and out, carried on to the studded leather-bound chair behind the desk and dropped into it, indulging in its luxury. If his father could see him now!

“Yes, I think we’ll be very comfortable here. And I’ll be able to visit my mother regularly.”

Adrik nodded without expression.

“Make sure you take the office next door, Adrik. I want you at hand. When you’ve settled, you can run through the usual routine, get the files on each of the grunts under my control and a list of the local people working for us in our private endeavors.”

“Right, Otto. But what if somebody’s using next door?”

“If they’re lower rank than me – move them. Otherwise get a room as close as you can.”

Otto smiled warmly at his sergeant. Adrik had a multitude of small scars on face and scalp that issued themselves as even whiter lines on an already too white skin. He had a round but predatory face, injected with dark menacing eyes. But for all that, Otto didn’t see an ugly man.

*

“You’re getting too important for my liking, Otto,” Adrik said, as he shuffled into the office with a precarious pile of files. “Another rank would mean more people, and I would have to make two trips like this.”

That will never happen, Otto thought, but said, “Two days it took you to get them together; another rank and I’ll want another sergeant.”

Adrik laughed weakly.

When he left, Otto casually studied the profiles of the people in his unit. One file came to the surface and in annoyance, he brushed a hand over his flat-top.

“Well,” he said, “a fucking Jew in Special Forces. What next?”

How had he made it into the elitist ranks? Otto couldn’t fathom it. Medium height and lightweight, in fact so light he had to be skinny, and how the fuck… lieutenant. He browsed the rest of the file and frustration grew. Spetsnaz had been the Jew’s first duty after initial training. Now that made no sense at all.

His active duties to date determined that he’d been to almost everywhere that the Soviet Union had an interest. Responsible for more than his share of killing and weaponry skills outstanding, no arguing, he was a good operative. Admiration swiftly moved to loathing. A good soldier or not didn’t make a difference. How the fuck was he spotted in the first place? He hadn’t even done regular service. This just didn’t look right.

The fact the man was a fucking Jew had Otto reeling; he never liked the bastards at the best of times. He snorted… Jews… The report blurred and recollections wandered to his father, a White Army officer who’d proudly told him drunken stories of the glory of the pogroms he’d organized and executed.

“That’s all finished nowadays, young Otto,” he’d say. “Now, you’ll never experience the wonderment of a mounted cavalry charge, sabers drawn and cutting down Jews at will. Fucking revolution… the worst thing that ever happened to us. Gone… too soon… gone.”

The old man always seemed to complete his revelations with these words before he fell into a drunken stupor.

Otto listened intently, but there were things he hadn’t agreed with. His father told him “Jew” stories and he nodded, approved enthusiastically, because it was easy to go along with it. But his father also hated queers, as he called them, and for reasons Otto couldn’t fathom, conflict gnawed. He still nodded agreeably, but withheld the eagerness. While sex had never motivated him, he’d always preferred men’s company. He never considered himself effeminate, not in any way, but he could understand why a man might “like” another man.

The daydream dissolved and Otto’s face split into a broad grin. “All the same, my father really knew how to come the ‘Old Soldier’,” he mumbled. “He may have been against the insurgency, but it didn’t stop him pre-empting the situation.”

By the time the October revolution came in 1917, he’d already switched to marching alongside the workers and eventually became an officer in the Red Army.

Otto smirked, turned his focus back to Kornfeld’s report and compared his own career against it.

His had begun like a firework display: fast tracked through the ranks, from a regular squad to an elite unit. The youngest in the division’s history to make the rank of captain. There seemed no limit to what he might achieve. But then, for some inexplicable reason, he fell from favor.

After years of not knowing why, he teamed up with General Irishka, his silent partner in the Kremlin. He asked him to pull the reports. Find out what had happened.

“As you know, Otto, because you moved through the ranks so quickly, a number of psychological profiles were made.”

Otto remembered with distaste.

“One report flatly states that you don’t meet the criteria for becoming a high-ranking officer.”

“But why not?” Otto had asked, already fuming at the audacity of the evaluation.

“The file suggests that while things go in your favor you excel, but that if the odds are turned against you, you will fold.”

“I can’t believe that. It’s bullshit.”

“The interviewer even declared that you could be treacherous and would let your men down. In other words, he thought you were a coward.” Irishka had annoyed him further when he laughed, and Otto pulled the file from his grasp.

“No wonder,” he said; “the profiler was a fucking Jew.”

Otto dwelled on the assessment. “Fucking idiot,” he said, overlaying the memory and bringing Kornfeld’s paperwork back into view. Clearly, Kornfeld wasn’t just a fucking Jew – he was a Jew getting preferential treatment.

Chapter 16

Otto spent the whole day reading and rereading Kornfeld’s file. He hardly saw the words, just imagined what the little shit might look like. Already, he hated the idea of meeting with him. But then something in the report caught his attention. Obvious, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember why. An official continuation stamp. He’d seen it before, but what did it mean? Adrik, he’s the one with the memory, he’d know.

“A minute, Sergeant,” he said, interrupting a conversation.

“Yes, Captain,” he replied. “I’ll finish this with you later, Corporal.”

Otto led him back to his office, and the file.

“Do you recognize this symbol? And be sure your answer is yes.”

Adrik stared at it – forever.

“C’mon.”

“I have seen that, yes… Oh, that’s right, there’s a high security file somewhere.”

“Of course – fool,” he cuffed his own forehead. “And, as it’s a Special Forces file and we’re in Moscow, it has to be in the Kremlin. Have we got anybody in records?”

“We have more than one in records in Moscow. Whether they’re in the Kremlin, I’m not sure. Just a minute.”

He nipped back to his office and returned with a notebook. “As luck has it, we do have one.”

“Excellent. Here – take these details and see if you can get a copy of the file.”

“It could take a while.”

“No hurry, this afternoon will do.” He laughed, but the impatience of not knowing Kornfeld’s secret already had the better of him. If it turned out he was a covert hero, hatred would drive him to distraction. But if he’d done something wrong; yes, if he’d done something wrong, he would take the greatest of pleasure in using it to set the bastard up. Have him turned out of the unit in disgrace. No, worse – yes, worse, it should be much worse than just getting rid of him.

It took Adrik two days to get a copy of the report and hand it over. Otto eagerly snatched it from his hand.

“Whoa, steady on, Otto, it’s not going anywhere.”

“Wha– oh right,” he answered, but his attention had already turned to scanning the file. “Well… I don’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it. Seems he was a protégé of General Michel Petrichova, but last year he knocked together a route and smuggled three women out of the country. Look at this, he got away with it. What is it with that little shit? ‘No further action.’ Can you believe that?” He sighed.

A route… suddenly his brain went into overdrive and excitement kicked in. There had to be a new venture hidden in this.

Adrik had long since lost interest. He sat opposite, looking bored and irritatingly twiddling the gooseneck lamp on the corner of the desk. But Otto had become too engrossed to berate him about it – then suddenly, “That’s it,” he said, as if he’d stumbled onto the theory of relativity. “Looks like getting rid of Kornfeld has moved onto a backburner.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if we set him up, this file might bubble to the surface and the lack of security will be highlighted and dealt with. The path he’s worked out is totally overlooked by the authorities. And to make it more interesting, it goes through a military city – Saratov. They would never have expected him to smuggle women through there. A touch of brilliance – and we can use it.”

“For what?”

“Come on, Adrik, how many smuggling enterprises have we left in our tracks? That’s what it’ll be, some kind of import–export project. I’m not sure exactly what yet, but I’m sure I’ll think of it.”

*

Late that next afternoon, Otto summoned Adrik. “Come in, come in. I’ve been throwing it around and I’ve come up with an idea. And, if I may say so, it’s nothing short of genius.” Before he could answer, Otto hushed Adrik with a finger and motioned him to sit. “Right, we have Stefan Polanski in the North Port area of Moscow. He runs girls there – yes?” Adrik nodded. “Well, as I remember, he has some handsome young men working for him.”

He grinned. “So, you like pretty boys. What about your idea?”

“Yes… funny. I thought we might move several of them down to the south-east Moscow area, not too far from Kazansky railway station.”

“To do what?” Adrik asked, suddenly interested.

“Rural peasants will be easy prey for Stefan’s crew. They will use their charms to seduce the farm fodder into thinking a better life is waiting for them outside Russia. And there are plenty of good-looking girls out there. The pimps will be spoilt for choice. They’ll be taken down the safe route, four, five, maybe six at a time. From Rostov, they’ll be shipped to Turkey. We already have Beyrek Ozel running a club on the coast in Icmeler.”

“What, and we work the girls from there?”

“Yes and no. We’ll groom them, but make sure they keep that peasant innocence. When they’re ready, we simply sell them on. There’ll be no limit on price for young virginal types, especially with Beyrek’s rich Arab contacts. What do you think?”

“I think we should take a trip to the North Port and sort out the pretty boys.”

“Yes, well, we can have a word with Stefan anyway… Too late now and that Jew has made an appointment with me tomorrow morning. Let me get the little fuck out the way and we’ll go together up to the North Port. Oh, yes, I ought to visit my mother. We’ll stop there while we’re out.”

“Oh.”

*

Confidence wasn’t brimming. As second-in-command, Jez thought Captain Mitrokhin should’ve shown a little courtesy and introduced himself by now. Already a week gone and the only reason he had this meeting was because he’d asked for it. He took the steps two at time as he hurried up the staircase to the fourth floor. He tried to feel hopeful. Perhaps the lack of an introduction had been an oversight, yes, that would be it. Trembling with nervous anticipation, he knocked.

“Come in.”

Jez entered and came to attention.

“At ease, Lieutenant, you asked to see me. What can I do for you?”

No introductions, no “pleased to meet you” – nothing.

“Good morning, Captain Mitrokhin, I’d hoped you might spare me some time to discuss my career path. I’m in need of guidance with regard to my next steps.”

“Career path, what career path?”

Without the consideration of a glance, he pulled paperwork from a top drawer and read it.

“As far as I can see, you’ve achieved a position higher than you should have expected at your age. I pull the files on everyone in my command, and looking at yours you’ve been a good enough soldier, no doubt. But quite frankly I fail to see how you managed to make lieutenant when you did.”

Hopes dented. Now puzzlement. The words, the way he spoke them, felt almost like an attack.

“Well, Captain, the officers who bestowed the honor on me had no such reservations. May I say, sir, your clear lack of belief in my ability indicates there will be no career options under your command?” Hasty, maybe, but passive had worn out. “Please, sir, I would like to make formal application for transfer back to a Spetsnaz unit. With my credentials, I know I can make a case… There seems little point continuing with this meeting, so, with your permission, sir, I would like to withdraw.”

“Whoa, whoa, calm down, Lieutenant Kornfeld, just testing the steel of your ambition. Let me look into your records again and we’ll see what it will take to put you on the right path to go forward. Unfortunately, you’ll need to be patient with me. I have covert commitments that I must give priority to – they are the reasons we haven’t met earlier.” He lifted his head from the paperwork and sat back in his chair. His lips curled into a smile, but his eyes remained cold. “Just bear with me for a while and I’ll get back to you.”

An odd turn around, but still a turnaround; to argue now would appear churlish. “Yes, sir, I’ll wait until your covert matters are behind you. Thank you for your time, Captain.”

“No problem.”

Short, and not so sweet. He made his way back down the stairs, one-step at a time and slowly. The meeting hadn’t been what he’d call inspiring. Mitrokhin had finished with the right words, so going over his head could make things worse. Now he’d left himself with no choice. He had to count on the captain.

Chapter 17

Adrik drew the car up alongside the 3-meter wall that surrounded the Serbsky Institute.

“I think I’ll just wait here, Otto,” he said.

“Afraid of the big ‘Yellow House’ are we, Adrik?”

“What, no, I…”

“Every time we come here, you make the same nervous apologies.”

“Well, let’s face it, you’d have to be mad to want to go into a place like that.”

Otto laughed. “One of these days you will come with me.”

Adrik didn’t answer and Otto grinned. He knew Adrik was scared shitless of going in. In case they might just hang on to him.

Otto heaved his great frame from the vehicle and leaned back into the car. “I don’t know if you’ll be hanging around here, but if not I’ll be back in about an hour.”

Adrik nodded. Otto turned and sighed forlornly. Of course he understood how Adrik felt, coming to a nut house: who would do that out of choice?

But Otto loved his mother. She’d always showered him with love. When his father had forced him into early enlistment, he’d missed her with physical pain. It wasn’t long after that he was told she’d been hospitalized. He’d lost her.

“Live with it, Otto,” his father had told him. “She’s got some form of mind contamination. And if you think I’m putting up with a diseased woman...”

He’d always admired his father – even now, but to have done that…

“I’ll not tell you where she is,” he said when Otto had asked. “I mean, why? Do you want to end up like that yourself? Let me give you a hint of how I feel about it. DO NOT ask again.”

He went through the institute gates and tried to turn his thoughts. He didn’t want to think back. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was 25 years old when he saw her next, and that was after his father had died. When he passed away, Otto searched every institution he knew of. He whittled his way through various psychiatrists, and finally tracked her down to the Serbsky Institute in Moscow.

He brooded, almost wished he could have stayed in the car with Adrik. The shitty corridors of this large cream shoebox of a building were horrible and he had no words to express how much he hated them. Against his better judgment, he thought of that first time he’d found her here.

*

Inmates had jittered and made signs at him as he made his way through the corridors. “Please help me,” he heard from some and, “They have me here because of my political beliefs,” from others. They’d reached out to him as he passed, and his insides had quaked. With the stench of piss and shit everywhere, revulsion filled him. But he’d felt no compassion for these people. He hadn’t given a fuck about them. Only his mother mattered.

“This way,” the nurse had said. “She’s through here.”

He found her in a large open room. She sat on the only piece of furniture in it. The chair was pushed back against the wall and she rocked slightly, staring blankly into nothingness. Spittle leaked from her mouth and she was barely recognizable as the woman he loved. Her long, luxurious, oily-black hair had been shaven to the skin. Her teeth had somehow been removed and her formerly full face had caved in because of it. Like a corpse, she was yellowed and sunken. Only 47 years old and she looked twice that. He’d wished he hadn’t found her and cried bitterly – in front of those sadistic bastards that called themselves nurses.

More like prison guards. And in reality, that’s what they were. Soviet dissidents ended up in places like Serbsky, out of harm’s way. In mental hospitals where they could be abused and broken. Somewhere to extinguish credibility. He’d seen those inmates beaten, teeth punched or kicked from their faces. And if they still didn’t bow to the might of the people, enforced lobotomy wasn’t unheard of as a final step.

With desperation, he’d hoped his mother hadn’t suffered such cruelty.

*

And now, somehow, she’d made it through to 60. Why, oh why had she lasted this long? All those years, and still she rocked on that old wooden chair and stared at nothing. How could life be this cruel?

He remembered the first time he’d visited the asylum in full Spetsnaz uniform. After calling several of the nurses together, he said, “I know you all have military connections. On that basis, I won’t explain this uniform. Each of you has some sort of responsibility to my mother. The good news is you’re about to receive an extra income. The bad news: if you don’t look after my mother properly and see she gets the kind of care and nourishment she needs, I may have to call on my KGB colleagues. I hope we all understand what that could mean.”

Memories dissolved as he entered the large open room. On his instructions, her hair had been left to grow. But now it was too long and no one had shown it a comb. Still she rocked, gazing into nothingness with the expression of a lunatic on her face.

The burly warder turned to leave but Otto grabbed his arm. “We have an agreement. Next time I come here, I expect my mother to be presentable. Look at her, her hair hasn’t had attention for who knows how long. She needs a bath and a change of clothes. She looks like she’s just puked down them.”

“I err…,” the nurse spluttered with a voice too high for his size.

“Fuck you and your errs. Why do I pay you people so much? I’ll say this once. If I’m not satisfied with the way she looks next time I come, I’ll personally see to it that you have teeth to match hers. And each time after that, I’ll take you a step further down that road. Clear enough?”

“Yes, Captain. I’ll see to it myself.”

The nurse left and Otto looked at his mother. His heart brimmed. The only woman he’d ever loved – could ever love. He got down on his honkers, and took her hand. No sign of recognition, but at least she didn’t pull away.

“Hello, Mother, how are you today?”

*

Otto left his office to go to the North Port. He vented the frustration he felt about his mother on the most offensive remarks about the Jew he could bring to mind.

Adrik tried to appease him. “Let it wash over your head. Let him go, for fuck’s sake. All you seem to do is get yourself wound up. He’s given us the route. We’ll make a fortune from it. Let him transfer.”

“No, definitely not, fucking arrogant little bastard. ‘With my credentials, I know I can make the case.’ Who the fuck does he think he is? You should’ve seen him. No, he stays.”

Adrik sighed. “But he’s just another Jew.”

Otto shouted, “No, he’s not just another fucking Jew. As far as I’m concerned, he’s all Jews.” His face stretched as his heart pumped furiously. “He’s all things I hate about the bastards. Everything has just dropped into his lap as if he had a God-given right to it.” His thoughts turned to the race collectively. “Money, power, you name it. If it’s worth having, it comes to them like flies to horseshit. He stays here under my control. For the minute, he’s untouchable. But when I’m ready…”

Otto stepped out onto the sidewalk and couldn’t believe what came into view. A beggar, in Dzerzhinski Square, how could this be? The plaza was thinly populated; Otto crossed it with his head tucked down, and charged forward like a raging bull. His lips tightened into a straight line and he glowered at the scrounger as he slapped his gloves in the palm of his hand.

His victim was mid-sized, a physical appearance that put him in mind of Kornfeld. He wore a scruffy old brown army bomber jacket and olive-green, knee-holed trousers. The clothes changed color as Otto’s vision reddened in fury. As he reached the vagrant, he let his huge frame loom over him. The route might be compromised if he arranged a fall for the Jew bastard, but this look-alike – that was something else.

“Tell me you’re not begging, not here, and not in army clothes.”

The beggar tried to straighten himself. “I’m sorry, sir, but…”

Futile words, Otto had no interest. He needed, wanted, to vent his festering anger. He threw an ungainly punch that thudded into the victim’s head. The man went over. Otto’s knee came up, and unless there were pencils in the beggar’s jacket, ribs were surely broken.

The man hit the concrete forcefully, writhed in pain, and wrapped his arms around his broken body. He curled into a ball, and coughed slavering bubbles that streamed down his chin. Passersby stopped and looked on sympathetically as he lay there and cried, but Otto glared and they hurried on their way.

“Do you want him arrested?” Adrik asked lazily.

“No, we don’t have time,” he answered, and leant over the vagrant. “By now, you Kozel, I hope you will have guessed. I don’t want to see you here again.” The sarcasm in his voice changed to a snigger.

He walked away, pulling on Adrik’s sleeve. “Right, next stop North Port.”

*

Stefan Polanski rubbed a hand over the side of his face, pushed a foot against the top of his desk and balanced his chair unsteadily on its back legs.

“Sounds great, Otto, like one of those ‘can’t go wrong’ deals. Remind me, what’s in it for me?”

Otto sighed and raised an eyebrow. “Same conditions as when we set you up here. I’ll help you get the operation up and on its feet. When I’m happy it’s right, you take over. After that, you pay the usual percentages. Any hassle from the law and I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll have to move three, maybe four of my men to seduce the girls, and as many again to smuggle them from Moscow to Rostov. It’s going to spread me a bit thin here.”

“Well, either you want it or you don’t want it.” Irritation tweaked.

“No, you’re right. I want it.”

With the details in order, Otto and Adrik left.

“Worked out well,” Adrik said.

“Really – ‘it’s going to spread me a bit thin here’.” He mimicked the voice of a spoilt child. “What do these fucking people expect from us?”

“Don’t worry about what he said. As long as he does the job, then it won’t be long before we have another income. Talking about money, do you have any visions about us ever spending what we’ve made?”

“Yes, no problems there, my friend. I see us in our little businesses for… oh, I don’t know, three, maybe four more years – and then we’re out. We’ll just about be ripe for defection. We’ll go West where the better things in life are more readily available. That’s why we use that Jew-boy accountant, Bernstein. The money’s invested in so many countries we can get our hands on it wherever we are.”

Chapter 18

Otto fell back into his leather chair. “For two months I’ve pushed my work onto Kornfeld,” he laughed, “and now Stefan is almost running the operation alone. This could be the fastest venture we’ve set up yet.”

“Maybe, but Stefan hasn’t needed that much assistance.”

Otto frowned. “No, Stefan’s ability to organize and handle feminine flesh never came into question. That’s why we took him on in the first place.”

Adrik chuckled. “I did like the name you gave the club in Balashikha: The Red Lite. Ha, if the authorities realized you’re taking the piss with the…”

“Double entendre,” Otto finished for him. “It was the perfect site to centre the shipments. Right in the middle of the target area. And the authorities there are always up for a few extra rubles when need be.”

Adrik pulled out a bottle of vodka.

“No, not now, Adrik. Time to pick up our percentage. Put that away until we get back from North Port.

*

Stefan was packing personal stuff.

“What’s this, a moonlight flit?”

He looked up and grinned. “Hello, Otto. No, Balashikha has turned into a boom business and needs my attention full time. I’m moving into The Red Lite.”

Otto took his dues and left with a smirk on his face. “Just goes to show, I thought I’d have to use pressure to get Stefan to move to Balashikha. I can hardly believe he’s doing it without being asked.”

“Yes, I think the operation has turned out bigger than expected. But, let me guess, now is the time for Irishka to arrange another transfer.”

“Uh-huh, you’re beginning to catch on. As you say, the operation is big and we’re too close to it. I’ve already had a word with Irishka and he suggests West Africa is reasonable at this time of year. The wheels are in motion, so now we just wait.”

Before arrangements could be confirmed, a man called Vladislav Nabokovski sent Otto a letter. Someone delivered it by hand. The contents – a summons to a meeting. A summons, cheeky bastard. Nabokovski was a high-ranking mafia official who, even by Otto’s standards, was the dregs of pond life. But he couldn’t be ignored. Otto had shared a deception with him once before and knew he’d make a worrying enemy.

And because he knew that, worry worried him now. But the mafia couldn’t know about this latest venture – could they? No… Then what else would this gangster want to talk to him about? Worry bounced around until he convinced himself it was overreaction… But he should speak with Adrik.

*

“…And that’s all I know to date,” he said, bringing Adrik up to speed.

“Slow down, Otto, you’ve no idea what he wants yet. But let’s assume the worst. Somehow, he’s learned about the trade in peasants and wants a piece of the action.” He paused. “No, the worst, he knows about it and wants all of the action. I suppose it does have to be connected to the trafficking. Our other ventures in this country are too long established for him to go after them. But whatever it is, we’ve come up against shitheads like him before.”

“Maybe, but these people are an organized mob… We’ve never gone head to head with anyone that big.”

“Just another gang – and how many of those have we retired? And Nabokovski isn’t the whole of the mafia, just a little cog. Worst case, Special Forces will deal with them.”

And that’s why Adrik was so great to have around.

“You’re right. We meet with him later today. We’ll see what he wants; and if we don’t like it, we deal with it.”

*

They sat at a sidewalk table in Moscow’s Arbat Street. Otto sipped vodka, sneaking a look over his glass to weigh up Nabokovski. He was adorned in a blue Armani suit with a dark blue chalk line running through the cloth, single-breasted, wide lapels and, at a guess, pure wool – nice. A white silk shirt, laced at the neck with a blue tie a smidgeon lighter than the suit, to be fair, beautifully complemented the ensemble. Yes, it was chic.

Nabokovski leant forward and slammed his empty glass onto the table. Otto was faced with a clean-shaven head that reflected the glare of the midday sun. His smooth and perfumed skin smelled expensive. Otto swallowed his vodka, leaned back, and looked under the table. Italian, patent leather shoes – the man did know how to dress. But he also noticed that the shoes were tiny. Otto smirked: “You know what tiny shoes mean,” he thought.

“Yes, tiny feet.”

Shit, he’d thought that one out loud. Quickly, he tried to pass it off as a joke and gave a broad grin. Nabokovski answered with a smile – an ugly smile, but a smile. This time he kept his thoughts to himself, and decided that Nabokovski could wear the most expensive clothes in the world, but he’d still look like a bag of shit. Medium to tall in height; as wide as a house and facial features that would disgust a gargoyle. He had slatted, ice-blue eyes that dressed a mean, severe face. A bent nose twisted over and bared most of an inner nostril. To describe him as gross would be unfair; he was worse.

The man who sat next to Nabokovski was another story. Tall and good looking, spiked blond hair, a big man who stood even higher than Otto and Adrik. Easily two metres – and well shaped. Dressed head to toe in black, he initially seemed to have all the attributes Otto would admire. But the continual boast of how he ran dozens of self-procured girls in the South Port area was too much. Otto hated him, an arrogant bastard with a confidence that no one could live up to. His name was Boris.

Nabokovski spent the time giving audience. He had heard of the trafficking and wanted it – and made unreasonable demands. There were no angles of leeway for mutual agreement. Who the fuck did he think he was, giving out orders like an el-supremo? Otto’s mind became set and the decision was now cast in stone. Fuck him.

“For your own sake, Otto, give way to my demands,” he continued. “You have no choice. Kick against us and I can put together a team nearly as big as the whole of Osnaz. The offer for the operation is excellent. Accept and you walk away a rich man. Refuse and you might not walk away.”

Now he’s threatening – a gangster, for fuck’s sake. How could he match an army? But childish argument wouldn’t solve anything. Fob him off for now and pull together a strategy later.

“Vladislav, I’m willing to sell you part of the business and work with you, but I won’t let you take the whole operation. It really is as simple as that.”

Boris cut in. “From the South Port area alone I can have thirty men descend on your club in Balashikha. And we have a list of those who work there. They would all die.”

“So you know of the club. Thank you, I’ll enjoy finding out how you learned about that. But I must say that an assault would be unfortunate for your people, Boris, whether you bring thirty or forty – trust me.”

Otto hadn’t wanted to enter into silly arguments, but his distaste for Boris sucked him in. Whatever else came out of this gathering, Boris had to go.

“And,” Otto continued, by now calmness having deserted him, “do you really think we’re so stupid as to not be ready for such possibilities? To play a dangerous game I use dangerous people. I can only advise you not to turn this into a war.”

Nabokovski stood up. “This is tedious, enough of the cat-fight. Otto, Adrik, I’ve given you an option, the only option, and I’ll give you time to think it over. Please don’t come to the wrong decision. And don’t think for too long.”

“I will give it my full attention, Vladislav, don’t worry about that.”

Otto stood, shook hands with Vladislav and ignored Boris, and then Adrik did the same. They left.

“Could’ve gone better,” Adrik said, as they began the short walk back to downtown Moscow.

“Yes, but like you said, we’ve come up against thugs before, and like before we’ll take care of them. We’ll tell Stefan what he needs to know in order to deal with the problem. If Nabokovski’s people turn out to be too strong for them, we’ll bring in internal security. But we need to keep out of the limelight. We’ll direct operations from afar.”

“Oh, that means we’re still going ahead with the move?”

“Yes, I think we should keep out of the line of fire, don’t you?”

*

A couple of days later, the transfer papers were all but ready. Otto had arranged to talk over the final details with General Irishka, but an unexpected order preceded it.

“Adrik, other than the fact that General Petrichova was in charge of Spetsnaz and he mentored the Jew, do we know anything about him?”

“Only that he’s an old-fashioned Bolshevik who wants to do everything by the book.”

“In other words, nothing. Well, he wants to see me in the Kremlin – today. The very morning I’ve arranged to see Irishka. I think you should get in touch with our man and put him on hold until I know what this Petrichova wants.”

“But what about the paperwork?” he asked.

“Can’t be helped, this might be nothing; but just to be on the safe side, put Irishka on a backburner.”

Chapter 19

Anna had been General Petrichova’s aide for over a year now. She’d worked in and around the city centre and caught the occasional glimpse of Jez. When she did, she’d duck for the cover of an alley or doorway. She’d wanted to yell out his name, but how could she? She’d picked the army over him, a career with boundless opportunities. What was love anyway? No, she’d chosen well. And anyway, if she was to bump into him, what could she say? Sorry, I’m the one who destroyed your career, the most precious thing in your world. No, things were better as they were.

Now, she stood outside the general’s office; and no matter how often she did, the tall oak door continued to dwarf her. She felt as if a metaphorical tidal wave was on the other side, waiting to sweep her away. She took a deep breath, straightened her back, braced her shoulders and knocked.

Petrichova had wanted to see her immediately. He’d never asked to see her urgently before. What if, on reflection, he wanted to bring charges against Jez? It had been some time now, but he was a stickler for doing things by the book. Maybe the whole scenario had dogged him. With teeth that seemed forever clamped, her jaw ached. Even the heavy flaxen locks fastened tightly from her face couldn’t stop her brow from furrowing.

“Enter,” he bade.

She marched in, formally came to attention and fixed a stare over his shoulder to evade his eyes, for fear he’d read her thoughts.

“No need for formality, Lieutenant,” he said. “Relax. Take a seat, and when you need to, feel free to speak your mind.”

Relax. Feel free to speak. It had to be about Jez.

In the chair, she folded her hands neatly in her lap and sat with spine rigid, face tight.

Petrichova pulled a file from a drawer in the row of cabinets against the side wall and laid it open on the desk. He wore his grey parade uniform, a double-breasted tunic with royal blue piping and gold embroidery around the cuffs. The collar bore a gold-embroidered insignia, and the gold shoulder boards were flanked by three gold stars. Tall, and lean for a man so broad, he smacked of superiority.

“I have a meeting in a few minutes with a Captain Mitrokhin, one of the Osnaz unit commanders,” he said. “I would like you to sit in to monitor, take notes. You’ve worked in a number of squads in your time: do you know of him?”

“No, sir never heard of him.” A weight lifted from her: it wasn’t about Jez.

“Good, we have a little time. I want to use it to give you background of what we’re about here, and later, when he’s gone, to get your opinion of him.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“I’ve looked at his files. Both Mitrokhin and his long-time partner, Sergeant Mayakovski, have had more transfers to their credit than can be easily counted.”

“But that was also true of me before I became your aide, General. It’s not so unusual within our security units.”

“Yes, but in your case – or any other I’ve looked at – it could be justified on training grounds, or the need for special skills,” he said. “For Mitrokhin and his sergeant there’s been no such validation.”

“Then how did he do it? As a captain he wouldn’t have the authority to organize his own transfers.”

“Agreed, that’s one of the factors. Who is he controlled by, or who is he unofficially working with that has enough power to make it happen without questions?”

“You said one of the factors. What else concerns you?” With the worry of Jez gone, intrigue stepped into its shoes.

“I’m not sure yet, but this is a step nearer to finding out. In fact, a second step nearer.”

The general picked up his reading glasses and cleaned them as he walked over to the window. “The Soviet Union set up training camps on the west coast of Africa.” He kept his back to her as he looked out over the Moskva River.

“And the captain was involved there?” Anna asked.

“Yes, but only for about six months. After that, he and his sergeant were transferred – too early. That was nearly three years ago now.”

Anna became more puzzled. “But with respect, sir, an early transfer is not an indictment.”

The general came back to the desk and put his spectacles down. “Ah yes, but this one’s different. We’ve recently learned of a diamond smuggling operation in that sector, run by Soviet operatives.”

“Oh, and you think the captain and his sergeant are somehow implicated?”

“Well, I believe that may be the case, but I can’t prove it.”

“But sir, if they’ve been out of Africa for three years and you’ve just discovered the operation, how can you possibly think they’re involved?”

The general nodded. “One of the ringleaders was caught and he named Mitrokhin and his sergeant in a taped interview: he accused them of setting up the operation before they transferred.”

“You’re losing me, General – surely that’s proof enough?” It seemed that the more information she got, the more confused she became.

“It might have been, but shortly after the tape was made, the informer was killed in an escape attempt – and the tape went missing. To cloud the issue further, the people responsible for the interrogation now deny knowledge of an interview.”

“But if the tape has gone and nobody will confirm it ever existed, how do you know of it?”

The general raised his eyebrows. “We’ve received a copy anonymously, but it can’t be considered proof. It could be a ploy to get Mitrokhin into trouble – revenge. These are tough units and it’s not difficult to put someone’s nose out of joint.”

“I see.” Illumination dawned. “Because of the death, you believe what’s on the tape, and so the diamond smuggling is the first step you mentioned earlier. Now you’re about to talk to Mitrokhin about something else?”

“Yes, very good, a new operation has come to light here in Russia. Girls have come to the authorities – on two occasions, to be exact. They claim they were tricked into journeying out of the Soviet Union. Luck was on their side. They escaped. They said they’d been promised careers that would lead to a better life in the West. The girls have made statements and it appears there is military involvement.”

“Oh, I can see the pieces fitting together now. But my part in this, sir, what would that be?” Anna thrilled, this could be ground-breaking for her career.

“First, I’d like you to find the people behind Mitrokhin’s transfers. It sounds trivial, but I’m sure the trail will stop at a lower rank than the one you’re looking for. You’ll need to dig deep. It will take a lot of determination to succeed.”

“I look forward to the task, sir.” But she would’ve preferred to interview the girls.

“Also, I want you to take in what you can about Mitrokhin. Watch his responses. I’ll tell him what I’ve just told you about the girls, and he’ll be tasked with the investigation. After we see how he performs, we’ll consider a proper course of action.” He returned to his desk. “So… now you’re up to speed, find yourself a seat out of the way.”

“Yes, sir.” Anna moved near to the window, and shortly afterwards Captain Mitrokhin came in.

*

Months had gone by since the time Jez had approached Mitrokhin, and meanwhile he hadn’t acknowledged his existence, never mind advised him on his career. Patience had worn thin. He rested a hand on the telephone, paused, and then shook his head laughing.

“Idiot,” he said, “as if another few seconds would make a difference.”

Still tentative, he lifted the phone from the cradle and dialled Mitrokhin’s fourth-floor office. Jez recognized Mayakovski’s voice.

“Sergeant, this is Lieutenant Kornfeld. I want you to make me an appointment with Captain Mitrokhin at the earliest convenience.”

“Oh… just a…”

“Mayakovski, this is not a request. It’s an order. Find a clear slot in his diary now…”

“Yes, sir,” Mayakovski said and Jez imagined a sour look on his face.

Appointment booked, Jez rested his hand on the receiver and mused. Early morning in two days’ time, not as quick as he would’ve liked, but he could be patient for that long. And then he’d be back in the mix – of that he was sure.

*

“General Petrichova, good morning, sir,” Captain Mitrokhin greeted him. “I believe you wanted to see me?”

“Good day, Captain, yes, sit down. I have a lot of pressing work, so I’ll get straight to the point. I want to discuss an investigation that I need you to carry out personally. Oh, this is Lieutenant Puchinsky. She’ll observe and take notes.”

“Lieutenant Puchinsky,” Mitrokhin said. He looked at her with suspicion, gave her a curt nod and turned back to the general.

Anna’s reply to the nod was to allow her lips to curl at the corners, but no more.

“Investigations, General – me – are you aware I have a transfer pending? And, if I may add, I oversee investigative work, I don’t get involved.”

Defensive to the point of insubordination, General Petrichova didn’t look impressed.

“You had a transfer pending, Captain. And you may add whatever you like, but for this task you do get involved. You can progress your move when this job is over.”

“Yes, sir,” Mitrokhin said, and Anna smiled down into her chest. The captain actually pouted.

“What is the work in question?” he continued, and still sounded offhand.

“What’s known is written up in this file.” He handed Mitrokhin the document. “But the gist of it is that young women are being abducted and trafficked out of the Soviet collective. The violation has to be nipped in the bud.”

General Petrichova talked Mitrokhin through the contents of the file, and the captain’s face seemed to pale with each paragraph.

“And you want me to handle it personally, sir?” he eventually said, sounding suspicious.

“Yes, you can use your sergeant, Mayakovski, but no one else must know of this business. There’s a good chance the military might be involved.”

“The military… oh, I see.”

Mitrokhin went quiet, and paled further. He remained soundless, and the general seemed happy to watch his reactions. Anna sensed a heavy atmosphere between the men.

General Petrichova tired of the stand-off first. “Captain…”

“Wha-– oh yes, sir, I was thinking how I might approach the task, with ideas coming to me as we speak. I look forward to putting them into action, sir.”

“Commendable, Captain Mitrokhin, I think we’ve covered everything we need to. You can get started whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you, sir, I’ll begin immediately.” He stood, saluted and left.

The general walked to the door as if cleaning him from the premises. When he’d gone, he returned to his desk. “You can come back over here now, Lieutenant, and tell me what conclusions you’ve reached about our Captain Mitrokhin.”

Anna took the chair that Mitrokhin had vacated and shifted uncomfortably; it was still warm. “Well, sir, I must begin by saying that my thoughts have been slightly colored by what you told me before he came in. But taking that into account, I felt he handled the situation awkwardly, especially when you told him of military involvement.”

“I agree. I might be biased, but I think he’s as guilty as hell.”

Anna gave him a moment to make sure he’d finished. “His behaviour and the taped confession do seem to push it that way, sir. But reaching that opinion, I don’t see how free rein on the case will incriminate him.”

“Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. But I believe, or at least hope, that he’ll make a mistake when he tries to cover the path he’s supposed to expose.”

She raised an enquiring eyebrow. “And if he doesn’t?”

“If he doesn’t, that will be when you come into the picture. I would ask you to begin now and watch how he handles things, as you did with Lieutenant Kornfeld. But if he tumbles what’s going on, I think it would make our work more difficult. We’ll let him run with it. See how he tries to cover the trail.”

The general drummed a tattoo on the desk.

“Shall I have these notes typed up, General?” she asked.

“No. I want this kept strictly between us, for the moment at least, so you must maintain the file yourself.”

“No problem, sir.”

Chapter 20

“That didn’t take long, can’t have been as bad as you thought,” Adrik said, sitting in Otto’s chair, feet up on the desk. “I didn’t have a chance to get comfortable.”

Not now, Adrik, he thought; I’m not in the mood. “You’re wrong, it was bad,” he said miserably. “In fact, worse than expected. I need a drink. There’s a bottle of vodka in the top left-hand drawer.”

“Yes, I think I know where it is by now,” Adrik said sourly, pulling open the drawer, pouring a couple of shots. “Don’t stretch it out, Otto. Just tell me what happened.”

Otto swallowed the drink in a gulp.

“The girl who escaped on the way to Rostov, Petrichova has given us the case and we’re to investigate it personally.”

“But we don’t do that.”

“And that’s what I told him, but he wouldn’t listen. Some snotty bitch sat in the corner and took notes. A Lieutenant Puchinsky… and it was a Sergeant Puchinsky who made the report about the Jew. I’m getting nasty vibes about this.”

“Okay, we’re fucked with the transfers for the moment, but that’s no big deal.”

“Adrik! Just because somebody pats you on the back while they’re feeding you bullshit doesn’t mean you have to swallow. You’re not looking at the big picture. He suspects. He must.”

“But that can’t be. He couldn’t reach that sort of conclusion on what the peasant girl reported. She didn’t know anything that might incriminate us, and none of Stefan’s people has been pulled. There’s no way he could come round to thinking we had anything to do with it.”

So why did his words come out an octave higher than he normally speaks?

“I know, but I’m thinking of the more recent termination we organized in Africa.”

Annoyance crossed Adrik’s face. “Otto, for Christ’s sake, I don’t want to disagree with all you say, but he was dealt with before it became official. The tape was lost and the interrogators turned. I think you’re being a bit... oh – what do you call it?”

“Paranoid – yes maybe, but what if I’m not? A tape was made. What if a copy got through?”

“It didn’t, but look, even if did it wouldn’t mean much without the rat to back it up. We have powerful people working with us. He wouldn’t get anywhere with that sort of flaky evidence.”

“I agree, and that’s why he hasn’t given us a tug. But I think, because of that girl’s statement, he’s realized the existence of a trafficking scam and somehow linked it with the African operation.” He let his imagination run its course. “By giving me the case, he’ll be watching and willing me to slip up… I prefer your argument, but we must play safe. I need time to think this out.”

Adrik’s face furrowed. “What you’ve said is guesswork, but I suppose we should be careful. If we could somehow get out of making the investigation and still look as if we’re on it... Oh, and just to cheer your day up a bit more, the Jew has made an appointment with you for the day after tomorrow.”

Otto’s head swung up, both comments giving him a little jewel to work with. “Excellent. You’re not just a pretty face, are you?”

“What… yes, as we both know, Otto, I’m not even a pretty face.”

There was no time to lose. A day to think before meeting the Jew – and he had parts of the plan already in the mix.

*

Two days and, at last, time for the long awaited meeting with Mitrokhin. By demanding a transfer, Jez knew he was flying in the face of protocol. Superior ranks stuck together when lower ranks kicked up, so he couldn’t expect help from above if it went wrong. But he’d thought long and hard. The front line was where he belonged, not torturing suspects for thinking the wrong things.

He stood outside Captain Mitrokhin’s office, knocked, and took a step back.

*

Kornfeld came into the office with that smug face of his. He spoke before Otto had a chance. “I expect you know why I’ve asked to see you, Captain,” he said, and placed the paperwork on the desk.

Otto noticed that Kornfeld had been careful to lay the submission in front of him the right way up.

“This is my formal application for transfer and I would…”

Otto raised a hand. “Stop… stop where you are, Lieutenant, before you say too much.” Otto looked up and blew a line of blue smoke over a butt that smoldered in the ashtray. He browsed the application, and then pushed it back across the desk.

“This won’t be necessary. I’ve not long spoken with General Petrichova in the Kremlin. I believe he’s a friend of yours.”

“I do know the general, yes. He’s helped me with my career, but I don’t think we could be considered friends.”

“Well, he speaks highly of you. But that aside, he’s given me an assignment he wants my best man to handle, and he made it clear he was referring to you.”

He let his eyes smile, but Kornfeld remained without expression and Otto realized there was no love lost either way.

“It appears the daughters of our Soviet States are being seduced with offers of a better life in the West. If they give in to temptation, they are whisked off to Turkey and never seen again. It’s probable they end up sold into prostitution. This is a serious gap in state security. A gap that must be found and plugged, and you, Lieutenant, are considered the most likely person to complete that task.”

Otto couldn’t get a feel for his lieutenant’s reaction. The little bastard seemed devoid of emotion. And the whole blind depended on him accepting Otto’s words at face value.

“Are there any questions so far, Lieutenant?”

“I presume I will have some sort of starting point, Captain?”

“Yes, of course.” Otto handed him a copy of the file Petrichova had given him. “Both girls describe a big blond man. Boris, I think. Maybe by tracking him down, things will open up. But you’ll find all of that in the file. It’s up to you to do what you can with it. Can I offer you vodka before you leave, Lieutenant?” Otto motioned to open his liquor drawer.

“No thank you, Captain, I don’t drink alcohol on duty.”

The drawer had hardly broken cover when Otto slammed it back into its slot. But he was comfortable with the refusal. He didn’t want to drink with a fucking Jew anyway.

“Yes, quite right, Lieutenant… Well, all you need to know is in the file so… Oh, nearly forgot, you’ll be working with a subordinate.” Otto turned to Adrik. “Sergeant Mayakovski, please fill in the gaps for the lieutenant.”

“Oh yes,” Adrik replied. “Captain Mitrokhin hasn’t yet mentioned, but it’s believed military people might be involved in the dealings. And worse, these people may well be working in our own internal security units.”

“So how do we know my subordinate can be trusted, or that I can?”

Otto nodded. “Well observed, Lieutenant; considering the possibilities is what investigative work is all about. General Petrichova has already vouched for you, and your assistant was seconded in only yesterday, from Spetsnaz.”

“And he is?”

“Yes you’re right, it is a he, and he’s someone I know you trust. A sergeant by the name of Viktor Sharansky.”

“Viktor?”

Like a fish on a hook, got him, his first positive reaction. “Yes, I know the two of you have history. I thought that would establish a basis of trust from the outset,” Otto said. “Good. Finally then, because the situation could be delicate, you will make sure that Sharansky will report to you and you alone. For your part, you will feed back your information to me, or the sergeant here. Under no circumstances should information go to anyone else. You understand the importance of why this must be strictly adhered to, Lieutenant?”

“It’s perfectly clear, Captain.”

“Excellent, that’s it then. All that remains is for me to wish you luck. If you’re sure there’s nothing more you want to ask, you can begin straight away.”

“If the file is complete then I believe I have all I need, Captain.”

Salutation protocol effected, Otto’s eyes swept the Jew from the office.

He slid the drawer open. “This calls for a celebration drink, Adrik. It looks like our little idea has taken seed. And when I think about it, things might work out better than our original plan.”

“Yes, and that was quite an achievement getting Irishka to transfer Sharansky here.”

“That was easy. He was already in Russia.”

“What about Nadia Ulyanov, do we leave her in place?”

“Oh yes, but now she’ll lay a different trail. We just need to change her story and get her up to speed with the alterations we’ve made on the statements. She must have enough to give to the Jew to enable him to track down Boris. The lieutenant might be just the man to take care of that little business for us. But whichever way that coin falls, good riddance. I think we’re on a win-win here, Adrik. When you’ve finished your drink, contact her pimp. We need to make sure Miss Ulyanov is absolutely clear with what we want.”

*

Jez left the office and his mind played with thoughts about the captain. Of all the opinions that smoldered within, dislike was the most prominent. There was a falseness about Mitrokhin he couldn’t quite pinpoint. But why dwell on it? One thing for sure, he had no intention of getting to know him any better than he did already.

He wondered about General Petrichova, as he marched down the marble staircase. It had been a long time, and here he was personally requesting that he head a task. This could be the job to put him back on the fast track. Yes, it had to be.

He imagined the stern approval on Anna’s face and smiled. His mind jumped from Anna to the task and back again; he wasn’t looking where he was going and collided with a soldier. A slight recoil and he found himself staring at three stripes.

“Whoa, sorry, Sergeant, my fault, I wasn’t taking care,” he said, and looked up to be met with a pleasant surprise. “Viktor,” he rushed his words, “would you believe I’ve just been discussing you? How are you? It’s been so long, too long. What have you been up to?”

“It has been a long time,” Viktor replied respectfully, “yes, Lieutenant, and I’ve just been informed I’ll be working for you, sir.”

He knew Viktor too well to take the comments seriously, but it didn’t stop embarrassment warming his cheeks. “Yes, yes, all right,” he said, face moving from tepid to hot. “Maybe I’ve been lucky, but there’s no need to rub it in. And you’ll be working with me, not for me.”

Viktor grinned, grabbed him by the upper arms and embraced him. “You’ve got no less than you deserve, soldier. You were a natural from the start.”

“Well… maybe, thanks. Anyway what of you, I’ll bet you’ve been in the middle the action since we were last together?”

“Well, as a matter of fact I’ve had more than my share. And you needn’t sound so resentful about it. You can reach a point where you’ve had enough.”

“Oh, and you’ve reached that point?”

“To be honest, Jez, I have. Retirement has been on my mind. I’ve enough time in and had come back to Russia to put the paperwork together. But when I was given the chance of working with you again, I thought, what the hell, I’d enjoy this one last duty.”

“I’m flattered,” Jez said, and fluttered his eyelashes mockingly. “No really, Viktor, I can think of no better compliment. Mitrokhin had told me you were here, but I didn’t think I’d see you until tomorrow. Where are staying?”

“Army quarters, but I thought I might look for a room in town. Enjoy the city lights before retiring to the countryside.”

“Well, the countryside is on a backburner for a while, but moving out of the barracks is a good idea. I have an apartment with a spare room.”

“That would be great. Will you be there?”

“Yes, of course. I want to hear about everything you’ve worked on, each and every detail.”

“Oh, maybe I should find a place in town after all. It’s not too late for second thoughts – is it?”

Jez laughed. “Yes, it is. Come on, let’s go, it’s cold.”

They picked up Viktor’s kit and made their way further downtown to Jez’s apartment.

“What do you think of Mitrokhin?” Jez asked on the way. “Have you come across him before?”

“I haven’t had contact with him for a long time and was on my way to see him when we bumped into each other. But I did work for him, oh, what seems like a hundred years ago now. I didn’t have that much to do with him, but the whispers had it he was shady. Not that I ever witnessed it. He was inseparable with a Sergeant, Mayakovski I think his name was.”

“Yes, that’s right and they’re still together,” he said.

They soldiered on to the rooms, vying for the opportunity to speak, but Jez knew he couldn’t compete with Viktor’s stories. When they reached the upmarket part of downtown Moscow, Jez proudly opened his palm towards an apartment block.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said.

“What, surely this isn’t it? Looks a bit rough. Are you sure I can’t have second thoughts and take a room in a better part of town?”

Jez pulled Viktor’s sleeve and pushed him playfully into the building. In the apartment, he showed him to the spare room and left him to stow his kit.

“We’ll eat here, and go over what each of us thinks about the case,” he shouted across the room divides.

“Sounds good: if you have plenty of food in, I’m starving.”

Jez had already planned a stay and had kolbasa hard sausage, beef and vegetables in the pantry. After mixing the latter into individual crockpots, he cooked a Zharkoye and served the dish with the kolbasa as an accompaniment.

“I feel more than a little guilty,” Viktor said. “I’m getting the pick of good food, while workers queue in the streets in the hope they’ll get enough scraps for their families. It’s not something you think of when you’re off fighting in another country, but here…”

“What you say is true, I know, but refusing it doesn’t put the food in their bellies.”

Viktor agreed reluctantly, but still looked determined to live with his guilt.

*

While the meal was eaten, a half bottle of vodka was devoured. For Jez, the room wouldn’t stay still and a woozy head played with his vision. But he had to give his attention to the case, so went to the bathroom and spun open the cold tap. The water glugged, and the pipes banged before freezing water came out with a spurt. He rinsed his face until his thoughts cleared.

“I’ve gone through the paperwork and Mitrokhin seems to have told me things on top of what’s been reported,” he said, as he came back into the lounge. “Maybe the general had given him additional information, but, wherever he got it from, most of it is from the two girls who escaped. We start with them.”

“Yes,” said Viktor. “There are bits of it that are not overly clear, but the one thing both girls do agree on is that one of the abductors was called Boris. And you’re right we’ll have to begin with them if only to clarify their account. They both live near South Port. The nearest is...”

Viktor squinted at the name on the bottom of the sheet. Jez realized it must’ve been his eyesight because drink never affected him.

“Nadia Ulyanov – and she’ll be our first call,” Jez said.

He sipped from the glass, but the vodka burned his stomach and he pushed it aside. Viktor picked it up, slammed the glass on the table and slugged it back. “Silly to waste it,” he laughed.

Jez gave a weak grin. “As an aside, I have a habit of nosing into local police cases – it stems from the boredom of internal security. Families have lodged reports of missing girls. They’ve all stated the girls left willingly, so the cases weren’t given a high priority.

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but they were all young rural stock from Moscow’s south-east sector. There’s just a chance there’s a tie in with what our girls have reported. We’ll need to be thorough, and because of the possibility of military involvement we might be at risk, so trust no one.”

Chapter 21

Jez woke and peered out through vodka-bleary eyes. All seemed alien to him: he couldn’t even remember where he was. But then thoughts dawned of how he and Viktor had spent the evening. He groaned, pulled on shorts and T-shirt and stumbled through to the living room. Out of narrowed slits in his face, he watched Viktor scurry about without a care.

“Come on, lazy bones,” he said. “Breakfast was laid an hour ago.”

“Yes, yes, all right, Momma, I’m coming as quickly as I can.”

“How do you keep fit with a lifestyle like this? It’s a wonder you haven’t gone to seed. And just look at that pot belly.”

Still dozy and Jez was caught out. He looked down to his midriff. His face curled irritably, as he looked up to see Viktor with a big grin.

“Very funny, but my fitness is what keeps me going in this job. You’re not that far wrong though, I don’t feel as sharp as I was. I slapped forms in front of Mitrokhin requesting a transfer back to Spetsnaz. This task was his reply. I accepted because I felt a certain obligation.”

“Obligation to what?” Viktor asked.

“Oh, nothing really... I don’t know, maybe I’ll move on after this.”

Many times in the past, Jez had wanted to tell Viktor of his pact with General Petrichova, but the general had made it clear he should tell no one. And keeping the secret from Viktor had always been easy enough. He wasn’t a man to push for answers.

They finished eating, already late. Jez wanted to blame anybody but himself – for anything and everything. “Anyway,” he bleated, “if you hadn’t made me drink so much last night, I would’ve been up before you.”

“Oh yes, and it took some force. Still, we’re ready, might as well go now. There’s a metro near here, isn’t there?”

“Yes, but I’ll phone the police station near Kolomenskaya metro first. We need a car. Do you have civilian clothes with you?”

“Yes.”

“Good, make sure you wear them. I want to keep this job low profile.”

In the shower, Jez let cold water run hard against the back of his neck for several minutes. The icy treatment did the trick: by the time he’d dressed, in box-cut black leather jacket, white shirt, black tie, grey slacks and black brogues, the hangover was almost a memory. Viktor was also in civilian clothes – the same civilian clothes. They were like a pair of bookends and might as well have stayed in uniform – oh well.

They arrived at the Kolomenskaya metro several kilometres south-east of the city centre, and spilled out onto a wide busy avenue.

Jez tasted freshness generated by a cool, clear blue sky. “Let’s walk,” he suggested. “It won’t take long and I need the air to clear my thoughts.”

Besides, he wanted to get a better feel for the area. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had doubts about Nadia Ulyanov. She’d been the second of the girls to escape. But her address was urban, which didn’t match with the other girls.

Once off the main street, they found tree-lined avenues and crossed spacious land gaps. The area was scenic, almost a rural village atmosphere. The avenues ran as far as the steep banks down to the Moscow River. But rounding a blind bend, they came to a plethora of commercial lots and apartment blocks. They guessed shortcuts through alleyways, until they reached the address she’d given in her statement.

“Well,” Jez said. “Nadia lives in a Plattenbau – what a surprise. The missing girls are from rural locations, country peasants. I tell you, Viktor, a concrete apartment block doesn’t fit.”

“Maybe those girls have nothing to do with this case. Or even if they have, Nadia might be a raving beauty the kidnappers couldn’t resist. Who knows? I think you’re condemning her before she’s had a fair chance.”

“Perhaps, but the set-up doesn’t sit comfortably with me.”

Inside the dull colourless housing system, Jez excused himself as he squeezed past a lady washing the stone floors. She bent back on her knees and wrung out the cloth over a bucket. The disinfectant drove sobering channels through Jez’s nostrils and he stopped. She pulled a face, looked skyward, but nodded pleasantly and moved to one side.

On the way up the stairs, Jez said, “Nadia will be at work and that means we have to knock on neighbours’ doors, which just about sums up internal security for me.”

He knocked on her door. They waited. When just about to try the neighbours, he heard shuffling. A few bolts were thrown, a key in the lock clicked, and the door opened wide. A girl stood brazenly in the doorway: a flimsy dressing gown hung open and well-endowed breasts did their utmost to escape the confines of a sheer nightdress. Jez turned to see Viktor drooling.

The girl smiled while making no attempt to cover up. But Jez wondered why she wasn’t at work.

He took the lead. “Nadia Ulyanov?” he asked politely.

“Yes,” she answered. One huskily spoken word and Jez hid a smile at Viktor’s eyes popping.

“I’m Lieutenant Kornfeld and this is Sergeant Sharansky. We’re from internal security and we’d like to talk to you about the statement you made to the local militia.”

Jez flipped her a sight of his papers and she stood aside to allow them access. Nadia regained the lead and walked them through a long passageway to a large lounge, wiggling with every step. Too sophisticated – this didn’t feel right.

The lounge didn’t hold any surprises either: nothing overly expensive, just too much of it. He’d made use of working girls since his career took him to Moscow. Because if he couldn’t have Anna, he didn’t want to become involved with anyone. Not that he needed that excuse, but religious beginnings did leave him with more than a smidgeon of guilt. Whatever… this apartment was near enough the same as the girls he’d visited, including that overpowering smell of cheap perfume.

Furnished but basic: a suite enhanced with sumptuous pink and yellow throws, trinkets on shelving, and everywhere pristine clean; a silver-framed photo of a swarthy man with thick black hair pulled back into a ponytail; a vodka flask with a sword and soviet freedom insignia. Jez leaned closer to look at it: ‘Honorary member of the KGB’ inscribed on the side of the case; so she had a military friend.

“Your apartment is very attractive,” he said. “Hard times, but you’ve done well for someone so young.”

“Thanks,” she said, “but not really, they’re mostly gifts from my family.”

Or you’re just another working girl.

“Oh, I see,” he said, with acceptance. “As I said earlier, we’re here to go over the statement you made to the local police, if that’s all right with you, Nadia?”

“Sure – makes no difference to me.”

Without noticing, he sat on the chair with the pink throw, and saw a grin open on Viktor’s face. He shook his head in resignation.

“You say you were held captive and then escaped. Is this accurate?”

“Sort of: a new career was offered to me where I would be trained to dance for a living. It seemed the chance of a lifetime, too good to pass up, so I took it. But when we reached Volgograd, I recognized a man. My cousin had pointed him out to me one time in Moscow. He told me the man was a pimp called Boris. It all started looking a bit suspicious and I wasn’t under lock and key, so when the chance came I slipped away, returned to the city. I informed the police what had happened as soon as I got back.”

“Didn’t it worry you that it’s against the law to leave the country without permission from the authorities?”

“Yes, of course, but they said they’d taken care of it for me.”

Nadia was just too urbane; could she really be seduced into such a con? But if she wasn’t genuine, why make the report? No reward, nothing to take advantage of – why? Viktor’s thoughts were clearly different. A grin forced its way onto Jez’s face and Nadia smiled seductively, not realizing it wasn’t meant for her.

“This Boris, is there anything about him you can describe? There wasn’t a description in the statement you made.”

“Nobody asked,” she said, and raised an eyebrow, disapproving. “No one seemed interested, but sure he’s easy enough to describe. He is a handsome man, a big bit higher than tall and lots of muscle, like a circus strong man. But the thing you would notice other than his size is his spiked blond hair, white like a German.”

“Good, that will help,” Jez said, head down, writing notes. “Another girl escaped and went to the police a few days before you did. Did you see her on your travels?”

“No, I was always alone. I saw no other girls.”

“When your cousin pointed Boris out to you, which part of the city were you in?”

“Oh, that’s easy. We were north of here, on the docks at South Port. A bit of a dump, but we went there for shellfish. I have a weakness for them.” Her face took on a look that seemed to relish the memory of how they tasted.

“Okay, we don’t need to detain you any longer, Nadia. Thank you, your account has helped clarify the situation.”

Jez tugged Viktor’s sleeve, but halfway along the passageway he turned back on her. “Just out of interest, why aren’t you at work today?” he asked in a severe tone.

“Umm... I... I work in a hotel in the evening, so my time is my own until about six.”

“Oh, okay, thank you. We’ll let ourselves out.”

What she had said seemed plausible, but he wasn’t convinced with the performance and wasn’t about to let it go. He’d speak with the other girl, track down Boris, and then come back. He would get to the bottom of Nadia’s game.

Chapter 22

An unmarked car was parked in the road outside the police station. “There are keys in the ignition. Must be trustworthy around here… or would anyone really want to steal this heap of crap?” Viktor sniggered.

“I doubt it. Better show my face inside and tell the duty officer we’re here. There’s probably a different car for us round the back.”

Viktor leant against the old banger and Jez watched him wince at the creaking noise he’d made. He went in to report to the duty officer.

He came back out again with a grin on his face. “No, this is the one.”

The metal hinges ground noisily as Jez opened the door of the white Skoda; except he really couldn’t see how he’d determined the car was white: the bodywork was mostly browned off by rusted slashes and dents. And the front wing looked ready to fall off, as it floated independently and caused the balance of the carriage to alter.

“Not quite what I’d expected, but it’ll have to do.”

The front seats squeaked and the suspension groaned, as they settled in. “No heater. The rubbers are torn away halfway down the wipers and my backside doesn’t sink this far into the toilet. Do you think maybe they’re not impressed with the unit we work for?”

Viktor laughed. Without answering, he started the engine and pulled away. The journey was accompanied by more creaks and rattles than an old bedstead on payday.

Rula Korbet lived just outside Ostrov, but poor roads in the suburbs made for a slow passage. Small cabins perched on hillsides reminded Jez of his family home, and he wondered how his sisters had fared on their final leg to Israel. Please God they’re safe, he thought, then chided himself for begging to a figment of his imagination.

It was a quiet trip, each of them lost in their own thoughts. But they were roused by sudden bumping over cobbled streets, and Jez realized they were in Ostrov. The turn-off had been several kilometers earlier.

He grinned. “Viktor, you’ve navigated deserts, mountain regions, forests, and every other kind of terrain known to man, and yet you manage to get lost just outside of Moscow.” He laughed, and slapped his thigh. “Nadia certainly made an impression on you.”

“I am not lost,” he replied crossly. “I just missed the turning, that’s all.”

Indignation raised its ugly head and he spun the car sharply at the end of the street. Jez felt lucky the Skoda’s chassis hadn’t left the body behind. They returned the way they’d come and reached the exit for the Korbet cabin. The lane he’d driven past was narrow and barely wide enough for the Skoda.

Jez put his hands up. “Okay, an entrance with trees hunched over it like that, anyone could have missed it.” Whoops, he thought; Viktor was still not appeased.

The Korbets’ small lumber shack was a picture of neatness: newly painted yellow walls with a green wooden apron around the base, a backdrop of conifer trees and an open wood store at the side stacked with enough lumber to get them through the oncoming winter. It looked homely, a rural retreat where naïvety could reside untouched, and just how Jez would’ve imagined the missing girls’ homes to look.

A woman answered the door and he showed her his papers.

“Come in,” she said, “I’m Adelaida Korbet.” She pointed to a girl who sat next to an open fire. “And this is my daughter Rula.”

Jez was reminded of home again. But whereas his parents’ cabin always smelled of pine and cotton, here it was pine and newly baked bread. And also a fragrant aroma he didn’t recognize.

“Can I get you tea?” Adelaida asked.

A refusal almost reached his lips, but he noticed an ornate samovar in the corner and realized the aromatic smell had been of lemon and cardamom pods. Chai Po-Russki tea – how could he resist? He walked over to inspect the samovar and the heat of the built-in charcoal burner warmed his face.

“Yes please, that would be very welcome, thank you. This is a very unusual samovar, very nice.”

“Thank you, yes, it’s been in our family for generations.”

Jez turned to Rula and her head dropped to stare into her lap. Coyly, she peered up. He smiled and she beamed back warmly, but in a flash her gaze became awkward and she looked down.

Mother and daughter were dressed identically: blouses with long sarafans draped over, pale green and probably cut from the same piece of cloth. He thought Rula’s face lovely, more than pretty, and looking at Adelaida he could see why.

“What about you?” she asked Viktor. “Will you have some also?”

“That would be most acceptable, thank you,” he said, smiling in appreciation.

“Cream?” she asked, and they nodded politely.

Jez smiled, seeing the cups of tea accompanied by a khlebsol, a round loaf with a salt cellar on top. They kept up the old traditions. Jez knew he should at least try to assume impartiality, but the more he looked at these people the less plausible Nadia became. Her reason for not worrying about the law was believable though.

“Before I go through the statement you made, Rula, can I ask you why you flaunted the law? You must know it’s illegal to leave the country without permission?”

“Yes, I do, but they said they had taken care of that for me.”

Same answer. But working through similar questions to those he’d pitched to Nadia, Rula’s reckoning revealed discrepancies. And they were at odds with the statement she’d signed. But if her account was true, her ordeal had been very much different to Nadia’s. “There were four other girls with me” and “But I have never heard of anyone called Boris” were just two answers crucially at odds.

“But the statement you signed states that one of your captors was called Boris,” Jez said, brow furrowing.

“Well, I’m sure the name was never used around me and I don’t know how it got on the paper I signed. I never mentioned it.” She took on a defiant attitude, as if he’d just called her a liar.

Captain Mitrokhin suggested that military people might be involved. And if he accepted Rula’s account, it confirmed the theory. Who else could doctor the statements?

“Let me ask you, Rula,” he said. “Exactly how were you coerced into leaving with these people?”

Visibly embarrassed, she dropped her head again.

“Well, I hate to say, but I met a very handsome man. His name is Vasili and he told me he had moved into the area with his work. He said he worked in conjunction with the Moscow military and that he represented dance troupes who travelled the world, that the military assisted him. He also said he had contacts in the Bolshoi and Kirov ballet companies. As we got to know each other he convinced me I had natural grace and the right physical appearance for dancing.” She pinked. “He said he would arrange for me to be trained, not in Russia but abroad where the opportunities are endless. As time passed, he said he had feelings for me. He told me to start the trip without him and that he would join me later. We’d planned a new life together.”

She turned away and Jez noticed her beautiful hair, thick, blonde and braided into a long plait, traditionally, more a style of north-west Russia than here.

“Of course I encouraged Rula to go,” Adelaida said, and looked miserable. “I thought she would be heading for a better life. Also, I met Vasili and approved. But it turned out he was an uncultured sort of man.”

“If you thought you were going for a better life, why did you feel it necessary to escape?” Viktor asked.

“I heard them, we’d reached Volgograd and a couple of the men had drunk too much. The others had gone into town and they were talking about testing us out before their comrades had a chance to get their hands on us. Then they began talking dirty. Words I don’t want to repeat.”

“Of course not,” Jez said. “There’s no need to.”

“Vasili hadn’t come to me as he’d promised. Suddenly I didn’t trust him either. I was scared. A chance came to run. I took it. I asked another girl to come with me but she told me I was being stupid.”

“Tell me,” Jez asked, “how did you travel to Volgograd?”

“We took the train from the Kazansky railway terminal to Saratov.”

Saratov. That’s strange, taking a bit of a chance trafficking girls through a military town.

“From Saratov we picked up a barge to Volgograd.”

Kazansky to Saratov by rail and then Volgograd by barge, that didn’t sound good. Worries of a more personal nature crept in and he didn’t care for the direction they were headed.

“The bargemen, did you get their names?” Whatever your answer, please don’t let it be Rudi.

“No, but there was only one man; he was dirty and smelly with horrible breath and no manners. He leered hatefully and it frightened me, so I kept my distance.”

Jez was dumbstruck. From the description, she might as well have said Rudi. But no… how could that be possible?

She continued. “I heard them say the next link was to Rostov where a ship would be waiting. I don’t know if that was true because, as you know, I escaped. I had no money and it took me several weeks to get back. My journey depended on charity from comrades.”

He’d stopped listening. This was the route he’d used to get his sisters out – and they’d used the same people. A cold sweat popped on the back of his neck. He felt stifled for air, and confusion flooded in. He had to get out of the cabin. The odds of someone stumbling onto that route and finding Rudi were infinite.

Slow breathing – stay calm.

“Thank you, Rula, I know it must’ve been difficult reliving your torment, but I think you should count yourself lucky. The other girls may not have been so fortunate.”

He took small sips of the tea and tried to appear steady, but he desperately wanted to see an empty cup. Too slowly, a little relief came when he finished the drink and got to his feet.

“I appreciate your hospitality and apologize for leaving so abruptly, but we have to follow the leads you’ve opened. Thank you again.”

They left the cabin and Jez was back in the car before Viktor was even halfway down the path. He climbed in next to him.

“You’re a bit of a softy. You looked really pained in there at the end of her account.”

“Yes, well. What if it’d been someone in your family?”

He couldn’t tell Viktor the truth. He couldn’t tell anyone.

But how? No one knew of the route other than his sisters. And they were in Israel. His mind turned circles. What if they weren’t in Israel? No, he couldn’t allow his wits to be blinded by that kind of distraction. His sisters were safe, and to think otherwise couldn’t be considered. Even so, how would he handle the case now?

The drive back to the city was slow and silence lingered. His strategy needed a rethink. Have any common factors surfaced… “Boris!” he yelled out.

“Wha...” Viktor responded, jumping up in his seat, the squeaks echoing louder than the knocking engine.

“Boris. We can’t get any further with the case until we find Boris.”

“You say that, but what about the girls’ statements? Somebody has clearly tampered with at least one of them.”

“I know, but I think it could be part of the same circle. We start with Boris, and that means we head for South Port.”

Jez sat back trying to get comfortable. He needed to distance his thoughts between personal and professional. For the meantime, there was more than one case to work on: the abduction of the peasants, how they’d found his route, and Nadia’s game with regard to Boris.

Chapter 23

They stayed at a militia station in the Proletarskiy District overnight and arrived at South Port early next morning. Already a fresh trawl of fish had reached the stalls. Fishermen along the quayside sat on capstans or old fish boxes, unravelled nets and mended snags. Jez and Viktor weaved through a mass of people who bought up fish as if they would never get another chance.

Jez saw a tall, white-haired trader at the far end of the aisle. “The big blond on the last stall fits the description Nadia gave,” he said.

“No, I don’t think so, but if he did, do you really believe a pimp would have such a mundane day job?”

“Probably not, but we have to start somewhere.”

Jez half-noticed Viktor raise a hand, but he ignored it and charged ahead. “Boris, is that you?” he asked.

But then he realized he’d jumped in without regard to follow-up. When Viktor caught up, Jez saw an expression that said it all.

“No, sorry, Comrade that isn’t my name,” the trader replied and turned back to his customer.

Jez made apologetic noises and moved quickly on along the quay. Trouble was, he’d sat behind a desk for too long. And looking back at the stallholder, he grimaced. The man wasn’t even vaguely like Nadia’s description. But it was done. Refocus.

They watched. Time hurried by. Jez thought investigative work might be boring, but he buzzed. His mind created stories of how it would all turn out and the new direction his career would take. A boy brushed past with his mother who scurried along behind.

“Why must I constantly repeat myself? Stay by my side or I’ll tell your father when he gets home. And then you’ll be in trouble,” she scolded.

School out already, the time had pressed on. Stallholders had begun to pack the last of the fish scraps into slatted wooden boxes. They would separate what was still fit for human consumption and bring it back to sell tomorrow. The rest would be sold as animal feed.

Daylight faded. Mauve clouds lay strung out above the horizon like veins knotted through a wintry sky. Just going through the motions now, he thought. No one had seen or heard of Boris. Nadia had to have had an ulterior motive. Maybe Boris had been a decoy to draw them away from the case.

“There are still a couple of fishermen on the quayside. We’ll see if they recognize Boris’s description. If they can’t help, we get rooms and leave it until tomorrow.”

“And then what?” Viktor asked, and sounded like he’d had enough.

“Then I think we go back to the start – Nadia. And this time I take the gloves off, whether it upsets your nether regions or not.” He grinned, trying to give a lift to an unsatisfactory day. Viktor smiled but Jez could tell when he was being humored.

A fisherman sat on a bollard braiding new twine into a lobster pot. The buttons on his blue collarless shirt were hidden by a placket covered in grease shines and fish scales. He had waders pulled up to the top of his thighs that looked old, creased and crinkled – hand me downs.

Jez approached, and the man stared coldly, his eyes narrowed, the frown on his brow causing his already stubbed nose to scrunch back. But to Jez’s surprise, when he asked about Boris the response was friendly. He dropped the twine, pushed a scruffy skipper’s cap further back on his head and let his longish wavy black hair fall over his brow.

He smiled. “Oh, him, yes I know him.” A chuckle. “You must be looking for a girl.” He winked and his nose crinkled again. “You won’t find him round here at this time though. He’s one of the night owls. Come back about eight or nine. I’m sure you’ll get what you want.”

“Thank you, Comrade. I appreciate your help.”

They hugged the waterside along the quay as they walked towards town. “Well,” Jez said, “I thought Nadia was feeding us a line, but at least this part of her story looks good. Let’s get a bite to eat and we’ll come back later.”

Chapter 24

On the waterfront later that day, the cold air nipped. A new set of locals had emerged, the working girls, those willing to give their flesh and gamble their health in the fragile hope of being in temporary employment.

A clear sky, a full moon and a damp quayside reflected a silver sheen back at the night. Jez and Viktor blended into the shadows of a large curved doorway. Well back from the empty fish stalls, but close enough to see the happenings as far down as the wharf. Half an hour passed – and then an hour.

“We’ll give it a little longer,” Jez said, and shivered at the cold night, inactivity making him restless. “After that it’s back to Moscow. Tomorrow we start all over again.”

“Sounds good to me,” Viktor said.

Frost drew patterns on top of the stalls. Jez saw them glisten, and realized his feet had lost communication with the rest of his body. Only a few minutes had passed since setting the time limit, but already he’d had enough.

“That’s it,” he said. “We’re not dressed for this. Let’s call it a day.”

“If only you’d said that five minutes ago. Look, near where the fishermen fixed their nets earlier.”

A tall blond man walked along the quayside. He swaggered, wore a girl on his arm like a piece of sparkling but cheap jewellery. He leaned over and caressed her shoulders, kissed her neck and whispered in her ear. She giggled and his massive chest puffed out. Still at the “impressing her” stage, Jez thought.

“I see him. And this one has to be Boris,” he said, throbbing with excitement. “He fits the description exactly.”

Viktor frowned. “I’m afraid so. Now going home seems a long way off. We’d better follow.”

Near the end of the wharf, Boris greeted a swarthy foreigner in a tapering black suit: wide shoulders, narrow hips. Jez had seen him there earlier. Tall and slender, he had a physique that wouldn’t look out of place on a dance floor. Boris introduced the girl and the three walked along the quayside together. The swarthy man turned and exposed a long ponytail gathered tightly back from his forehead. Viktor was first to recognize him.

“You were saying over the meal in your apartment that your thinking wasn’t as sharp as it should be, but it looks like you were on the money about Nadia. The photograph in the silver frame: it was him.”

“Ah yes, and he looks even more like a pimp in the flesh. But why is Nadia giving up Boris if he’s friendly with her provider?”

Viktor shrugged. At the end of the quay, Boris went into a bar and the girl veered off with the swarthy man. She looked back and pouted pitifully, but Boris had already turned his back. Maybe he’d gone past impressing her after all.

Jez and Viktor went into the bar and took a table in the corner where they could see everything clearly. Viktor ordered Aldaris beer, but Jez wanted to keep a clear head. He had Kvass because it was almost alcohol free. Boris sat alone, but then a swarthy man came in and sidled up to him: another foreigner, another pimp. He had to be. Relief flooded Jez on hearing the pimp greet Boris by name. At last, now there was no doubt they were on the right path.

Over-eager thoughts ran ahead of logic, and Jez said, “The girl Boris handed over outside the bar: do you think she’s in transit and it’s all happening under our noses?”

Viktor didn’t answer. He was too busy studying Boris. When the conversation at the bar ended, the pimp nodded and left. Soon, he returned with two girls. Boris welcomed each with a light kiss and left the bar with one linked on each side.

“No,” Viktor said. “They’re not being trafficked, at least not in that way. They’re already working girls. Boris is organizing them, moving them about to spread the quota, meet demand. And they don’t look like your rural peasants, do they?”

Viktor grinned. Jez fixed a gaze on him and felt stupid. Of course, he was right. The first girl had looked anything but naïve. The very reason he hadn’t trusted Nadia.

They followed Boris from one venue to another. Sometimes he picked up girls, sometimes he delivered them. On foot and by taxi, they became blasé and got a little too close.

“I may be wrong,” Viktor whispered, “but twice now he’s taken a long hard look at us. I think we’ve been made.”

“Okay, we’ll watch from outside the bars. It’s not as if we don’t know what he’s up to. Besides, if you have any more of that beer you won’t be fit to follow anything other than your fingers as you crawl on all fours along the sidewalk.”

Boris completed full circle and ended up back on the waterfront. He went into the bar where he’d taken the first girl and Jez found a sheltered doorway to watch from. The soldiers waited… and waited.

“He’s been in there too long,” he said. “If he spotted us earlier, then he might have slipped out the back. I think we’ll have to take a chance. Go in for a drink.”

“Good. I could do with a warm up.”

Inside, Jez stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together. Not a crowded saloon, but enough men with girls to take all but one table – in the middle of the room. They both blew misted breath through clasped hands and sat. Jez observed Boris as he laughed and chatted with a girl, but felt uncomfortable at that table. There was nothing covering their backs, if someone should approach from behind... No sooner had the thought drifted through his head than a pair of large hands clamped on Viktor’s shoulders. And before Jez could respond, the same thing happened to him.

“Gently does it,” a third man insisted, holding his jacket open and exposing a pistol butt sticking out over his waistband. “Boris would like a word in the back room, gentlemen – if you don’t mind.” Comrade Sarcastic.

Viktor didn’t look fazed. He slurped at his beer and ignored them. But Jez didn’t want to make an issue of it, and he would need to talk with Boris at some point. Now seemed as good a time as any.

“I don’t know who Boris is,” he said, “and I can’t imagine why he’d want to talk to me, but I’m friendly enough, so...”

On the way along the corridor, Viktor’s gait veered slightly off centre. Jez had seen him drink many litres of beer without ill effect, but if things went wrong here his coordination might be a worry.

“Sit down. Boris will be here soon enough.”

Jez familiarized himself with the backroom. Two chairs for him and Viktor, a further chair behind a spartan metal desk. A tall filing cabinet standing alone in a corner and flooring covered in worn stone tiles: the proletarian theme clearly the order of the day. The blacked-out windows and uncovered light bulb cast an unfriendly gloom. He reckoned he’d seen more welcoming interrogation rooms in KGB headquarters.

Two of the men left. The man with the gun remained. He was probably in his early thirties and looked a typical doorman. Jez measured him. Clearly he thought he was tough, and he was certainly big enough to back up the thought, but he was out of shape and his midriff hung bulbously over his pants. He wore a severe expression centered by a broken nose that ran long and close to his face. It reminded Jez of the drugstore cigar Indian he’d seen in an old American film. He had a large skull crowned with thick, dark, cropped hair. He stood straight and tall, and linked both hands in front of him. Jez turned to Viktor, and noticed him making his own assessment.

Boris took all of ten minutes to make an appearance. And when he did, he came in full of his own importance. Perhaps he wanted to give the impression of being a capodecina: Comrade Mafia. Nadia’s description of him had been spot on when she said “like a circus strongman”. Where clothing touched, muscles bulged. He sat in the chair opposite and took a gun from the top drawer. He set it down on the desk in front of him.

“Excuse me, no offence, Comrades, my little equalizer…” he said and sniggered. “To business: for being my bodyguards this evening, how much do I owe you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Viktor replied. “We’ve only been around town having drinks.”

“Please – don’t insult my intelligence. Not only did I see you follow me everywhere I went, but one of my drivers has been taxiing you around all evening.”

A brief pause and Jez affected a nervous expression. If he could make Boris believe he was afraid and look like he was ready to tell him anything, he just might get some information in return.

“I… okay, it’s true,” he admitted. “We’re looking to build a set-up in Central Moscow, similar to the one you have here. One of our partners – a girl – knew of your team, so we thought we’d take a look and see if we could learn anything.” Seemed plausible.

“A girl knows about my business. And which girl might that be?”

Stay cagey. “I err… her name, oh yes, her name is Nadia. You wouldn’t know her.”

Boris smiled. “Of course I wouldn’t know her. How could I know a girl that doesn’t have a second name? I’m sorry, boys, you’ll have to come up with something better than that.”

He reached for the gun.

“Ulyanov,” Jez said quickly. “Nadia Ulyanov.” She had to be the key. She alone had given them the Boris connection.

“Ah, that Nadia, a great fuck but no loyalty. I must tell Alexandro. You will have seen him earlier. He used to be her benefactor until she took off.”

But she still kept his photo on the display unit.

Boris left the gun on the desk, sat back and said, “So you’re part of the trafficking operation. Of course you’d have to be, that was who Nadia defected to.”

“I really have no idea what you mean; but if your suggestion were true, why would we be following you?”

Boris pondered. “Good question… but an obvious one. You were sent to kill me.”

That’s funny, the same thought had just occurred to Jez. That’s why he was there. Nadia had set him up to kill Boris, but for who and why? Whatever the reasons, Boris had just made it clear he was on the outside of the trafficking. Suddenly, it seemed more important to speak to Nadia than sit around here.

“I wouldn’t even know how to kill,” said Jez, “but I do know that if I was capable I wouldn’t have waited until now. I’ve had plenty of opportunity tonight. If there are people who want you dead, believe me I’m not one of them.”

“Maybe you were told to do it in a way that would send a message to others.”

It’d been a long day. “That’s enough. I’ve told you why I’m here. This conversation is over. I’m leaving.” Jez stood up and nudged Viktor. He could have laughed when he saw the look on Boris’s face – stunned.

“Are you serious, or are you some sort of crazy fucking nut? You think you can leave because – what? – you don’t fancy hanging around any more? I haven’t finished with you. Sit down!” He reached for the gun.

Jez put up his hands and made to sit, but bent his legs, used his weight to push up and twist sideways. The gun landed out of Boris’s reach after a scissor kick cleared it from the desk. The henchman’s reactions were slow, but he eventually separated his clasped hands and raised them for action.

Boris smiled. “Impressive, but do you really think I need a gun against a puny runt like you?”

The henchman laughed and moved from one foot to the other, as bodyguards do. Viktor, who was also on his feet, vaulted and twisted, the kick building power so that his boot slammed into the side of the minder’s neck with force. A crack, spittle gobbed and snot blew from his nose. He thudded to the floor and laid strewn out in an unnatural shape.

Viktor placed two fingers on the heavy’s neck. “I think that was a bit harder than intended,” he said. “He’s dead.”

Jez knew it. Too many beers made for diminished coordination. The smile on Boris’s face blanked out as he stared in disbelief. He pushed his chair back and away.

Unfortunate, but it’s done, take advantage. “I see you noticed my friend isn’t a puny little runt,” Jez said. “And unless you want to suffer the same fate, I suggest you tell us what your part is in this trafficking scam. Remember. Your enemies have set you up for this fall.” Boris wasn’t part of the operation, but he had to know something, or why would they want him dead?

“You already know that the people I work for want to take over your operation. What else is there?”

“Who are your connections?” Jez asked, beginning to think he’d stepped into the middle of a gang war.

“Other than those you know of, I’m contracted to work blind. You can save your breath with your questions. What I’m telling you is what I know.”

Lies, but he needed to speak with Nadia before anything else. “Boris, I don’t believe you, but my task has other priorities for the moment. I want you to think seriously about what you might want to tell me – because I’ll be back. And you shouldn’t think of protecting these people. They tried to kill you.”

Jez made to leave. Boris could have let him go, but no, he had to scurry across the floor towards the gun. As athletic as he appeared, he acted out the move gracelessly. Jez watched and calmly reached for a weapon. He pulled a throwing knife, threw it with force and the blade buried up to the hilt in Boris’s neck.

He fell to his knees, but continued towards the revolver and Jez watched on in disbelief. About to die, but Boris wouldn’t give up the fight. Blood fought with air for exit. The stone tiles became a red hue. At last, he fell to his belly and remained prostrate. Still he shook spasmodically and his legs kicked, his body waiting for someone to tell the nerves he was dead. But when the death throes kicked in, nothing was left to the imagination.

“He knew who the traffickers were,” Viktor said in disbelief.

“I’m not so sure that’s true, or why would he think we were them?”

Jez took the key from the door and locked up on the way out. The two men who’d escorted them to the office approached menacingly, but the soldiers’ display of ID cards was enough to back them off.

“I want this bar emptied – now!” he shouted. “It’s closed until further notice.”

“What about Boris and Igor?” one asked.

“I’ve just told you, it’s a security matter. Move out!”

He and Viktor herded the small crowd off the premises.

With the bar empty, Jez confided to Viktor. “Closing this place gives us a little time, and I don’t want the militia involved. One of us needs to go back to headquarters to arrange disposal of the bodies, the other to Nadia’s to find out who she works for. I know you would like the Nadia task, but I don’t think you’d be asking the right questions.”

Viktor pulled a face. “Right, headquarters it is then. Oh, are you sure you can handle the girl alone?”

“Yes, very funny,” Jez replied. “But you could be right. Maybe I should take her from behind – just in case.”

Out at the car, he became sombre. “Only speak to Mitrokhin or Mayakovski. It’s unfortunate, but they’re the only ones we can trust.” He handed Viktor the keys to the club.

“But the captain won’t be there at this time.”

“Don’t you believe it; sometimes he and Mayakovski drink in the office until the small hours. Anyway, if they aren’t there, you have a key to my apartment. Go home, get your head down and try again at first light. But remember, you must only speak with Mitrokhin or Mayakovski.”

Chapter 25

Jez dropped Viktor at the metro, left the car at the police station and made his way to Nadia’s. He considered what tactics he should use. On the one hand, he didn’t want to get rough with a woman – but what else could he do? Maybe he would start with intimidation; that might be enough.

Unlike earlier, the entrance to the Plattenbau stank of urine, which probably explained why the woman scrubbing the floor earlier had that resigned look. He came to the door of Nadia’s passageway and a boy with a group of shaven-headed youths blocked it from the inside.

Jez knocked on the wired window and the youth, who sported a multi-colored razor haircut, stared at him blankly, made silly signs, and pretended not to understand what Jez wanted. Bad timing: the thought of hurting Nadia bothered him enough; he was cold, and he’d just killed a man. He pressed his ID card against the window, and pointed to it with a Makarov semi-automatic pistol. The youth and his gang jumped away quicker than if they’d caught fire. When he was on the other side of the door the youths seemed unsure, but blustered to cover the fact.

“If I wasn’t busy... Look, let me make a suggestion: move on. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” he paused, “and if you’re still here… well.”

One of the youths came back at him arrogantly. “We don’t have to move. This is a public place and we’ve done no wrong.”

There was a small swastika amateurishly scratched onto his neck in black ink. Jez sighed. “In that case I won’t be able to take you in, so when I return I’ll handle it unofficially.” He whipped his gun back out and pushed the muzzle under the fascist’s chin. “If you get my drift.”

Magic words – or maybe the gun had something to do with it. Either way, the youths disappeared like smoke in the ether.

He knocked on Nadia’s door – no answer. He knocked harder – still no response. He banged with the butt of his pistol.

“All right, all right, for Christ’s sake I’m coming.”

Bolts scratched in latches and locks clicked. The door opened and a slither of light snuck out into the dim corridor. Jez kicked it fully open. Still in her nightclothes, Nadia was thrown back forcefully. Her robe fell open. Pendulous breasts broke free of their confines. Just as well Viktor hadn’t come. Jez’s smile dissolved. Tough, he had to go in tough. Inside the passageway, he kicked the door shut.

“What do think you’re doing?” she screamed.

“Why aren’t you at work?”

“Why?” she demanded.

He loomed over her aggressively.

“Yes, yes, all right, my friend called for me on the way in. I asked her to tell them I felt sick. What’s it to you anyway?” She spat the words, gathered her gown, tried to protect her nudity.

He pulled her to her feet, pushed her into the living room, and shoved her onto the chair with the pink throw. Fear clouded her face, but defiance steeled her eyes.

“One way or another, Nadia, you will tell me what’s going on. But just so we understand, let me tell you something. Yesterday I informed you I was part of internal security. True. But what I failed to tell you was I’m secret police. Now, there are certain myths that circulate round my unit. Nadia, let me tell you, everything you’ve heard is true, and some.”

He slipped a throwing knife out of the lining of his jacket and spun it in his hand. “I could spend hours with tales of what I’ve done with this knife. My colleagues are impressed, and, believe me, that isn’t an easy task. But listen to me. You must think I’m bragging.”

Still spinning the knife, he grabbed it in mid-air and, before Nadia could react, made an impression in her cheek with the flat side of the blade. Her breath caught.

“Tsk, what the hell, I know you’d love to hear my stories,” he said coyly. “I was given a young woman once, about your age, I suppose. They said she was a dissident – worse, a Chechen dissident.” He affected a thoughtful pose. “You have a bit of an accent; you’re not a Chechen, are you, Nadia?” He put pressure on the blade and opened his eyes wide, looking as if he had questionable sanity. Alarm paled her.

“No, no, I swear, they moved me in from Tallinn in Estonia. Please, please don’t hurt me.”

He eased back. “Well anyway, by the time I’d finished cutting her, my partner reckoned I’d removed more of her skin than what I’d left. Actually, I think she was the first one I’ve ever scalped. I started collecting them after that. Yes… hers was the first scalp. Hmm, is that true? Yes, I’m sure of it. But here I am, always boasting.”

He plied her with several tales, each more gruesome than the previous. For a moment he worried where were they coming from. With speed that matched sleight of hand, he cut buttons from her robe and slashed through straps and nightdress. By the time he’d finished she was all but naked and shaking in terror.

Enough. He breathed a heavy sigh. “Where were we? Ah yes, unlike those victims, Nadia, you have options. Now, let us begin simply, why aren’t you working? And I mean for your pimp.”

Tears streamed and she must’ve been wondering if she’d make it through alive. They all play their tough games but this one should meet Anna. She’d show her tough.

She blubbed, “Please, don’t hurt me. I had no say in it. I’ve never had a choice about anything since I was a girl.”

Jez tilted the blade and made a light crease on her cheek. “Why aren’t you earning your keep?”

“I’ve been given time off until Boris is sorted,” she sobbed.

“As yet I haven’t harmed you, Nadia, but I think by now you know I will. Don’t make me get blood all over my nice clothes – that’s what usually happens and I’m beginning to tire of it. Just tell me what you know of the set-up.”

“Yes, okay, fine, I’ll tell you. But please don’t cut my face. There’s a nightclub called The Red Lite in Balashikha. It’s used as a meeting place where shipments of girls are gathered before being taken out of Russia. That’s all I know, I swear. I’m only a working girl. They gave me a story to feed you – to incriminate Boris. But I have no idea what it’s about.”

“Who gave you the story, Nadia?”

“My pimp – Filip Godova,” she said.

“Is that him in the picture?” Jez pointed to the silver photo frame.

“No, that one works with Boris, his name is Alexandro. I don’t know anything else, I swear. Filip told me a KGB sergeant had paid him; said he could put a lot more money our way if I was convincing about Boris.”

Jez had to strain his ears.

“Filip said that if we could get in with the military people running the scams, we could maybe take over some business in that area. He would get a job recruiting girls. I wouldn’t have to work the streets.”

“What happened to you having no choice?” Jez asked.

“But you don’t understand. I was tricked when I was a young girl. Now, I take whatever chances I get.”

“If you had been tricked when you were young, then you should have more understanding for what is happening to these girls.”

She sucked in air sharply.

“And you seem to know more than you realize. This sergeant, you must have heard a name? Think, woman.”

“I’m not sure – Tchaikovsky, something like that.”

“You’re kidding me, the composer?”

“What, no, oh I’m not sure. I don’t remember, all I really know is he’s KGB.”

Tchaikovsky or similar, Jez didn’t know anyone like that, but if he was KGB, it wouldn’t be long before he did.

Eventually, Nadia’s answers went full circle and her story became a chorus. She was drained of information, huddled up with knees under her chin and tears flowing. Jez took a last look at her before leaving, and softened.

“Here, cover up,” he said, and pulled the gown over her shoulders. “Tell no one of this conversation and none of it will come back to you. Your dues are paid.”

“I won’t say a word,” she promised, and dropped from the chair to curl into foetal position on the floor.

Jez closed the door on the way out. Now he had what might be the key to the case, but he didn’t feel good about it. Nadia was unlucky with her start in life and had done what it took to stay on top.

At the railway station, he considered whether he should go home and rest or team up with Viktor later. Or, he could go straight to the club and check it out. Still pondering after boarding the train, he took too long about it and fell asleep – all the way to the terminus. The last train! It would be hours before the service resumed.

But at first light he would go to The Red Lite – alone.

Chapter 26

Otto poured a couple of vodkas. “I wonder how the Jew and Comrade Muscles are getting on,” he said. “Have they managed to piece together Nadia’s story, and are they now hot on the heels of Boris?” He laughed, swallowed and handed Adrik the glass for a refill.

“I’m just glad we’re on the same side, Otto. But yes, they probably are onto Boris. I mean, Kornfeld’s not a fool.”

“No,” Otto muttered under his breath. “Anyway, I think we’d better call it a day. I’ve got that catch-up with Petrichova early morning.” He looked at his watch. “Come on, let’s go.”

On Dzerzhinski Square, an uninviting breeze struck. It should’ve been too early for anybody to be about, but nevertheless the silence was broken by the sound of clacking boots. Otto’s head spun to his right. He hadn’t seen Sharansky for some time, but he was hard not to recognise. What the hell was he doing here at this time?

“Bit early for work, Sergeant,” Otto said, curiosity biting.

“Yes, I wish, Captain. I’m still on the case from yesterday.”

“That’s a long stint. What’re you up to now – looking for your partner?”

“No, I’m looking for you, sir. The case has developed and we have bodies in need of clearing. Lieutenant Kornfeld said you were the only one I should trust.”

“And the lieutenant was right. If you’re up to it, Sergeant, we could go and see to it ourselves.”

“Yes, sir,” Sharansky replied, and Otto noticed a veil of tiredness had shadowed the sergeant’s face.

He raised his eyebrows to Adrik and grinned. It had gone smoothly.

“What about you, Sergeant Mayakovski? If you’re not too tied up for tomorrow morning, maybe you could come along.”

“I wouldn’t miss it, Captain.”

“Good. Where exactly are we going, and who did these bodies belong to?”

“South Port: there are two men, an unknown bodyguard and his boss. A man called Boris. Information led us to believe he’d been one of the traffickers, but he wasn’t. We’d finished with the interrogation, but when we tried to leave there was a confrontation. He attacked us. We had no option but to terminate both men.”

Otto grimaced. “You say you eliminated him from your enquiries? What made you decide that, and where is the lieutenant now?” His skin itched.

The killings had gone to script, but to start making follow-ups hadn’t been part of it. Why couldn’t the little shit have just killed Boris and a few of his pimps and then called it a day? The case would have been shelved.

“Well, Captain, Boris thought we were the traffickers, and when he made the claims he was in charge of the situation. As for the lieutenant, he’s gone to talk to one of the girls.”

Otto nodded his approval, but was pissed off. The situation needed a rethink. “Is it messy, Sergeant Sharansky?”

“One of the bodies is a bit sticky, sir.”

“Sergeant Mayakovski, bring the car round and make sure there are a couple of body bags in the boot.” Adrik left and Otto turned back to Sharansky. “Sergeant, do you feel your leads have legs, or have these deaths got us turning circles?”

“Depends on whether the girl knows anything. And I suspect she will.”

“Which girl is that?”

“Nadia Ulyanov.”

And her pimp knows Adrik – shit!

“Here comes the car now.” Otto climbed in front next to Adrik. “Exactly where is this bar, Sergeant Sharansky?”

“At the quayside in South Port, Captain,” he told him.

Silence prevailed and Otto mulled over what had gone by. He needed a new strategy, hopefully a final strategy. But thoughtful or not, Sharansky’s presence needled him: he had no desire to pass pleasantries with a Jew-lover. Thought thundered round his head and a plan matured. And he would need to do most of it himself.

In South Port, Adrik parked the car midway along the quayside; they all got out and the three men gingerly crossed the slippery jetty en route to the bar. Equidistantly pitched cranes raised their long necks like dark, sinister serpents. An unravelled anchor chain was laid out in lines along the dockside. The first light of dawn fought for supremacy over darkness, and glowing arcs of blue light assisted in the fight as two journeymen prodded the chain with welding electrodes.

Beyond the cranes, they passed fishing boats; and beyond them was the bar. Sharansky stopped to unlock the main door. A bakery next to the club prepared its first bread of the day and blooms of steam flowered from the oven’s exhaust, belching a misty haze over the soldiers. The smell of newly baked bread made Otto’s mouth salivate and he couldn’t work out how long it’d been since he’d eaten. Inside, the deserted bar room was strewn with tables and chairs. At a guess, the crowd had left in a panic.

“A bit of a mess,” Otto said, “Are the customers aware of what happened? This place looks like they must’ve had some idea of what went on?”

Could be a stumbling block; witnesses might screw the plan. A damp patch irritated the back of his neck and he moved his head in an attempt to dry it against the collar of his greatcoat.

“No, Captain, other than us flashing ID cards to get them out, no one had any idea of what we were up to.”

“Good.” Thank fuck for that: covering up a complicated trail was the last thing he needed. That’s how mistakes creep in.

“They’re that way,” Sharansky said, and crossed the bar through the stink of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol.

“On you go then,” Otto said in the corridor, and followed closely, ushering him towards the office.

Sharansky went in and kneeled over Boris’s body. He was about to say something, but Otto spoke first. “You grunts can be such fucking fools. No real intelligence,” he said with taunting declaration.

The sergeant froze, and it seemed to take forever for the words to sink in. When they did, he turned abruptly, a surprised, hurt expression on his face, but not for long.

CRACK!

A shot echoed and a bullet punctured his face. Sharansky crashed to the floor as Otto mimicked a cheap cowboy film and blew on the end of the barrel before returning it to its holster.

He smiled, self-satisfied. “Adrik, I want you to set this scene and then bring the militia in to deal with it.”

“How do you want it to look?”

“The bodyguard has no blood on him,” he said. “Position him near to Sharansky. Make it look like the sergeant killed him.”

Otto leaned over Boris and forced the embedded throwing knife back at a new angle. He twisted the handle, compelling the blade to make the wound more cavernous. At a glance, the new injury would look as if he’d been stabbed from behind and the knife had been jiggled in a struggle. He pulled the blade out, cleaned it on the back of Boris’s clothes, wrapped it in a piece of paper and pocketed it.

“Not such a big shot now,” he said, and kicked the body. “Adrik, when the militia get here, this is the story they will put in their reports. Listen carefully, because you’re the one who has to make them believe it. Sharansky killed the bodyguard and the Jew shot Sharansky. Boris was the Jew’s partner, but they must have argued and the Jew stabbed him in the neck from behind. You are able to determine all of this because of the body positioning, the entry of the knife wound and, finally, because you’ve been investigating the Jew on the grounds of corruption. Got it?”

“I’ve got the story, all right, but Sharansky was Kornfeld’s partner. Why?”

“Shush.” Otto held a finger to his lips. “We know whose partner is who, but nobody else does. When I make my report, I’ll show that Sharansky was brought in to help us. He was our partner and the Jew had nothing to do with the case. Got it?”

“Ah – got it. But where are you going?”

“I, my friend, am off to seal the case good and tight. I’ll use the railway where I have to. You take the car. Oh, and make sure your story leaves them without doubts. Tell them Smersh are tied up in the case, so we won’t expect post mortems.”

Otto left the bar. Dawn had now broken with a cold, weak sun that set a silver sheen over a sky dusted with thin cloud. The welders had finished their task and the chain was rewinding, eerily creaking its way back into the ship’s chain locker.

He left the dock area, caught the first train of the day and made his way to the Plattenbau where Nadia lived. A brisk walk and he knocked at her door. No sign of life. Nadia would be the icing on his plan, not crucial, but he’d made the journey and wanted it to happen. He hammered furiously.

“Who is it, what do you want?” A nervous female voice called out – at last.

“It’s the police, let me in. I need to talk to Nadia Ulyanov.”

“I’ve already told the police all I know. What is it you want?”

“I’m not willing to talk about this through the door. I have a warrant and am authorized to break in if necessary. You may as well open up without any fuss. Please, I mean you no harm. We just need to talk.”

Bolts scraped in the hasps and keys turned in the locks. The door came clear of the frame and the dimmed corridor was sliced by a beam of light. A human eye that was widened with fear peered out at him. Silly bitch, the premises were secure. If she’d had a little more gumption and refused to let him in, he would’ve had to leave.

“Thank you – Nadia?” he said, removed his cap and smiled, pushed a foot forward, teased her into standing away from the door.

“That’s me, yes, but as I’ve already said, I told the policeman all I knew.”

The gap opened enough for Otto to see her face. It was wet and her make-up had run.

“Well, Nadia, I appreciate you told a man everything you knew, but he wasn’t a policeman.”

She looked sceptical. “He must have been, he showed me his ID and so did his sergeant.”

Irritation had him rubbing his chest. He couldn’t just barge in. A door might be cracked open, someone could be watching and he couldn’t afford witnesses. Keep it nice until you get inside, he thought.

“I understand you have doubts, of course, especially at this time of day, but what I’m telling you is true. But really, I shouldn’t be discussing it out in the corridor, Nadia. This matter is confidential and you will know how nosy people in these housing blocks can be.”

She hesitated, sighed deeply, and then opened the door fully.

Otto stepped in with a grin on his face. “Thank you. Let me say that through my investigation I probably know as much as you do, but you still need to tell me everything you told him. The men you spoke to are criminals trying to take over a trafficking operation in Moscow, so knowing what they know will help me track them down.”

She nodded, but was clearly not convinced.

“My sergeant, Mayakovski, is closing in on them as we speak, but what you can tell me will sew things up.”

She froze, pulled back and looked horrified. What had he said? Shit, he shouldn’t have mentioned Adrik’s name.

Otto slammed the door shut behind him. Nadia spun away. He grabbed her hair, kicked her legs from under her and threw her along the passageway. She landed face down and tumbled along the aisle. She caught her breath, crawled away, but Otto closed the gap and pressed a foot firmly against her buttocks. Flattening out on her belly, she rolled over and pleaded for mercy. He stubbed a boot in her face, let it slip across the soft flesh, grabbed a fistful of hair and repeatedly punched her in the face. And then, as he took a firm grip on her chin, she lifted a hand submissively.

“Had enough? Okay, the story, please, Nadia.”

Every plan needed a get-out clause, and Nadia telling him what the Jew knew would enable Otto to make counter-claims should things go wrong. She told him her story, and by the time she was halfway through, sobbing had changed to hysteria. Her tale told he changed approach: he helped her to her feet, took her in his arms and comforted her, like a child. This was a tactic Stefan told him his pimps used. It worked. She relaxed and snuggled into his chest sobbing.

He took out Kornfeld’s knife. She seemed unaware of the blade creeping up between their bodies. Otto slipped the point firmly between her ribs and pushed. She gasped as the cold steel pierced her heart. She looked up, her body heaved and renewed fear filled her face. But the assault took immediate effect and the life in her eyes dimmed.

He let her slide almost gracefully to the floor and left the knife where it had come to rest. As he removed his gloves, he looked down and shook his head in disgust. The wound had smothered his greatcoat with blood.

Chapter 27

With his back to the railway station, Jez followed the main avenue. He came to a factory village that had been absorbed with the station town and other villages to create the city of Balashikha. Within this village stood Leninsky Avenue, a small tree-lined street with a couple of canopied shops, one selling vegetables, the other cheese and bread. It was almost mid-morning and queues of men and women had already spilled from the shops and out onto the street. They would hope there would be enough left on the shelves for their rations; and if there were, that the ration would be enough.

His stomach rumbled. Should he take a ticket and get in line for a piece of cheese? But no, the task was too near conclusion. To impress the general, he needed to demonstrate he could take on new duties with ease. Besides, the club was only a hundred meters down the road. Carry on and eat later.

He turned at the first intersection and saw a small sign – The Red Lite. Almost tentatively, he approached the steps leading down to a basement. Only a building, but the beat of his heart hammered in his chest and he felt sure that success would put his career back on the fast track.

At the bottom step, the stale residue of alcohol and cheap fragrances invaded his nostrils. He levered down the door handle and pushed it open. Why wasn’t it locked? Quickly, he dismissed the doubt and made his way along a small passage that gave way to a main saloon. Lights on – in an empty club.

An unlocked door, lights on. And he’d just killed Boris on someone else’s behalf. Could it be a trap? But if he searched the back office, it might produce the evidence he sought; and if it didn’t, he could set an ambush for the perpetrators. No, continue and be damned.

His army brogues clicked on the concrete tiles, his leather jacket squeaked and his heartbeat drummed in his ears. The odd collection of sounds distracted him and his nerves calmed down.

For years, his training and the action he’d been involved with had been about staying alert, because his life might depend on it. But now he found the eagerness to impress all-consuming. A corridor brought him to a door. He threw it open and entered without caution. No windows, but otherwise an identical office to the one where he’d left Boris: a desk, three chairs, a wooden cupboard, a filing cabinet in the corner. The nearest thing to decoration was a glass ashtray alongside a mug full of stubbed pencils.

Right, desk drawers first. There were no people, no sounds – so where did the blow come from that sent his mind spiraling into disarray? Pain thundered in the back of his head. His body drove through the chairs and flew over the desk, slamming into the wall beyond. Blood ran freely down the nape of his neck; he was hurt, but instinct brought him to his feet. That same instinct turned him, ready to protect himself. Instead, his jaw dropped in disbelief.

“Capt…” he begged, but Captain Mitrokhin stared with a cold, cynical silence.

Before the words had left his lips, Mitrokhin had moved swiftly past the desk and thrown a punch. Flashes sparked in Jez’s head as the thud exploded on the side of his face. He reeled back.

The cold, hard granite of the cellar wall crumpled his body and he squashed against it, sliding to the floor. Luckily the captain didn’t punch his weight, or already he’d be done. Resolve made a fist in his chest and he sidled sideways to take himself far enough from Mitrokhin to get to his feet and be ready for the next assault. But a glance at this unexpected enemy highlighted the swelling from the previous blow. His left eye had almost closed.

He faltered. Another such strike would surely finish him. Jez faced the captain, saw the next attack coming and feigned a move to the left, but dodged right. Mitrokhin lumbered by. That’s the way: fitness and unequalled speed. He moved deftly one way, then another, and managed to avoid contact while recovering.

Though under assault, he couldn’t help wonder at the captain. Why attack him? Had he somehow missed Viktor or been corrupted into thinking he was the enemy?

The captain lunged forward with another blistering attack. Jez dodged the main assault, but a high kick grazed his shoulder. The struggle was being lost. The combat training Spetsnaz received wasn’t about taking prisoners, and the way Mitrokhin acted now he would kill him unless he could assert himself.

Jez stooped, stumbled onto his back foot, gripped his injured shoulder and assumed the stance of a wounded bird. He couldn’t tell if Mitrokhin had bought into it but, whatever his thoughts, they didn’t stop him coming forward with too much confidence. An opening presented itself. Jez threw a savage straight-arm blow that hit Mitrokhin in the ribs. But the strike glanced off. He’d failed to inflict damage, but just for a moment, Mitrokhin’s eyes died. They lost their fire. And in that moment, Jez took control.

He swiveled his body and directed his strength into delivering a single strike. A gamble: if he missed he’d be off balance and leave himself open. The blow was a crude kick that traveled up between Mitrokhin’s legs. The delivery crunched home and Mitrokhin crumpled to his knees.

Jez had won the battle, but he felt no victory. He was at a loss with the whole situation. How could events have come to this? Awkwardly, he pulled the big man to his feet and maneuvered him onto an undamaged chair. Mitrokhin could do nothing but allow the manhandling.

“Captain Mitrokhin, I don’t understand. Why attack me? You know what I’ve been working on.”

Jez paused to give Mitrokhin a chance to reply, but nothing.

“I don’t know how, but something’s gone badly wrong here,” he continued. “We must put our information together to see if we can come up with an answer. Have you spoken with Sergeant Sharansky?”

Jez heard the words echo around his head and panic wouldn’t let go of his chest. Who had turned Mitrokhin?

Blood seeped onto his neck, his face hurt and his head ached. Anxiety magnified this throbbing pain out of all proportion. Out to impress his mentor, almost there, but now it had all turned upside down and for no clear reason.

Events continued on a downward spiral when two, armed, uniformed officers burst into the room. They crouched and aimed pistols directly into his face.

“Drop your weapon,” one shouted.

“I’m not armed,” he replied, and held his arms out in crucifixion while opening his hands palm outward.

But while facing the men, another tremendous blow shook the back of his head and he plunged into unconsciousness.

Chapter 28

Jez’s nostrils inflamed to an acrid chemical. He shook his head vigorously, and his tormentor withdrew his hand from under… maybe a hood.

Consciousness seeped back slowly and pain thumped in his head, pain he’d been blissfully unaware of until now. Blood had settled, congealed on his neck, and pulled at the roots of his hair. His eyelids felt welded together. One popped open, but there was only darkness.

He was a prisoner, hooded and tied. What had happened? Where was he? He’d been trained to handle terror situations, but now he could see death, and fear held him in an icy grip. He felt a cold draft on his chest and his nipples pinched – electrodes. He moved a foot, and caught his ankle against a chair leg. His feet were bare.

“Ah, nice to have you back, Lieutenant Kornfeld. Let me pay tribute to your fitness. There are not many who recover so quickly.”

A voice that whispered, soft, almost friendly. Jez couldn’t think why he’d become subject to interrogation, but that’s what this was. Someone soft; soon there would be another, coming down heavy. But why? Not important now, he had to stay in control. He’d managed with these conditions in training, so he had to do the same in conflict.

As expected, a second interrogator chipped in. “Please, please, don’t speak so nicely to this traitor.” A harsh, graveled voice grated from the throat.

The interrogator’s face was close. Breath filtered through the hood and the odor was no sweeter than the foul taste Jez endured from his own mouth.

“Unlike my partner, I have no kind regard towards you, Kornfeld,” he said. “I will only be satisfied when they execute you with a shot into the back of that worthless head of yours.”

Traitor, how could he call him that? And execution; words of treachery and execution. These people were part of a Smersh unit. Initially formed to bring death to spies, the unit was extended to deal with mutineers, traitors and deserters. When they finished with their victims, execution was a welcome reprieve. He tried to harden his determination, but couldn’t stop the wave of fear that brushed over his skin.

Jez noted how his words sounded hollow when he said, “I have committed no crime. Everything I’ve done has been in attempt to stop an illegal operation. Somehow, Captain Mitrokhin has been tricked into thinking I’m the guilty party. I need to speak with him – now.”

The final sentence unwittingly came out as a demand, and a blow lashed his face with a force that left a rush of blood in his mouth. He sensed that someone had moved behind him. Whoever it was gripped the hood and twisted the loose fabric. The material cut into his throat and pulled taut across his face. He choked. The hood tightened and the swelling on his eye felt ready to explode. The congealed scab on his scalp broke and blood dribbled onto the back of his neck.

He brought his mind to a state of acceptance: Live with it. You’ve been trained to deal with such situations. He almost convinced himself – but then someone lifted his legs and submerged his feet in icy cold water. Alarm returned. He’d been right about his nipples being clamped, but the knowledge failed to prevent the electric current from racing along the rigid copper path or the shockwaves from streaming through his body.

“Uhn…” His teeth clinched and his body jerked. He rose up, his frame straightened, his hands clenched into fists and his toes curled. Muscle spasm, cramping, tightening as the flow of electricity battered from within. The unending assault bleached his body, drained him of life. Seconds, minutes, hours, he had no way of telling, but the onslaught seemed infinite, and then came bittersweet relief as the assault ended.

His head slumped forward, at last it had finished. But then someone kicked him to the floor, lifted the chair back onto its legs and gave him another burst of electricity.

“Uhn… Just tell me what… what you want. Uhn…”

The voltage dropped and a kick or a punch slammed into his cheek. The side of his face swelled in response and he fell silent.

“You’re holding up well,” the soft voice said. “I wonder how you’ll cope when your mother is brought in. Before we put that hood on you, I thought you looked rather pretty. If your mother is nearly as nice, well, I think we’ll probably enjoy ourselves a little before we start hurting her.” Even his snigger was whispered and the gravel man choked out a rasping chuckle.

“If you lay a finger on my mother, I’ll kill you,” he said, and wished he hadn’t when he heard the interrogators laugh uproariously.

“No, no, actually, we’re killing you.”

“If you’re going to kill me, then do it now,” Jez demanded, but only to the sound of more laughter.

The questions continued.

“All this is meaningless. Even if I understood what you wanted, I don’t think you’re interested.”

They chuckled, clearly content with browbeating him. Jez knew they were applying attrition tactics, disorientating and intimidating him. They would build a campaign to weaken his resolve, destroy his spirit before getting to what they wanted. And it would be something simple.

“Of course, I get it. You want a signed confession. If you had wanted answers, you’d have used sodium amytal.”

They would know the mind-numbing sedative wouldn’t be as effective on a weathered soldier, but if they did expect to get information then drugs wouldn’t hurt their cause.

His chair was kicked from behind. He fell forward and his knees scuffed the floor. Freed from his bonds, they brought him to his feet, fastened his hands behind him, and a firm grip on the elbow guided him from the room. The hood was still over his head as he was frog-marched through a number of corridors. The only thing that stopped him from falling was the vice-like grip on his arm. Halted, he was spun a quarter turn and pushed forward. A door closed.

A room, maybe the same room, and the walk-about had been part of the effort to confuse. But a sour smell wafted up under the hood – an odor accompanied by damp cold air. A different room. Perhaps the torture was over for the moment.

Silent, he listened for breathing, any sound that might betray another presence – nothing. He edged forward, stuck out a bare foot, and gently stubbed his toes against an object. He outlined it. A bunk covered with… probably a horse blanket. Good, maybe there would be respite. Still handcuffed and hooded, there could be another visit soon. He had no idea how long he had. He should rest.

He maneuvered onto the bed and curled up. But his body shook, his teeth chattered and his mind raced over what had gone by. He moved awkwardly and his shoulders ached. The binding cut into his wrists and restless turning rubbed the hood against his face. But he couldn’t let go the agony of not knowing what had happened. It was clear enough the captain hadn’t liked him from the start, so his thinking would be easily corrupted. But if he could bring Viktor into the loop, that would surely prove his innocence.

Chapter 29

Sporadic awakenings, nightmarish dreams about head injuries, and then Jez came round to a delirious consciousness. But as his mind cleared, his thinking moved closer to sanity. He wasn’t sure if he’d been asleep for moments or hours, and with the hood over his head he couldn’t tell night from day. The cover interfered with his breathing, a blocked nose caused his eyes to draw and he couldn’t swallow. Every movement brought memories of pain and torture.

Deflated, he had to question his decision of ever leaving his family home. Life had been so simple there. But there was no future in looking back. He needed success, not regret. What was the situation? Cold and damp – possibly a cellar. Did that mean the club, or an underground cell? The club wasn’t damp, so it would be reasonable to consider he was in the Lubyanka cells. Logical reasoning lifted him.

Now, what had happened in the club? With only the captain there… oh, and the armed men. But he was facing them before he was knocked out. Even so, the captain had been in no fit state to attack him. Wait, the glass ashtray, it went soaring when he flew over the desk. Okay, Mitrokhin could have hit him with that. Mitrokhin, he was the important factor here. If only he could convince him of his innocence.

The door unlocked, boots clicked, someone brought him roughly to his feet and he was dragged from the room.

“Is this Lubyanka?” he asked, but a tightening grip on the arm gave him the only answer he would get – Silence!

Jez stumbled through the corridors and thought of one of the stories his poppa told.

*

Poppa used to gather the family round the table after supper for his weekly tales of how Russian life had been for Jewish people.

“I tell you this story so you’ll never forget what you are.” He postured in readiness. “Our families lived in Moldova in Kishinev, a monastery town nestled on the tributary banks of the River Nistru. In 1903, they fled from a pogrom, the worst of its kind there. Our people scattered like a flock of birds to the farmer’s gun.”

Jez had sat attentively, tuned in alongside his brothers and sisters. All sighed in unison as Poppa stopped to muse. Jez allowed his mind to wander: shadowy figures rose in his imagination, dark indistinguishable shapes hovered over his head and brought his own version of the bogeyman. He came back to reality with unblinking saucer-like eyes.

“When the families returned from their hiding places they found many killed and countless injured. There had been more bloodshed than they could have imagined. Enough to know that it wasn’t safe to stay.”

Poppa dug his fingers into his beard as if searching for crumbs from the earlier meal.

“Our homes burned, and those that weren’t on fire had been destroyed. I don’t have real recollection, I was still a babe in arms, and Momma still waited to be born. But I know that many families fled west to America, and others to Palestine to live amongst the Jews and Palestinians there.

“Our families stayed in Russia and moved north. When they got to the Golden Gate of Vladimir, they settled. My family hadn’t wanted to live in the city so we moved to its rural suburbs. And here – up to now – we’ve been safe.

“The worst part of this story is that the pogrom had been supported by the State.” He stopped to give a practiced measure of silence. “It’s true we live under a different administration, but the argument holds. Wherever your lives might take you, my children, you must remember: as Jews there will always be gentile hatred for you. You should always remain aware.”

*

“Could that be what this is about?” he wondered. “But it couldn’t be, not after such long service. No, whatever the reason, it wasn’t that.”

All the same, someone had put him in the frame. And to damn it all, his investigation hadn’t yet shown who that might be. The guard opened a door and pushed him through. The handler forcefully made him sit and the door closed.

“Right then, Kornfeld,” a voice said.

Jez recognized it. The captain. “Captain Mitrokhin, thank goodness…” Further speech became impossible as pressure came on the front of the hood and clamped his mouth.

“Do not start fucking with me by blurting out a whole lot of denial, Kornfeld. Your dealings have been documented and we know you’re guilty. It would be easier for both of us if you just signed this confession and let us move on to the next step.”

The hold on his face relaxed.

“Believe me, Captain, I have done no wrong. Please allow me to prove my innocence.”

Mitrokhin snatched the hood from Jez and stood back. He held a length of hemp with a series of knots integrated, and swung it like a pendulum. But then he whipped the rope sideways and one of the slubs smacked Jez’s face. Something in his mouth exploded. The vitriolic taste of blood gushed from a cut on his inner cheek. The captain hooked the rope over Jez’s neck and pulled it back and forth. Jez closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

“Do not play games with me, Jew, you’re wasting your fucking time. I know everything, and just to put an end to your futile bleating I will tell you what I know.”

Jez looked at Mitrokhin – “Jew”. His eyes still echoed the hatred he’d shown in The Red Lite. Perhaps Poppa’s story hadn’t been so far off the mark.

The walls in the interrogation room had flaking dark olive gloss paint and a bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Mitrokhin dominated the view and the dim yellow light increased, haloing his head. Hatred was clear, but why? Jez looked to Sergeant Mayakovski, who seemed to watch on in boredom. But when he caught Jez’s gaze, he returned the same hostility as Mitrokhin.

“Some time before I came to the unit,” Mitrokhin began, “you created a route which took you by train, rivers and canals from Moscow to Rostov. You smuggled your family there and then bribed a Turk to sail them away from the Soviet Union.”

“That much is true...” Jez began, but Mitrokhin halted the words when he kicked him in the chest and knocked him flying. Mayakovski took the back of Jez’s head in one huge hand and tugged the chair upright.

Mitrokhin grimaced. “Yes, yes, I know what you’ll say, and I believe you. At first you genuinely only wanted to save your family, but greed got the better of you and you started your trafficking operation: selling women into prostitution. When you fell out with Boris – your partner – you stabbed him to death, then used the same knife to kill Nadia Ulyanov, a prostitute who worked for one of your pimps.”

“Nadia’s dead? No, no, it’s true I killed Boris in the course of the investigation, but Nadia was alive when I last saw her.”

“Ah, that’s better. You admit you created the route and subsequently killed Boris. And you admit to knowing Nadia. That’s a good start to your confession; now we’re getting somewhere. As far as Nadia is concerned, there was a group of youths at the Plattenbau. They are more than willing to testify that you threatened them for no good reason before kicking your way into Nadia’s apartment. No, Kornfeld, I’m sorry, you’re fucked.” He smiled, turned to Mayakovski and preened.

Jez watched the cards stack up against him. “It sounds damning, I admit, but you put me on the investigation. You knew what I was doing. All you need to do is speak to Viktor. He’ll verify my side of things.”

“Ah yes, Sergeant Sharansky – the final nail in your coffin.”

“Final nail, what do you mean by final nail?”

“We have evidence to prove you killed the sergeant with a single shot through the head – or to be more accurate, a single shot that virtually blew his face off. Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance.”

“Viktor’s not dead? That’s not possible. He came to see you and…” Tears ran down his cheeks and the sterile taste of salt reflected his soul. Viktor couldn’t be dead. He hadn’t been involved in anything dangerous. He only went to see Mitrokhin and – Mitrokhin, no, no, not Mitrokhin.

“You, it was you… you bastard, you won’t get away with this, Mitrokhin. I can prove my innocence to General Petrichova. You won’t get away with it.”

Mitrokhin’s face turned to fury. He placed a hand over Jez’s face and forced his head back, almost to breaking point.

“Fucking idiot, Jew, I’ve already got away with it. You’re a dead man,” he said bitterly. “I set you up before you were given the task. We are the only two people – no, no, that’s not true, I mustn’t forget my dear friend Adrik here,” he said. “Yes, my friend knew, but no other had any idea you were on the case. You see it was me who was tasked to carry out the mission. I brought in Sharansky, not Petrichova. And he, for the sake of the reports I’ve written, was my partner – until you killed him.

“You could have confessed to me, but now, now further interrogation by Smersh will bring the facts to the surface. Because I’ve told you what happened, they will extract that story from you. Whatever else you might say will sound like jumbled rubbish. Oh, and I had a meeting with your precious Petrichova earlier today. He has no interest in speaking with you. In fact, he said to tell you he’s washed his hands of you.”

“You think you’re so clever, Mitrokhin, but either at the tribunal or when I speak to the general, I can and will prove my innocence.”

Mitrokhin kicked him in the chest and this time Mayakovski left him where he landed. The captain summoned the guard and left with his sergeant.

“I can prove it, Mitrokhin,” Jez shouted desperately as they exited the interrogation room. “I can prove it!”

The guard lifted him to his feet and returned him to the cell. Jez curled up on the bunk and grieved for Viktor. He tried to concentrate, to run through everything he’d done from the beginning. He hadn’t pulled the trigger against Viktor, but because of his immature approach to the case, he might as well have. When he thought back to Nadia’s confession, she’d told him of a sergeant in the KGB, Tchaikovsky she’d said, but he hadn’t seen it, Mayakovski. His hurt drifted and the power of anger took his mind. It reminded him of how he dealt with pain in combat, and that would be how he would have to deal with it now.

Again, he ran through events and had to face the facts: he would never be able to convince the general or anyone else of his innocence.

Chapter 30

“Do you think he knows anything that could damage us?” Adrik asked.

Otto snorted. “No, not for a minute, but our success hasn’t endured by ignoring possibilities. We must assume he does, which means something has to be done.” He closed the office door and went straight to the vodka, then sat back and looked deeply into the drink he’d just poured. “But what?” he said thoughtfully.

A knock brought in two men, both wearing trilby hats, both about the same height – short, both sporting wired pebble glasses and both stockily built.

Fuck, Otto thought, he could do without Smersh right now.

“Good day, Captain Mitrokhin,” one said.

Otto couldn’t but pay attention to the unusual voice, deeper and darker than the brown suit the little man wore. He sounded as if he had gravel in his throat. Otto had forgotten all about them and now realized that bringing them into the loop had been a mistake. Reluctantly, he acknowledged them.

“We’ve just been down to the interrogation rooms,” the deeply spoken inquisitor said, “and have been told that all authority to interview Kornfeld has been suspended on your orders. It must be said that we had him softened up so he would reveal anything and everything about his conscious life after another session. To stop us now would be a retrograde step.”

The gravel man took off the pebbles. They’d steamed up coming in from the cool of the corridor. He wiped them between thumb and forefinger, folded the little olive cloth he’d used and neatly replaced it in the breast pocket of his jacket. Carefully, as if handling rose petals, he fitted the glasses back onto his nose.

“Ah yes… Sergeant, isn’t it?” Otto said. “My apologies, we haven’t long left him. Before further interrogation takes place, I want to sort out some new evidence that has surfaced. I don’t believe it’s meaningful, but it has to be checked. When I’m satisfied it has no significance, I’ll let you know. Once again, I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

“New evidence, what new evidence?” he asked.

Otto felt his face harden. “As I said, I’ll let you know when the time is right, but in the meantime bear with me.”

The gravel man was about to go on with his issues, but his partner restrained him with a hand to the arm. “Very well, Captain,” the second man whispered, so softly he almost couldn’t be heard. “But please – keep us informed of proceedings,” reasonable words but something in the intonation disconcerted Otto. “We won’t hold you back any further.”

And with that, they left the office.

“Those two don’t seem to understand rank,” Otto said, petulantly pouring more vodka. He was about to continue the attack on the little men, but held back. “Shit, their self-importance doesn’t matter. But all the same, if the Jew has any kind of proof, those two could make things awkward.” He gulped back the alcohol and poured another before lifting his feet onto the desk. “Smersh have just made the decision for me.” He frowned. “Not an ideal solution: Petrichova will ask questions, especially as he doesn’t even know we have him in custody, but the Jew must die.”

“Sounds right; who’ll do it?”

Otto’s face became sullen. “Sorry, Adrik, it has to be you. Believe me, I’d love to do it, but I’m under suspicion. If I kill the Jew, it might add credence to that belief. You know I don’t usually ask you to...”

“Stop,” Adrik said, scowling and raising a hand. “It really doesn’t bother me. The only thing I need to know is how you want it done.”

The sudden thought of having Kornfeld blown away made Otto almost gleeful. “We haven’t much time, so we’ll keep it simple.” He ran a hand over the contours of his chin, pondering. “The only thing that readily springs to mind is to kill him in an escape attempt. But you can’t just let him out of the cell and then shoot him... Let me see, the guard is regular army but big, so we’ll start by bringing in one who is lightweight. Someone the Jew can easily overpower, even with his injuries. You, Adrik, will wait out of sight, in the corridor, and shoot him as he leaves the cell.”

Otto straightened himself in the chair, but couldn’t hold his excitement. He almost jumped to his feet and paced as if he was planning a campaign on the eastern front.

“We’ll give Kornfeld clues that he’s about to be hit, and make his trying to escape inevitable. Tomorrow he gets a gentle interview, no hood and no hand fastenings. And we won’t be rough – he’s going to need energy to handle the guard – and we’ll make sure he gets a decent meal.” He paused, nodded and then smiled to himself. “A medic, get him a medic… and fresh clothes. That way any signs of torture can be passed off as injuries he took while resisting arrest, and it will appear that he has been subsequently well cared for… That should be enough to get him thinking.”

He stared from the window and his eyebrows rose in shocked surprise.

“Oh God, I nearly forgot. It’s one of Mother’s visiting days. If you start setting things in motion, I’ll come back and sort out a new guard. Or, if you want to come with me, we can set it up later.”

“No, no, that’s all right, Otto. I’ll get things going here.”

Otto laughed: it could be a great day.

Chapter 31

The medic dabbed at Jez with a cotton swab. “This gash should’ve been stitched,” he said admonishingly. “Too late now, just be careful you don’t take any more knocks or it might split again.”

No more knocks. That would be nice. Maybe the medic should be having a word with the interrogators, not him.

“But it’s clean and looks free of infection, and I’ve put antiseptic on it to be safe.”

“Yes, I felt it,” he said, bringing an ironic smile to his face. The medic grimaced and smiled painfully back at him.

“You’ll be pleased to know that your facial injuries are no more than swollen lips, a little swelling and a good old-fashioned black eye. The abrasion under it isn’t anything to worry about either.”

The ironic smile remained fixed. The rest of the clean-up was completed in silence. The medic had just about finished packing his kit when the cell door opened and a burly guard came in.

“Ah, well timed. I’m just leaving.” The guard gave no response and the medic pulled a glum face at Jez. The guard put a tray of food and some clothes on the bunk and left. The medic followed closely behind, and had barely cleared the gap when the cell door slammed shut.

Jez checked what was on the bed: food and the shirt and trousers of a clean uniform. Strange, Smersh never used a soft approach. But he wasn’t about to complain about that. He changed and ate. A cold draught blew over his feet and set his mind racing. He’d been given everything but socks and shoes, no socks or shoes. Something had happened to change the treatment, but whatever it was, it didn’t include footwear...

He had to get back to thinking like a soldier. Okay, so what is the situation? Rested and wounds tended, washed and a change of clothes – without shoes – no shoes… and well fed. Why? What had changed Mitrokhin’s plans?

Muzzy thoughts cleared and a picture formed. Mitrokhin wasn’t happy with the safety of the situation. Either he believed Jez when he’d told him he could incriminate him; or he wouldn’t take the chance that he knew nothing. Before Jez could reason further, the door opened and the guard came in, mutely gestured him to his feet and ushered him from the cell into the dimly lit corridor. His time had come for another round of torture.

*

Back in the cell, he weighed up his time in the interrogation room. The roughest part of the grilling had been when the guard tied him to the chair. The Smersh agents had been dropped and Mitrokhin and Mayakovski had interviewed him.

For an hour the pair had tormented him with racist insults, but never once lifted a hand against him. For his part, he gave answers as mechanically as the questions thrown at him. No longer did he protest his innocence, there was little point. Everyone just went through the motions. But why bother?

Why? No bindings, no hood, wounds cleaned and dressed, a fresh change of clothes, no shoes and a gentle interrogation. And then it struck him. Ooh so obvious. Why would shoes be necessary? He wasn’t going anywhere. His injuries could be passed off as having happened when he was arrested.

He would be killed. And to make it look right, to justify why it had happened, it would be while trying to escape. He’d only been questioned to coerce him with the faint hope of getting a confession. A signature would make it that much easier when Mitrokhin wooed his superiors into believing that a murderer, rather than a suspect, had been killed during an escape attempt.

If the evening routine stayed the same, he’d get two visits from the guard, one to feed him, one to top up the drinking water and washbowl and change the slop bucket. For now, he had to get his head down, try to sleep and conserve energy. A clear mind would be vital over the next few hours. The guard was big; only regular army, so overpowering him wouldn’t be impossible. But fighting with someone that size, in a confined space, could sap his power. And after the escape he’d need his energy.

Now, if he could imagine who the killer might be, it would help. Not Mitrokhin, he would keep his distance, but it would be a KGB man; a partner that knew what was going on. Probably Mayakovski but not necessarily; there could be a multitude of other soldiers in on it. All the same, hope came. He knew most of the people in the section and, as far as he was concerned, he was better equipped for combat than any of them.

*

When the guard made the first visit, Jez wasn’t exactly staggered to see the burly man had been swapped out for a boy soldier. It made sense. If the big man was on duty and subdued him, Jez wouldn’t get to the corridor so couldn’t be terminated. The young soldier was a slight boy, medium height, in fact, a similar stature to his own. Mitrokhin’s intentions were clear now: Jez was meant to overpower the boy and die in the corridors during an escape bid.

“Tell me, young man, how long have you been in the army and why were you given this duty?”

The boy gave him an awkward glance, unsure whether to answer. He would know he shouldn’t. But he couldn’t resist. “I’ve been out of training for two months and an Osnaz officer thinks I could have potential,” he answered proudly.

“Oh, you must be good. Did they tell you I was a dangerous prisoner?”

The boy gave him a broad grin. “No of course not, you’re a clerk being interrogated about your political views. How could you be dangerous?”

“Ah, you knew, right.”

The young soldier left the cell. Jez ate some of the food and put the rest to one side. He curled up on the bunk and waited. After what seemed like only a moment, his meditation was disturbed by the sound of the cell door. The boy came back in, filled the small washbowl and topped up the battered tin carafe next to it.

“What name do you go by?”

“Boris.”

“Boris.” Jez smiled, and shook his head in disbelief. “You may not believe me, Boris, but of late that name has been the curse of my life.”

“Well, as long as you don’t start any trouble, this Boris will not be one of your problems.”

“If only that were possible; but unfortunately if I fail to overcome you I will be killed.”

The boy’s head swiveled with unnatural speed. He stared in disbelief, but before he came to terms with what had been said a fisted blow thudded into his temple. He tottered and then fell limply to the ground. Jez took the boy’s olive greatcoat, put it on and filled the pockets with left-over food. He lowered himself onto the rickety chair and reasoned his next move. The corridors held no hiding place; he had checked on his return from interrogation. He couldn’t leave the cell… so somehow the assassin must come to him.

Boris suddenly got to his feet and launched an attack. Quickly, Jez rose from the chair and threw light blows that should’ve stopped him, but the young soldier was unstoppable. Jez stood squarely, grounded himself and delivered a fierce open-handed blow. The heel of his palm struck the centre of the soldier’s forehead. The boy’s head snapped back and twisted. Bone broke and the sound of scrunching sinew filled the air. The soldier fell to the ground, his neck broken, and this time he came to rest without life.

Jez hadn’t meant to deliver such a blow, he didn’t mean… “Stop, what’s done is done, just get on with it. Concentrate on getting out.”

His mind calculated, but cold numbness ran the length of his spine. The thought of killing an innocent soldier terrified him and he knew that, whatever happened now, he really had committed a crime.

His heart went into freefall. The military dream was over and he was lost. His whole life passed through his mind. His dreams, shattered. His dedication, pointless. His ambitions, worthless. And Anna, finding Anna again had been a slim hope, but now she was lost forever – hopeless.

Enough, feel sorry for yourself later, he thought. Now he had to find a way of fleeing the Soviet Union. A good enough idea, but before he could do that he had to escape Lubyanka, if that’s where he was. And if he could do that, he’d be the first he’d heard of.

The silence of the cell echoed and the pounding in his ears isolated him from life. “Centre your thoughts. Forget Boris. Nothing has changed with regard the escape.”

He moved into action, pulled Boris across the floor and laid him on top of the bunk, turned him to face the wall and covered him with the greatcoat. The lighting was poor. It would be difficult for anyone to be sure which of them lay there.

“It might just give me an edge, and every second will be precious.”

Now, until someone was ready to respond, he would take position – and stay there.

Chapter 32

Adrik waited in the guard’s room a couple of corridors along from Kornfeld’s cell. There was only one way out, so the Jew had to pass this room. He spun a Makarov on his finger, aimed at imaginary targets and thrilled at the thought of using it. The gun was standard issue, but he would’ve chosen it anyway. Totally reliable, pull the trigger and out pop the bullets. The blowback design expels the spent case to the right and loads the next cartridge into the chamber – easy. And fully armed with eight rounds, he would use them all.

This wouldn’t be his first killing and sure as hell wouldn’t be his last. Kornfeld was a pain, and it was Otto who mattered. He would do anything for him. Why should he care about some Jew who got in the way?

But time dragged, and Kornfeld hadn’t yet made a show. For one horrible minute he thought there might be another way out – but no, that isn’t even possible. Calm down, be patient... Try as he might, he couldn’t, and the idea ran around his head, irritating him beyond measure.

He left the guardroom and paced the corridor outside. At first a short distance and then a bit further into the next passageway. No good – he had to find out what had happened. With gun in hand and footsteps stealthy he reached the cell door – it was slightly open. Oh shit, did that mean there was another way out? Or maybe Kornfeld had gone deeper into the prison block. Or maybe he was in the cell hoping the element of surprise would be with him.

Possibilities ganged up. Kornfeld knew Lubyanka well. What if there was another way out and that little bastard knew it? If so, Otto would kill him, never mind the Jew. He kicked the door fully open, slammed it against the cell wall, stood back and then moved in, pointing the gun around to make sure Kornfeld wasn’t hidden on either side of the opening. The cell was dimly lit and he found it difficult to see. He would stay put until his eyes got accustomed to the light. A body, he saw a body. It was covered with a greatcoat, on the bunk facing the wall.

He was clearly supposed to think it was Kornfeld. In that case he’d be under the bunk waiting... But then that’s obvious too, so he might be on top with the guard pushed underneath. That made more sense – it would be easier for him to make an attack from on top – but, shit, wouldn’t that be what he wanted him to think?

To be sure of the kill, Adrik wanted to shoot above and below – but he couldn’t. How would he explain the soldier’s death? Oh, Otto, if only Otto was there to tell him what to do. But he wasn’t, he had to make up his own mind. The Jew was on top – yes, definitely on top.

Cautiously, he edged forward, pointed the pistol to the back of the person’s head and pulled the body towards him with gun steady and ready to fire. As quickly as his huge form allowed, he pulled the greatcoat away.

Fuck! The guard! No time to react. A leg came from under the bunk with incredible speed and wrapped around the back of his. At the same time, the Jew’s other foot came against his knees and pushed. Adrik had brought his legs together when he tore the coat away and Kornfeld used the imbalance to his advantage. Adrik’s arms went out. He hovered awkwardly, then almost regained control, but Kornfeld pushed harder and Adrik went flying backwards with his legs in the air. A sense of suspension ended and he fell heavily, striking the hard stone floor. His head bounced, shudders chased through his brain and he found himself staring at the ceiling, wavering between conscious and unconscious.

The pain pierced his skull and he noticed his head had rested in a pool of warm liquid. He hadn’t seen that when he came in. Numbness consumed his body; he couldn’t move. But then his blurred vision saw the bleary outline of the Jew. Awareness came that his body was being rolled over. He was paralyzed, but it didn’t stop the surge of fear that ran through every fibre of his being.

*

Jez saw the opportunity when Mayakovski’s legs came together. Now, following the success, he rolled the sergeant’s semi-conscious form face down into the pool of blood that had gushed from the back of his head. He pressed a knee between his shoulder blades, took the bloody head firmly between chin and scalp, pulled back and gave a sharp sideways twist. A crunch yielded to a snapping sound. Mayakovski’s neck had broken and his taut body went limp. It was done with time to spare before the change of guard.

He washed the bloodstains from his hands and then rolled Mayakovski onto his back. The sergeant’s face was smeared with blood that had clung like an oil slick to the sea. He looked as if he’d been skinned.

Jez rifled Mayakovski’s pockets and found a wallet stuffed with money, an ID card, cigarettes and matches, spare bullets, and a flick knife with a four-inch steel blade nested in a bone handle. He swished out the blade and closed it back into the handle. Everything could be used. He took the greatcoat from the young soldier and put it on, then removed the boy’s socks and boots. They were a fit, not good, but a fit.

Be positive: getting out wouldn’t be an impossible task. Maybe some had escaped Lubyanka and the pride of the KGB kept the fact concealed. If things had run in his favour, Mitrokhin would have kept quiet about the arrest. He had a chance; as long as he stayed positive, he had a chance.

Jez passed the interrogation rooms on the way through the poorly lit corridors and had no doubt now: this was Lubyanka prison. Two soldiers walked towards him as he neared street level, and his heart sank on recognizing one. A moment of terror – stay positive.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” the sergeant greeted. “You look a bit worse for wear.”

“Ah, Sergeant, yes, I must admit I’ve been better, and I’m still in the middle of the case. Some other time maybe.”

“Oh, yes, of course, sir, sorry, sir.”

“No problem, Sergeant. Goodnight.” He shuddered at the word: was it night?

“Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

He stepped out onto Dzerzhinski Square and took a deep breath of fresh air, filling his lungs to capacity. He could taste freedom. But then elation soured on hearing a couple of men behind him. One had an incredibly deep and gravelled voice. It couldn’t be – the Smersh interrogators?

They walked faster than him and in the same direction. Only seconds now from being stopped. He pulled up the collar of the greatcoat and let his head sink into his shoulders. The interrogators passed without looking his way.

The metro station would be the quickest way out of the city, but it wouldn’t be long before the clamor begun. He had to hurry. He clung to the Makarov like an infant with a dummy and walked at a pace that bordered on trotting.

Chapter 33

The evening had aged. Adrik should have killed Kornfeld and been back by now. What the fuck had happened down there? Otto paced, only stopping to swallow more vodka, or pour a fresh one. He looked at the contents of the glass and grimaced. With this little problem taken care of, and Petrichova believing the task over, he had to cut back. He drank too much and… What the fuck’s happened to Adrik?

A knock at the door brought an army lieutenant. Clever Adrik: he’d worked it through the regulars to make the net of collusion broader.

“Excuse me, Captain,” the officer began, “you have a prisoner in the lower cells.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “What about him?” He tried his utmost to stay calm, but renewed excitement bubbled in his stomach.

“I’m afraid he’s escaped, sir, and he murdered two soldiers in the process: the guard on cell duty and an unidentified Osnaz sergeant.”

He gasped. “Murdered… What, what do you mean, escaped? And what do you mean, unidentified sergeant? Quick man, for fuck’s sake get it out.”

Panic took a hold of his chest. Adrik!

“We can’t identify the sergeant. Other than the uniform, his body has been stripped, sir, even his ID.”

Tears bulged behind his eyes; he had to turn away to hide the involuntary crinkling in his face. Adrik was his best friend. And he worshipped the ground Otto walked on. Now he was dead, poor Adrik was dead. Anger pushed grief aside, the shock and pain dissolved and the cavernous void in his chest filled with fury and hatred.

“Do you know how long he’s been gone?” he asked, as he recovered composure. Whatever it took he would get that bastard, and when he did, he would die in terror. But for now think straight, for fuck’s sake, think straight, for Adrik.

“Yes, sir, an Osnaz sergeant saw him leave Lubyanka within the last hour.”

Otto slumped into his chair and considered events. What would Kornfeld do? He wouldn’t be able to charm anybody into believing his claims now, so he couldn’t run to Petrichova. He was a murderer on the run. His only realistic option was to get out of the Soviet collective, but before he could do that he needed to escape the city, and as quickly as he could, which meant the – metro.

“Right, get as many men together as you can muster: militia, internal security, everyone. I want the city’s metro stations flooded with soldiers, especially those within walking distance. And I mean flooded.” Otto’s mind raced. “He’ll be in one of them, but if he’s slipped that net he’ll have headed south. Make sure all militia posts from the south-east to the south-west of the city are notified. I want every terminal stop covered. Do it now.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer answered, shutting the door with a slam on the way out.

Otto pivoted on his chair, absorbing the relative finery of the office. For a soldier of his rank, this was about as good as it got; but with Adrik gone, none of it seemed to matter.

*

At Dzerzhinskaya, the nearest metro to Dzerzhinski Square, Jez huddled behind a heavy concrete pillar trying to keep out of sight. He hadn’t hidden there long when a blue train rolled up to the platform. His plan: use different trains to travel through to Yugo-Zapadnaya in south-west Moscow, and from there journey south to the Black Sea. He got on the blue train and thought about sitting tight, going to the terminus in one hit. But what if the military and militia searched the carriages? He got off after only one stop.

Prospekt Marksa was located just west of the Kremlin, a junction for numerous lines heading off in different directions. Escalators chugged round to different levels, pedestrian tunnels led off to various platforms. If his pursuers saw him, he’d have more avenues of escape. There were alternatives.

By now Mitrokhin would know about the death of his precious sergeant, so his outrage would almost certainly cause him to swamp every available avenue. Jez had to kill time, give the stampede a chance to ease off. It would be safer to stay in central Moscow and wander around the station complex. If he could go undetected for the rest of the evening, they would move the search further afield.

If soldiers were left to guard the platform he wanted, he could change his travel plans, use a safer track, head into the heart of an area with a heavy military presence, as he had with his sisters.

The city’s metro stations were considered by some as the most beautiful in the world, and this one was typical. Above his head, pre-formed tiles fitted together to make a single picture in an arched ceiling. Large globe lights dangled on the end of decorative black iron tubing and ornamental railings encompassed cavernous openings that made space for escalators to revolve on a personal journey to nowhere.

There were no bustling crowds in the tunnels, but enough people that he didn’t look conspicuous. He flitted between shadows and recesses for what seemed hours, his only conflict arising when he turned to look behind. An old lady had been in his path and he bumped into her. She wore a long heavy black coat down to her ankles. A black scarf covered most of her silver hair and framed a small wizened face. The two bags she carried looked too heavy and the contact he made nearly knocked them from her hands.

He dusted a hand down her arm. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. “I seem to get clumsier as I get older.”

The relief from her smiling took a weight from his shoulders.

“It’s living in the city,” she said. “No one has time to do anything but rush.”

For her part, she didn’t look like city, more like someone who’d spent a lifetime working the land. They made eye contact and she gave him an open, pleasant smile that revealed an almost toothless mouth on a face full of sun-kissed lines and wrinkles. A sympathetic smile, as if she felt sorry for him. He smiled graciously and hurried on. Could he really be looking that bad?

It became clear that his absence had been discovered when armed soldiers rushed through the tunnels towards the platforms, not noticing anything as they went. Just groups of men playing “follow my leader”, they probably thought he was already on a train and gone. But the numbers seemed endless and he knew it wouldn’t be just this station. It seemed that Mitrokhin had mobilized the whole of Moscow’s military for the task. And that was likely: his boy had just been killed.

Of course Jez had expected military presence, but not this many at one station. Mitrokhin had second-guessed him again. He had to pay attention to what the captain might be thinking. He’d gone through the same training, so Jez had to stop reasoning like a soldier – at least until he was clear of Moscow.

As he watched the units come and go, half an hour passed, the cover thinned and he felt it should be safe to go to the platform and resume his journey. He should get rid of the greatcoat on the way, he thought, they’d be looking for it… But it was cold and, without a jacket and having military clothing under, he’d stand out even more. No, take a chance, keep it on.

On the platform, he kept his head down, wove his way through a small crowd and waited near the tunnel from where the train would emerge. But then people at the entrance scattered and soldiers broke through their ranks. Dogs whined and barked. Jez trembled: they had dogs. As he slipped off the platform and onto the track below, he crouched, trying to keep out of sight while he entered the tunnel. He disappeared into the darkness and thought he’d got away with it, but a shot rang out and ricocheted off the wall to the right. The resonance from the gun panicked the crowd, and Jez got an extra few seconds to cover a safer distance.

He ran along the tunnel. The handlers didn’t release the dogs and he wasn’t followed. No time to think why. He sprinted towards the middle, stumbled along in the darkness and stopped about 200 metres along. Still no one had followed, and there were no more shots fired. Then he realized they couldn’t.

“They have to wait until the train system is brought to a halt.”

The clock was ticking. Soon those behind would follow and they would be met halfway by soldiers from the other end.

He dropped his pace, ran a hand along the damp and slimy wall, felt for anything that might be of use. But it would be difficult to climb up, even if there was something to get hold of.

A train came into the tunnel, thundering towards him. He pressed his back against the sludge and stared towards the oncoming engine. The front light lit up the gloom and he saw that an iron girder spanned the half circle of the cavern. Something at the top of the archway… what?… some kind of cable tray… the train passed.

He hastened to the iron support and gripped it with both hands: wet but no slime. He could do it. He had to do it. Transferring Mayakovski’s belongings to the clothing under the greatcoat, he took off the coat and threw it as far along the track as he could. The pistol pressed uncomfortably against his hip, so he moved it to the back of his waistband. A wet girder, but easy enough to shin up; he kept his feet on the ironwork so as not to leave marks on the mossy wall. He took a grip on the steel cable tray, and at almost half a metre wide it was bigger than it had appeared from below.

Thin edges cut into his fingers as he began hand-walking along the tray, moving away from where he’d climbed, in case he’d left tell-tale marks on the girder. From scuffed knuckles and nicks from the girder, blood ran down the back of his wrists. He worried it might drip to the ground and the dogs pick up on it.

When the time came, he would try to pull his feet up, grip the tray and press his body flat against it. A fragile hope, but from below he just might look to have melded into the framework. But the time for action came earlier than anticipated. Another train rumbled its way into the tunnel. If he didn’t get an immediate grip on the tray, it would hit him and all bets would be off. Fatigue from the previous day’s torture scuppered any idea of using his arms to pull his body up, so he swung back and forth and tried to hook his feet over, but he only kicked the tray and dropped back. The engine closed in and he dangled in its path.

The steelwork bit into his fingers: he couldn’t hold on much longer. One more effort; he had to muster enough spirit for one more effort. He swung again, and this time looped a foot onto the tray. With only moments to spare, he wrapped the other foot on the other side and the train boomed past below. The powerful suction almost dragged him with it.

With the carriages gone, he was about to let go his hold. But then it dawned on him: he’d wrapped both feet above the tray. Could there be a cavity big enough to force his body into? Strength came from an adrenaline rush and he pulled himself round, pushing his body into the void. A tight squeeze, but somehow he wedged himself between the cable and the roof. For the first time in his living memory, he was thankful not to be a big man. His only worry now was if he might still be visible from the ground. Exhausted and in need of rest, the cold damp shook him. He should move, limber up, get warmth to his muscles, but all he could do was wait it out.

Chapter 34

Silence – then the dogs screeched and barked their way along the track. Several got to the greatcoat and tore at the pockets. The handlers came and the foot soldiers followed. Flashlights shone along walls and roof and the soldiers stopped in a group while the handlers took control of the animals. More joined from the opposite end of the tunnel and the dogs barked at them while pulling on the leashes.

“The slime is scraped from the wall over here,” one shouted and a couple of the others went to him.

A sergeant said, “He probably leaned against it to avoid the trains when they came through.”

“Yes, the back of this trench coat is covered with it,” a handler agreed.

“There’s a finger trail in the slime here,” another said loudly.

Jez watched, his insides shivering through his body, but he had to keep still at all cost. And then, “Over here,” a searcher shouted.

The soldier was directly below where he was hidden.

“What is it?”

“A Makarov PM – KGB standard issue.”

The pistol! Jez almost reached for his waistband, but thought better of it. Idiot, the gun had obviously fallen from his trousers when he swung for a foothold. Where else could it have come from?

Focusing on the roof near to where he was, the group shone torches – so many that Jez felt as if he’d died and was being drawn into the light.

“I think there’s a chance he’s somehow jumped one of the trains while we waited for permission to enter.”

“I don’t see how he could’ve done that when they’re going so fast. It’s as likely the ground opened and swallowed him; he is KGB after all.”

They laughed and some began walking away, but the sergeant halted them. “Where do you think you’re going?” he shouted as if on the parade ground. “This man has murdered a young soldier and a sergeant. Do not treat this lightly. I want you to return to your own platforms and light up this tunnel as you go. If there’s anywhere to hide, roof or wall, I want to know about it.” He shone his torch at the ceiling, almost blinding Jez with the light. “A man couldn’t get behind the cable trays here, but you don’t know that’s true in other parts of the tunnel. Check everything thoroughly on your way back.”

The group moved off in fragments and the sergeant stayed where he was until the glare of the torches had disappeared.

The previous days caught up with Jez and his spirits flagged. He’d been tortured, his friend murdered, and he’d killed an innocent guard. Now, he was a hunted man and his trackers were probably on shoot to kill orders.

His muscles cramped where the cold damp had worked its way in. As much as was possible in the confined space, he practiced muscle manipulation. Time passed and a train rumbled into the tunnel. The service had resumed.

Painfully, he swung back under the cable tray, moved hand by hand along to the girder and shinned down. They’d taken the gun, but not the coat. A good shake and he slipped into it. The dogs had torn it around the pockets, but if he could get to street level it might go unnoticed. That train should’ve been the last of the day, so he’d try to rest. He wrapped the coat tight and snuggled into foetal position until warmth took the ache away.

Two trains passed in quick succession. It was morning, and he had to move. He trudged as close as he dared to the platform and pressed against the slimy walls. It was time for another round of waiting. Another blue train rolled past and stopped. A couple of soldiers were on guard, so he crept along the blind side of the coach and slid under the Solebar onto the chassis.

The train pulled away and he watched the guards monitor as it did. If there were sentinels at this station, they would be at most of them. Yugo-Zapadnaya was a terminus, so going that far was no longer an option. He’d get off at the first unguarded stop.

*

Near freezing, he rolled from the train’s framework onto the tracks at Leninskie Gory and crept to the end of the platform. No guards that he could see, so he discreetly joined the commuters and felt lucky to emerge from the station unseen.

On the street, the cold fresh air brought life to his face; and enough people pounded the pavements for him to go unnoticed. Then he caught sight of himself in a window. At best, he would pass as a hobo. He needed to change persona. The use of trams wouldn’t be a good idea; tramps never seemed to hurry anywhere. But he needed to put some distance between him and the city without detection. How? The nearest public baths – if he changed appearance enough, he could use public transport.

*

“What on earth happened to you, Private?” the attendant asked.

Private – so he didn’t look like a tramp.

“I assume you’re a private: the coat is dirty.”

“Yes, I’m a private – and dirty, as you say. You obviously haven’t heard about the overnight commotion. I thought the whole of Moscow would’ve known by now.”

The attendant shook his head.

“We chased a fugitive into the metro tunnels and I fell off the platform. That’s how I got the injuries, but I wasn’t finished there. I tripped on the track and fell against the slimy walls.”

The attendant seemed to have trouble not laughing.

“And did you catch your fugitive?”

“No, and I couldn’t go back to barracks to clean up. I had almost left for a four-day furlough – my parents are expecting me – but the KGB wanted every available man and I was dragged into the chase at the last minute.” He spread his arms, palms upward. “Now here I am trying to make myself presentable before my mother sees me.”

The attendant handed him a towel, a wafer-thin tablet of soap – used – and a robe. “I’m sure you’ll look good as new by the time you’ve cleaned up.”

Jez bathed, wallowing in the warmth of the water, and tried to forget – everything. After drying, he brushed off his clothing; and while he didn’t look as good as new, he might just about pass for normal.

He caught a tram south towards the city suburbs.

*

Anna stared out across to the Kremlin’s perimeter walls. The remains of an early frost covered Red Square with an icing sugar beauty, but the view held less of a chill than the atmosphere in General Petrichova’s office. Again, she’d been asked to observe at a meeting between him and Mitrokhin. The captain waited outside now and the general wasn’t happy about it.

She’d not long heard of Jez’s arrest and subsequent escape. But his alleged transgression was of no concern to her. His safety was her only worry. In her heart she hoped never to let him down again. Now she was about to face Mitrokhin. Yuk, just the thought of the man increased the distaste she felt for him.

“You can show Mitrokhin in now, Lieutenant,” the general ordered.

He entered and saluted – nonchalantly.

“Captain Mitrokhin, you know Lieutenant Puchinsky.” Mitrokhin nodded without interest. “You know she is my aide, but she will take on the task of running a parallel investigation to yours an…”

He looked appalled. “Parallel investigation, investigation into what? I was under the impression we were hunting down a killer who’d operated a slave trade. Frankly, I don’t see that there’s much to investigate. I think my inquiry up to the point of Kornfeld’s capture is evidence enough to send him to hell.”

“Yes, I’ve read the reports, Captain, and you can probably back them up. But we can’t assume that because one man is exposed, the problem will go away. The trafficking operation has to be stopped. I want to know how long it’s been going on, how many girls are missing, and where they are now. And I want his accomplices – all of them.” Petrichova stood and his face reddened as if building up a head of steam. “And don’t you ever interrupt me when I speak.”

Mitrokhin shrank back and the smug expression choked on his face. “No, General, I beg your pardon, sir, please excuse me. Kornfeld is responsible for killing two of my partners and I’ve been obsessed with thoughts of recapturing him. I realize the trafficking case isn’t closed and I will be only too happy to share my findings with Puchinsky.”

The general’s eyes slatted and he brought a hand to his chin. “Your two partners… Maybe you can give me a little insight into Sergeant Sharansky’s death? Why would Kornfeld kill him? My understanding was they were close friends as well as old colleagues.”

Clearly ready for the question, Mitrokhin’s self-assurance returned. “As far as I’m concerned, it shows his vices are more important to him.”

Anna could see the general wasn’t convinced – and listening to that bullshit, neither was she.

“You say you worked alongside Sharansky: how did he feel about investigating his friend?”

“I wasn’t inside his head, but he seemed comfortable with the situation, sir.”

“Before you go, tell me, how long was Kornfeld detained before his escape? I gave express orders that I should be kept informed, and you didn’t tell me of his arrest. Why?”

Mitrokhin nodded, all knowing. “I arrested him two days before he escaped. I told no one, because I wasn’t sure who could be trusted. Of course I don’t mean you, sir.” He shifted his glare to Anna. “But I thought that if information filtered out, it might have gone to the wrong people.”

“If you are given an order to keep me informed, then keep me informed. Do we understand one another, Captain?” The general was usually composed, but Anna could see he was losing it.

Mitrokhin on the other hand seemed to be on a roll of conceit. “I think we do, yes, sir.”

The general calmed. “That will be all.”

The captain left and Petrichova slumped back in the chair.

“What are your thoughts about him now, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“My judgment hasn’t changed, General. He’s economical with the truth, and the reason he gave for not telling you of the arrest is plausible; but he could also have wanted to beat a false confession out of the lieutenant before the detention went public. If you were right with your initial thoughts, then the latter part of my opinion seems more likely.”

“Maybe, but I think the evidence against Kornfeld is damning. My thoughts are along the lines that they were in on it together and fell out.”

Anna didn’t agree: he was wrong. “Yes, sir, but you must remember that the evidence against Lieutenant Kornfeld has been accrued by the captain. If Mitrokhin is corrupt, then that evidence could be fabricated to deflect suspicion.”

He looked at her from under a scrunched forehead. “Yes, Lieutenant, but you must remember that the regular soldier on guard had nothing to do with Mitrokhin, and Mitrokhin wasn’t attached to the unit when Kornfeld smuggled his sisters out of…” He stopped. “Humph, nevertheless, what you say may be right and I would prefer to see it that way… Very well, I’ll remain open-minded until something unfolds.”

Chapter 35

Otto left the Kremlin spitting nails. He thought it was all wrapped up with nowhere to go. Should’ve been too... and would’ve been if not for that fucking Petrichova. Why, for Christ’s sake? Now he had to cover his tracks.

The flesh trade had become dead wood for starters. If that Puchinsky bitch had any luck with her investigation, the trail could end up on his doorstep. No, he had to get rid of it. And Irishka wouldn’t help either. Their fundamental rule of engagement: if in trouble, watch your own back.

A plan came to mind as he crossed the square back to Lubyanka. First, he’d arrange a meeting with Vladislav Nabokovski, and then work out how to present his change of heart.

*

One day, only twenty-four hours later, and already Nabokovski wanted to see him. Either he was keen to get his hands on the business or – shit – Boris. Otto sauntered through the old bohemian quarter, keeping his pace slow, taking his time to work out the angles.

In Arbat Street, an open-backed lorry thundered past at the far end. The roar startled him. The truck ran over an uneven surface and the Ushanka rabbit-skin hats on the militiamen in the back bobbed erratically. Probably off to another demonstration. There’d been quite a few lately: fucking Jews wanting to go to their promised land – fucks.

The thought evaporated as he turned off into Serebriany Lane, named after the silver coins fashioned for the mint by craftsmen who used to live and work there. About halfway down the lane lay the Belarus café. Nabokovski sat out at a pavement table with one of his minders standing over him. Otto realized he’d left it too long. Nabokovski had specifically said not to take too long about it. And the Boris situation could be a problem, more of a problem than he cared to think about.

Two glasses and a bottle of Kubanskaya Vodka were set out on the table. Otto stared at the label: a Cossack soldier dressed in black and mounted on a white horse... Never mind that shit, why was Nabokovski outside in this weather? Everywhere was covered in frost – he was either mad or macho. Humph, both equated to the same thing.

A couple of tables along, two elderly men played chess. Wrapped up for winter, unmindful of the cold, they seemed oblivious to all but their game of war. Shoppers hurried by, trying to finish errands before the chill worked its way in. Other than those brave few, the area was clear. Nabokovski looked up. An expression of surprise crossed his face, as if Otto wasn’t expected.

“Otto,” he said, thin pale lips cutting into a barely visible smile. “While I’m glad to see you, I thought it would have been sooner, especially as I had said not to think too long.”

Otto shook Nabokovski’s hand, embraced him and kissed him on each cheek.

“Yes, I know, Vladislav, but it’s worth the wait. I tried getting to you earlier, but as you may know there’s been trouble at headquarters.”

“The only thing I know about trouble is that my man Boris is dead. And the whisper on the street says you’re responsible.”

“Well, the whisper is wrong. But I do know who the guilty party is.” He looked about and appreciated how easy it would be for Nabokovski to make a hit outside.

“Then why take so long before coming to me?”

“The generals have everyone watching everyone else. Until now my seeing you has been impossible.”

No, surely if they planned a hit Nabokovski wouldn’t have turned up. He’d have left it to his minions. Relax.

“Sit, have a drink, we’ll talk.”

He poured two, swallowed one, and refilled the glass. Otto sipped slowly.

“So if it wasn’t you, then who?”

“Someone in my department – an officer moved in from Spetsnaz. Somehow he found out about the business and made a takeover bid.”

Otto emptied his glass and picked up the bottle. “May I?” Nabokovski gave a single nod and Otto poured slowly, pondering on getting his story straight. “He went to the South Moscow area and brought pressure down on my people, and yours as it turned out. A clumsy assault ended with him killing Boris and then Adrik. He screwed up so badly that he even killed his own partner – and a regular soldier who had nothing to do with the operation. Now he’s on the run with half the Soviet Army on his trail.”

“And his name is?”

“Kornfeld, he’s a Jew. If you have doubts about what I’m telling you, there are official reports. I can get you copies.”

“That won’t be necessary, Otto, of course I believe you. A Jew, in Spetsnaz, why would you make up such a silly thing?” He laughed and the tension mellowed. “And all this trouble is why you want to sell the business? Well, I’m still interested but the price has just dropped.”

Otto shuffled his feet under the table. Nabokovski hadn’t cared about Boris. The crafty bastard just wanted the business for a give-away sum.

“I must admit, Vladislav, they are the reasons, but not because the operation is under scrutiny. Just the opposite: the department is under the impression it’s sorted, so it’s safe enough for an outsider. No, my main motive is that another investigation has started and even I am being looked at. It seems that corruption is everywhere, even in the very foundation of our illustrious military ranks.” They laughed mockingly.

“Good, okay, but that doesn’t change what I’ve said about the price.”

“It seems to me that I don’t have an alternative.”

“No, Otto, you don’t.”

Otto gave Nabokovski details of Kornfeld and haggled for the business, but folded almost on the first price offered. He made the excuse of being cold, shivered unhappily and left.

In Arbat Street a spring came into his step and the elation superseded his fears. It was done. Any future moves by the military would be against Nabokovski. For his part, he would chip away at some of the pimps to keep Petrichova happy. The imminent peril had been removed. But that didn’t mean that Adrik’s death could be pushed aside. Now he had time on his hands he would get even. He would go after the Jew.

But first things first: he had to visit Mother. His feet trailed the sidewalk as he made his way to the institute. He’d never realized before how much he’d enjoyed teasing Adrik about these visits.

Chapter 36

Jez woke to the sound of heavy vehicles thundering by his window. He looked at Mayakovski’s watch: ten in the morning. He’d slept for eleven hours, a heavy sleep that was yet to let go of his muscles. Consciousness brought throbbing pain, and he had nothing to wash in. Why had he chosen such a dump when Mayakovski’s wallet was packed to bursting? If the military searched the area, they would be as likely to include a fleapit as a decent lodging. Taking a filthy room had been a mistake.

The greatcoat was on the floor: he saw it and remembered the logic. The landlord of better class rooms would’ve reported him to the authorities. He sat on the wrinkled, grey sheets and stubbed his thumb on a bug. The hard shell cracked and the demon exploded under the pressure.

“Pull your thoughts together,” he said. But his mind blanked; he couldn’t think of his location or how he’d got there. “Kapotnya, I got as far as Kapotnya in south-east Moscow.”

Memories oozed into his consciousness.

“And there are bathing facilities, a communal washroom in the backyard.”

He came back indoors shivering. “I slept heavily,” he said to the old woman who’d rented him the room. “I can’t remember if I paid for breakfast.”

She laughed. “Not very worldly, are you? If I was to say no, you’d have to pay again. But I don’t take advantage of comrades down on their luck. Yes, you paid; come and eat.”

She stood in the doorway and watched him tuck into a scant Borsch and a piece of stale black bread. He ignored her.

On the other hand, he had to get rid of the greatcoat and get hold of civilian clothing. He smiled, and winced having aggravated the pain in his face. “Are there any second-hand markets in the area?” he asked.

She stood straight, pressed a finger against the outside of her nose and sniffed hard to clear a nostril. “Yes, there’s a flea market today, on the southern outskirts of the district.”

With the morning nearly gone he left the lodgings. He was headed south anyway, so the flea market wouldn’t put him off track. Without too much effort, he could still be in Tula by day’s end. By then the search would thin out.

The woman’s directions were good and he came to open scrubland where the market was in full flow. Knee-high tables were strung out in rows. He wandered between them and rummaged through the stalls. China dolls fashioned as peasant girls, snuffboxes with pictures of pre-Revolution rustic scenes on the lids and copies of Fabergé eggs incongruently depicting fairytale scenes – all of it useless to him – to anyone. The next stall had brass urns and oil lamps – again no use. But then he came to a table selling old army issue. He bought a wash bottle and mess tin combo, and moved on to a new row where he found a second-hand clothes stall.

“Let me try on that black leather jacket and this check shirt,” he said, and pointed to the jacket, while holding a washed out shirt against his chest.

The hawker rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. “Are you buying the clothes or is this a lead into selling me the greatcoat?”

Jez wondered why he’d asked that or, more worryingly, how he’d known that. “Both. I have money, but have no need for the coat.”

The vendor smiled: “Ah, another soldier on the run from conscription.”

“I wish; I’m much too old to be a conscript,” he said.

“Well, even with the bruising, you don’t look it.”

Jez smiled appreciatively but felt anxious. He didn’t need people analyzing him, or his injuries.

In a pile of old garments, he then found a pair of dark trousers. They were a fit. He agreed to pay too high a price and, after hearing a few titters from women as he changed, hurried away wearing the trousers, checked shirt and leather jacket. At least he looked the same as everyone else and could take public transport without scrutiny; things were about to get easier.

But as he cleared the scrubland, someone yelled, “Hey!”

He turned to see where the noise came from, and saw the clothes vendor pointing him out to a policeman. The officer had got off his pedal bike and aimed his rifle at Jez.

There was an alley across the road, always good for a quick getaway. The policeman wouldn’t shoot, it was too urban. He ran… but was out of luck. A dead end with only a fire escape dangling tantalizingly overhead. He jumped, but it was out of reach. Back outside the entrance, he came face to face with the militiaman. The vendor had left and the officer waited patiently.

“Put your hands up and walk to me,” he said.

He turned Jez to face away, legs open, hands on head and, patting him down, found the knife. Apparently satisfied, he nudged Jez towards the market to where his fallen bicycle lay. The vendor leant against his stall, grinning. Jez almost reacted, but the militiaman noticed, poked him with the rifle and marched him away.

He was a young officer, not unlike the soldier he’d killed when escaping Lubyanka. But no, not really, the only thing the young men actually had in common was that Jez couldn’t remain in custody. He had to escape, or he would die.

The officer balanced the rifle on the crossbar while pointing it at Jez. He had to be careful: even the rawest of recruits could pull a trigger. They walked through a maze of concrete Plattenbaus, and on several occasions the boy gave Jez a gentle reminder not to try anything. As he did, Jez observed the body language. The officer lifted his head back as he spoke. A weakness Jez could exploit.

Jez watched: when the young man warned him again he smashed the side of his hand into the officer’s larynx. The bicycle and the rifle dropped away and the young man clutched at his throat with both hands. He fell to his knees, gasped, choked and fought to pull air into his lungs.

The militiaman still spat blooded bubbles as Jez frisked him. “I’m sorry, but it was you or me.” He retrieved the knife, took his ID, money and, more importantly, a single action Tokarev TT pistol from the flapped holster. “And for me, that’s a no-contest.”

The rifle was no good to him, but leaving it might only get him as far as a bullet in the back. He bent the barrel in a drain and thought of Viktor: one of his tricks. Right, ready to leave, and he almost did, but looking at the officer he decided to take the overcoat and Ushanka hat. Circumstances had changed again and he might well need the extra warmth.

He dropped the earflaps of the Ushanka and sped off on the bicycle. He needed to put distance between him and the suburb, and as quickly as possible.

*

After a couple of hours’ hard pedalling, he eased the pace and thought things through. How could Mitrokhin have known about him getting his sisters out? No one knew. And the captain must have believed evidence existed, or why try to kill him? There had to be something… he pulled hard on the brakes and nearly went sailing over the handlebars.

“Rula Korbet!”

Rula and her mother, Adelaida: they could testify that he and Viktor had worked together. At last, an oversight in Mitrokhin’s plan. But if the captain had the same thought after Jez’s escape, he’d have already taken measures. No, he couldn’t think like that. He had to put his trust in the belief that Mitrokhin had played safe when he tried to assassinate him, and no more. Otherwise, not only would the Korbets be in danger, but the proof would be gone.

But then more misery hit him. Even if he could vindicate himself up until the arrest, how could he possibly justify killing the cell guard? With regard to that crime, he was guilty as charged. He bounced from one decision to another: run, stay, or… he thought of Viktor. Could he really walk away, let his friend’s murderers go free? No, he didn’t think so.

He needed somewhere to stay for tonight, to think out a new strategy. Another stint on the pedals brought a small forest into view – that would do. The autumn trailed his movements; deciduous trees shed summer finery in readiness for winter hibernation, and conifers dropped cones on the forest floor in their perpetual ritual of propagation. Pine needles had mixed with fallen leaves to provide a soft carpet underfoot.

Three fallen Arolla pines lay side by side near the centre of the woods, as if rafted together. They must have toppled in a storm and, not being able to hold each other up, fell together. Whatever their story, they’d not been there long. Jez scooped a nest out in the soft ground under the trees. It would give him warmth and security for one, maybe two nights.

Time was on his side, he felt, and he took several days to rest and regain strength, living primitively from the land. An early snow had fallen and would impede his pursuers. Now he had clear intentions in mind. Carry on with the journey to Tula. Leave a calling card to say he’d been there, so that Mitrokhin would believe he was still headed south. On arrival at Tula, change direction west; head for the border town of Smolensk. Smolensk had a different administration and it was unlikely that Mitrokhin would have friends there. In Smolensk, he would go to KGB headquarters and give himself up to Petrichova. He would secure justice for Viktor, whatever the cost.

Occasionally he doubled back to make sure he wasn’t trailed; he cycled the 40 kilometers to Serpukhov, an old town on the junction of the rivers Oka and Nara. By now no longer did his muscles verge on seizure, no longer was his body constrained by pain, and no longer was he rigid with tension.

He reached the town limits. It was rural: even the local Kremlin and neighbouring churches were surrounded by greenery. But as with many of the towns and cities in the Moscow suburbs, intensive urbanization had Plattenbaus hedging the skyline. Clean habits in the forest kept him free of infection, but he needed a room, a bath and a change of clothes. If he assumed Mayakovski’s identity, he could get what he needed and leave a footprint at the same time.

In the foyer of the Hotel Sachi on the main street, he swaggered over to the receptionist. The greatcoat had been left behind in the forest, so there was nothing military about him, and the clothes from the market were proletarian. He would need to bluff his way through.

He unzipped his leather jerkin and slapped the ID card on the counter. “Mayakovski,” he said. “I need a room for two nights – now!”

“Yes, sir,” the receptionist answered, and ran a finger down the register. “I don’t see the name Mayakovski here. We are just about full; have you booked, sir?” she asked.

“What?” he screamed, loud enough to draw attention from anyone and everyone in the lobby.

A man at the opposite side of the entrance hall heard the fuss and rushed over. A guest with a copy of Pravda peeped round the side of the newssheet for a sneak view of the action. Four or five people milled around the lobby. They stopped what they were doing to watch. Jez glared and they simultaneously spotted something on the carpet.

“Is there a problem, Odette?” the man asked.

“The only problem,” Jez interrupted, “is I’m still waiting for a room key.”

“I’m the manager here, maybe I can help. Have you booked, sir?” he asked.

“Not you as well, no I haven’t booked,” he yelled. “Look, if I can’t get a room when needed, how can I do my job?”

The manager looked at Mayakovski’s ID and, clearly unwilling to be drawn into dispute, condescended. “Odette, give the gentleman one of the held rooms, please,” he said. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us, sir,” and abruptly returned to whatever he’d been doing at the other side of the lobby.

The nervousness of the girl increased as she shakily sorted out room keys. Jez signed the register, Adrik Mayakovski, and snatched the key from Odette’s hand. He turned away indignantly without a thank you.

The communal bathroom was at the end of the corridor. He commandeered it and luxuriated in a hot bath. His head wound had healed well, which was not much in the greater scheme of things, but at least he didn’t have to worry about it.

The following day he went into town and bought a small holdall and a three-quarter-length ski jacket with a hood. There’d been a heavy overnight snowfall that brought a new worry: the buses might not be running. But luck rode high: there was a bus due to leave for Tula.

With forehead pressed against the window, they pulled out of the terminus and Jez smiled to himself. By the time the hotel manager realized he wouldn’t be paid for the room, the culprit would be far gone. His action would be enough to merit the incident being reported to the authorities and subsequently, because he’d used Mayakovski’s name, it would be followed up by Mitrokhin.

By late afternoon, the bus pulled into the Tula depot and Jez disembarked. A vendor put a hand on his arm. Jez turned and glowered.

“Never, ever touch me,” he yelled.

He took hold of the man, under his chin, and pinned him to the wall. A man who’d been standing nearby rushed over.

“Do you really think that’s necessary?” he asked. “He’s only a comrade trying to make a living like the rest of us.”

Jez let go of the vendor and grabbed the newcomer by the lapels. “You dare interrupt me? I am Sergeant Adrik Mayakovski of Osnaz security services. I am on a mission and I do not expect peasants to manhandle me. Anyway, who do you think you are?” he asked.

“I’m Rudolf Attaturk, Mayor of the province of Tula, and I don’t believe you bullying this man can be justified, whatever mission you might be on. And you can take your hands off me – now!”

“Oh, okay, so you’re the mayor,” he said bullishly, but let go of the lapels and backed off.

“Yes, I am, and may I ask what your intentions are here? Will you be staying overnight?”

“No, I’m on my way south, to Belgorod.”

“Then please, Sergeant Mayakovski,” he said, “don’t let me detain you.”

Disconcerted, Jez slinked over to the Belgorod bus stop. If only everything went this well: another confrontation reported. He waited ten minutes for the sake of possible observers, but the vendor had moved on and the mayor couldn’t be seen. All was safe. He made his way to the railway station and caught a train to Smolensk. From here on in, his guise would be that of Private Glebska, the militiaman he’d disabled at the Kapotnya flea market.

With the intention of telephoning Petrichova from the KGB building in Smolensk, he stood across the street for an hour and watched. He decided it was safe to go in, but nearing the entrance, a couple of agents he knew from Moscow came out of the main door. He ducked his head and veered off along the street. That wasn’t expected, he was still too close. But just how far would he have to travel to be safe? There was no way of knowing, but the next nearest major city was Minsk. He would travel to Minsk.

Chapter 37

Otto waited for Andrei Peskivich, Adrik’s replacement, to drive the 1966 Volga GAZ 21 around to the front of the Lubyanka building.

Wandering back and forwards he thought of Adrik, as the cold morning stole in. Large snowflakes fell gently, small avalanches built and drifted from the peak of his cap. “Hurry up, Andrei, for fuck’s sake. I’m freezing,” he muttered, clapping his hands together.

The car drew up. Otto stamped his brogues, shook his cap and climbed into the front.

“First stop Kapotnya,” he said.

Andrei nodded and pulled away with care, but a gear shift in slippery conditions caused a surge. The rear of the vehicle snaked one way and then the other before straightening its path.

“Whoa, gently does it,” Otto smiled. “Should’ve fitted the snow chains.”

Overnight snow lay thick and virginal and crunched under the tyres. The car’s heater blew at full fan, but the de-misters failed to prevent frost from drawing leaf-like pictures on the windscreen. Andrei rubbed circles with the back of his glove.

Otto had taken possession of this vehicle when he’d transferred to Moscow. Now he sank into the seat and thought of Adrik.

“Adrik loved this car,” he said, to himself as much as anything.

The car was built with a bullet-proof engine and had sleek bodywork as elegant as the American cars he’d seen in Cuba. He watched wistfully as the windscreen wipers built ever-growing mounds of flakes at the base of the window.

Andrei smiled, leaned forward, and squinted through the least frosted part of the screen.

A minute passed. “It’s been a long time since we were together.”

“Must be eight or nine years now.”

“More like twelve.”

“Shit, no, time flies whether you’re having fun or not.”

Andrei sniggered. “Remember when we got together, me, you and Adrik, ready to change the face of Spetsnaz?”

“Yes,” Otto grinned ruefully. “Didn’t take long for us to realize there was more money to be made changing the face of military protocol instead.”

He turned to look at Andrei. There had always been some sort of electric charge between them, which was why he chose to partner Adrik when the trio was split up. Andrei had given him strange feelings that made him uncomfortable. The way his father reared him, it was the last kind of avenue he would venture down.

Andrei laughed, his hands jittered and the car veered slightly. “Whoops. Those were the days. Everything’s so intense now – and losing Adrik… How many tours did the three of us do together?”

“Two before we got caught with our hands in the till, and then one more before General Irishka split us up.”

“Irishka was a godsend. And his guidance has made more money than we could have dreamt of.”

“And it’s thanks to him you’re sitting there now. A quick word and voilà, before I could catch my breath there you were.”

Otto needed space, so stared out of the side window. Talk of the old days brought memories of Adrik. If he’d been sat next to him now, Otto knew he’d have to tell him what they were up to for the second time round and then again later. With that in mind, he should tell Andrei for a first time.

“I phoned ahead and asked that the assaulted policeman come in for duty this morning.”

“I’m still not up to speed, Otto.”

“I need to be sure we’re chasing Kornfeld and not some insignificant absconder.”

“Oh, right, yes, of course. I know you hate Kornfeld for what he’s done, Otto, but don’t let him turn into a monster. Think of our model. Nothing is personal, the business is what matters. You know that, I know that, and more importantly, Adrik knew that.”

“Yes, you’re right, Andrei,” he said, but whatever the cost he had every intention of leveling the score.

Because of the treacherous conditions they arrived at Kapotnya much later than expected. Wherever the Jew was, Otto could only hope he had endured the same disadvantages.

After stamping his way into the police station, he found a young sergeant at the desk. “I’m here to see Officer Glebska,” Otto said, and clouds of misted air expelled from his mouth.

The desk sergeant looked up. “Oh yes, sir, you must be Captain Mitrokhin. Please, come this way.”

The sergeant took Otto to an office at the back of the building, empty except for a large wood burner in the corner and three chairs gathered round it. Two soldiers sat huddled up. One, presumably Glebska, had his neck heavily wrapped in bandages and a face drawn and gaunt. His sunken eyes were crazy-paved with red lines, and bloodshot in the corners. The other soldier stood and saluted.

“Officer Glebska’s throat is badly injured. He can’t talk, so maybe I can translate for him, sir.”

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary,” he said, and concentrated on Glebska. “Your conduct is commendable, Officer Glebska. I’m here because I need to know if the bastard in this picture and the man who assaulted you are one and the same.”

Otto showed Glebska a photograph. Glebska looked at it and his eyes went like saucers. He nodded furiously, too furiously, both hands reaching to his throat. Otto beamed – he was on the right track.

“I hope you get him, sir,” the assistant said.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll get him.”

He put a hand under Andrei’s arm and eased him from the room.

“This was the Jew without doubt. Now let’s hope we have the same luck in Serpukhov and Tula. If we do, we’ll have a line on him, Andrei. We’ll have that bastard.”

“Otto, you’re getting too involved. Someone else can as easily…”

“Andrei… we’ll handle it.”

*

Another arduous trail brought them to the front of the Hotel Sachi in Serpukhov. In the lobby, a man approached.

“I’m the manager here. Are you Captain Mitrokhin?”

No time for pleasantries. “Yes, I believe someone who called himself Mayakovski stayed here?”

“Yes, this way,” he said.

He took Otto to reception and showed him the entry in the register.

Otto sighed. “The real Adrik Mayakovski has been murdered, probably by the man impersonating him.” He took out the photograph. “Was this him?”

The manager studied it. “Well, it’s very like him, in fact it probably is, but then… I don’t know; there are differences.”

“What, you think there’s a chance it might not be him?” Hopes faltered.

“No, no, I’m not saying that, but the man had a very dark growth of facial hair. Not much more than thick stubble, but enough to make it difficult to be definite.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Yes, his left eye and cheek were yellowed from bruising, enough to change his looks from this. And the man in the picture has his head shaven. The one staying here had short, thick hair.”

The bruises, the stubble, his hair had grown a little, it was him all right, but he had to be sure. He took a pencil from the desk and shaded the picture to fit the manager’s description.

“And what about now: is this more like him?”

“Oh yes, definitely, that’s your man. He doesn’t look it, but he’s a mean…”

“Yes… I know him. Thanks for your help, Comrade, it’s appreciated.” He turned to Andrei. “We have the Tula sighting to follow up, but we’ll have to take lodgings there. With the snow like it is, we’ll be lucky to make it before dark.”

And he was right. The snow got heavier, so much so that the car skidded and swerved. The snow banks ploughed from the main road were all that stopped them going into a ditch. No damage done, but it frustrated Otto.

“Fuck! Out of the car, Andrei, I’ll drive the final lap.”

“Suit yourself.”

They swapped seats, and he used the back of his leather glove to scrape the soft ice from inside the window.

“Look up or down, everywhere is white. You need a break before we cause some real damage. Rest your eyes.”

They got directions to the mayor’s residence in Tula. Dark already, but they went straight over to show him the photographs.

“Yes, that’s definitely your man,” he said. “If you catch up with him go carefully, he could be dangerous.”

“You say you saw him at the bus station. Did you see which bus he caught?”

“Didn’t need to, he told me he was on his way to Belgorod,” Attaturk said.

Otto felt his face scrunch in surprise. “What, he just told you?”

“After I stopped him bullying a vendor at the bus depot, I asked him his intentions.”

“And he told you he was going to Belgorod?”

“Yes, he seemed to get agitated when he found out I was the mayor.”

In the car, Otto shook his head, it didn’t feel right. “I don’t like it, Andrei. Kornfeld has almost as much experience as us. I don’t know, seems a little bit too much information. The trail he’s left is too easy. I mean, would he really be this clumsy?”

“You know him best, Otto, but for me, if I was on the run from a death squad, maybe I wouldn’t be as clever as I am in the field.”

“I suppose… yes, probably,” he agreed, but wasn’t convinced.

They took rooms in the best hotel in Tula. Otto shaved and showered, but couldn’t shake the Jew from his mind. What was he up to, leaving a trail like that? Whatever it was he must… he froze and his mind went into a spin. A trap, the little fuck was setting him up for a hit. He would lure him into an ambush and kill him. But just as quickly the fear subsided. No, Kornfeld couldn’t know who would follow up the trail. Otto could have sent any of his subordinates to check out the leads.

No, the Jew had gone into a blind panic, as Andrei had suggested… or was he laying a false trail to cover his true destination? Reconsider. Would he try contacting Petrichova? No, Otto had told him that the general had washed his hands of him when he was in interrogation. He’d believe his ties were cut there. So, if he’d left the clues intentionally, then he wanted his pursuers to think he was going south – but if not, where? Not west, too much military checking identification; and it would be the same if he headed for Leningrad. Would he go east again, as he had with his family? True enough, he could pick up the River Volga at a lower point and bypass Saratov, but that would mean longer on Soviet soil than he’d want. Then if he played a double bluff, he would carry on south through the Ukraine. East or south, either way would lead him to the Black Sea. And as a soldier, Otto would also choose one of those routes.

So, he was headed for the Black Sea. Before he left Tula, Otto would arrange extra manpower on every river jetty south of Volgograd and a red alert at all Black Sea ports. The mayor told him the Jew was going to Belgorod, so he would take Andrei there and check it out.

Chapter 38

Minsk, Belarus

The journey from Smolensk left the snow in its wake. Jez left the railway station and was greeted by a crisp, dry cold that brought life back to a body weary of travel. Military presence seemed low, safe enough for the meantime, but he had an uneasy feeling it wouldn’t last.

The Hotel Sofia on Masherov Avenue looked suitable for his needs, but first he would walk the Svislach River embankment, to make sure he hadn’t picked up security interest at the station. A bitter, cold breeze swept across the surface of the water. A light flurry of snow came from nowhere. Not long now till the small ice floes would bob like white rocks on the frigid river. He shivered and moved on.

Happy he hadn’t been followed, he went back to Masherov Avenue. On the way, snow changed to sleet and then to hail. The wind picked up, came at him horizontally, and the hard pellets battered into his face. By the time he entered the hotel lobby he looked like an iceman. The girl at the reception desk smiled sympathetically.

“I’d like a room for a couple of nights, maybe more. Do you have vacancies?” he asked.

“Oh yes, sir, we’re rarely full at this time of year. Could I have your name, please?”

“What? Oh yes, of course. Glebska, Ivan Glebska.”

He would enter KGB headquarters as Sergeant Mayakovski, but if he had to run, Glebska would be his bolthole.

The receptionist wrote the name and turned the register to him for signature. “I need your ID please, sir.”

He gave her Glebska’s papers and dropped his head to sign the book. The girl had put them back on the counter by the time he’d lifted his gaze, so had barely glanced at the photograph. Security people often hung around hotel foyers, but today, this one was empty.

Upstairs, exhaustion struck. He locked the door and leaned heavily against it. The room was simple, but clean, walls painted in magnolia, a single bed in the corner with a reading lamp screwed above the headboard, a small pine bedside chest and a tallboy wardrobe opposite. He crossed the brown, stone floor tiles and sat on the bed. Firm but comfortable, suddenly an early night cried out.

*

The next day he rose fresher than he’d felt for some time. After breakfast he left the hotel and caught a trolleybus on Storozhevskaya Street in search of the KGB headquarters on Skoriny Avenue. Now he stood on that street, looking across to the impressive white pillar-fronted building, and his frame tightened.

He would need the KGB staff there to patch him through to General Petrichova in Moscow, but if they held a sheet on him he’d be arrested immediately. If that happened, another escape would be impossible. They’d nail him to the floor rather than lose sight of him again.

“I need to speak to the officer in charge of security,” he said to a soldier in the building foyer.

“And who are you? What is it concerning?” he asked with stern intonation.

Jez dry swallowed. “I’m Sergeant Adrik Mayakovski, an Osnaz operative working out of KGB headquarters in Moscow. I’m not at liberty to give you details of why I’m here. It’s a confidential matter.” He kept fingers and toes crossed in the hope that Mayakovski’s name hadn’t reached Belarus.

“If you wait there, Sergeant, I’ll see if Captain Makovich is available. In the meantime, please… sit.” Now he’s Comrade Friendly.

An oil painting of workers hung between two couches pushed up against the wall. He made himself comfortable on one of them and looked up at the picture: a group of men proudly staring up at the hammer and sickle on a red flag that had been hoisted to the top of a pole and floated mid-air. Jez had never considered KGB establishments welcoming and thought the presence of such furnishings out of place. Moscow held no such pretences.

While he waited, nerves jangling in anticipation, he couldn’t hold his worries over the safety of the situation. But the soldier returned, relaxed – so far…

“Captain Makovich can see you now, Sergeant,” he said.

Jez followed the sentry to a ground-floor office towards the back of the building; an office that could best be described as dark and dingy.

“Good morning, Sergeant Mayakovski, I’m Captain Makovich, the duty officer. How can I be of help?”

“Captain, I’m in transition on a covert mission from Moscow and I need a secure line to speak with my commander. I need to do it quickly or my situation could be compromised.”

“No problem, Sergeant, who is your commander?”

“Petrichova, General Michel Petrichova, he’s stationed in the Kremlin.”

Makovich raised his eyebrows. “You’re working directly for top brass? Must be important.”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

The captain asked his switchboard to contact the general in Moscow and to transfer the call through to his office. The phone rang. Makovich answered with a short, polite, introduction, then handed the phone to Jez and left. He lifted the receiver tentatively to his ear.

“General Petrichova?” he asked. “It’s me, Mayakovski.” A secure line didn’t necessarily stop unauthorized ears from listening in.

A heavy sigh whistled down the line. “Yes, I know who it is and every time a report comes in on you, you seem to have dug a deeper hole for yourself. But now I have to confess to being intrigued. How could you possibly have the nerve to call me after letting me down in such a way?”

He sounded close to hanging up. If Jez couldn’t intrigue him further in the next few sentences, he’d be finished.

“Please, General, if you’re willing to listen I can prove Lieutenant Kornfeld’s innocence. I would’ve thought he’d shown enough loyalty for that,” he said, immediately regretting the latter.

“Kornfeld’s loyalty became suspect when he smuggled his family from the Soviet Union.”

“You knew about that?” Shock waves rippled as he reeled at the declaration. Had they made a public broadcast and he’d missed it? “I still think his claims deserve to be listened to, General.”

Another sigh, “I’m listening.”

Jez told his story, referring to himself as a third party.

“And verification that Kornfeld and Sharansky worked together on the case,” he concluded, “will come from the Korbet family. Rula Korbet was one of the – no, as I told you earlier, Rula was the only girl to escape.”

Silence followed, except for the drone of a conversation drowned out by a hand held over the phone.

“Give me two days, Mayakovski, and call me back. Be sure it’s two days from now, exactly at this time. Have you got that?”

“Yes, General,” he said.

Jez hung up and looked up Captain Makovich. He would need permission to carry out the same procedure in two days.

He left and took a trolleybus to the metro station, a tram to the outskirts of the city, and then traveled back to the city centre by metro. By the time he reached the embankment he was satisfied he hadn’t been followed and returned to the hotel.

He stayed in his room for two days and performed physical workouts, trying to take his mind off things, but the worries wouldn’t quit nagging. What if Mitrokhin had already got to the Korbets and killed them, then set the scene to make it appear that he’d done it? What if the proof wasn’t enough to satisfy Petrichova? What if the Korbets had let the visit go over their heads and forgotten his name and what he looked like? What if the Minsk KGB had since received a Wanted sheet on him? If any these ‘ifs’ materialized, Viktor’s death would remain unavenged and he’d be finished.

Worry begat worry and, finally, the dreaded time came for him to visit KGB headquarters again. He stood in Skoriny Avenue staring blankly over to the building, until the time of day forced him to move.

Inside, relief came in the shape of Captain Makovich. He stood in the forum, smiling.

“Ah, Sergeant Mayakovski, you made it. Wait in my office. I’ll get the switchboard to contact Moscow.”

They waited a couple of minutes and the captain answered the transferred call. Again, he made a little polite conversation and handed the phone to Jez before he left.

“Mayakovski here,” Jez said.

“I’ve sorted out an operative that we both trust, but that person can’t be with you for at least another two days. So, beginning in two nights’ time, at eight o’clock, I want you to be in a bar on Vitebskaya Street. It’s called the Rakovski Brovar and it’s the only bar in Minsk that brews its own beer, so you shouldn’t have much trouble finding it. The intelligence officer will arrive and go to a table in the open air area for exactly one minute before going back inside to order a drink. It will be enough time for recognition and for both of you to make sure no one is watching. The operative will be there on one of the next three nights. If you don’t show, we’ll consider you’ve run and we will abandon the operation. Do you understand?”

“Yes, General, I understand. I’ll be there. But just for confirmation, the first of the three nights begins in two days from now?”

“That is correct. Are there any further questions?”

“No questions, sir.”

The general hung up and Jez returned command of the office to Captain Makovich.

“Thank you, Captain, I appreciate your indulgence.”

“Glad to be of assistance. I only wish I knew what was going on. It all seems very intriguing.”

Jez smiled, thanked him again, and left.

Somebody he trusted, he thought as he walked to the trolleybus stop. But he trusted no one. General Petrichova said he’d been intrigued, the captain said he was intrigued, and now – he was intrigued. Who could it be? The trolley ride ended, and he followed the same evasion tactics he’d used coming and going from the hotel: trolley, metro, tram, and then a walk along the embankment. He entered the hotel from the rear and found the lobby empty, other than the receptionist. She smiled sweetly and handed him his room key.

Chapter 39

With two days to kill he decided to lie low, only leaving the room to eat. He spent his time exercising: sit-ups; press-ups, feet on bed; press-ups, feet on floor; movement to stretch every muscle of his anatomy; press-ups from handstands against the wall; single-handed press-ups, fingertip press-ups and then body crunches, till he could do no more. He’d take a short break and start again.

Then the first of the three nights came and he felt nervous facing the unknown. He bathed in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall and wallowed in the warm water. After drying and dressing, he studied his face in an old wood-framed mirror. The remains of the bruising had gone, his beard was thick and his black hair longer than it had ever been. Even his Momma would have trouble recognizing him.

On Vitebskaya Street, he walked past the tavern and checked the security of the area – no one around. A hunted caution came naturally, and he realized that the mistakes he’d made during the investigation were partly because he hadn’t realized he’d been the prey.

At ten to eight, he found a quiet table in the corner of the bar and watched and waited. Just after nine o’clock, he drained the contents of his glass and left. The following night he sat at the same table and again finished his drink just after nine and left. On the third night, the door opened at exactly eight. Eagerness straightened his back, but it was a woman. Petrichova had said it would be someone he trusted, but he couldn’t bring to mind a woman he’d worked with, let alone trusted. He nearly went back to staring into his beer, but she went through to the open-air tables.

From what he could see, she seemed as nervous as he was, spun a beer mat between her hands and tapped it on the table – generally fidgeting. Jez craned his neck, but couldn’t see her face. She messed around for the whole minute without making an order and then stood up and returned inside. He willed some kind of recognition but her head was covered by a snood. The waiter came to the table and she ordered. He wrote down the order, nodded and went to people at another table. She removed the head piece, and his heart almost stopped.

Anna!

Chapter 40

He rested his elbows on the table and stared at the declarations of love carved into the top of it. But doubts emerged. How could Petrichova possibly know he trusted Anna? Jez hadn’t been aware he’d even known her. And why should it be necessary to send someone he trusted anyway? This was surrender, not negotiation.

A thrill rushed through him and he shook away the misgivings. Who cared what the general had in mind? He tilted his head and peered over to where she sat. Though she expected him, she clearly had no idea he was there.

She stood, shrugged off a three-quarter-length leather coat, glanced round the saloon, tidied her hair and pulled the shoulders of her white blouse out straight. Her trim, muscular figure looked pretty much the same as he remembered, but her breasts were larger. Her features, as definite as ever, had a few cynical lines around the mouth – yet still so beautiful. She wore a long blonde plait coiled into a chignon. She looked left to right, smoothed her slim-fit blue skirt and sat. Jez stood crouched, put his hands in his pockets and shuffled to the door head down, moved past and worked his way to one side of her.

She hadn’t yet settled when a young barman brought a tray, took a small blonde lager from it, wiped the froth from the bottom of the glass and placed it on a beer mat. She must have been thirsty and sipped at it greedily before the beer had time to rest. Froth covered her lower face. Nervousness moved to one side as he suppressed a laugh.

“Hello, Anna… no, don’t turn around. Tell me how Petrichova knew that I would trust you.”

She ignored the words, hurriedly and clumsily cuffed the froth from her face, stood, and turned to face him. “Don’t be so melodramatic,” she said stiffly and sighed.

Why his love should flood his veins after that kind of retort he didn’t know, but it did. A boyish smile broke through, but then he felt awkward. He wanted to pull her to him, smother her with kisses. But that would be stupid: they had never had that sort of relationship. Instead, he hovered and grinned like a fool.

Anna had no such misgivings and rushed to him. The stern façade had melted and she made no attempt to hide her excitement. She threw her arms around his neck, and Jez felt a charge pass between them as the contours of their bodies fused into a single unit. Then his mind came back to reality and he was conscious of his arms around a woman he hadn’t seen in almost twenty years. She seemed pleased to see him, but… maybe she’d married and had children; maybe she hugged him because of an old friendship; or, well, maybe... But then her body stiffened. He stood back, looked her up and down.

“You’re even lovelier than I remember,” he said. “And you’re still in the army... I tried to track you down, but you’d vanished from the records.”

Her eyebrows drew together and her brow knitted. “I know. We have a lot to talk about. Sit down – do you want a drink? Something to eat?”

Jez picked up a menu, which made a signal for the barman to come to the table. “I’ll have a small beer, the same as my friend’s, then give us five minutes and we’ll order food.”

The menu featured a number of home-brewed light and dark beers and traditional Belarusian dishes. Jez’s mouth watered: suddenly he had an appetite.

“Yes, I’m still in the army, and like you I’m a lieutenant. I’ve been working as General Petrichova’s aide for a couple of years, but I’m still attached to special ops.”

“You’re in a special unit, but I’ve been in Spetsnaz and Osnaz my whole career. Why couldn’t I contact you…? Oh, or are you married and working under your new name?” Heat radiated in his face.

“No, I never married.”

A wave of relief engulfed him – still unmarried.

Her gaze dropped to her lap and her shoulders followed suit. “And there are reasons you couldn’t find me…”

The hard-boiled façade slipped as Anna brought him up to speed on how the general had separated them because the bond they’d forged might interfere with their progress.

“He can be a bastard,” Jez said – without malice – but he knew he was entitled to exactly that.

She continued, telling him how she’d followed him and his sisters to Rostov, and squirmed as she did.

Jez felt blown away. “You followed me – then it was you I saw at the station in Rostov.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t let you know what I was up to. I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t me being tested. I did break cover and let you see me, hoping you would get off the train and come over; we might have sorted something out, but while you stared you didn’t seem to recognize me.”

“I did recognize you and I tried to get off the train. But I hesitated until the train moved off. I left my seat, and a guard blocked my exit. I was afraid to make a fuss because I wasn’t supposed to be there.”

Thoughts raced and awareness came.

“A report, you must have written a report. That would be how Mitrokhin knew of my route. Somehow he got hold of the file.”

At last he could put to rest his non-stop questions of how anyone had known the route. At last he could feel safe that his sisters hadn’t been caught.

“The task you say you were given: Mitrokhin was ordered to carry out the investigation personally… because corruption was suspected within the ranks and he was the one under suspicion. The general gave him the mission to keep him in Moscow, and he also hoped he would make a mistake.”

She was hesitant, nervous even, and Jez thought he saw her jaw quiver.

“Yes, you’re right, I did write a report. The general decided to take no further action, marked the file Top Secret and stored it in the Kremlin. But we believe Mitrokhin has high-ranking associates, so it is possible he got to see it.”

He set his back against the chair, looked skyward and sighed. “Ooh, Mitrokhin has cunning, no doubt. He must have thought me a complete idiot the way I jumped from square to square for him – like a pawn.” And then his heart dropped. He’d been right all along, for now he knew Anna didn’t have the same feelings as him. He couldn’t have made a report against her, not for any reason. He sighed. “What now?”

She stared softly into his eyes, and then as quickly hardened.

“Right now,” she said, “we have to talk to the Korbet family, but even if they verify what you say, it’s not enough to put you in the clear. However, winning the general over would be...”

“You haven’t spoken to the Korbets, and it wouldn’t be enough to put me in the clear?” His bewilderment must have sounded pitiful.

“Under interrogation, Mitrokhin would merely say that he sent Sergeant Sharansky with you to the Korbets to see if the girl knew you, to see if she would identify you as one of the traffickers. He’s not stupid. Up to now he’s had a plausible explanation for everything. We must build a case, a case he can’t squirm out of. To begin with, we stay in Minsk for debriefing. After that, I have to contact the general. You being in custody must be kept secret until proof is solid.”

A forlorn smile crossed his face. It seemed surreal that events could take such a turn. When he’d started the task, he’d hoped it meant a change in career. But this certainly wasn’t the change he had in mind. Now, he’d be lucky to duck a firing squad. And worse, much worse, his friend had been murdered. With Viktor coming to mind, grief flooded him. His eyes burned and he averted his gaze. If she noticed, she said nothing.

They had a meal, then walked the banks of the Svislach River, going over memories, recalling details, everything as if it was only yesterday. Without thinking it through, he reached for her hand – she squeezed his in return.

“Has there been anyone?” he asked.

“Well, pure isn’t the word I’d use to describe myself, duty has demanded I make certain sacrifices,” she said matter-of-factly, “but no, no serious relationships. As you know, the army meant, and means, everything to me. I’ve been too busy with my career to think of men. Besides, I thought the relationship we had was special… What about you, you’ve grown well? You must’ve put a few girls’ heads into a spin.”

He’d been wrong, she did think that what they’d had was special!

“No more than a man’s need,” he said, but fretted at her words, not caring for the fact she’d let herself be used. Although in her role, he knew he would have done the same. “And have you made many of these sacrifices?”

“Don’t worry, most of them are no longer with us. And don’t start going silly on me,” she said, and pushed his arm playfully.

She changed the subject.

“We have three days to go over what happened,” she confided, “and then we go to KGB headquarters in Belarus to contact the general for further instructions.”

He nodded. “It’s getting late,” he said, and looked at Mayakovski’s watch. “Where is your hotel? I’ll walk you back.”

“I’m staying at a new hotel overlooking the river. It’s the other way,” she said, and pointed back the way they’d come. “The Yubileiny Hotel in Pobediteley Avenue, near the old town.”

“I know it.”

They retraced their steps and walked the embankment in silence until they got to her hotel.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby tomorrow morning,” he said and kissed her on each cheek. As he did, he pulled her gently to him and hugged her lightly. She pressed her face to his and drew back.

He watched her retrieve her room key and go up in the caged lift, then dragged himself from the foyer. Of late, everything had gone wrong; but now he had Anna back in his life. It had to mean something. Things would change, things would get better; he felt it in his bones.

Outside the hotel, he picked up on someone, a big man, way taller than average, dressed in a black, box-cut leather jacket that had seen better days, and grey trousers – a typical, covert KGB uniform. And he had wide shoulders that narrowed to slim hips. Partially hidden by a grey fedora hat, Jez couldn’t make out the facial features, but the man most certainly had the physical characteristics of armed services personnel.

It was late and the trolleybus service had ended. Jez took a metro to the southern outskirts of town, changed platform, travelled back through the city centre and on to the northern limits, but he still got glimpses of the man. Somehow, Mitrokhin’s people had picked up his trail! From the station he ran back to the town center, occasionally veering off through narrow alleyways. He doubled back to the old town and took more backstreets and side lanes. And then, enough was enough. Back at the riverside, he hid in bushes and watched. The man didn’t show. He’d lost him.

Chapter 41

Early the next morning, Jez found a place where he could wait unnoticed. Fifteen minutes after that, Anna came out of the hotel onto the street. He whistled, caught her attention, and ducked back behind the shrubbery.

“Aren’t you being a bit theatrical?” she said, shaking her head like a disgruntled matron. “No one knows we’re here.”

“You think,” he said. “I was followed after I left last night.”

“Oh.” She appeared hesitant. “No one knows I’m here, and I made sure no one had followed me from Moscow.”

“A man who looked like military personnel came after me when I left the hotel. I took a couple of metros, but he stayed with me. It’s the only possibility.”

“Maybe,” she mused. “But it might have been someone killing time for some reason. Have you seen him today? Obviously you lost him last night, but if he followed us to the hotel, surely he would have hung around?”

“I know… and I have watched. I must admit, he hasn’t been about and neither has anyone else, come to that. Oh I don’t know, maybe I’m being jumpy.”

She nodded. “Yes, and that would be understandable. Take it easy, I’m sure only the general and I know we’re here.”

She was right, the misgivings sounded exaggerated out loud. He turned and smiled admiringly. She wore a full-length purple and azure coat with fur trim that overlapped from the lining. It hung low, and almost swallowed her high-heeled black leather boots. Her fur hat covered the main part of her hair, but blonde braided pigtails hung over the front of her shoulders. She looked beautiful.

They walked east. A bank of thin cloud lingered on the horizon and smeared what would otherwise have been a clear blue sky. The sun squeezed through and threads speared into the heavens like golden spikes. He shivered, pulled his collar up and pulled his jacket tighter to him.

They wandered the length and breadth of downtown Minsk, him with a watchful eye, and her like a tourist. They walked by the KGB building on Skoriny Avenue, and came to the House of Trade Unions.

Jez pointed beyond it. “See the stronghold on the rise – that’s Pischalovskij Castle. Apparently, it can only be seen in the winter months. The trees fill with greenery and hide it for the rest of the year. Keep your fingers crossed I don’t have to visit. It’s the Minsk penitentiary.” He grinned, but Anna didn’t look amused.

By the time they reached the winter theatre, he’d gone over every detail of how Mitrokhin had manipulated his belief system.

Anna looked at him incredulously. “I know you think you’ve been gullible, Jez, but I think anyone would have taken it onboard.”

But he didn’t want pity or understanding. Not even from Anna. He wanted justice... Cross-examined at every twist and turn of his story, she asked the same questions from different angles. It seemed unending. Of course, he understood the need for interrogation, but couldn’t help but tire of it.

He frowned. “Look, I know this is all very necessary, but can we call it a day? Enjoy the rest of it as friends? From what you said earlier, we still have a couple of days for debriefing, and there will certainly be more of the same on our return to Moscow. Please.”

She agreed and they walked for pleasure, talk, laughter and rejoicing in each other’s company. Late evening arrived and he dropped her at the hotel; taking a chance, he kissed her goodnight. Her slightly parted lips were soft, inviting, and her mouth fresh.

The return journey to the hotel took no effort, as he floated there on air. And she hadn’t asked where he lived or about the ID he hid under: she trusted him. Fresh snow lay thick and crisp, cold air frosted his breath, but for him it was the end of a fairytale day – and no one followed.

The next couple of days passed slowly, or maybe too quickly, but with inevitability the time passed. At the hotel he kissed her goodnight again, but this time the kiss lingered and passion grew. She looked deeply into his large chestnut brown eyes and then buried her head against his shoulder.

“Jez, we must go to Belarus KGB tomorrow, and when we get there the orders I receive might require immediate action. Stay with me tonight.”

His eyes popped. He wanted to make love to Anna, of course. He’d envisaged it a thousand times. But she’d be compromised; or then, there might never be another chance. He turned her face up to him. “I don’t want you regretting this.”

They closed the door behind them and shut out the rest of the world. His arms embraced her and their bodies melded. He tingled to her touch. They kissed feverishly, as they removed one another’s clothes in hurried frenzy. Naked, Jez pulled Anna down onto the bed and whispered “I love you” into her neck. They made love, gently, tenderly, but passionately.

*

Jez woke to find Anna folded into his arms. Snugly asleep, she nestled into him and breathed the warm air of slumber against his chest. She clearly kept to a strict regime of exercise but managed to keep a firm grip on her femininity. With his free hand, he traced the shape of her shoulder and arm, reached for her hand, squeezed gently to reaffirm his love. He concentrated on the parts of her body that made contact: her breasts against his side, her flat stomach as it pushed on his hip, and the inside of her thigh on his leg. He committed the memory to his brain and bathed in the ecstasy of her touch.

He’d never known real love-making; there’d been no thunder, the ground didn’t move beneath him, no poetry, and fireworks didn’t go off in his head, just the sweetness and contentment of what was meant to be. He’d become complete and knew that the true meaning of his existence had emerged.

Anna moved sleepily against him, then opened her eyes and looked up. “I would ask you to make love to me again,” she whispered, her voice thick and husky, “but we have things to do. This could be an important day.”

“It’s already been an important day,” he answered, kissing her brow, “the most important of my life.”

She laughed appreciatively, pulled herself up onto an elbow and kissed his lips. And whether there was time or no, they took enough of it to make love again.

*

“This is the third time I’ve come to this KGB headquarters,” he said, hurrying along Skoriny Avenue by her side. “I must say, the other times I felt jittery, but those feelings have just changed to morbid apprehension.”

Anna laughed, but Jez had never been more serious.

“Now my life has come together, I’m afraid.”

She linked up with him and snuggled against his arm. “Things will work out, you’ll see,” she said, and Miriam came to mind.

“Maybe, but when Mitrokhin imprisoned me, I thought all I had to do was talk to the general. Now, I have somehow to convince everyone that killing the cell guard was an accident… What a mistake, if only I’d taken my sisters back to Vladimir, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

He’d be on a front line somewhere, or behind enemy lines doing what he knew best. But if that had happened, he wouldn’t have been reunited with Anna... Hold onto that thought.

Captain Makovich happened to be in the foyer when they arrived. “Ah, Sergeant Mayakovski,” he said, and greeted Jez like an old friend.

“Captain, how are you? This is Lieutenant Puchinsky, my line officer.”

Anna formally saluted and Jez continued.

“I’m afraid we have to go through the same routine, Captain, with your permission of course.”

“It isn’t a problem, come.”

Makovich instructed the switchboard to contact Petrichova, but this time he handed the phone to Anna before he left.

“Good morning, General,” she said. “I have Mayakovski with me now and he has cooperated fully over the previous three days… Yes, General, fairly sure… No, not yet, sir, I think we should stay another few days to be certain… but, General… yes, sir… of course, sir… goodbye, General.” Anna clattered the receiver back onto the cradle.

“He doesn’t think my innocence is probable?” Jez shrugged.

“Wha – Oh no, nothing like that, it’s just that he wants us to return to Moscow tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Jez smiled, but felt sad.

They headed towards the river, searching for food and somewhere to eat it.

“There isn’t much I can tell you really,” she said. “I wanted to stretch it out for another couple of days, so we would have time together. But he wasn’t having any of it.”

“Anna,” he said, covering her lips with his index finger, “I love you.” He kissed her softly. “I will get through this, and when I do, I’ll retire. The army hasn’t been as loyal to me as I would have hoped.”

“Then run,” she said, with a passion that startled him. “Let’s go now. We can head south through the Ukraine and leave our troubles behind. Start again – together.”

Dumbfounded, he didn’t know how to respond, and just for that moment he wondered if she was testing him. But it wouldn’t make any difference. He’d have to win justice for Viktor at any cost.

“It’s a wonderful thought,” he told her, “but there are too many issues, too many things that must be laid to rest. No, we have to see this out.”

Anna gazed intensely into his eyes. Her perpetual defences fell away and a pool of tears formed. “This is one of the things I fell in love with you for – your simple, balanced outlook of right and wrong. Like when you broke the trainer’s arm because of what he had in mind for me. But I’m worried this time it could be the death of you.”

“You love me…?”

They lunched. They wandered. Late afternoon came and Anna wanted to bathe and change for dinner. Walking hand in hand, the glow from a fading sun lit up the deciduous trees that lined the river bank. Burnt sienna reflected on bare branches and made them blush like dying embers. A sun without warmth and a temperature dropping fast. Fallen snow crunched underfoot but all around emitted a peaceful radiance.

Later, in Anna’s bed, they didn’t make love. They lay in quiet embrace, Jez thinking of what lay ahead.

Chapter 42

Jez let his mind dwell on the ceiling’s dull paint rather than think about his recent nightmares. But those thoughts wouldn’t stay down: whatever happened, he would achieve justice for Viktor.

Anna came out of the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel, turban style. “We still have time to travel south,” she said. He sighed. She looked desperate again. “Please think about it. I promise this isn’t a test. No tricks. I’m telling you what’s in my heart, and I think we should run.”

Vertical tracks forged between his eyebrows. “We’ve already been through this, Anna. I do trust you, but I’ve made my decision.”

“But I don’t think you’ve thought it out properly. From what I can see, Mitrokhin has high-ranking contacts everywhere and I don’t think even Petrichova can save you. The captain has the guile of a fox and his cunning outwits us all. Please, Jez,” she implored, “go with me now.”

He got off the bed and embraced her. “I don’t know why you’ve become so worried. I’d never imagined you like this, but whether what you say is true or not, I won’t run. I must win justice for Viktor – and for me, come to that. Viktor has been murdered and I’ve been set up to look like his killer.”

Anna wept against his chest, and he couldn’t figure why. Of what he knew about her, it was totally out of character.

“I want you to remember this,” she sobbed. “And I’m speaking from the heart. No matter what happens, this is what is real and this is the memory I want you to hold onto. I love you, Jez, I love you.”

Baffled, he realized that having a real relationship with a woman was an enigma. Her declaration seemed distressed rather than tender. The only way he could think of handling this was to let it go straight over his head.

“And I love you, Anna, but I must go back.”

*

Outside the hotel the snow lay thick, and despite the best efforts of a heavy blanket of cloud, the cold had worked its way through.

“I’m glad I packed the ski jacket. Cold or not, this suitcase has me overheating. I know you’ve put my stuff in with yours, but what a weight.”

“Just girl things,” she smiled, and stepped out ahead.

“That’s right, don’t wait for me. Oh…” he said, almost stopping, “I forgot to pay for my lodgings at the hotel.”

She turned and raised an eyebrow. He grinned.

“You’re right, all the troubles I’ve got and I should worry about paying for a room. I’ll let the state sort it out.”

She laughed.

They trudged through the snow until they came to Railway Station Square – part of Stalin’s rebuild of the city. Anna wore the same azure coat with fur trimmings and fur hat as on the second day of their reunion, and he wondered how such a beautiful woman could really be interested in him.

“You look like a film star dressed like that, but aren’t you worried someone might be following?”

She tutted. “You seem to be worrying enough for both of us.”

She was so avant-garde, maybe she hadn’t carried out as many missions as she’d suggested. “Oh well, nearly there,” he said.

She smiled sadly.

He stopped to cross an avenue near a trolley rank. Six or seven people queued closely together, ankle-deep in snow, exhaling frosted breath as they waited for their ride. At last, a lull in the traffic. Anna went ahead. Jez kept a half metre behind, but something jarred his senses. Above the din of the city an explosion rang out. He turned to the direction of the noise and then looked at Anna. A hole had opened and blossomed in the back of her coat. His heart seemed to stop beating. She’d been shot and he couldn’t move. The force of the bullet had arched her back. She spun to face him, stumbled, eyes widened in shock.

The crowd at the trolley rank scattered in panic and shrill screams pierced his ears. But still, he couldn’t move – Anna.

Chapter 43

CRACK! Another shot. Anna hit the ground with a spastic movement and then her face lost expression. He was in shock. He wanted to help, but what could he do? Blood marred the purity of the white snow. She must be dead, but there was no time to check. A third shot ricocheted off the sidewalk. His mind began to work – a Dragunov sniper rifle. It sounded like a Dragunov – but what about Anna? No, be professional, the time for a professional to grieve would come later – MOVE!

He ran, keeping as close to the buildings as possible, so that it would be difficult for the shooter to get a line on him. He headed towards the block where he believed the shots had come from and turned off into an alley, crossing through to the next main avenue. There were other pedestrians, so he slowed, attempted to blend in. Without planning, he’d kept hold of Anna’s suitcase. Even in panic, he’d had the presence of mind to know that the loaded Tokarev and spare ammunition were in it.

Ten minutes of walking brought him to the front of St Mary’s Catholic cathedral. He hadn’t been heading there, but unintentionally returned by the route he and Anna had just walked. If the gunman had followed from the hotel, he might be retracing the same steps. Jez had to come out of this haze and get back to front-line thinking.

The iron railings perched on the church’s dwarf walling ended at some concrete pillars. A double-gated access between was left unlocked. He pushed it open, drawing quarter-circles in the snow that lay deep and virginal. The heavy door gave way to a push and he went into the church. Empty, but he already knew it would be because of the snow. His boots squelched as he walked down the centre aisle; he passed between pews, and then behind the altar and into a backyard.

It was a courtyard with a blind alley on the opposite side that led back to the church. He put the suitcase down at the end of the passage, under a stained glass window, and slid down the wall until he sat on the case. With elbows on knees, he wrapped his arms around his head and let a howling moan erupt from his tortured soul. His heart banged miserably against the confines of his chest and he wept convulsively. She’d asked him to make a run for it. Why hadn’t he listened?

Not moving for several hours, grief broke with a sudden surge of uncontrollable shaking. The trauma kick-started his brain and he knew that if he didn’t stir soon, hypothermia would step in. The ski coat was in the case. He took it out, put it on and rummaged for the Tokarev pistol and ammunition. Another gun, a PB 6P9 pistol, lay alongside his. Why had Anna needed a pistol with a silencer?

He rummaged further: spare bullets and three throwing knives similar to what he favored in the field. He detached the sound suppresser and put the weapons in various pockets to weight the coat evenly. There could be more useful stuff, so he went through her personal belongings and found a roll of cash, a large roll. He pocketed the money. Without logical thoughts in his head, instinct told him to take anything and everything that might be of use. He resealed the case and left it in front of the altar.

Because of his earlier oversight, he still had the Glebska alter ego renting the hotel room and he needed somewhere to recover his thoughts. Darkness had fallen around mid-afternoon and the snow reflected a dimmed whiteness that fought alone against the gloomy twilight. He hurried his footsteps, desperately needing a place to lay his head, hide his horror, and calm the panic that disrupted his every thought.

*

“Ah, Comrade Glebska,” the receptionist said, greeting him with a bright smile. “The manager has asked me to find out how long you’ll be staying. We have a convention next week and he wants to quantify how many rooms will be available.”

“Oh, yes.” He hesitated. “Another two nights, I think. Will that be a problem?”

“Not at all, I’ll make a note of it. Oh no, sorry, let me get your key first.” She turned and stretched her slender body on tiptoe to take the key from the top of the key cupboard. “Did you hear of the commotion in Station Square this morning?”

“No, I’ve been out in the suburbs. Why, what happened?”

“Well, apparently a man and woman argued as they approached the square, and for no more reason than that, the man pulled a revolver and shot her.”

“No!” It came out too loud. The receptionist looked taken aback. He swallowed. “Really, people never fail to shock me.”

Her surprised expression dissolved. “Yes.”

“Did he kill her?” he asked with a tinge of hope in his voice.

“No one knows. After he shot her, a car drove up and took them both away.”

Hopes faded. “How do you know all this?”

“The police have virtually swamped the city. They came here looking for someone called Mayakovski, but nobody had heard of him. But them coming here is how I know; one of the policemen told me.”

“Well, if you got it straight from them, it must be true.”

Unclear how he’d managed to keep up the charade, his bones rattled from the cold and his very marrow pained him. His legs felt like they would buckle beneath him. Anna had been shot and taken. Mitrokhin would have snatched her body in case she had an incriminating file with her. The thoughts tore him apart, but he had to remain professional. He had to deal with it.

Wearily, he climbed the stairs, his mind in chaos. Why had the local authorities said he’d got in the car? Why did they say a revolver was used when it was clearly a rifle? In his room, he closed the door and leant wearily against it. Whatever might happen in the future, right now he was exhausted and needed sleep.

*

For two days, his thoughts wallowed in fear and grief. Mitrokhin had outsmarted them all. Jez should run. But why? Without Anna, what was there to live for? And she did die at the station, he knew it. To live in hope that Mitrokhin might have kept her alive would cause him to make mistakes – he had to accept she was dead. Much as he wanted to believe otherwise, she was dead.

Time strengthened his resolve. He would lie low until he was stronger mentally. He’d travel east and get fitter on the way. More importantly, when the time came he would kill Mitrokhin.

Chapter 44

Otto gestured wildly as he went towards the Kremlin with Andrei. “What the fuck does the general want now?” He brushed a hand over his flat-top and glowered. “Petrichova’s a pain in the ass. I’m only glad I don’t work for him full time.”

Andrei made a straight line with his lips, raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“You wait here, I won’t be too long.” He put a hand on his sergeant’s arm and indicated a chair in the hallway. “I hope,” he said, and shook his head.

As he sat, Andrei gave a conciliatory smile while Otto knocked and entered without the courtesy of waiting. Petrichova sat behind his desk with a scowl on his face, not anger, more distress. And the bitch wasn’t here. Not that Otto cared what he felt or where the girl was, he just wanted this done.

“I assume that sending for me means you have news about Kornfeld, General?” There couldn’t be any other reason – could there? Suddenly, his mind clouded as it ran through other possibilities.

Petrichova drummed his thick, nicotined fingers on the corner of the desk.

“Yes, it does. A week ago Kornfeld got in touch with me from Minsk. He protested his innocence and went as far as to say he could prove it.”

Petrichova looked uncomfortable and Otto squirmed. What had the Jew said? Hot under the collar, he wanted to scratch the itch it brought. The Jew had known something after all – something incriminating? The general deliberated forever.

Ready to make a quick exit, Otto rested a hand on his holster flap. But he had to sweat it out; he couldn’t be sure of anything yet. Why the fuck didn’t Petrichova just get on with it?

The pause lingered, but eventually Petrichova continued. “I saw no clear reason why he might be lying, so I sent Lieutenant Puchinsky to debrief him. I couldn’t send you because the so-called proof shifted the blame in your direction.”

Shit, he clicked the button on the flap.

“But at the end of three days of interrogation in Minsk, for no clear reason, and before Puchinsky had a chance to report back to me, Kornfeld shot the lieutenant down and drove off with her body… Clearly, there was no proof.”

Otto saw the lips move, tried paying attention to what the man had said, but the words refused to make sense. “What?” was all he could muster. He couldn’t believe his ears: the Jew had shot Petrichova’s aide.

When the words came together, he wanted to laugh. He clicked the gun flap shut. “Was she dead? Why take the body? And if Puchinsky was sent to debrief him, why on earth would he kill her…?” Then he remembered the report – she’d written it, and it had been damning. “Was there some sort of history between them?” With a straight face, he kept his words monotone, but the news made him the happiest he’d been since he’d lost Adrik.

“I don’t know if you knew, but Kornfeld is a Jew. Not important in itself, but a couple of years ago his sisters took part in a demonstration demanding rights for their kind. Given the task of breaking up the demonstration, he found his family amongst them. But instead of turning them in for interrogation, he smuggled them out of the country.”

Otto got a kick watching Petrichova wriggle as he told his tale.

“Lieutenant Puchinsky had followed him and reported his escapades to me. I had the file stored here in the Kremlin. Somehow, Kornfeld must’ve found out about its existence and who had written it. Already wanted for murder, he knew he was on the road to Hell. The only explanation I can come up with is that he lied about the evidence to set up his revenge.”

Petrichova took a moment.

“And as for taking the body, after a three-day debriefing, maybe she was carrying a file that added to his guilt; or maybe she’s still alive and shooting her wasn’t enough for him. Anyway, I haven’t asked you here to listen to what I think. Your orders have changed. I want you to give your full time, and I mean full time, to getting Kornfeld. I don’t care how he comes back, dead or alive. It makes no difference to me.”

Otto could have yelled out with joy. If he’d been given time to work on it he couldn’t have planned a better outcome. “Of course, General, trust me, I’ll get him.”

He left the office and almost yanked Andrei from the chair as he moved through the hall. “Have I got news for you,” he said, sounding almost hysterical.

They left the confines of the Kremlin, and by the time they’d reached Dzerzhinski Square, he’d given Andrei the full story.

“I suppose that’s good news,” Andrei said, but looked puzzled. “But I thought you agreed not to get too close, and anyway, it still doesn’t put you any nearer to catching Kornfeld.”

“Ah, but it does give me the authority to go after him without worrying about Petrichova. I did agree to step away from the problem, you’re right, but now we can’t transfer; and Petrichova has given me express orders to track the Jew down. What else can I do?” He held out his hands in innocence. “Look on the bright side. The trafficking investigation has just taken a back seat, and letting us off that hook means we can use everything at our disposal to make sure the job on Kornfeld is done properly this time.”

Andrei didn’t look impressed.

Back in Lubyanka, Otto felt the meeting with Petrichova justified a celebration. He retrieved the vodka bottle and glasses, poured out and tried to put himself in the Jew’s position. “Think, your back is against the wall – what would you do? For starters, if he’s on the move he’ll have disposed of the bitch… on the move... Andrei, get me Federation maps from Minsk to Vladimir.”

The maps were on the top shelf of a cabinet in the corner of the office, stacked flat. Andrei sifted through until he found the sectors for Minsk, Smolensk, Moscow and Vladimir, and laid them side by side as one big map. Otto discarded Minsk and studied the one next to it, Smolensk.

“Right, the way I see it, army or no army after him, the Kornfeld family are the most important thing to the Jew. Otherwise why risk everything for them in the first place? I think he’ll be headed home to Vladimir. He could have escaped south, I’m sure, but he decided to kill Puchinsky instead. So he’s gone past thinking of his own safety. We’ll blanket the sectors from Smolensk to Vladimir with regular army personnel. He’s probably already out of Belarus.” He ran a finger a half circle on the map. “And he’ll skirt around Moscow rather than take a chance on anyone recognizing him here.”

“If what you say is right, fair enough, but it would be easier for Kornfeld to just go through Lithuania and escape over the Baltic. I mean, he’d have to be mad to travel back east.”

Otto gave him a long look. “Normally I’d agree, Andrei, but I think mad is what he’s become. Revenge or otherwise, it was nothing short of crazy to shoot the woman when he could have got away. No, I stick to my first thoughts. We put the regular army on red alert in these sectors. Those patrolling will take a further directive – detect and follow from a distance. I don’t want him harmed.”

“Why?”

“I want to be there when he dies. For the sake of Adrik, I want to have the final action in his downfall. But what you said about the Baltic sounds reasonable. To be on the safe side, we’ll make sure all ports from Estonia through to the western limits of Poland are covered. I will not allow him to escape again.”

*

There were so many bits and pieces in the ski jacket that Jez didn’t feel much different from being in full kit. On his travels from Belarus he’d kept himself upright, did his utmost not to look weighed down. He covered an eastward path by public transport and, with the hat’s earflaps down and him sporting a beard that had begun taking on a life of its own, he was sure no one could think of him as a soldier on the run. Even so, while Minsk didn’t care so much about Russian problems, going into Smolensk would be a different story. The Soviet Army would be out looking for him in force there, and walking would be the safer option.

Preparation being the most important aspect of moving through hostile territory, he’d begun by protecting the Glebska persona and settling his hotel account. If need be, he could use it again.

The planning helped: a positive way of taking his mind off Anna. However, try as he might, memories sneaked into his brain and he couldn’t get the blame out of his head. If he hadn’t taken his sisters to Rostov, none of this would have happened. If he’d listened to Anna, she’d still be alive and Viktor… Stop, he told himself, all that may be true, but self-recrimination doesn’t help. Negative thoughts wouldn’t bring her back or change other events, but they would make him sloppy and that might get him killed. He had to concentrate on his mission: he had to stay one step ahead, and he could only do that by remaining in control of his emotions – at least until he’d killed Mitrokhin.

Hydration was the first key to staying alive. He’d hung on to the wash bottle and mess-tin combo and could keep his thirst quenched by drinking water from snowmelt. Warmth on the move wouldn’t be a problem; he had the ski coat and the leather jacket under it.

But if he didn’t choose his billets carefully, and with temperatures below minus 10, waking up might not happen. On the positive side, with the chill that low it would be a dry cold, so no thawing and refreezing. Dampness wouldn’t be a problem.

Fitness would assist in keeping him healthy. For the cross-country journey he’d absorb stamina training. He’d run hard then walk fast, doing push-ups and body crunches when he stopped. The pain threshold from physical exertion would steel his mind and give him the mental strength he needed. Stress was okay too, it would keep him alert. His mind would stay active. What he didn’t need, what he couldn’t cope with, was distress.

Soon he would die and felt afraid, but fear can be a healthy point of view, as long as it was only that which common sense dictated. There would be no guilt, no loneliness, anger or depression. With a calm approach he would succeed in his task. His mantra for that success would be “kill Mitrokhin”, and that mantra would be his reason for living.

He’d found many things to do over the days since Anna had been shot. The most difficult was training his mind to stay away from the trauma itself: the vivid images of seeing Anna gunned down in front of him; the guilt of Viktor’s death. There was no formula he knew of to suppress such thoughts. For that, he was constantly forced to share his existence with the dark shadows of grief.

The landscape changed, and even though the terrain was just a white mass, he could see the uplands rising up towards the horizon. Up till now, he’d slept in scrubland by day and traveled by night. But he’d reached a point where, if he kept the city of Horki to the south so that only the rural plains stood between him and the first of the hills, it would be safe to travel in daylight. If he could reach the foothills before dark, he’d have time to bed down on high ground, a safe place in the unlikely event of a thaw.

He tried to hold a pattern: run for 100 meters, walk for 100 meters. But tiredness from days of missed rest, too much snow and cruel weather conditions made even the open plains hard work. Snow filled his eyebrows and beard. He shook his face clear and directed his attention to the hills ahead. It was difficult to gauge distance on flat land covered with snow, but possibly another 4 kilometres, certainly no more.

Progress improved, his spirits lifted, he dropped his pace and took a breather. Under different circumstances he might have admired the beauty of the winter wonderland that surrounded him, but too much had gone by. How could a pleasant… Whoosh – an overhead hiss startled him. What? WHUMP – the ground shuddered. Mortar! His heart pounded wildly. He knew the sound all too well. He was under mortar attack.

Chapter 45

Jez turned his head and saw jeeps stacked up one behind the other, coming at him. They were equipped for combat with mounted mortar cannon and sub-machine guns rigged on the integral bases behind the front seats. The heads of soldiers bobbed behind mortar blast protectors as the vehicles maneuvered over snowdrifts. He couldn’t tell how many vehicles, but seeing them fan out and fire, the number no longer seemed relevant.

He ran. He wanted to drop the ski jacket to quicken his pace, but he’d lose his weapons. The only thing he could do was wind in his head and race flat out. WHUMP! A mortar shell exploded 50 meters forward and to the right of his position. Shrapnel whizzed by, and though he could hear it, he felt nothing. He hadn’t been hit. He crouched lower, but the rabbit-skin hat fell off. No time to pick it up. Stop for nothing. With the rifles set to automatic, they traced straight black lines in the snow on either side of him and then swept horizontally across his horizon – Kalashnikov AKMs. They didn’t quite have him in their sights, but they would get there soon enough.

Not safe running in a straight line, he zigzagged, sacrificing distance for evasive tactics. Even so, it wouldn’t take them long to get a bead on him. He looked ahead for anything that might impede his progress, and saw a murder of crows take to the air on the opposite side of the nearest hill. If only he could join them, he thought. Instead, he ran a short distance to the left and then a longer distance to the right, on occasion reversing the strategy so as not to reveal a pattern.

WHUMP! WHUMP! One after another, mortar shells exploded; and while Jez’s evasive actions proved successful, progress slowed. The jeeps occasionally stopped to drop-blast their mortar shells more accurately, but it didn’t stop them gaining ground.

Clearly, while the snow slowed him, it had no such effect on the pursuit vehicles. They would catch him before he could get to the hills. He had to make a stand. WHUMP! A shell exploded 30 meters ahead. That would do, fight from the mortar’s footprint, die like a soldier. He ran towards it. The jeeps closed in. WHUMP! Another explosion – and it was in the same hollow he was headed for. He ran in the opposite direction to make them realign their weapons.

The aim moved. Shells exploded away from the crater, so he veered back and got close enough to jump. Any other time of year the landing would have been soft, but now solid ground jarred his bones as he made contact with the fissure’s base. The earth moved and rumbled, feet banged against brittle crust that cracked and broke beneath him. A thin layer of earth had been all that remained after the two explosions and Jez crashed through the crater into another hole.

He dropped the depth of the first hollow and through into the hole below. But he couldn’t see out to shoot. If his life hadn’t been about to end he might have laughed. Too low to make a stand, he would have to… but just a minute, what was that? He wasn’t in a hole, but a pothole, a chance, a slim chance, but a chance.

He pulled the landfall aside, squeezed through and scrambled along the tunnel in a direction in line with the hills. The cave got bigger. He could stand up straight. He started running again, and half a minute carried him 100 meters in. WHUMP! Grit and soil blasted along the chasm behind him, stung his legs, back and buttocks as fragments struck. They’d realigned a fix on the crater too soon. It had to be Mitrokhin up there. The regular army weren’t that good.

With adrenalin pumping, he gave that extra push, but the channel narrowed and lowered. Lack of headroom forced him to his hands and knees. Movement slowed. The ground shook. Tremors shuddered through his arms and legs, and then a blast was followed by a rumble.

The channel collapsed and fallen earth charged towards him. Rapid breathing, his heart raced, but he had to steady his thoughts. He couldn’t lose control, but the ground rumbled, ever closer.

Still on his hands and knees, he pushed his back hard against the roof. Earth fell around his feet and legs as the miniature cave fell in. But his body remained rigid, acting as a stanchion. His part of the crown hadn’t fallen, but ahead and behind, the rumble continued and the fragile earth crashed down. The structure of the hollow folded, and when it stopped he’d become entombed. Panic engulfed him. There was no way out.

Chapter 46

He had to hold position, but yearned to stretch out, push beyond the confines of his grave. Nausea made sweat pop from his skin. He became dizzy and wanted to expel the contents of his gullet. But if he did that, he might choke and die.

Fear smothered him and he cursed himself mentally, but couldn’t resist the dread. Control broke and he panicked. He wanted to scream as terror ripped inside his chest. But all he could do was hunch up and wait to die. He would disappear without trace, gone as if he’d never existed.

Moments of sanity – training, for God’s sake think of the training. Think of all those years of combat experience. Get a grip. Shallow breathing, perform shallow breathing as if in a silent running situation. If he could do that, he would extend the life of the air. But if he allowed fear to dominate, then Mitrokhin had won.

Moments, minutes, how could he tell? He quietened down and took stock. Why should this be so different to the life-threatening situations he’d been in before? The only answer that surfaced was because he didn’t want to die before he’d avenged Anna and Viktor. Humor welled up, calmness stepped in and irony somehow brought understanding to his mind. He’d fretted he might die before Anna was avenged, but vengeance was his only reason for staying alive. No, he wouldn’t be beaten.

Earth tremors reverberated, but then the shuddering became distant. Mitrokhin was blanket-bombing the whole area, making sure there was no way of escape. The quakes lessened. The minutes ticked, and the bombing stopped. He needed to think. How would he handle the situation if this were a training exercise?

The pressure of the roof on his back had exhausted him. First, he should rest – but then what? If the roof wasn’t secure, it would fall and he would die. But he would have to take that chance at some point, and now seemed as good a time as any. Gingerly, he dislodged his body – nothing moved. He rested, but not for too long; the bank of oxygen trapped with him would be spent all too soon, so he needed to work quickly. He dug a hand into the fallen earth and pulled away ice-cold lumps, but they were workable. If he could move it, he could carry on towards the hills.

He pushed rock-like fragments under his body, like a dog digging a hole and moved forward while shoving the debris behind. Air pockets were released but would have to be conserved, so the slow going coupled with energy exerted couldn’t be a factor. He had to keep his breathing limited. Some hours passed, then some more. He weakened. The oxygen diminished and the air thickened to the point that he could taste his own sweat in it. The skin on his fingertips had worn through and some nails had split to the cuticles, but he pushed on, relentlessly denying pain. And then a stimulating flow of adrenalin warmed his stomach as his hand pushed away the solid mass, through mud and into open space. He grasped at fresh air.

Almost frantically, he pushed against the last bank of earth that stood between him and liberty. At last it buckled and fell away. He crawled forward towards freedom. But his fingers met with slime, and more dread filled him. Acrid air invaded his space. He choked, and renewed fear struck his heart. If he was still underground, the gases could be poisonous: maybe carbon monoxide or, if there were sulphur springs, hydrogen sulphide. He had to move quickly. Frantically, he clawed his sweat-saturated body up the slope from its confines.

He had to drag his legs from the collapsed earth, and at last he stumbled to his feet. But he hadn’t reached the outside world as he’d hoped, just a bigger tunnel. Water dripped and echoed hollowly from the roof of the cavern. He stood up straight. Absolute darkness, more unyielding than any place he’d been. He couldn’t see anything, and reaching skyward his hand stretched up into nothingness, a large space, and clearly deep underground.

Perspiration had wet his underclothes, and the sudden change in temperature brought a chilled dampness which at first was welcoming but now set him atremble. This was a black void with muddy earth beneath his feet and a floor that sloped upward to his left. He moved in that direction, groping at the walls for guidance. The ground became steeper, the mud less gummy, but the acidity still attacked his nostrils and rasped his throat.

The cold air became icy, but searing heat visited his stomach as rumblings beat out further along the tunnel. They came from the same direction as he was heading. Alarm gripped him: it might be Mitrokhin. But then he realized the rumbling wasn’t from explosives or people. It was different, more like stampeding animals, and that thought brought a new, different kind of panic. Rats!

He pressed his back firmly to the cave wall, hoping they might run straight past his feet. What else could he do? A trapped man couldn’t fight off hordes of rats. Dread constricted his chest and breathing became harder. The noise grew louder and closer, but also clearer. No longer did it sound like stampeding animals. Maybe they’d just rounded a bend in the cave, but the noise became more of a fluttering. As quickly as he’d made the deduction, they were on him, flapping around his face with a numbing shrill. A deafening screeching deadened his ears. A colony of bats, no way of second guessing how many, but it sounded like thousands.

Thoughts took him back to when Mitrokhin had chased him over the plains. The murder of crows that had risen behind the hill had been these bats fleeing the explosions. The way they’d cast a single shadow over the sky – it should have been obvious. Calm returned. Even with the knowledge that they might be rabid, he fell still. The creatures would be worried for their own safety.

Time passed, the shrieks and flapping rose higher, until they lifted over his head and quietened as they settled on the canopy above. If his notions were right, then they’d returned from the valley, which meant he’d chosen the right direction. Worried about the possibility of toxins and rabies, he thought he’d better make a move – before the bats changed their minds.

He shuddered and his skin crawled at the thought of the mud he’d crept through. The pungent odour had been bat dung – guano. And fortunately for him, wet. Powdered guano contains hazardous organisms. If breathed in they can invade the lungs. He took in his good fortune as he leant against the cave wall. Almost every moment of the previous few hours had brought him nearer to death than he’d ever been. Humility overcame him, and with it a new awareness of human frailty. He’d been given another chance to fulfil his mission.

He’d been too involved with staying alive to acknowledge his injuries, but relief brought the unwelcome awareness of pain, and it came to him like a fanfare. But he couldn’t let it make a difference. The lesions would have to wait in line. He had to get out.

With fingers probing at the walls, he edged along the tunnel until he came to a three-way crossroads. His eyes had grown accustomed enough to the light to observe outlines, and he could see one route headed steeply down. Of the other two, he chose the bigger, but after 50 meters it narrowed and lowered until he was crouching. Another 50 meters and it became light, a bright cavity, painful to the eyes. Only two meters from fresh air, but the remainder of the hole had narrowed too much for him to advance.

He would have to widen the last part or go back to where the tunnels diverged. If he were to retrace his steps to the other tunnel, it would put him back on the route the bats had used. He did not want to go there, but with his fingers a mass of open wounds, he couldn’t scrape out the earth as he had in the collapsed tunnel. Painfully, he rummaged through his pockets and his hand found the bone handle of Mayakovski’s flick knife. He swished out the four-inch blade.

Thick ice covered the opening. He hacked at it and it chipped away easily, but getting halfway through the task he heard voices and stopped – soldiers. They might be checking out the noise. He pushed himself into the widened channel, inched forward and, closing his eyes, made slits in the final barrier. There shone a bright threshold, blocked by snow wedged into thorny bushing. The blade twisted a hole in the soft snow and he peered out. The intensity of the outside light was strong and pain needled his brain.

Slowly accustoming his eyes to the glare, he scanned the area. Three soldiers were at one side of the hole, mumbling incoherently. To Jez’s relief, they were taking a smoke break. All the same, the time they’d taken to make sure he’d been terminated was another indicator of Mitrokhin’s presence. They wore snowsuits, so he couldn’t determine their unit, but a regular army squad wouldn’t have hung around this long.

Before he could continue his journey he needed to kill time, to let the soldiers wrap up their break. His ushanka hat had fallen in battle, and now the freezing cold had his ears ready to chip off, but he still had the hood on his ski jacket. He eased his way back into the tunnel, pulled the covering over his head, tightened the drawstrings and pulled the flaps across his face. Carefully and quietly, he curled into a ball and, too exhausted for further thought, went to sleep almost instantly.

Chapter 47

The light of a bright morning sky, magnified through the snow, pierced his eyelids and mustered him from a comatose sleep. Every part of his body ached. His spirit had worn thin and he wondered why he bothered. Even if he succeeded in killing Mitrokhin, it wouldn’t bring back Viktor or Anna.

He took a deep breath and the cold air snapped at his sinuses, but at least it lifted him from the doldrums. He pushed outwards and the final confines of the narrowed tunnel fell away. But someone may have been left on watch, sheltering from the cold and out of sight, so he had to be careful. He scraped his knife gently to widen the last part of the exit, slithered out and scanned the area. Only the sound of silence accosted him, so he surged out from what had threatened to be his unmarked tomb.

A light wind whispered and tugged at the branches strewn to one side of the hole. He cut a bundle of twigs and cautiously skirted the hill to observe the plains. No signs of life, but the devastation they’d left had scarred the earth’s bitter crust. The sun glared, but the formerly white mass was now only rust-colored stubble.

He built a fire in one of the craters. He knew he should clean the dried sweat from his body to ward off skin infection, so he stripped naked and embarked on the task. It wasn’t so bad, but he wasn’t unhappy when it was over.

Water, he would need water on the journey, but he couldn’t eat snow in its raw form for fear of hypothermia. Melted snow would be okay and, with an abundance of the stuff, wherever he could build a fire he would have enough.

He also had to be clear of his intentions before moving on, but the only thing that was truly clear was that Mitrokhin had to go through the same fear and loss he’d endured. As with any mission, method and patience would be the key. In the end, Mitrokhin would face death, and before that happened, he would understand what it felt like to be without hope.

*

For the first 50 kilometers or so he travelled commando style, confident that his silhouette couldn’t be made out above the line of the local terrain. The openings of his clothes had tufts of grass stuck in them to change his human shape, and he travelled with the contours of the landscape. Slowly, he moved by night and rested by day. Even then he went around objects rather than over them. Every action was carried out true to the soldier Petrichova had created. And he didn’t need to worry about Mitrokhin second-guessing his moves this time. After yesterday’s attack, he would believe him dead for sure.

The wind blew, and with it Anna’s voice whistled through the trees. He listened. The branches rustled. She whispered his name and declared her love. The grief was overpowering, but he let himself be drawn into the charade. It gave him a cruel comfort. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew he should be stronger, but for now he luxuriated in her companionship.

Although he saw people on his journey, none caught sight of him. But then distant thunder rumbled on the horizon and white mist blankets floated over the meadows: a break in the weather could be imminent. If it brought rain, he would need dry shelter.

From atop a small hill, he watched a farmhouse. Several hours passed and the weather remained unchanged, but then the temperature lifted. A thaw loomed and thawing and refreezing makes for damp conditions. He kept surveillance on the farmer’s movements and, at last, decided to take a chance and go down.

Outside the cabin two dogs barked, and as he closed in on them they snarled and took bites at the air around his feet. A man came out and pulled them back, but held them by the scruff of the neck ready to let them go again.

He stared solemnly. “You seem to be a little off course, stranger. Where are you headed?”

The farmer’s face was one of distrust. The dogs continued to snarl, and Jez took a step back, unsure of the situation. “I need sustenance, Comrade. The temperatures have lifted. I could end up wet and I need a place to rest my head. I seem to have wandered off course and I saw your cabin from the far hill.” He pointed back from where he’d come. “I’d hoped you might see it in your heart to help me out.”

The man’s face softened. “Enough,” he yelled at the dogs and let go his hold on them. They slunk off, ears down. Under the steps at the front of the cabin they settled side by side, yellow eyes forming slits as they continued to stare warily at Jez.

“Come, we’ve just set out a meal. Scant, but you’re welcome to share.”

The cabin was small, so the farmer gave him shelter in the wood store. The logs were depleted after a bitter cold winter, so there was plenty of room. A dry cover, more or less windproof; protection enough, in fact a lot more than he’d had of late.

The next day he left, but not before he found their money in an old rusted tin, a few coins, probably their life savings. He added a small bankroll to the tin to put a little extra food on the table. A berakhah, Poppa would call it.

Chapter 48

In a hurry to get to Moscow, Jez had no time to live off the land. So he turned to a life of crime. He stole eggs from chicken coops and potatoes from barns, and then moved up in the criminal world and took whole chickens – Comrade Big. The plunder rarely went unnoticed. No matter how he tried to evade detection someone always saw him, and he wondered why Soviet forces hadn’t used these people in training.

Wearied from travel, he came to the turning that he and Viktor had mistakenly driven past on that fateful day. With each step, he relived the final hours he’d spent with his friend. But now the warm glow the cabin had given him on that first visit was no more than a chilling reminder.

Rula Korbet’s small lumber house came into view beyond the last snowdrift. He got to the door, but Rula’s mother came from behind the cabin before he could knock. She stared long and hard at him and then smiled.

“Lieutenant Kornfeld, this is a surprise.”

“You… you remember who I am?”

“Yes, I’m very good with faces, and while you have changed appearance, your face is far too pretty for a man. How could I forget it?” She giggled.

He brushed the comment aside and beseeched her. “Comrade Korbet, do you think I could come in and talk with Rula?”

“Yes, of course. She’s not back from town, but come and have tea.”

*

Jez shared their evening meal and then spent the night there. Now, he mopped up breakfast. “I know food is scarce, so I’m most grateful for your hospitality. This will sustain me on my journey.”

He got up from the table, but Adelaida Korbet lifted a hand to halt him. “And where do you think you’re off to?” she asked.

“I don’t wish to impose any further. After I’ve spoken with Rula, I will be on my way.”

“You don’t look in any fit state to travel for a while. Stay, you can work for your keep. Help with the chores and build yourself up at the same time.”

Work for his keep! And he could do with some time to develop the ideas he’d had on the journey here. “Thank you, you’re most kind… I could do with a couple of days.”

“Good, no more to be said then.”

Rula came in, face still asleep and shoulders slumped. She thudded onto a chair across the table from him.

He greeted her with a grin and said, “I came to your cabin to find out if you’d heard from or seen Vasili.”

“No, there’s been no sign of him since I was taken.”

“Oh… not even from the girls you know in town?”

“No, the only contact we’ve had with anyone about the abduction was when General Petrichova came here with Lieutenant Puchinsky.”

He shifted against the back of the chair. “What?”

“Yes, they came for verification that you and Sergeant Sharansky had worked together.”

“And did you confirm it?” She nodded. “Did they say anything else?”

“Yes, the general said that if you turn up on our doorstep, you should be treated as a friend.”

The questions he’d wanted to ask Rula fizzled out. None of this made sense. Why had Anna told him she hadn’t been here? Why would the general think he might return to the Korbet cabin? And even more puzzling, why had he ended up there? How could Petrichova have drawn such conclusions?

…That conversation with Rula had been more than six weeks ago. His plan to enter Moscow seemed to become ever more pointless. He needed Vasili before he could proceed with his preparation. Unable to determine his next steps, he made himself useful around the cabin. And if the Korbets needed stuff in town, he went. It gave him an opportunity to roam the main streets and alleyways with the lame hope of a chance encounter with his prey. It never happened.

He’d never seen Vasili, but the description Rula had given was enough to make him stand out. On the seventh week at the cabin, Rula went into town with her mother. Apparently, it wasn’t right that a man should go for what they needed. On their return, Rula ran up the path.

“Jez, it hardly seems possible,” she said, and caught her breath, “but I’ve seen him in town – Vasili.” Her voice shook.

“Wha… where?” he asked, and stuttered as he did.

“Just strolling up the main road with a young girl. I didn’t know her, but she looked like… well, similar to me, I suppose.”

Jez panicked. He couldn’t afford to lose Vasili. This might be his only chance.

Rula stared at him as though she’d read his mind. “I don’t think you’ll lose him, Jez,” she assured. “When he worked his charms on me, he took his time. And I could see he was in no hurry with this girl. And he never caught sight of us.”

She was right. He couldn’t allow himself to blow it because of over-enthusiasm – not again. He calmed down. “Of course, you’re right, but I must go into town on the off-chance. If he’s still there I’ll follow him. He must have a bolt hole if he can spare so much time in the area.”

By the time he got to town, a fair amount of time had lapsed since Rula had seen Vasili, so it was unlikely he’d catch up with him, but he was still disappointed not to do so. He returned the next day, with the hope his quarry would show. He didn’t. In fact, no one even close to Rula’s outline appeared. His gut twisted. And things didn’t improve: Vasili wasn’t there for any of the several days that followed. But Jez continued to loiter, ever hopeful.

And then, one late afternoon, his heart lifted. A man that fitted Vasili’s description swaggered onto the main street. It had to be him: tall, slender, thick black hair slicked back, and clothes too expensive for the peasant community of which he took advantage. His good looks would never be contended: big brown eyes, a straight nose flaring slightly at the nostrils, a strong face set with a square jaw, mouth wide and lips artistically lined. But it wasn’t even that. Self-belief radiated from this man.

No room for doubt, this was Vasili. He walked through and out of town. Jez followed. After 4 kilometers through the suburbs, he turned off onto a narrow path to a farmhouse. He went indoors without knocking and Jez carried on up the lane. No need to follow for the moment. Not now he knew Vasili’s safe haven.

Chapter 49

Vasili Samprov made his way up the main street. He hadn’t used Ostrov since that bitch Rula escaped, but the time had come and he had another girl in the pipeline. He’d only just finished with two peasants: one from Slobada, the other from Kartino. His people picked them up yesterday and they should have reached The Red Lite ready for shipment to Turkey by now – or had he told them the Bolshoi in Europe? He laughed, “Easy meat.”

His latest conquest lived on the southern outskirts of Ostrov, which was why he walked through the main street now – to meet her. He hadn’t even applied his charms for a day on this one. It was all so easy for him. A blonde with blue eyes, the girl’s name was Hella, granddaughter of a couple who’d come down from Finland and settled – God knows why they would do that. Finnish, Russian, didn’t matter, they all fell for his silver tongue at some point, “Like I said – easy meat.” He laughed out loud.

Halfway up the street, a pretty-boy stared directly at him, giving him a big smile. Vasili kept his glance cool, didn’t allow his expression to change, but he did flicker his eyes. He thumbed at the side of his hair. With such fatal good looks, it seemed none of them could resist, not even the boys. He smiled again.

*

Since first light, Jez had waited on the corner of the main street. He worried. What if Vasili didn’t turn up? What if he’d just been tying up loose ends? What if… stop! Even if the worries had foundation, there was always the farmhouse.

What time was it anyway? The watch revealed half the problem – it was still only nine. No self-respecting pimp would be out and about at such a time.

Patience paid off. At around midday, Vasili’s tall lean figure strutted up the main street. He walked by and Jez smiled. Vasili’s dark brown eyes flashed a twinkle in return. Jez watched him turn the corner into a side street and followed. A brisk walk took them to the outskirts of the south side of town. Vasili took a path to a wooden house and was met halfway by a girl who’d run down to meet him. Excitedly, she threw her arms round his neck. Vasili responded demurely, probably because an older lady watched from the doorway.

The couple left and Jez spent the afternoon trailing after them. Vasili had his fun, unable to keep his hands off the girl. He acted out the job well, and if Jez hadn’t known better, he could well have believed this man was in love with the girl. But he had known better.

By mid-afternoon they returned to the house. The girl’s pleasure had turned sour and she clearly didn’t want him to leave. Vasili must’ve just about finished his job and it wouldn’t be too long before she’d be picked up and shipped off.

Jez thought about the set-up and realized that Vasili hadn’t just worked Ostrov from the farmhouse. He’d centered himself there to cover all the surrounding areas, probably half a dozen towns at the same time. That’s why he hadn’t seen him around on those days, because he was plying his trade elsewhere.

Jez left the couple and made his way to a quiet country lane equidistant between farmhouse and town. Vasili would have to use that road to get home. He readied his mind for a long wait.

The blue sky faded to a blackness sprinkled with white light. The chill in the air lowered and he shivered. But then, at last, Vasili made his way up the lane. As he approached, his facial muscles twitched, his brow furrowed and his dark brown eyes blackened. Jez nodded as he had earlier, but this time Vasili shrugged and walked on.

Jez let him get a few steps past. “Are you Vasili?” he asked, and the excitement of the chase gained momentum.

Vasili kept his back to him but lifted an arm and took something from his jacket. He spun a half-circle and his attractive features dissolved into an ugly emission of hatred. He swished open a knife that had a long, straight blade.

“Who the fuck are you and what do you want? If you’re looking for trouble you’ve come to the right place. I advise you to fuck off now or suffer.”

A single slash cut the empty space between them. Though the bigger of the two, every word he uttered gave Jez the impression he’d caught his man flat-footed and fear had taken charge. But Jez lifted his hands and opened his palms submissively.

“No, no, you’ve got it wrong, Comrade. I don’t want trouble. I’m a friend of Rula Korbet. She saw you in town a few days ago and asked me to find out why you hadn’t been to see her since her return.”

Instantly, Vasili’s demeanor changed. His shoulders relaxed, a grin spread across his face and aggression softened. “Rula Korbet, huh, she still wants to see me? Do these bitches never learn?” He put the knife away and turned his stare to Jez with the practiced look of a desperado. “Look, you little shit, she was a mistake. Go back to your plough or whatever is you do and save your pretty face from my knife. Go – fuck off!”

Vasili walked away. Jez withdrew the sound-suppressed PB 6P9 and fired a single shot. The empty case ejected to the right, hit the ground and burnt its way through the already melting snow. The bullet it had embraced smacked into Vasili’s heel. He yelped out in pain, jumped and landed on his undamaged foot. Jez fired a shot into the good foot and Vasili hit the floor as if his legs had been swiped from under him.

“You bastard,” he screamed in a high-pitched voice. “I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you…” He pulled out the knife and the blade swished from the handle.

“Now that has to count as one of the strangest responses I’ve seen. Here you are, sat in a remote lane with snowmelt running between the cheeks of your ass. I have a gun pointed at you and I’ve just put a bullet into each of your feet. And you’re making the threats.” He laughed. “Some people have no humility.”

Blood ran gray in the glow of the moonlight and diluted as it trickled into thawing ice. Jez fired a third shot and exploded Vasili’s kneecap. A fountain of blood thickened the melting water, which slowed as if halted by an oil slick. Vasili dropped his knife and screamed for mercy.

“No, no, please, don’t shoot me again.” He begged and held his hands up and out. “What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything but please, don’t shoot me again.”

Jez moved closer and kicked the knife out of reach.

“Right, tell me what you know about Mitrokhin and his flesh operation.”

“Mitrokhin?” he said, puzzled. “Mitrokhin isn’t involved with the girls anymore.” He wept the words more than spoke them.

Jez pressed the gun’s cold steel aperture against Vasili’s forehead.

“I want the full outline of Mitrokhin’s operation. If you lie again, I promise I’ll kill you.”

“No, no, please, it isn’t a lie. The operation has passed on from Mitrokhin. He no longer has anything to do with it. Please, that’s the truth.” Vasili wrapped his arms tightly around the top of his leg, trying to emulate a tourniquet. “I need medical attention. Please, please help me.”

“Yes, I will help you, but only after you’ve told me what you know.”

Through words erratic from pain, Vasili told Jez how the operation functioned. How Stefan Polanski was the main man who managed the business in Balashikha. That Stefan now answered to a man called Nabokovski – a mafia gang leader. That Nikkei and Ivan Romanov were two giant identical twin brothers who constantly guarded Stefan. That, other than the brothers, there were always four or five pimps and bodyguards in the club. And that the centre of the operation was the Red Lite nightclub.

“The Red Lite? But that was closed down.”

“That isn’t true, no, and I’ve never heard that it might be.”

Before Vasili had whimpered his answer, in fact as soon as his own words had left his lips, it dawned on him. Why close the club when he was the only incorrupt officer in internal security who knew of its existence?

“You’re right,” he said. “And why would it be? You’ve given me a lot of information, Vasili. You’re just a pimp out in the suburbs. How do you know so much?”

“Stefan is my friend. I’ve known him since we were children. I work this end of the business because I choose to.”

That was more than enough information to work with. Jez could see no more use for Vasili.

“Okay, thanks.”

He walked away, leaving him stranded in the melting water.

“What’re you doing? Where are you going, you bastard? You can’t leave me like this, you fuck. Come back here now. You said you would help me if I told you what I knew.”

Jez halted his pace and turned. Vasili had struggled to get to his feet, but only reached his good knee. Jez thought of the girls, and now this same aggressor knelt before him expecting mercy. His mind’s eye saw Anna walking a step ahead. She stopped and blood oozed from the back of her coat.

“Yes, but like you, Vasili, I don’t always tell the truth.”

He shook the vision clear, and noticed that an unnatural calm had come into his voice. He pointed the pistol and squeezed off a shot. Fifteen paces, and other than moonlight, stars and sludgy snow, darkness prevailed. But the 9 mm piece of lead flew with uncanny accuracy, made a slapping sound, and forced a gaping cavity in the centre of Vasili’s forehead. The pimp fell back and landed face-up on the gritted road. For a moment, his body shook, but when it came to rest, his open eyes stared up dreamily into the starlit heavens.

“All in all,” Jez said, taking ID and money from the dead man’s jacket, “a fitting end for such a romantic man.”

*

Jez went back to the Korbet home. He’d decided to stay for another two nights to go over his plans and make sure his preparations were still on track. Vasili’s information threw in a new twist and a few changes would be necessary.

“What happened to Vasili?” Rula asked. The question hung for a moment. Jez didn’t believe she came across as worried about the answer… but no, it might still upset her.

“Best you don’t ask, Rula. But I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. Your neighbours will dine out on the story for some time to come.”

She seemed to know not to pursue the subject.

In town, Jez bought clothes, did what he could to change his appearance. His encounter with Vasili had changed things. Again, it was time for him to act as a soldier behind enemy lines. He had to forget about love and loss, and return to being the soldier the general had shaped. Now, after years in internal security craving frontline action, he was about to get it.

Chapter 50

Jez waited on Leninsky Avenue, a few meters from the Red Lite nightclub intersection in Balashikha. He’d copied what he’d observed from the pimps: slicked his hair into a stubby ponytail, tied it with a black ribbon, courtesy of Rula, donned a short black blouson leather jacket, put a simple gold chain he’d borrowed from Rula’s mother around his neck, and slipped into a pair of slim-fit trousers. He splayed the collar of an open-neck pink shirt on the outside of his jacket and hoped he wouldn’t have to take it off, or they’d see the shirt’s folds fresh from the box. He kept his beard, but cut it close to his face. Final touches: he placed the PB 6P9 and sound-suppressing barrel in separate pockets, where they’d be easily found when he was searched.

Early evening came and he descended the steps to the club entrance. Nervousness gripped him: these were the steps where only a year earlier his nightmare had begun. Not even a year ago, but for him a lifetime of torment.

He pulled his head back, braced his shoulders, and assumed the confidence the pimps were so practiced at. The guise would be maintained until he reached the office where, so long ago, he’d been overpowered by Mitrokhin and his people.

The handle pushed down, he opened the door and swaggered through the small passageway into the main saloon. People peppered the area: a few girls, several men, a couple of which may well have had an apartment full of second prizes judging by the flattened noses and small crumpled ears. Those with mangled features wore dark suits and sat around the bar on high stools.

An enormous man, also in a dark suit, sat back against the sofa seat that ran the length of the side wall. Arms stretched wide over the back support, he clasped a stubby cigarette between stained fingers, and the length of the ash suggested it had burned away without being smoked. His face had no battle scars, probably because his fighting weight couldn’t be matched.

Jez committed him to memory. He could be a handful when the time came. The passageway that led to the back office was covered by another giant of a man. Identical to the big man against the wall, clearly the other twin brother Vasili had mentioned. Jez approached, looked him over as if he’d picked him up on the bottom of his shoe, and guessed at which brother he might be.

“Ivan?”

With hands religiously folded before him, Romanov smiled sarcastically and nodded. “What if I am?” His answer carried nicotined breath, laced with alcohol.

“If you are, then you should be showing me through to Stefan’s office. He’s expecting me.”

“He never told me.” Romanov looked over to his brother, who had become otherwise engaged with one of the girls.

“Seems like the only way to prove me right or wrong is to take me to him. Or can you think of another way? Oh, yes, maybe you need your brother to come over and assist you with your decision?”

Irritation visibly increased. “You’re a funny little man, aren’t you? You have weapons?”

“Of course,” Jez said, with amused surprise. Would he have let him go through if he’d said no? He handed over the pistol and held his arms out in crucifixion so that Romanov could search him properly. “Keep that gun with you. I want it back as soon as I speak with Stefan. I feel naked without it.”

“Your name?” the brother asked, as he patted him down.

“Alex Glushchenko,” Jez replied.

Romanov removed the contents of Jez’s pockets, slipped the pistol into his own jacket, and returned the other stuff. “Come… Comrade Glushchenko, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Jez walked the length of the corridor in front of Romanov. The bodyguard stopped him just before they got to the office, pulled him roughly aside, pushed past, and went in.

“Stefan, I’ve got Alex Glushchenko here.”

Jez walked in behind him, using both hands to straighten his ponytail.

Stefan looked up in surprise. “Alex Glushchenko, Ivan – who the fuck is Alex Glushchenko?”

He was halfway out of his chair to take a better look when Ivan spun round angrily. Jez released a throwing knife from under his ponytail. Ivan stood before him and Jez thrust the dagger upward with the speed of an assassin. The blade penetrated the soft flesh under Ivan’s chin, drove through his tongue and lodged deep into the roof of his mouth. It had to have broken through into the front of his brain. As Ivan brought his hands up under his throat, Jez retrieved his gun and ammunition. Ivan dropped to his knees and froze like a petrified tree. Stefan got to his feet, but only to stand there and gape like a moron.

Ivan’s eyes had opened wide in shock and his throat gurgled as he choked. His hands had settled on the knife and the blood bubbled from his nostrils and down between his lips, running over his chin and hands. He repeatedly grunted, “Uh… ugh…”

Jez focused on Stefan, weighing him up. He was a handsome man, around his mid-thirties, and like the other pimps he was trim and well-dressed. His pencil-line moustache had prematurely greyed and his waved hair was streaked silver at the temples. A salt and pepper mane combed back above a squared-off face gave a respectable impression of Omar Sharif. But handsome or otherwise, darkness simmered in his black-brown eyes.

“Stefan, we have an opportunity to be of help to each other: you give me information, I let you live. But before we start, are you right-handed?” he asked.

Stefan looked puzzled. “Yes – why?”

Jez screwed the sound-suppressor onto the pistol, locked the final twist of the barrel and shot Stefan in the right hand just above the knuckles. A dull clap and he squalled in surprised pain, leapt back in panic, pushed the chair with him until they were stopped by the wall. Jez lifted a finger to his lips and pointed to the gun – shush.

“I have fast reflexes, Stefan. If you are stupid enough to go for a gun with your left hand – well, think about it.”

Stefan’s high cheekbones lost their attractiveness when the disagreeable expression of hurt twisted his face. But Jez’s questions would have to wait. He’d noticed the wooden filing cabinet in the corner and it cried out to be searched. It was locked. “The key,” he demanded. But no sooner had he spoken than the other twin filled the doorframe.

He stopped and stared numbly. “Ivan,” he begged weakly.

Jez took advantage of the big man’s bewilderment. With arm straightened, he aimed the silenced pistol and squeezed off two shots. The slugs thudded into Nikkei’s throat. The closeness of the target and the power of the gun caused the bullets to tear through the back of his neck, undoubtedly severing his spine. Nikkei collapsed like a felled redwood. His body bounced and came to rest face down at the base of Ivan’s knees. Other than “Uh… ugh…” it was a soundless moment. Ivan, still on his knees, both hands clutched to his throat, looked like a priest giving his brother the last rites – and maybe speaking in tongues.

“Okay,” Jez said, and his confidence grew, “key.”

“Desk – bottom left,” Stefan stuttered, coolness completely gone.

Jez slid the desk drawer open and pocketed a wad of cash that lay next to the key. He took out the first folder in the cabinet. The top page had a list of girls’ names, locations of where they had lived and details of… Jez presumed pimps. He thumbed through the entire file.

“This file shows Mitrokhin’s cut from the deal and an address in Leningrad. But Otto Mitrokhin no longer has an affiliation with this operation.”

Stefan looked reluctant to answer and Jez tired of the game. He sighed and pointed the pistol into his victim’s face.

“They’re old documents – just in case,” Stefan spluttered.

“I suppose these are the names of abducted women? Think hard before you answer. I have a bullet for each lie you tell me.”

Stefan’s face twitched and nervousness showed itself in the top lid of his left eye. The eye flickered and seemed to obsess him. He rubbed at the lid, pulled at the eyelash.

“Well?” Jez demanded impatiently.

“Yes, they’re the girls that were taken when Mitrokhin ran the game. I kept the details as extra insurance, like I said before, just in case.” His concentration returned to the eyelid.

Jez had been right about the missing peasant girls from the outset, but took no satisfaction from the knowledge. He put the file down on the desk and carried on. Several more folders, one highlighting the dealings of the new boss, Nabokovski; clearly more insurance policies. He put the sheets on Nabokovski together with the stuff on Mitrokhin and pulled out the last file from the drawer. It contained information about a man named Jacob Bernstein.

“Who’s this Bernstein?” Jez asked.

Stefan shifted uncomfortably on his seat and his attention returned to the wound in his hand. Jez became impatient.

“Stefan, I have no intention of constantly repeating my promise of injury. Any information you give me is between us, but this is the last time I ask. Who is Jacob Bernstein? And ask yourself, is holding back really worth dying for?”

“He’s Otto’s accountant. When Otto ran the operation, Adrik took their cut to the Jew in Leningrad. Bernstein manages Otto’s investments.”

“I suppose he’s no longer with him now the trafficking has been sold on?”

Stefan almost laughed. “You’re not serious. Otto has hundreds of scams in operation. Bernstein is probably working harder than ever.”

Jez put the folder on the stack and looked at the first list again. Two names had caught his eye, because they were Jewish. “There are two girls with the name Bernstein: any relation to Jacob?”

“Yes, his daughters… Otto’s little joke,” Stefan nearly grinned, but he moved his hand at the same time and only managed to wince. “He hates Jews, but needed the accountant. He told Bernstein he could get jobs and quarters in Europe for the girls… as a favor. You know, the old story: a better life. Bernstein knew Otto was crooked, but had no idea about the trafficking. His girls were shipped to Turkey where Beyrek Ozel works them. He makes them write to their father every now and then. The letters are posted from Italy.”

“This Turk, who is he? Where are his details?”

“In that same dossier, it’s all there.”

“Good. Now, vodka; is there any vodka?” he asked.

Stefan cocked an eyebrow but kept quiet and pointed to the wooden cupboard. The middle shelf was full of bottles. Jez took a couple out. He unscrewed the caps, emptied a little onto the top of the cabinet, rolled up a file he didn’t want and wound it into the neck. There was a cloth also on top of the cabinet, which he used to mop up the spilt alcohol, then stuffed it into the other bottle. Simple, but the revolutionaries never pretended the weapon was clever.

Jez pulled Stefan to his feet and spread-eagled him over the doorframe. “Wait,” he commanded, as if talking to a dog, and tucked the documents into his waistband. He lit both fuses, waited until the cloth had a big enough lick and tossed both cocktails against the back wall. The flames flared and climbed the height of the office. The doors on the wooden cupboard were open and in seconds the flame surrounded the bottles he’d left untouched.

Stepping over Nikkei’s body, he pushed Stefan through into the corridor and pulled him backwards in the opposite direction to the saloon. Within a couple of meters of the door, the office exploded and fire flares chased them along the passageway.

Shouts echoed from the saloon area. Three men who were sitting at the bar earlier filled the aisle and gun muzzles flashed. Bullets splintered shards from the wooden fire door behind Jez. Another shot sliced through his upper arm, burning like a fireball. It hurt like hell, but he was sure it hadn’t hit bone. Even so it was bleeding enough for him to need to get out quick, or soon he’d be too weak to defend himself.

“Stop it, you fools,” Stefan shouted. “You’ll hit me!”

Jez slipped his pistol under Stefan’s arm and fired twice. The first shot was erratic, the bullet ricocheted, exploded plaster from the wall. Dust clouded the hallway, but the bullet fluked and struck a man in the cheek. He spun, fell to the floor with his hands clutched to his face and screamed.

The second shot flew straight and plunged into a man’s abdomen. No need to fire again, the third gunman had shied away. Jez noticed the bloodflow from his arm increase. Time to get out; a bullet wound and smoke billowing into the corridor could equal poor health. He gripped the back of Stefan’s hair, kicked the bar on the fire door and dragged him out.

At the top of the steps in a back alley, Jez spun Stefan to face him and stuck the gun in his face. “Tell Nabokovski, Otto wants his operation back.”

“Otto, you work for Otto, but…”

Jez walked away, but then stopped. One thing he didn’t need was Stefan back in the saloon organizing the troops. He shot him in the thigh. Stefan howled and fell, clutching his leg. Jez disappeared into the night.

Chapter 51

“Vasili Samprov,” Andrei said, as he came into Otto’s office.

“What about him?” Otto replied, without much interest. Irritation had rubbed him up, without reason. The Jew was off his back, and because of that so was Petrichova. So his irritation must be because it was too hot in here: the radiator valve had jammed and the heat was overpowering. He would have to get hold of the maintenance supervisor and burn his ass. He’d make him see what “too hot” felt like – but he’d had that in mind all week and hadn’t gotten round to it yet. No, it wasn’t the heating anyway, he was just irritable.

“Our local militiaman in Ostrov didn’t know Vasili had moved over to Nabokovski, and he’s been in touch to tell me that he’s been murdered… Have you turned the heating up?”

Otto’s head whipped up – no, leave it. And who cares about Samprov, he thought. But for some reason the news added to his sour mood.

“How?” he asked, frowned and brushed a hand over his flat-top. He halted the move halfway. He had to stop doing that.

“Shot in the limbs and then finished off with a bullet to the head.”

“Ouch, nasty, but… he isn’t our business.”

Otto thought of his former comrades and his mood eased a bit. He’d known Vasili and Stefan for a long time and they had a habit of getting into knife fights – very good at it they were too, but someone not so good probably got hold of a gun to level the odds.

Thoughts veered: he had a new scam in mind. He turned the conversation and told Andrei the details. Ten minutes passed and he’d convinced himself of his own brilliance – and then the phone rang.

“Yes?” Impatient again, face set, but Otto calmed when he heard the voice on the other end. “Stefan, that’s a coincidence. We were not long talking about you – well, Vasili anyway. How is it up there with the big boys?”

Stefan cut straight to the chase, giving him a detailed outline of what had just happened. Otto knew he was saying too much on an unsafe line, but froze when Stefan described the man responsible. Then he shuddered when he heard the message he was given: ‘Tell Nabokovski that Otto wants his operation back.’

“What, no, of course it wasn’t me. Why would I? Was this man able to get any information about me?”

The phone went silent... “No, how could he have? There’s nothing here about you.”

“You say you’re in the hospital in Balashikha. Look, some of the phone conversations here are listened in on. This is a covert operation, so I’ll come and see you there. I have a photograph I’d like you to look at. Oh, and thanks for letting me know so promptly.”

Otto hung up and felt his shoulders sag. He walked to the window. The rain pissed down and clouds hung low, and that just about summed up his mood. And he was due to see his mother. It couldn’t be more depressing. But then sourness turned to apprehension. What had gone wrong? Surely the bastard couldn’t still be alive? That wouldn’t be possible; they’d obliterated the area. No one could live through such a bombardment.

Flaring up a cigarette, he dragged long and hard before exhaling smoke in a powerful blue line. When the line wavered, he saw his own nervousness. A second drag took smoke down that didn’t resurface. If it was the Jew, he must’ve killed Vasili and left Stefan alive so it would get back to him. The little bastard was after him. A new version of an old sensation gripped him – fear. He let his head hang loose, relaxed his shoulders and tried to calm himself. But that was a waste of time. He was scared shitless.

Andrei came up behind him and stood close. “What’s wrong, Otto? What did Stefan say?”

Otto’s voice quivered. “I think that fucking Jew might still be alive; and if he is, he’s after me.”

Andrei pulled back and Otto turned to see he’d stiffened.

“What! No, no, no, that isn’t even vaguely possible.”

The right words, but they could’ve been said with a little more conviction. “You would think so, but it certainly sounds like him. What does that fucking man have? It’s as if he’s superhuman.”

Fear squeezed Otto’s chest. His imagination watched the Jew grow into a monster. He shook the thought away. “But you’re right. I’m probably jumping to conclusions. I must calm down, think logically. I’ll go to Stefan. He’ll at least be able to confirm if it’s him or not. I want you to go to the plains that we bombed. Make a line from that point to where Vasili was killed. Plot the journey the way you would if you were travelling commando. He would be capable of living off the land, but there’s been a lot of snow about and he’s trained to take the easiest option. And that would mean he stole from farms as he went. Check with the local militia stations and see if anybody has reported theft. If they have, see if they gave a description.”

“I’m on it, Otto.”

Andrei sighed as he turned to leave, but Otto’s thoughts had gone into overdrive. And they told him his visit to Stefan might be a trap.

“Wait, Andrei, come with me to see Stefan first. If this is a set-up, it will be easier for us to sort it out together.”

Chapter 52

Since he’d dealt with Stefan, Jez had spent a number of days at the Korbet cabin. The slug had ripped right through his flesh and probably buried itself in the fire door behind him. He’d been lucky; the lesion produced no evidence of lead particles. At first he’d looked after the wound himself, but then Rula stepped in as nursemaid and cleaned and dressed the arm at the same time each day.

He continued with his tasks, splitting logs with an axe held in his left hand. After an afternoon at work, he became sweaty and took off his shirt. Rula popped her head out of the cabin door.

“Jez, would you like tea or a cold drink?”

“Water would be good,” he said.

A couple of minutes later, Rula came out with two cups of water.

“You look fit,” she said, and gave him the once over.

Little warning bells chimed. “Years of army training; I don’t look any different to the other soldiers at camp,” he said, and split another log.

“Take a breather. I don’t get to speak with many people my own age.”

He put the axe down. “Hardly your age: there are quite a few years between us.”

She giggled. “You know what I mean. I get a bit lonely. I suppose that’s why I was smitten when Vasili plied me with his charms, him telling me all those lies, saying how beautiful I was.”

“You are a lovely girl. He wasn’t telling lies,” he said, and immediately regretted it.

She moved closer, looking up at him differently from usual, but before it could go further her mother popped her head out of the cabin. “Come on you, oh…” she coughed and laughed. “Come on you two, supper.”

The evening passed quietly. Rula hooded her eyes a couple of times when their gazes met, nothing more. But what if she was to – what of Anna… oh shit… But then, maybe he’d misread the signs. After all, he wasn’t exactly Comrade Experienced. Forget about it. Carry on as normal.

Three days of the same old routine and he realized he’d been wrong. She’d only tested him to see if men thought her attractive.

Darkness fell, and he’d washed. He looked at his reflection mirrored in the blackened window and tensed his right arm to make sure it had healed without complications. That was when Rula walked in on him. She’d bathed and dressed the wound at the same time every day... It was his fault: he should’ve been ready for her. Now, his cheeks burned as she stared floor-ward and giggled. She got nearer, but then her breath caught and she shrank back.

Embarrassed, he didn’t know what to say. “Hello, Rula, sorry, I forgot the time,” he mumbled into his chest.

As she cleaned the injury she usually told him some old wives’ tale her mother thought true: like that only a silver bullet could kill a vampire – a vampire, of course they must exist, otherwise not even a silver bullet could kill them. He felt the heat of her body and the close proximity brought awareness. Suddenly the silence deafened him.

She dabbed at the injury with a towel, but gazed into his face. Her eyes widened and smoldered and something stirred in him. For a moment, his eyes returned the same passion. Animal instinct rose, almost drove him into pursuit. But he couldn’t. Anna’s face came into his vision and Rula’s charms dimmed. He turned away and put his shirt on, but in the rejection he caught a glimpse of her shame.

“Rula, I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I’ve become very fond of you, but I’m not Vasili. I don’t take advantage of people at vulnerable times in their lives. I really am so very sorry, but I’ll be off tomorrow and it’s unlikely I’ll return.”

She didn’t reply, just gave him an awkward smile, gathered the towel and basin and hurried from the room. He thought she might have been crying. He lay on the bed, his heart a dead weight. The last thing he wanted was to hurt these people: the only ones who’d believed in him. And now he’d caused Rula distress. But he suddenly sat up and shook his head. He couldn’t afford to be maudlin: think of the mission. Because of the new information, he had to alter his plans again. Another of Poppa’s expressions came to mind: “Where there is no vision, the people perish”, and he saw the unearthing of Jacob Bernstein as part of a new vision.

Without doubt, as a soldier Mitrokhin knew all the moves. And though Jez had less guile and experience, he’d handled himself well since he’d escaped the pothole. He’d managed to stay one step ahead, and attributed his successes to a balanced attitude between commitment and detachment. After he’d embraced the mindset of a fugitive he’d done the unexpected, and this new idea would certainly be that.

He had to go to Leningrad, but he couldn’t quite make his mind up about his quarry. Would he be able to enlist the accountant’s help, or have to terminate him after he’d done his bidding? He could certainly justify killing Bernstein. In his own way, he was as guilty of abduction as Vasili.

*

By now Mitrokhin would be aware that Jez had survived the bombings, and there would be military checkpoints, especially on public transport routes. But he needed to get to Leningrad… Think about it: Stefan wouldn’t have told Otto that Jez knew of the accountant’s existence, or he’d have betrayed the fact he had information that could be used for blackmail. No loose ends there, but Mitrokhin was nobody’s fool. There’d be every chance he’d suspect he was using the Glebska persona.

Question: what did it actually mean to assume the search was still on? …It meant they would pick up a trail at some point. So, he’d travel west to Smolensk as Glebska, become Vasili at the terminal and travel north to Leningrad. The manpower used to hunt him would be limited, or else Mitrokhin would have had to admit that he’d got it wrong when he’d reported him dead – and he would have done that for sure. To start, before Jez went any further he needed to change appearance.

A subdued Rula cut and styled his hair: back and sides not much more than a centimeter, but the top was still long and fashioned similar to the way Vasili had worn his, slicked back and pulled forward. He wanted to look like a high-ranking city worker, so he bought new clothes in Ostrov; but with the clothes available, he’d have been lucky to get away with being a lowly clerk.

When he left the Korbets, Jez walked into Ostrov and caught a bus south to the Kashirskaya metro station. The line came back through Kolomenskaya metro on the way to central Moscow, which would have been quicker, but he didn’t want to sit on the platform there and bump into those he had no desire to bump into: the youths from Nadia’s Plattenbau, for instance. In the capital, no one took notice of anyone and he caught the mainline express to Smolensk. He left the terminal without having to show identification. A few hours in doorways and alleys, and he resumed the journey to Leningrad as Vasili. Although he arrived late, the mid-May twilight was lingering – summer, the time of white nights when dusk prevails until daybreak. Again, he left the station without being asked for ID, and he smiled. If he hadn’t been on the run, he would consider it his duty to beef up security.

On to Leningrad’s Nevsky Prospekt and then Uprising Square, where he looked back to the Moscovsky Railway Terminal. The last time he’d stared at a station like that, Anna had been with him.

Most of Russia’s major cities had waterways. One of Leningrad’s was the Neva River. He walked along the bank, and emotional forces brought his thoughts to the embankment in Minsk. He’d strolled hand in hand with Anna and love had been reborn. The thoughts waxed poetical for a few minutes and resolve grew, but the cold bit into his bones. He had to move on. A metro took him to the north of the city and on to the suburbs where the accountant lived.

From the station, a five-minute walk turned to ten because the world-traveled soldier took a wrong turn. But he managed to find a multitude of low-rise tenement blocks that brought him to the address he wanted. Bernstein’s apartment building told a different story to that of Nadia’s Plattenbau. The foyer smelled fresh, the floor was herringboned oak and the lift button brought the cage down to the ground floor almost instantly.

But the corridor on the second floor wasn’t so upmarket. Half the lights were blown. The air was thick and musty, and the paintwork was old and worn. Just for a moment, the closeness of the walls and the poor lighting shifted his mind back to being trapped in the pothole. Momentary panic nipped his senses and he was glad to come to stare at number 232, the door of the accountant’s apartment. He knocked for a whole five minutes before he heard someone shuffle on the other side of the door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Stop before you wake the dead. Who is it at this ungodly hour anyway?” a voice croaked.

“My name is Alex Glushchenko, and if you’re Jacob Bernstein then that name should be meaningful. I’ve been sent from Moscow on business.”

The door opened and a cast of light slithered out to split the gloom of the passageway.

“Are you Jacob Bernstein?” Jez asked.

The door opened enough to make out a man staring at him suspiciously. He wore a long, black, silk dressing gown that looked almost new, and though Jez had got him out of bed he appeared groomed, well presented. The man’s straight hair had taken on a steel grey and fitted neatly around a narrow, angular, but pleasant enough face. When the door fully opened, Jez could see along the passage as far as the lounge.

“Yes,” Bernstein answered, his distrust evident, but there was no fear in his eyes.

“Stefan Polanski sent me about the funds he’s given you to process for Mitrokhin.”

Jez’s only notion had been to get a foot over the threshold and physically take control of the situation. He hadn’t given enough thought to how the conversation should go, and quickly realized it could be flawed.

But he was wrong. “Come in,” Bernstein said. “After waking me up like that, I could do with a cup of tea. What about you?”

“Yes, that would be welcome, thank you.” Jez was parched. He would take Bernstein down after he’d quenched his thirst.

The accountant shuffled his average height and willowy frame along the short corridor. He dragged one foot exaggeratedly and Jez smiled. The stance, the slim-fit black silk robe, Bernstein bordered on the macabre rather than looking the part of an accountant in a low-rise apartment block in Leningrad. Probably around his mid-forties, but the bent body, frail in appearance, gave the bearing of a much older man, maybe a reaction from being woken in the middle of the night.

Jez placed the documents from Stefan’s nightclub on the floor beside where he sat. They were wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of string that appeared to have grown hair. He’d wanted to buy a briefcase at the same time as he’d bought the clothes in Ostrov. But not being that sort of town, brown paper and string had to do; still, that was more in keeping with the clothes.

Bernstein disappeared into the kitchen and Jez sat back and looked around. Pristine: even the worn square of carpet in the centre of the lounge was without a speck of dust. The old furniture was polished, and a clotheshorse was filled with freshly pressed shirts. Some of them were frayed around the collar.

Bernstein shuffled his way back in with a tray. Jez watched him cross the room as he tried to balance the two cups of black tea and a plate with several crumbling old biscuits. His gait hadn’t been from tiredness; it was that of an older man, or a man who’d spent too much of his life bent over a desk.

“Other than when I served in the army, I’ve never seen an apartment so spotless. I commend you.” Jez sipped long at the tea: an unfamiliar taste that didn’t suit his palate, too bitter.

“Thank you, it hasn’t been so long since I lost my wife. It’s been a difficult time of adjustment and I tend to do almost more than I’m capable of, just in case I slip into being slovenly. She wouldn’t approve of that.”

The tea wasn’t hot enough. Jez didn’t like it. He drank it in two swallows.

“No, I suppose not, but there’s not much fear of that b-y-y the look of… eve-ry-thing.” His brain floated upward and his mind hovered overhead, as if he was on the ceiling. His words were slurred and didn’t seem to come from his mouth. His spirit became detached from reality.

The journey had taken more out of him than he’d realized, but then hopeless dizziness came over him and the colours in his vision blurred – he’d been drugged. He pushed up from the chair, but his body was a tonne weight. Bernstein stared blankly at him. Jez couldn’t hold on – falling – temptation to sleep – eyelids heavy – too heavy to resist.

Chapter 53

“Ah, Comrade Glushchenko, you’re back,” Bernstein said softly.

The words were like déjà vu, the previous incarnation being under Smersh interrogation. Jez tried to shake sense into his thoughts, but his mind fuzzed, and dried saliva made his swollen tongue too big for its confines. His eyes stung when he opened them and grit on the lids pricked uncomfortably. Consciousness flooded back, and pain hammered in his skull. His wrists and ankles had been bound behind him. His body was bent backwards as hands and feet were drawn together.

The sun shone brightly through a gap in the curtains, and while the beams warmed his face, they shimmered on his eyes. He squinted and saw Jacob sat in the chair opposite, motionless, as if he hadn’t moved since Jez lost consciousness. Had he been there all night, just watching?

“I don’t understand. What is it you think I’ve done to you?”

Bernstein’s expression was solemn and Jez wondered if his luck had run out. If so, this would be the last time. An accountant, for goodness sake, but he’d trussed him up like a turkey and there would be no easy way out of the bonds.

“You made mistakes, Comrade. First, no one called Stefan Polanski has ever dealt with any funds I handle. I received Mitrokhin’s money from a man called Adrik Mayakovski, and lately Andrei Peskivich. Second, your biggest problem here was to underestimate me. Probably because you think I’m a decrepit old cripple.”

Jez smiled inwardly. No arguments there. And he wouldn’t mind, but from personal experience he knew never to underestimate a person’s size or demeanor.

“What can I say? You’ve got me.”

“You could start by telling me why you’re here.”

Jez looked into an open and honest face, but knew Bernstein was neither. Then again, he needed him and was in no position to barter. Try the truth.

“I only intended that you’d get information on a need to know basis, but I’ve lost the advantage so I’ll be honest with you.”

“Well, you haven’t made a very good start at that, but I’ll listen to what you have to say before I phone Mitrokhin.”

What could he say? Whatever it was, it had to be good enough to stop Bernstein making contact with Mitrokhin. The brown paper and hairy string caught his attention. “The packet, Jacob, before we go any further, open the packet.” Tremors rattled his voice.

Bernstein picked up the parcel, fumbled with it, but was unable to untie the string. He got up and went into the kitchen and shuffled back with a pair of scissors. After he’d cut the cord at the knots, he stacked the pieces to one side. Carefully, he unfolded the brown paper, then refolded it and placed it next to the string. He took his time to browse through the documents and lists. Another of Jez’s worries grew flesh on the bones: Bernstein hadn’t understood what he’d read. The old man started again, jumping his finger to various parts of the pages. Then he sat back mystified, but asked no questions, just stared blankly at the paperwork. Suddenly he leaned forward in the chair and his breath drew in sharply.

His words faltered. “I don’t understand,” he said, “my girls – my beautiful daughters. Mitrokhin? I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry, Jacob. I don’t want to kick you while you’re down, but the man abducted innocent young girls. What else could you expect – some kind of respect from the brotherhood?”

Jacob’s back seemed to bow even further. “Abduction, what are you talking about, abduction?” He looked at Jez and then back to the document. Suddenly, he sobbed.

“You didn’t know.” Stefan Polanski had said he didn’t, but Jez hadn’t believed him. “But you must have. You would have to know about what he did in order to launder his money.”

“No, I believed he worked in black market contraband. The sort of merchandise that people can only buy under the counter.”

Jez ached. What worse news could a man have visited upon him? Jacob was obviously as naïve in his work as he had been when he started the investigation. And why would he lie? At this juncture, he was in charge.

“I don’t know what to say, Jacob, we’ve been such fools.”

Jacob almost straightened. “No,” he exclaimed, “I only know I’ve been a fool and I won’t be tricked again. Why are you here? What do you want?”

The documents hadn’t been enough – establish more common ground. “Like you, Jacob, I’m a Russian Jew and...”

“I’m not Russian, I’m Polish. My family came here at the beginning of the war.” Now there was fury in his voice.

“Oh, Polish, then you were one of the lucky ones. You got out.”

“Lucky? Oh yes we were lucky. On the journey here, my brother and I were struck down with polio. I ended up with a body stunted and stooped while he died. The whole family then suffered under the siege of Leningrad. I had a beautiful wife and two beautiful daughters. My wife died prematurely, and now you show me what has happened to my daughters. Oh yes, I’m one of the lucky ones all right.” His voice broke and he turned away to hide his pain.

Jez sat quietly for a moment, and then asked, “But why did you go over to Mitrokhin?”

Jacob nearly answered, but stopped midway and anger visibly rose. “You think yourself so clever. Never mind me. If you don’t tell me what you’re up to, I will still call Mitrokhin. He betrayed me, yes, but what do I owe you?”

What could Jez do now? He had to get him on side somehow… For not much short of an hour he told his own story, every detail. When Jacob looked puzzled, he clarified. This was his only chance; if Jacob refused the truth, it would be over.

“I don’t want to believe you,” Jacob said. “I don’t want to believe anything I’ve heard since you got here, but I can think of no reason why you would make up lies like that. I only wish I could.”

He unfastened Jez’s bonds.

“Why did you go over to Mitrokhin?” Jez asked a second time.

“I worked in a government department with my friend Leo. I was an accountant; he worked on passports. Passports in the Soviet Union, yes, there were those who said he didn’t have much of a job.”

Jez smiled. Jacob’s lip quivered from grief, but he’d still attempted humor.

“We worked on different floors,” he continued, “and often spoke on the internal telephone. We discussed people’s rights, mostly Jewish because that’s what we are. It turned out that the phones were tapped. We were fired.”

“I’m a little surprised at your naïvety. You’re an intelligent man: didn’t you realize that ‘listening in’ is quite normal in ministry offices?”

“No… why would I? Even if what you say were true, they can’t listen to everyone.”

No, only those they have an interest in, and Jez realized that being Jewish might be reason enough.

“Anyway, we both became unemployable. My daughters were seventeen and eighteen years old and in poorly paid jobs. I was frantic. If they labeled me a parasite, I could be imprisoned; and I worried what would become of my daughters.” Jacob’s face contorted with the fresh knowledge of what had become of them.

“Weeks passed and the hardship of my position started to bite. Mitrokhin came to me and offered work. The cash he proposed for me to handle his money was even higher than I’d made in the department. But more than that, he said he could smuggle my daughters to Italy, give them the start in life they deserved.” He caught his breath. “The temptation was too great, but I should’ve known. Mitrokhin always seemed to be laughing at me. A silent ridicule that said he knew something I didn’t. I should’ve known.”

“What of your friend, Leo? Was his story similar?”

“Yes, his mother is an invalid. If they imprisoned him, she would die. He had fewer alternatives than I.”

“Stand back and look at it, Jacob. Can’t you see? Mitrokhin had you handpicked from the files, he manipulated the situation. He needed you and Leo… although I can’t think why he wanted Leo. But I would wager that your phone conversation, if anyone other than Mitrokhin had listened in, would have received no more than an admonishment.” Jez paused for thought. “At your level you would be valuable to the department. If Mitrokhin needed an accountant to control his ill-gotten gains, you were the ideal person. He made you weak and then took advantage. The fact that you and Leo are Jewish would be a sweetener for him. It would have given him great pleasure to ruin your lives and impose that cruel twist against your daughters. The fact that you would never become aware of it wouldn’t matter to him. He knew, and that would be enough.”

His body still stiffened from drugs, and having been bound for too long, Jez had to move. He staggered to his feet, stumbled around the room, stretched his arms up to the ceiling and out wide, and then down to his toes.

“Could I have a real cup of tea please, Jacob?” he asked. “My mouth and throat are burning up.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Jacob shuffled to the kitchen. “Is there anything we can do about my daughters?” he pleaded.

“Yes,” Jez replied. “I’ll send this package to General Petrichova in Moscow. He’s a man I trust, and even though he’s against me now, I believe he will react to these documents. I’ll write a letter and tell him what happened to you and beg his indulgence in getting your girls back. You must accept in your mind that this will happen. In the meantime I want you to contact Leo and get him over here.”

Chapter 54

Leo’s shoulders were sloped but looked rigid, and his dark grey pin-striped suit hung loose on a slight frame. A wispy strand of auburn hair hovered like a last sign of autumn over a pinched face; sacs of skin puckered under dark eyes, and his thin moustache appeared permanently atremble. Not a handsome man, but his large brown eyes gave him an indefinable attractiveness that also carried an air of sadness.

“Speak out if you don’t want tea,” Jacob said, as he shuffled out to the kitchen.

Jez ushered Leo to a seat at the table and asked him for a rundown of how his end of Mitrokhin’s business hung together.

“As you already know, I worked for the passport office. You were in Spetsnaz, so if it ever became necessary for your foreign duties to be covert, then I might have been instrumental in producing an alter ego for you.”

Leo stuck his chest out, and Jez smiled.

“Mitrokhin set me to work with a host of blank passports and ID cards. It was very easy for me to create genuine identification that would hold up to any scrutiny. All I needed were photographs, and I was able to stamp the documents and add the relevant numbers to the files. Whoever I created became a real person. And I must say, over time Mitrokhin has needed a few.”

“How can you add passport details to department files when you don’t have access to the office block?”

“Everyone knows my face, but nobody seems to know who I am. It was enough for me to show ID at the entrance and walk in. In fact, I don’t remember anybody actually looking at it. Once inside, I went to the basement where the files are stored and made the alterations. It was very easy.”

Jez smiled at the simple attitude. He had no idea of the danger he’d put himself in.

Leo continued. “Most of the stuff I did for Mitrokhin was identification to open international bank accounts or for foreign travel. You know, visas, stuff like that.”

“The bank accounts are where I came in,” Jacob said, as he tottered back into the room, unsteadily balancing a tray and three mugs of tea. “I massaged the necessary paperwork and moved the money from Mitrokhin’s deals into his bogus accounts. And because the value of the rouble is a constantly changing factor, I had it all converted to US dollars.”

In a different time, different place, Jez might have been impressed with Mitrokhin’s organizational skills – he’d thought of everything. He took a sip at his drink, moved to a more comfortable chair and sat back quietly to mull over the information. Jacob and Leo stayed at the table, heads together like schoolchildren.

Jez looked up. “How much are in these accounts, Jacob?” he asked, mind alive with ideas.

“Oh… I don’t know; somewhere between 15 and 20 million US dollars.”

“What!” If Jez had been in a position to fall backwards, he would have. “More than 15 million dollars, how on earth could he make that sort of money? Surely you must’ve had suspicions?”

“No,” Jacob replied. “I have no idea how much criminals make. How would I? I told you earlier of the people who brought the money, and they did occasionally let details slip. I got the impression it came in from all corners of the globe. I just thought it had been issued by those he dealt with in contraband.”

Jez relaxed in the chair. “Jacob, have you got any jurisdiction over these bank accounts?”

“Yes, I’m not that slow. But Mitrokhin doesn’t know it. He thinks I can only put money in, but I set up the accounts to give me as much power over them as he has. Leo and I have joked about making transfers and skipping the country. But even if we’d meant it, Mitrokhin often sends little reminders that he knows the whereabouts of my daughters. He always has the angles covered.”

“Yes, that’s as maybe, but the transfers are no longer a joke. In fact, it’s exactly what we will do, and we won’t skip the country.” Jez turned to Leo. “I need you to make up another four sets of identification and each will carry my face on it. Will you do that?”

“Yes, of course, that’s why I’m here. Jacob is my friend. I couldn’t live with myself if I let him down in such a situation. No, all you need worry about is what you want me to do.”

They made plans and were all but finished when a knock at the door froze the three of them. The room went silent.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Jez whispered, and withdrew the PB from his waistband.

“No, I have no idea who it could be. Quickly, find somewhere to hide… in my bedroom.”

*

The knock repeated, this time with more than a little impatience. “Yes, yes, I’m coming, I’m coming,” Jacob said, and dragged his feet exaggeratedly as he scuffed along the passageway. He gave his comrades time to hide and slowly drew the bolts, unlatched the lock and pulled open the door.

“Andrei,” he exclaimed, “what’re you doing here? You shouldn’t be here for a week at least.”

Andrei smiled and pushed his way in. “Business is doing well. I’ve got another drop for you to deal with.” He walked into the lounge and stopped abruptly. “You have company?” he asked suspiciously, and tucked a thumb over his holster.

“No.” Jacob flinched.

“Then why are there three mugs? Whose are they?”

“Oh, there’s nobody here now. Leo and his mother visited earlier. She can’t go far in her condition, so he often brings her. A change of scenery does her…”

“Yes, yes,” Andrei interrupted, and wrapped a hand around one of the mugs. But then he held up a silencing finger. “What was that noise?”

“Oh, it’ll be… one of the neighbours.” Jacob shifted. “They don’t appreciate that other people live here.”

Andrei drew his pistol and went into the passage. He threw open the door to the spare bedroom – empty. A few steps down the hall and he entered Jacob’s room. Jacob followed, fingers tightly grasped around the fork he’d picked up off the table. A messy bedroom, and Andrei gloated.

“Huh, I was sure the noise was along this passageway. I must be getting jittery. But look at this place,” he sniggered. “Not so spotless in the hidden areas, are you?”

“Err no,” Jacob said, as if embarrassed to be caught out. Andrei grinned and visibly relaxed.

They went back to the lounge, completed their business and Andrei left. Jacob went to the bedroom to help Leo out of the blankets strewn over the floor. Jez rolled from under the pine bedstead, and tucked his pistol back into his waistband.

Jacob shook his head. “Come on out, I have some tidying up to do.”

*

Three weeks after they’d pulled their ideas together, Jez had paperwork that would get him past any security in the country. Leo had made him a high-ranking official answerable only to the Soviet Union’s first secretary. Anyone less, which was everybody, would have to doff their caps to him.

“I need a few signatures from you, Jez,” Jacob said. “I’ll set up three international accounts. The first will be a staging post; the second, a communist party treasury asset for foreign payments; and the third, an ordinary international access account similar to those I created for Mitrokhin.”

Jez scribbled signatures on the relevant paperwork.

“One, and only one, high-ranking treasury official can access the treasury account. That is this alter ego,” Jacob said, and flipped the identification so Jez could read it. “Only a signature from Brezhnev himself would allow anyone other than you to make a security check.”

They drained the contents of Mitrokhin’s accounts; Jacob helped Jez transfer the money to the first account. It rested for a day before being wired on to the treasury account. Two days after that, they moved the asset to the third account. With the money secure, Jacob closed the first account so that now, even if Mitrokhin discovered the treasury asset, there was no way he could get access. To trace the existence of the third account would be impossible without access to the treasury account.

“Jacob, from what you said about the laundering, we have less than a week to disappear before Mitrokhin finds out his money has gone. Do you and Leo have a safe place?” Jez hadn’t considered where the men might end up when the job was done, but now that time had come.

Leo answered. “Yes, I can take my mother to relatives in the Ukraine. No one in Leningrad knows of them.”

“Good, and you, Jacob?”

“No, as I told you already, we came from Poland. I have nowhere and nobody outside of Leningrad. I’ve already discussed the possibility of going with Leo and his mother, but we decided that if we went together it might draw attention.”

“Yes, it would. But don’t worry. I know a family I can trust. I’ll take you there. It’s on my way to Moscow so it doesn’t interfere with the plan.”

Jez paced the lounge.

“Right, let’s see where we are. Leo, you’ve made ID for yourself, your mother and Jacob.” Leo nodded. “Jacob comes with me, but for the sake of your security, I think I should plan a safe route for you into the Ukraine. It would be less than professional to ignore possibilities. When you get to your relatives, you should stay there until Jacob tells you otherwise.”

“And what will you do?” Leo asked.

“I’ll be all right, you just worry about yourself.”

*

With Leo and his mother gone, Jez had one more job in Leningrad.

“The transfers are complete and Leo has escaped the city, so the sooner we get that parcel to General Petrichova, the sooner you’ll have your daughters back with you,” Jez said.

Jacob nodded agreeably, but his eyes were heavily hooded, as if he should be ashamed.

“Don’t blame yourself, Jacob. Mitrokhin took me in and I’m supposed to be an expert.”

He agreed with a weak smile.

Jez bought expensive suits for himself and Jacob with the money from Andrei’s drop and they went to KGB headquarters. He showed the ID of his high-ranking official persona to the duty officer. The soldier sprang to attention and fetched a senior officer, Captain Apostol.

“Ah, Captain,” Jez greeted him, “I’m sorry to come and impose my will on you like this.”

The captain preened, clearly pleased to be treated with such respect from one in such high places. “Not at all, sir, how can I help?”

“First, this package contains top secret documents that must reach General Michel Petrichova in Moscow’s Kremlin as soon as possible. The parcel has travelled through many countries and has been carried by many agents, which is why it looks a bit scruffy. But don’t let that fool you, it has infinite value and must be given the highest priority. Can I trust you and rely on you to see the task is carried out, Captain Apostol?”

The captain’s chest expanded. “Yes, of course, sir. I’ll arrange for a courier to take it immediately.”

“Good, thank you. Your name will not be forgotten. When I came to Leningrad, it was in a hurry because of the nature of my business, so I flew in. Now you are about to complete that business for me, I can travel at a more leisurely pace to my next task in Minsk. I’m afraid my plans have run ahead of me and I didn’t have time to arrange transport. I need a car. Do you think you can help?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, sir. Will you need a driver?”

“No, thank you. My aide here will double up on his remit.” Jez opened a palm towards Jacob.

They hadn’t waited long when a black Volga GAZ 21 was brought to the front of the office block. The captain walked Jez and Jacob to the vehicle.

“I’m sorry it’s not a limousine, sir; this is the best there is available at short notice.”

Jez smiled again. “Believe me, Captain Apostol, as long as the fuel tank is full, this will do very nicely. I appreciate your indulgence.”

The captain saluted and returned to his duties. Jez climbed into the back of the car and Jacob took the driver’s seat.

“Maybe I should have asked earlier, Jacob,” Jez said. “You can drive, can’t you?”

Jacob pulled away without a reply, but he sniggered, clearly relieved to be driving out of the city – and not heading for Minsk, as they’d told the captain, but on the main trunk road to Moscow.

Chapter 55

Moscow

Jez watched and waited. The only movement he witnessed was from the late shoppers as they returned home after a long day of queuing; recognizing some of those who’d gone into town at first light, he wondered just how long he’d been standing there. The insight bothered him. Could this be a waste of time? It’d been a while since he’d taken Nabokovski’s file from The Red Lite. Maybe he’d moved house.

Stefan’s notes implied that Nabokovski lived in the Sputnik Hotel on Tverskoy Boulevard. They alleged his people used the whole of the third floor, and more specifically that he occupied room 317. But darkness had joined the watch and still no lights had fired up on that floor.

Jez had stood in the shadow of a doorway on the opposite corner since daybreak. But the drizzle was unrelenting and blew horizontally. The alcove of his vigil had done nothing to protect him. His clothes were soaked through. He tired of the idea, as he stamped his feet to keep the cold at bay, but only managed to fill his turn-ups with more water. Enough; his plans had scope for change.

After half an hour trying to convince himself to leave, a black limo pulled up in front of the hotel – could it be him? But then came a new problem: how would he know if it was Nabokovski?

Two large men in heavy black overcoats emerged from the front of the vehicle. Whoever it was had bodyguards. Jez could see that one of the men looked army fit. The other, though big, had let the good life get the better of him. His waistline pushed out aggressively and deflected the tailored contour of the top coat away from his body. One opened the back door of the limo for his boss, while the other looked back and forth along the boulevard.

A man stepped out onto the pavement, turning this way and that with antics bordering on the theatrical. Not overly tall, but as wide as anyone Jez had seen. Even from the other side of the street it was clear that his clothes were expensive. A globed bald head stuck out from the top of a black double-breasted leather coat. Even in the rain, he wore the coat nonchalantly draped over his shoulders.

The guards walked to the steps with their charge between them. One held a large black umbrella and fought to retain a grip against unpredictable wind gusts. It seemed a pointless effort, as the rain blew in under its canopy. The shorter man stopped on the top step and, under the protection of the awning there, turned as if for applause. Before he went into the hotel, Jez noticed the light from the foyer gleam on Italian-style shoes. Shame they were fitted to the end of such dumpy legs.

He left a two-minute gap, followed them in, checked in as a guest and specifically asked for room 217, directly below where he believed Nabokovski resided. Inside was nice, and if he’d been on honeymoon he wouldn’t have been disappointed. But that would be something he’d never do.

Room 217 greeted him with welcome warmth. Dark yellows of carpet and linens were enhanced by the illumination of matching bedside lamps, already switched on. The furniture was pine: his and her wardrobes, two cabinets straddling the double bed, and a dressing table against the opposite wall which doubled as a writing desk. A picture hung over the bed with a winter scene that reminded him of Siberia: high snowdrifts piled against meagre wooden structures, the kind of shacks only poor Siberian peasants called home, nestled between deciduous trees. He took five minutes to wring out his clothing.

After dressing, he investigated. A heavy net curtain concealed an inward-opening French door. Behind the door was a Juliet balcony. He went out to find that the room overlooked a quiet street. Above, there was another balcony that he hoped would lead to room 317. He got on top of the rail and stood on tiptoe, reaching his hand towards the iron stays that supported the veranda. It was a meter out of reach. Not a difficult jump, but if he were to miss he would certainly crash to the street below. He looked down to see how far he would fall, and decided to worry about it later. First, he had to verify that it had been Nabokovski who had come in. And the only way he could do that was to go up to the third floor and find out.

*

Inside the lift, the buttons with the floor numbers were arranged in two vertical rows. He selected the third floor, went one stop and came out into the corridor. The two goons from the limo stood outside room 317. It must be Nabokovski.

The men saw Jez and rushed along the corridor towards him. Both reached into jackets at the same time and both snarled their way towards him like a pair of fighting dogs. Jez gave a startled look and swiveled his head in panic. He turned his attention to the elevator, and gazed directly at the floor number on the wall to the side of the door.

“Sorry,” he said meekly and raised a hand apologetically, “I do know this is a private floor. I pressed three instead of five. Sorry.”

The men slowed, stopped and their arms relaxed. Jez stepped back into the lift and went to the fifth floor. He killed a few minutes, wandered the passages and returned to the second floor. Inside his room, he fitted the silencer to the PB and carefully slipped the gun into the back of his waistband. Carefully, because he didn’t want it to fall out again – like back in the subway. His plan was in motion.

Within moments, he was balanced on the balcony rail. He squatted down on his haunches, propelled upwards and grabbed the stay with both hands. Rain, wet hands, wet stay and his body jerked. He lost the grip with one hand and hung there, dangling, heart pumping double time. If he hadn’t been able to hold on with two hands, the odds were against him keeping the grip with one. His tenuous hold slipped a bit further and his weight hung on the end joints of his fingers. But if he fell, Mitrokhin had won.

He took a second, got his thoughts together. The rain continued to bounce on the glistening street below, but he had to take charge of the situation. Grim determination took control. He’d performed fingertip push-ups until he’d been blue in the face. He could do it… But if his hand slipped from the bar… Don’t think about it, just do it. With his fingers taut, he pulled the weight of his body up, grabbed the bar with his free hand and secured a better grip with the other. Next, he pulled his chin up to the bar and hooked his legs up-and-under to grab the main rail. With a flip he stood on the balcony and stared down at the street that could have claimed him.

As with room 217, heavy net curtains shielded the French door, but he saw movement and it was from two people. If he should go in through this door, they would have time to alert the guards. Another door to the right of the bedroom proved that the Nabokovski residence was different to the space he’d rented below. It had been converted into a larger apartment with extra rooms that led off on one side. And multiple rooms could work in his favor.

The brickwork ran level with the base of the balcony and had a ledge. With his fingers edging along the mortar, he used the ledge to shimmy to the next window. The window lever wasn’t in the locked position and the lower half pushed up without effort, but it scraped and scratched where the sashes were worn. He froze his movements, listening… If anyone heard, there was no response.

The pistol he’d fixed to his waistband could still fall out, so he put it on the inner windowsill and pulled himself up to kneel beside it. His eyes took a moment to get accustomed to the dim light, and his view cleared. An office and… he couldn’t believe it: a gun cabinet mounted on the opposite wall. Two rifles, he couldn’t see what type, but they were rifles and he wanted one. Adrenalin got the better of him, his knee shifted and he knocked the pistol from the windowsill.

Time stayed on hold as the gun clattered to the floor. He darted through the window, picked up the weapon, crouched on his haunches, pointed the pistol towards the bedroom door, and waited.

Chapter 56

The girl sat on the bed in dread of what the evening held in store. She pulled and twisted at waxed spikes, shaped her hair into cones, pointed them forward, up, back, any direction, as long as it took her mind off Nabokovski. Stripped naked, she shivered, wondering whether it was because of the cold or because that grotesque pig was about to use her again. The thought of him fawning over her body sent shudders down her spine, and knowing what she would be doing to him made her want to retch.

“I hate you, you bastard,” she whispered, but knew there was nothing to be done.

Abused from the age of ten, she was still only fifteen now. Some of the girls had dreams, but she knew there was no way out. Nevertheless, of all the men she could be with now, this one had to be the worst. Why, oh why did he always demand her when he had all those others to choose from? And most of them thought it might do them some good because of his position – so why her?

Her meanderings halted when he strutted in from the bathroom, and she cringed as her horrors came closer to reality. He cast off a white towelling bathrobe and sat next to her, letting his monstrous naked body flop back to the mattress, then opened his legs.

“Come,” he ordered.

She stood, moved between his legs and slowly let her body come to rest on his. But something distracted her and she lifted her head. It was a scraping noise, and it came from the office.

“Get on with it,” he snapped impatiently.

She followed orders, nuzzled into his neck. “Oh Vladislav,” she whispered.

The flat of her tongue licked from his neck to his face and then she dragged it back down over his chest. He took her upper arms and pushed her lower, but she drew back sharply.

“What the fuck are you doing now?” he cursed. “I didn’t send for you so you could be fucking jittery. Get on with it.”

Hatred raised hackles on her neck. Such an irritable, revolting bastard, she wished he were dead.

“But didn’t you hear the crash in the office?”

His manhood dwindled. “For fuck’s sake get out of my way, you silly bitch, you’ve got me twitchy now. Wait there.”

Still holding her upper arms, he used the grip to cast her roughly to one side, then stormed across the bedroom and flung the office door open.

Chapter 57

The door swung open and Nabokovski filled the frame. He stared over to the window beyond where Jez crouched. In a snap, Jez rose to his feet and stuck the silencer into Nabokovski’s face.

“Walk backwards to the bed,” he insisted, and a rumble of laughter welled up from within. The naked form of Nabokovski stood in all its glory and only one word sprang to mind – gross.

Nabokovski shuffled back. “What do you want?”

A girl, also naked, stood near the bed and moved away as Nabokovski backed up towards her – but for the moment, Jez had more pressing concerns.

“Don’t be stupid, Nabokovski, I’m the one with the gun. If you raise your voice in an attempt to attract your guards again, I’ll shoot you through the eye and be gone without another thought.”

The girl took a sharp intake of breath and Nabokovski continued with his journey – in silence. The muscles in his face froze when his buttock grazed a table with a tray of champagne flutes on top. The glasses wobbled, undecided whether to crash to the floor. But the quivering lessened and the goblets held position.

Jez didn’t speak, but raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

“When you reach the bed, position yourself near the cabinet, but not too near. Enough so your legs are against the mattress and your back is to the window.”

“I don’t understand – why?” His voice quivered.

“I have a man across the street and he has a rifle pointed into this room. With you by the bed he can see you. That gives me insurance, and if I’m calm you’re safe.”

Nabokovski maneuvered into position and Jez shot him once in the forehead and again through the heart. There was no opportunity for the squat man to even look surprised as his overweight body fell lifelessly onto the mattress. Other than his throat rippling softly, the assassination was over without sound.

The girl watched, hands over her mouth, eyes wide and glazed. Jez faced her and for the first time noticed her nipples: long and thick, like pencil stubs. He’d never seen anything like it. The breasts they protruded from were small, almost boyish, and her body was skinny. Then her hair: Jez wondered how that hadn’t been the first thing he’d noticed. Short spiky peaks jutted from her head and pointed off in every direction. The tufts were dyed purple, red, yellow, pink, green and orange. He smiled in disbelief. Her small face had petite features, pretty, filled with youthful innocence, and while her ears were small, they stuck out like a pixie – a beautiful little girl. Her trembling turned to an uncontrolled tremor and her face paled to the whitest of shades. After what she’d just seen, she would be terrified for her own life. He should pacify her.

But the guards, he had to get rid of the guards. It didn’t matter that they could identify him, but if the girl raised the alarm when he left through the back window, he might have to kill her. If he enlisted her help and she betrayed him, well, that outcome would be down to her. For now, he would trust her, but stay alert.

“I want you to do something for me,” he said, “but you must be calm to take it in. Please believe me, there’s no reason why you should get hurt.”

“Just give me a minute,” she said, voice hushed.

“Of course,” he said.

The girl took tiny steps towards the bed, but looked at the window, stopped and veered off to the chair next to the dressing table. On the way, she reached for the dressing gown.

“Leave it,” he said. “I want you naked for the moment.”

She stood by the dresser and Jez waited. He gave her time to come to terms with the situation and was more than surprised to see normality return so quickly.

“Right, when you’re ready I want you to go to the door. Open it and say there’s something wrong with… whatever it is you call him.”

She calmed herself further, took deep breaths in and blew out as if to whistle. She braced herself then walked to the door with Jez by her side. He crooked his arm and the barrel of the pistol pointed to the ceiling.

“Just a minute,” he whispered.

She stopped with her hand on the doorknob and he positioned himself to one side of the jamb.

“Okay.”

The panel almost snatched from its hinges as she shouted, “It’s Vladislav, come quickly, please, there’s something wrong with Vladislav.”

A moment’s hesitation and the guards rushed into the room. Slow reactions: maybe distracted by the girl’s nakedness as planned, but regardless of the nudity they weren’t too bright to begin with. Jez kicked the door shut and the men spun around. Not so slow after all. Hands went into jackets, but before they could withdraw their weapons, Jez squeezed the trigger.

The pistol’s mechanism jammed. He squeezed again – nothing. The henchmen wasted only a moment in surprise and pulled their own guns. Jez’s mind went into turmoil. Automatic didn’t work… quickly, use it in manual.

With a calm façade, he pulled back the hammer and pressured the trigger, cocked again, and fired a second, but the second guard got off a shot of his own and the gun boomed. Jez’s shot had spun him slightly and the missile thudded into the solid wall. Blood sprayed and the calm of the beige carpet and cream-colored walls changed to anger.

The men remained upright, hands clamped to their throats. Jez pulled the trigger without cocking the hammer. Automatic mode had freed and both men fell heavily, each of them hit in the left cheek. Jez had aimed center forehead, but the accuracy of the 6P9 had been diluted by the silencer. Although he’d made the mental adjustment for Nabokovski, and Vasili come to that, confidence had got the better of him. He cursed himself for being blasé.

A man moved and Jez shot him through the head. The coolness of the action unnerved the girl further and she trembled all the more for it.

“Here, cover yourself,” he said, in an attempt to take her mind off what she’d seen. He picked up the robe and handed it to her. “Sit on the corner of the bed with your back to the balcony.” The girl looked at him, eyes like saucers. “Do it,” he demanded and she reluctantly obeyed.

He pulled the net away and opened the door as wide as it would go. A cold wind blew and the heavy curtain swayed gently. At least it had stopped raining.

“Look,” he said, sweeping his hand out to the empty night, “and listen. What I told Nabokovski was true. I have a partner in that building across the way and he has a gun trained on you now. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes,” she answered weakly. He barely heard, but she’d nodded.

He took the chair from the dressing table and returned to where the girl sat. Her legs dangled over the side of the bed in a knock-kneed pose. Her body had gone into convulsions and she urinated, the fear of death sending cascades of water down the insides of her thighs and onto the carpet. He wanted to tell her she was safe, that he wouldn’t hurt her. But what else could he do?

If he showed weakness, she might run from the room and betray him. If she did that, he would have to shoot her. Well, no, maybe he couldn’t do that, but hell he’d never pretended to be some sort of angel. Suddenly, she brought positive thought. She was the ideal witness to events, someone who could tell Nabokovski’s bosses what had happened.

He put the chair directly in front of her and put an antique clock from the top of the dressing table on it. “See this clock?”

“Yes,” she said, lucid again.

“Can you tell the time?”

“Yes.” She was almost indignant now.

“Well, if you sit there and remain still for one hour, you’ll be free to do as you wish. But if you try to turn and see my partner across the boulevard within that time, he’ll shoot you in the face. If you try to get up and leave the room within the time, he’ll shoot you through the back of the head. Do you understand your position?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, tears flowing once more.

“Don’t worry,” he said, and rested a hand on her arm. “Do as you’re told and you’ll be fine.”

With the pistol back in his waistband, he left her on the bed and went into the office, to the gun cabinet. It was locked, but it only took a second to get it open and take out a Dragunov SVD. He lovingly ran a hand over its length.

The rifle had only been in service for a couple of years, but he’d used it regularly in training in internal security and felt comfortable with it. At over a meter in length, it was a more cumbersome gun than he would’ve liked, and getting it out of the hotel building wouldn’t be easy. But at less than 5 kilos loaded and with an effective range of 1,000 meters, suddenly he couldn’t do without it. He took a fully loaded magazine from the bottom of the cabinet. There were more, but for what he had in mind one clip would do the job. He came back to the bedroom and put his find on an uncluttered part of the bed.

“Right, there must be a case,” he mumbled, and went back into the office. A thorough search revealed a long music case with pre-formed foam sculptured to take the rifle. He brought it into the bedroom and packed the weapon and ammunition. “That’s it,” he said to the girl; “time for me to leave, but remember what I told you.”

He got the door half open and stopped.

“Just a minute, in the excitement I nearly forgot the reason I came.”

He crouched in front of the girl so he could look up into her face. “I have a message for Nabokovski’s boss. You tell him Otto had given him plenty of warning when he had me burn down the Red Lite nightclub. I’ve already told Stefan and now I’m telling you: Otto wants the flesh trade back.”

Jez made her repeat the message several times until she was word perfect. Happy she had it, he left. Now he had insurance in place. Should he fail in his mission to kill Mitrokhin, then for sure the local hoodlums would complete the job for him.

*

The girl trembled as she repeated the message in her mind. She knew she was safe from the man who’d killed Nabokovski. He’d gone, but fear dominated. If she got the instructions wrong and he found out, he might come back. She couldn’t afford to get it wrong.

Slowly she turned her head to look at Nabokovski’s body, and her mood lifted. A glow filled her and she stopped shaking. The bastard was dead. Her mind jerked and she recited the message again, but now she did it with a smile on her face.

Chapter 58

Andrei had made two money-drops to Leningrad in as many weeks, and Otto waited impatiently for his return from the second. He should’ve been back days ago. So where could he be? He’d made that drop a dozen times before. Otto’s mind ran in circles, nitpicking at every negative possibility. Maybe something had gone wrong – but he would’ve phoned. No, he wouldn’t, he’d know that people listen in.

Stefan had confirmed that the photograph was of Kornfeld, and Andrei had checked the trail between the killing field and Moscow. No doubt about it, they hadn’t dealt with the Jew when they’d shelled him. And that was why he worried so much about Andrei now. But he had to get things in perspective: Kornfeld didn’t know about the Leningrad set-up, so the concerns were groundless. And the accountant wouldn’t try to steal from him, as he was only too aware of the risks to his daughters.

Otto looked down over Dzerzhinski Square and saw another summer in its death throes. Autumn had already sent its chilled spikes to test what was left of its defences. Soon it would assume victory and then the misery of winter would set its own sights. He’d had enough of hard climes and, with more money than he knew what to do with, the time had come for him to get out.

The warmer climes and luxurious lifestyle of the West called more and more of late. And when the time came to take that leap, it would be a smooth transition. Since the Jew had started his campaign of revenge, he’d become jumpy. And Kornfeld was only one man. What would it be like if the whole of the Soviet Union was after him? No, it had to be a smooth transition, and that would be where General Irishka would help.

He lifted his gaze and a depressing sky threatened him from the window. He brushed a hand over his flat-top, paced the floor and stared at the phone. Why hadn’t it rung? No, he knew why. It wouldn’t be safe. He went back to the window. Paranoia entrenched his mind; and all because of that fucking Jew. The shit had to be sorted out once and for all.

A soldier entered the office with paperwork for the in-tray. Otto ignored him. But then his heart lifted. Andrei, he could see Andrei down on the square.

“Andrei, there’s Andrei now. The only thing wrong was that that fucking Jew had made me feel uneasy.”

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Wha…” Otto grunted in surprise, as he turned to the soldier, “oh – that will be all.”

“Yes, sir,” he said and left.

Otto fixed his sights back on Andrei as he crossed the plaza. He could look a bit happier: even from that distance he could see the grave expression. He took two glasses and a bottle of vodka from the desk and poured a couple of measures in readiness. That always cheered him up.

Andrei stormed in, saw the vodka and downed a glass in one.

“What’s happened?” Otto asked in a gruff voice. His body stiffened and all his fears rushed back.

“Both Bernstein and the passport Jew, they’ve gone.”

“Gone, what do you mean gone?”

“I mean what I fucking said. I’ve spent the best part of a week in search of them, but they’re gone without a trace. I’ve even had the Leningrad militia out. I’m telling you, Otto, without a fucking trace.”

Otto felt his face turn several shades paler than Andrei’s and his hands trembled.

“The money, what about my money?” he asked.

“I’ve still got it here. Like I told you, I couldn’t find him.”

“No, not that fucking money, you idiot, I mean the money in the accounts.” Andrei pouted and Otto regretted the words. “Sorry,” he said, and gripped Andrei’s upper arm.

The last thing he needed was to fall out with his closest ally. But how could Andrei have checked the accounts anyway? He didn’t have access rights.

“Look, let’s not jump to conclusions. There might be an ordinary explanation. Did you check the hospitals?”

“The militia are checking them and other similar possibilities now, but that wouldn’t account for them both.”

“But it could: if one had been hurt the other might go along with him, or they could’ve been in an accident together. Who knows? In the meantime, I’ll make sure the money in the accounts is secure. There can’t be a problem there though: the accountant doesn’t have withdrawal options, and he wouldn’t betray his daughters even if he had. No, the money will be fine.”

*

“That’s not possible, all gone. They couldn’t have.” Andrei looked incredulous as he gulped down a glass of vodka.

“That’s what I thought, but they have. The question is – why? As far as Bernstein is aware, his daughters are safe and watched over in Italy. He wouldn’t jeopardize their safety just for money… but he is a Jew… no, he wouldn’t.”

Emptiness became tinged with fear – of Kornfeld. Could it be possible that Kornfeld had stripped his accounts?

Otto sat quietly and considered what had happened since the Jew had murdered Adrik; he tried to make sense of the situation. Andrei tried to speak, but Otto lifted a hand. He needed time to understand the situation. And then he did.

“Suppose Kornfeld got information about Bernstein from Stefan, when he raided the club in Balashikha? He knew enough – too much. Suppose Stefan kept it quiet for fear of me meting out retribution. Suppose some of the information revealed Bernstein’s whereabouts and that his daughters were used as prostitutes in Turkey. Now, with all these suppositions under consideration, would Kornfeld have any trouble persuading the accountant to rob me? I don’t think so.”

“Too many supposes for me, Otto, but the money has gone so we have to examine all possibilities. In which case we should be asking if Bernstein had transfer rights and, if he has, can we find out where the money is.”

“Yes to both questions. I didn’t think he was that worldly, but when he set up the accounts he gave himself access. And yes, we can get it back. He hasn’t been as clever as he thinks.”

He brushed his flat-top. If only he felt as confident as he sounded.

“They created two accounts, transferred the money to one, moved it to the other and then closed the first. The second account is set up so that only a high-ranking party member can authorize access, but Bernstein made a mistake. While I couldn’t get admission, I was able to use my authority to put a hold on it. At first the bank resisted, but they bowed to KGB authority and sent out instructions telling the client how to restart the account. And they told me the holder’s address – an apartment block in a part of Leningrad where party members have residences. I sent local militia to make enquiries and they were told that the apartment was rented but remained empty.

“Anyway, there’ll come a time when he has to visit the address for the information about how to make withdrawals. Until then, the money will be in limbo. I’ve put two trusted men on permanent surveillance at the apartment. Be assured, the money will come back to us.”

“If this is Kornfeld’s work, you have to shoulder some of the blame. I told you not to get too involved.”

“What, listen, you…” No, don’t fall out with Andrei. He sighed. “And what would you have done?”

“I’d have stuck with Irishka’s rules. That would have meant that when Petrichova gave me the task in the first place, I would’ve terminated Stefan and all those connected to him. If you had done that, you could have shut down the operation and walked away a hero.”

“No, I… well, nice to have hindsight, isn’t it? Anyway, that isn’t how it went down, so we need to clean up and get the money back. To start with, the accountant has burned his bridges. I want you to get in touch with Beyrek Ozel in Turkey. Both Bernstein girls must be terminated immediately. They have to die at all costs.”

“Right.”

Andrei got as far as lifting the phone from the cradle.

“No, not that one, they definitely listen in to overseas calls. Go over to the Kremlin and use the phone in Irishka’s office. Explain what we’re up to.”

Andrei left and Otto stood at the window, waiting for him to appear on the square below. He hadn’t wanted to argue with Andrei, especially as he was right in what he’d said.

He liked to look at Andrei, just look at him – and he knew why. It wasn’t right, his father had drummed that fact into him often enough. But the way he walked and… and everything about him. The very sight of him made Otto feel strange. He’d been close to Adrik for so long, but nothing about him had made him feel like this.

He was 42 years old and he couldn’t fully understand his own emotions. Whatever they were, when Kornfeld and the other two Jews were dead he would take Andrei with him to the United States and fuck what his father would have thought. But no, not the United States, maybe the Mediterranean would make more sense. Yes, the Mediterranean sounded better. His contacts on the northern shores would make the transition easier. And it would be a simple enough task to bribe the warders and get his mother away… Andrei appeared on the square below.

“There he is now,” Otto said, and his heart missed a beat.

Anxiety lifted as he watched him cross the square and pass Iron Felix’s statue. But then, from nowhere, gunshot thundered and echoed around the plaza from every angle. Otto became transfixed, unable to believe his eyes. Pieces of Andrei’s skull exploded from the top of his head.

“No! Andrei, please, not you. No!” he yelled, but his voice broke the empty words in his throat. Tremors shook the land as Andrei thudded heavily to the ground, or was it the involuntary shuddering of his own body.

Another shot and another bullet ripped into the top of Andrei’s skull. The body twitched as the cap whumped into his head, but Otto knew he’d been dead before he’d even hit the concrete and the paroxysms were just the reaction of a nervous system that temporarily lived on.

Blood streamed from Andrei’s exposed brain. Otto couldn’t move. Women at ground level screamed, shattering the silence, and snapped him from his trance-like state. He gulped dryly at the sight of his murdered love and scanned the square. His eyes skimmed over rooftops and rested on a building diagonally opposite, almost in a straight line with him and the statue.

A good distance, but he would swear he could see a man with a rifle by his side. Or was it imagination? If it was a man, he hadn’t moved. He needed a better look. He rushed to his desk and took out his binoculars. Back at the window, he fumbled with the focus until the vision cleared. Horror filled him. Not just a man, it was that fucking Jew, Kornfeld. In no hurry, he just stood and stared.

Kornfeld lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed it directly at Otto. The Jew was about to shoot him and Otto was about to die because – because he couldn’t move. He couldn’t pull his body out of plain view. But then Kornfeld let the gun fall to the rooftop, nodded and then pointed a finger and clicked his thumb, as if firing a pistol. He turned and walked away slowly.

The bastard could have killed him. A direct line, an expert marksman, he could have shot him. He stiffened, the binoculars falling from his grip, and his lips trembled like a scolded child’s. Terror turned his nervous system against him. Every tissue in his body seemed to go into reverse. Panic took its grip: his tongue swelled and curled back to enter his throat; his spinal cord arched back and his neck pulled his head forcefully in an impossible direction. He fought to straighten his posture, but the harder he tried the more his body disobeyed.

He regained control and swung away from the window, pressed hard into the wall. If he hadn’t moved, fear would have taken over. He could have choked on his own tongue. He slid to the floor and shook convulsively, with more emotion than he knew he had. When he stopped shaking, he wept uncontrollably. What could he do now? The Jew would kill him. He wanted his mother.

Chapter 59

The peasant identification that Leo had created got Jez a room near a ghetto in Moscow’s suburbs, but it was in Dzerzhinski Square where he spent his days, and he made no effort to go undetected. He’d bought a long black jacket with blue and white tsitsit fringes; a black waistcoat; a black fedora hat with a three-inch brim; and a white collarless shirt. With his beard heavy, and his hair almost in ringlets, he looked more orthodox than his poppa ever had. He copied Jacob’s mannerisms, curved his stance and dragged a foot. Whatever part of the square he was in, his main focus was on the entrance of Lubyanka.

The days drifted by and no show – but when Mitrokhin eventually emerged, it was with four armed guards skirted around him. From then on, Tuesdays and Thursdays were his days, soldiers and all. They marched the 15 meters or so from the Lubyanka entrance and got into an enclosed jeep. When they drove off it was to a destination Jez never determined, but he was warmed to see the cracks. Each time Mitrokhin made a show, it was with an air of pensive fear. He was jaded. For the other days of the week, the captain never left his confines: which meant he spent his nights there.

As he shuffled about, Jez seized every opportunity to get in the way of the rearguard to test their reactions to his presence. They ignored him. Even Mitrokhin stared beyond him as if he wasn’t there. He was ready and he saw his opening.

*

One mid-morning, he watched the first two armed guards leave headquarters. They scouted several meters ahead, stopped and turned to face the door. Seconds later, the rearguard followed with Mitrokhin. They joined the front line and formed a group.

Jez trembled and his adrenalin burned in his gut.

They moved as a unit and had almost reached the jeep when Jez made his move. He shambled forward, got between the rearguards and bumped into one. Profusely, he apologized and brought a hand to the rim of his fedora. The irritated soldier took an over-zealous grip and moved him to one side.

Recognizing Jez as a regular nuisance, the rest of the group turned away. But their ranks had been broken and Jez pulled his pistol. In a flash he came between the disjointed pair and pressed the gun hard into Mitrokhin’s neck.

“Mitrokhin,” he yelled, “Mitrokhin!” His arm trembled. “Turn around and face me, Mitrokhin. Tell the guards to put their weapons on the ground and turn around – NOW!”

The captain faced him and Jez forced the barrel hard into his gullet. He eased his head back so he could speak. “Put your weapons down,” he croaked.

The guards obeyed the command, gently put their rifles on the ground and then the front two joined those in the rear. The situation felt secure, so Jez pushed Mitrokhin away.

Mitrokhin raised an eyebrow and, for some reason only he could possibly fathom, appeared surprised. “Kornfeld, please,” he pleaded, in a tone more fitting to a confessional. “You know you can still get out of this. You have me cold. I’ll admit to what I’ve done. Just don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“Regret, please; do you really believe you can kill Anna and Viktor, the most precious people in my life, and then still barter?”

His face scrunched. “What? No, I killed Sharansky, yes, you already knew. But as far as I know about Puchinsky… you killed her.”

Confusion was rife. Why admit to one murder and not the other? And Mitrokhin appeared as baffled to hear the accusation as Jez was to hear the response. But if Mitrokhin hadn’t killed Anna, then who had? Uncertainty ensued. If Mitrokhin hadn’t done it… then was she even dead?

Not the right time for doubt; he had to act. But what Mitrokhin had said fought with his entrenched beliefs. It had to be him who’d taken her. Yet, sly as he was, even he couldn’t have given such a genuine response. Jez’s already unsteady arm dropped a little.

Mitrokhin took a step towards him. Jez responded mechanically. This wasn’t how he’d wanted it. Mitrokhin was supposed to grovel in fear and die as he begged for mercy. But no, Jez straightened his arm and fired.

Mitrokhin went onto his back foot and his face screwed in horror. Blood pumped from his chest and he brought up both hands to cover the wound. He shook his head in disbelief, whimpered as he tried to turn away. Jez put a bullet in the side of Mitrokhin’s knee and the leg folded like a snapped matchstick. The guards shuffled nervously and must have wondered if it was their turn next.

“No, no,” Mitrokhin cried. “Not like this. You don’t understand, my mother needs m... no!”

Mitrokhin stared down at the blood that seeped through his fingers and dropped back onto one buttock. He cried, begging for mercy. “My mother… I must… you must see, please.”

He attempted to turn to crawl away. Jez kicked him and Mitrokhin looked back, his face masked in terror. Terror! Close enough to plan, he squeezed off another shot and Mitrokhin’s eyes crossed towards the crater-like hole that now yawned in the center of his forehead. He fell and struck the concrete face down as the shot spun him round. A ragged hole was exposed in the back of his head where the bullet had blown through. At last, Jez felt his bloodlust sated. His nemesis was dead.

Overwhelmed with relief, exhaustion set in. Boots scuffed and one guard’s movement caught his eye. Jez stared without emotion. The soldiers seemed unsure of what happens next. Other than the three bullets he’d spent on Mitrokhin, he had a full magazine. He could fire a shot into each of them, use the jeep, change appearance and disappear from the collective. But what were they guilty of? They were just soldiers.

And what of Anna, what had happened to Anna? Was his mission yet unfinished, and his new task was to find his love? New possibilities raced and burned in his brain. Too many thoughts, too much confusion, his arm relaxed to his side. Then, even knowing a professional should put such thoughts on hold for later, he allowed the daring of the guards to increase. But he was numb to all and his hold on his gun grip went limp. The weapon fell from his hand and he watched it clatter to the ground. By the time it had come to rest, the guards’ courage was redoubled and their twitches changed to an all-out charge as they rushed to their rifles.

With guns raised shoulder high, the soldiers came at him. The first strike hit him in the nose and a searing pain jolted him. More blows rained down on him, but the pain lessened and his frame fell weightlessly down as his mind spiraled upward. Consciousness hurtled through stellar light and stars flew past on either side. He jettisoned onward, beyond the constellations and into the heavens.

The heavens, could Poppa have been right after all? Could there be a heaven? For the first time in what seemed a lifetime, anger faded and peace stepped into its shoes. Even thoughts of Anna dimmed, and just before the absolute blackness engulfed his spirit, a moment of euphoria elated him.

Epilogue

1

Siberia, Northern Russia

Jez fought for control of his movements, but could only flicker his eyelids. Take a moment, he told himself, calm down. He eased his body and his head sank back into a pillow. A pillow, but he was on the hard concrete of Dzerzhinski Square – wasn’t he?

But if he wasn’t, where was he? And had he killed Mitrokhin? Maybe his mind had played some kind of cruel joke. Had he endured so much torture from Smersh that he’d hallucinated and was still a prisoner in a KGB cell?

Alarm descended and he couldn’t feel certain – of anything. He needed to compose himself, think rationally. Go through what had happened one step at a time. But that brought more doubt. The guards had just attacked him, so there should be a lot more hurt than he felt.

Again he tried to open his eyes. Facial muscles tensed, but this time his eyeballs rolled back into the dark side of their sockets. In desperation, he turned his frustration into a tool to assist with his fight for control and a steady light became apparent.

No shapes, just light that shone through a window beyond the foot of where he lay, but a blurred interference occasionally moved across his vision. And then the light brightened, stabbing his eyes, and his ears became infested with white noise. He closed his eyes to obliterate the light; tried mentally to shut his ears.

A window, he’d seen a window. That alone proved he wasn’t in a Lubyanka cell: they didn’t have windows. He heard a whistle: maybe his chest, but he’d never wheezed in his life. A few blows to the head wouldn’t cause that sort of trauma. Shockwaves flooded his mind and he panicked. His eyes opened and the blur cleared a little. People hovered over him, and he heard murmurs of excitement. The crowded muttering stopped and a single voice spoke out.

“Lieutenant Kornfeld, take it easy.”

Relief came as he regained a little sanity. A man’s voice, he’d heard a man’s voice and understood what it had said.

“Is he okay?”

A female voice responded. “It’s too early for predictions, but at least he’s regained consciousness.”

He wasn’t in a KGB cell. But if he had killed Mitrokhin, why should they be concerned for his well-being? Too many thoughts, too few of them understood, panic gripped and he lost control.

The female voice sounded alarmed. “He’s going into spasm. I’ll have to give him a sedative. He’s young, at his peak, but his terror… if his heart races any faster… I can’t take the risk. He’s been exposed to consciousness, if he comes around again he’ll be calmer.”

No! No! He needed to know what had happened. Too late, the hypodermic needle pierced his flesh and the fluid forced its way into his vein. Logic deserted him, the drug took its effect and in moments he’d drifted back into unconsciousness.

*

Awareness returned and his brain tried to break out from his skull. His mouth had turned viscous from dehydration and his head beat like a drum. He saw the outline of a woman and her voice came kindly to him. “Ah, Jez, great, you’re back. Just hang in for a moment.”

She moved away and two people came back with her, one a blur of a man in a white smock coat, the other a large uniformed figure – equally blurred. The smock man checked various parts of Jez’s anatomy while the soldier leaned over him.

“Kornfeld, can you understand me?”

Jez squinted: it was General Petrichova, but his face wavered as if under water.

“Yes, General…can hear…but…mind…thought Mitrokhin…don’t understand...killed…”

He listened to his words croak from his throat and the effort exhausted him.

“Don’t worry, you’re not losing your mind, and yes, you did kill Mitrokhin.”

The general spoke without emotion but the words couldn’t have been warmer. Mitrokhin was dead.

“You’re in an abandoned gulag in Northern Russia. It’s been converted into a military camp and you’re in the hospital wing.”

“Don’t …”

“Then listen, you know my ideals and you knew why I had you developed. I know that in Minsk, Ca…Lieutenant Puchinsky told you I had the same plan outlined for her. Also, while you were with her, I investigated what she’d reported back.”

The general moved out of the nurse’s way and shuffled around until he decided to sit on the bed.

“It was clear from your investigation and other investigations already underway that the infrastructure of the Soviet Union had become riddled with corruption – and up to the highest level.”

Through bleary eyes, Jez saw Petrichova’s face grimace.

“I’ve realized for some time that the communist dream has failed and that the course on which it’s headed won’t change. But with that knowledge, I made a pledge to stand up for what I believe, so I started my own crusade for justice. The state will never go back to the way it was or become the way it was meant to be, but with the privilege of rank I can do something in the fight against corruption.

“As far as you’re concerned, Jezer Kornfeld is officially dead. His records have been updated and filed away. All identification has been replaced with that of someone who died on the front line in the Great War. There is no evidence on record to tie you in with who you were. All facts retrieved from the assassinations have disappeared, and now through the efforts of your comrade Leo you are officially Jez Kord. However, all that can yet be undone, but… another time.”

Jez’s thoughts lifted and dropped. Did it really matter without Anna?

“As an aside, it might interest you to know that when I looked into the case against Jacob and Leo I found they were never dismissed. Mitrokhin had manipulated the situation to make it look that way to them. This was one reason why Leo was never stopped entry to his office, and why Jacob had access to various account activities when he channeled Mitrokhin’s money. Of course, both men were naïve enough to accept what they were told.” Jez was genuinely happy for his comrades. They were good people.

The general cheerily drummed his fingers on the bedrail. But too much information had put Jez’s head into a spin.

“How have you put this together so quickly?” he asked.

“Not so quickly: you’ve been in a coma for almost two months. In fact, some of the medics are surprised to see you back.”

“Two months.” Shocked, Jez now understood why he’d wheezed. “Two months in bed.”

“Yes, but hopefully you’re on the other side of it. Listen, I’m probably running this past you a bit too early, but I want you to be aware of some details of what happened. For the months before Mitrokhin’s death, you were an unwitting agent in a covert operation. The operation was unofficial and I felt, with your sense of justice, you might not go along with my plans. But I needed total commitment.”

His face became stern. The nurse fussed with tubed bags that fed some sort of liquid into his arms.

“Other than the incident with your sisters, I’ve always believed you could never lift your hand against the state. I didn’t have enough evidence to take him down legally, so…”

His face turned to granite.

“I believed, and believe, you are an honorable soldier with a balanced view of right and wrong, but I had to win you over.” His eyes dropped as he continued. “It was a cruel idea, I admit, but there was only one way I could think of doing it… I had you witness Anna being shot down.”

Bewilderment swept Jez’s mind. Blood pressurized and pain from his brain tried to explode his ears outwards. He couldn’t believe Petrichova’s words. It seemed that Anna was indeed dead and Petrichova had told him he did it – and in such a cold-hearted way. He didn’t care, other than to say it was a cruel idea: no more than a forfeit in his game.

“You killed Anna, but…” His head lifted from the pillow and his fists drew together. Black patches phased his colors. His voice trembled. “I’ll hunt you down and I’ll kill you, General, make no mistake, I will kill you.” Strength deserted him and he fell back.

“No, Kord… Kornfeld, wait, you can’t...” Petrichova’s words drifted into incoherence as the red mist in Jez’s eyes turned to a black veil. He became swamped in darkness, and faded into unconsciousness.

2

Jez drifted in and out of the darkness. But now he stirred with a more resolute determination. His body writhed and he wrestled between awareness and limbo. Then at last, his eyes opened.

Petrichova stood at the foot of the bed, like a vulture in waiting. He’d killed the only love Jez had known, and would now have the nerve to justify it. But that was impossible, and Jez’s blood built to a swell; if he had the strength, he would kill Petrichova here and now.

The general watched grim-faced and then lifted open palms to get Jez’s attention. Jez focused on him and Petrichova shifted his hands sideways. Jez veered his gaze begrudgingly and what he saw was an apparition… It couldn’t be…

“Anna…” he gasped.

She came and laid a hand to his mouth. “Quiet, just listen, Jez,” she said and sat on the bed next to him.

“I’ll give you ten minutes,” the general whispered, and ushered the medics out with him as he left.

Anna opened the window and returned to take his hand. A fragrant breeze whispered its way in, cooled the sweat on his brow and brought freshness to his face. He chewed his mouth for moisture and Anna poured water, held the glass as he drank greedily from it.

She wore a white blouse and her hair hung loose. Her fragrance was that of freshly cut flowers and he gazed into the face of his dreams, no longer caring what had gone by. His life suddenly had meaning and he overflowed with jubilation.

Anna’s face was stern. “I hope you can remember what I told you the last time we were together. I meant what I said. I would have given up my career and run away with you in the blink of an eye.”

“I remember, and I do understand the position you were in, but what I don’t understand is how I saw you shot. It’s been an image that’s haunted me – what happened?”

She smiled weakly. “We used theatrical props. I don’t suppose you remember, but I kept my hands in my pockets when we walked towards the station. I detonated blood pouches when I heard the rifle shots.”

“But a bullet ricocheted off the pavement. That was real enough. How did you do that?”

“It was practiced. Two blanks and one live round. But that was the easy part. The hard part was after Mitrokhin reported you dead.” Her face softened and tears glistened in her eyes. “The general never had doubts you’d survived, but I wasn’t so sure.” The weight of her tears broke.

He reflected back to the day of the shooting and recalled how she had all but begged him to leave with her. How could he feel vengeful now, after she’d been returned to him?

“You were willing to walk away from a career that means everything to you,” he said, “and you gave me an opportunity to walk away with you. There’s no need for apologies. I would have done the same in your shoes.”

Her throat caught. “No, you wouldn’t have let any of it happen. You just have to remember Nikolas, our trainer.”

“Maybe, but no more remorse or recrimination, please, Anna. What is important is that you’re alive and we can be together.” His mind jumped. “Or can we?”

Her face went back to unyielding, but then she pressed it against his chest. “Yes, forever,” she said, almost obstinately, and he forced himself not to spoil the moment by letting her move. She was back.

The embrace lingered and the general came back in. Anna stood and brushed off non-existent dust from her skirt.

“Is it safe for me to approach, Jez?” he asked, shook his head and became serious. “Captain Puchinsky should have you up to speed. Is there anything you don’t know?”

Jez felt his eyes widen. “Well, I didn’t know Anna was a Captain.” No one answered. If they’d started coughing and looking at their feet, their embarrassment couldn’t have been clearer. He let it go. “You mentioned Leo earlier, but what of Jacob and his daughters? I made promises.”

“Safe, Jez, safe. They were reunited soon after I received the parcel from you. Anna got the girls from Beyrek Ozel, the Turk outlined in the dossier you sent. I used my people in Turkey to arrange their passage home. And of course you’ll realize that I don’t have official authority to close down the operation there. But I do have it here. With the lists of pimps you sent, we’ve eradicated the trafficking operation in the Soviet Union. The Turkish connection, however, is another story. The activity needs to be shut down and I have people working on that as I speak. There are also activities here in Russia that need attention, but that is something we need to discuss when you’re well. For the moment, it’s enough for you to know the Bernsteins are safe at the Korbet cabin.”

“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 Levent’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 were 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.

Beyrek cut into his thoughts. “Now that was just fucking silly.”

Levent answered with a trembling voice, as the two thugs held him in a vice-like grip. “How…? Why are you back so soon?”

“If you must know, my new Russian business partner had everything sorted out by the time I got there. I signed a few documents and here I am.” Beyrek laughed again.

Levent’s body slumped. “Beyrek, please don’t let the police take me from Mehmet, please… Beyrek, you and I grew up together.”

“Levent, for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been stupid, but this time you’ve gone too far. Oh, and that brings me to introductions,” Beyrek said, opening his hand towards the policeman. “This is Captain Ahmet and he works for me.”

Levent noticed Gizem, Beyrek’s wife. She was opening the suitcase and taking out the document he’d taken for Yuri.

“Beyrek,” she said. “Look, he’s stolen more than money.” She held up the papers. “The cash wasn’t enough. He intended blackmailing you.”

“No, that was…” Levent stopped. He’d promised Yuri he wouldn’t tell. “I put it in the case accidentally.”

“Beyrek, you must take the appropriate action or your peers” – Gizem looked at the men in the room – “and your underlings will think you can be taken for a fool.”

Beyrek agreed. “Yes, Gizem, you’re right, but what–?”

“Take him to the Bosporus,” she told him.

Beyrek pondered, at first looking uncertain, but then nodded. “Okay, you’re right,” he said and turned to one of the henchmen. “Tunc, you know little Zeki. Go and find him. Bring him back here and then we’ll all go down and see Yuri Aleksii. He lives on his boat down at the quayside. He can ferry us across the Golden Horn.”

Across the Golden Horn, Levent thought. His spirit lifted. Did that mean he’d get a beating and be allowed to go home to Mehmet?

*

Levent was pushed and dragged through alleyways and streets, as Captain Ahmet walked ahead, nodding to those who might stop and stare. Tunc and Tolga had frogmarched him from the apartment down to the jetty. But even if they hadn’t, Levent had known there would have been little point in him struggling, and even less in trying to find a chance to run. If he escaped, Beyrek would catch up with him sometime. No, he had to just accept the punishment and walk away.

They came down onto the jetty as Yuri was climbing off his boat.

“Yuri,” Beyrek said softly, but smiled with a clenched jaw. “I have work for you and it must be done tonight.”

“And what work is so urgent it needs doing at this time?” Yuri complained.

Beyrek sniggered. “I need you to take us to the other side of the bridge.”

“But why is Levent handcuffed?” Yuri asked and Levent could tell he was nervous about it.

“He’s been up to his mischief. But don’t you worry about that.”

Yuri was clearly uneasy. “I was going for a few vodkas. Do I have a choice?”

Tunc and Tolga stepped forward and Beyrek said, “No!”

“Then you’d better climb on board.”

*

Captain Ahmet tucked his crumpled blue shirt under his overhung belly and into the waistband of a pair of trousers he seemed to have trouble keeping up. “Do you need me for anything else?” he asked Beyrek, as he pushed back a mop of salt and pepper hair under his cap.

“No, getting our friend here so smoothly from the apartment has earned you the rest of the evening off. You can go for now, but I’ll be in touch soon.”

Levent watched Captain Ahmet wipe his podgy hands on his trousers and shake with Beyrek. He then struggled to get from the boat and up onto the jetty. By the time he’d made it, he was breathing heavily and took a moment to recover before he waved and left.

Tolga jumped onto the deck, waited for the boat to stop rocking and turned to help Tunc, who was having trouble with an awkward-looking bag. Levent waited on the jetty, unmoving. When the bag was boarded safely, Tolga got up onto the gunwale and dragged Levent onto a thirty-foot fishing boat that had been converted to carry cargo and passengers.

A boy, maybe sixteen years old, then jumped onto the boat. Levent hadn’t noticed him till now, but guessed he’d be ‘little Zeki’. To contradict the name, he was a tall boy who looked like an ageing street urchin: scruffy, matted hair, shining blue-black, haunted black eyes and a pencil-thin body covered by a tatty, oversized suit. Neither he nor the clothing looked like they had ever been washed.

All aboard, Yuri fired up the engine and left the boat idling until the exhaust cleared. He cast off and the boat crabbed sideways from the quayside, turned to take a line parallel with the Galata Bridge and veered slightly to avoid the floating pontoons near the centre. A few minutes later, they tied up against the opposite jetty and Levent’s thoughts of simply getting a thrashing before going home faded. Zeki stepped onto the boardwalk – alone.

“What about Levent?” Yuri asked.

Beyrek merely looked at Yuri and ordered him, “Cast off.” He then turned to Zeki. “You know what to do, so do it right.”

Zeki nodded and walked off.

“I don’t understand,” Levent said. “Gizem said to take me across to Galata…”

Beyrek nodded at his henchman and Tolga responded with a heavy punch to Levent’s ribs, the impact drove violently into his left side, buckling him towards the force.

They were motoring out to the middle of the strait when Beyrek said, “Stop here, and turn off the navigation lights.”

“Why?” Yuri asked, worry lines crinkling his skin. “Don’t do anything here you might regret, Beyrek.”

Beyrek gave another nod and Tolga stuck a pistol under Yuri’s chin.

“Yuri,” Beyrek said, “just let things take their course or you just might join him.”

Levent became rigid with fear on realising they were going to kill him. But surely Beyrek couldn’t do that; they’d once been like brothers. He couldn’t. “Beyrek, please, give me one more chance,” he begged.

“Your big mistake, Levent, was letting Emel die.” Pain and hatred fought for control in Beyrek’s eyes. “She could have lived like a queen, but instead she let herself be treated like dirt by you. No, no more chances.”

Levent’s spirits collapsed. His legs folded. “I beg…” he began.

“Enough!” Beyrek shouted then took out a pistol and stood behind Yuri. “Tolga, I’ll watch Yuri. You help Tunc… Yuri, you can feel the pistol. If you make a move for any reason, I will blow away the base of your spine.”

Levent listened, legs turning to jelly, as Tolga struggled to take out what looked like a sack of sand from the bag. He was powerless as Tunc pulled his knees apart, took a rope and tied his ankles and legs to either side of the sack.

“No, please,” Levent croaked.

“He’s ready, Mister Ozel,” Tunc said.

“Then do it,” Beyrek commanded.

Levent looked about in desperation and saw a full moon casting a glow over liquid shimmering with a dreamy beauty and a clear, navy-blue sky teeming with stars.

The vastness filled him with more anguish.

“Please, Beyrek,” he pleaded, “please, don’t do this.”

Beyrek’s cold eyes looked through him as if, already, he didn’t exist and Levent’s spirit caved in. Tolga lifted the sack and Levent’s legs and Tunc took the upper half of his body. Together, they threw him over the stern.

Levent looked up to the sky and too quickly, he fell backward into the sea. He tried to take a deep breath but the icy-cold water had engulfed him. With the shock came a sharp sense of awareness and in an instant, he saw everything he’d ever done wrong and everything he might have done right. If only he had another chance. But even if Beyrek had a last-minute change of heart, it was too late. He’d hit the sea horizontally, but the weight of the sack pulled him upright and he plummeted down.

He kept his eyes open, desperate for that last glimpse of life, held his breath, but his lungs were set to burst. Resistance faltered and air bubbles escaped, brushing his face on their journey to freedom. Yielding to the seduction, he let more air escape and then he sucked in. He wanted to gag, to cough, but the pressure of the water was too much and the cascade filled his lungs.

Discomfort lessened and stillness filled him; he had drowned and in a moment, life would leave his body. But for now, illusion comforted him; through a watery blur, he saw a wavering figure. Emel beckoned. Anxiety left Levent, but then the darkness became absolute, for he was dead.

Chapter 1

Mehmet was tall for an eight-year-old, slender with sinewy muscles too near to the bone. His father always said he looked like he needed a good meal in him, but would rather go out drinking than provide one. And it wasn’t just drinking; during the many arguments he’d heard between him and his mother, it seemed he couldn’t keep his hands off other women. In fact, before his mother had died, his father had almost been a stranger to him. Mehmet had thick, black hair, small, pretty features and the nearest he got to having any kind of camaraderie with his father was when he was jibed about looking like a girl. But his mother hadn’t liked that and came back saying that Mehmet had inherited those looks from him – how he missed his mother.

They lived at the end of a blind alley in the heart of Galata. There was a large iron gate at the entrance from the main road and a multitude of doors and gridded windows within. Everyone knew it as the jail passageway, but the Iron Gate was never locked. They had a basement room in a four-storey tenement, an illegal squat. Day and night, Mehmet shared the space with his parents. This could be embarrassing when his father returned home drunk – which had been more often than not – when he came home at all.

But for now Mehmet sat outside on a cold sandstone step in an alleyway so narrow the local boys would compete by shimmying between the walls to see how high they could get before falling. He’d sat there for hours and began wondering where his father could possibly be – and everyone else come to that; he hadn’t seen a soul all day. He’d been told to wait patiently, but that was so long ago. He should have been back by now. That thought brought a horrible notion to mind. What if he wasn’t coming back?

A tram clattered by in the main street and Mehmet’s inners jumped as its backdraught whistled up the alley. His bones rattled. The afternoon had darkened and was the darker for him being in the passageway. He began feeling nervous. But his father had made promises to him. And he had changed since Mehmet’s mother died. What had he said? “From now on, Mehmet, I’ll always be there for you. I haven’t been the father I should’ve been, but things are about to get better, you’ll see,” but then he’d broken down, started weeping.

Mehmet pondered the words and noted it had taken no time for his father to disappear back into a world of his own. Maybe looking after a child hadn’t appealed after all, but he’d told him to wait and that was what he’d do. Too many thoughts brought a lump to his throat, his eyes burned – and a tear escaped. But then a noise at the entrance jolted him and it wasn’t traffic; the hinges on the gate had creaked. Relief heaved in his chest as he wiped his face. His father had returned.

“Father,” he cried out. But it was an older boy who sneaked out of the shadows, a scruff with greasy black hair hanging too long over his collar and clothes more fitting of a bigger man. The closer he got, the dirtier he looked.

“You Mehmet?” he asked, using a sleeve to take a long swipe across his face.

In an instant, he was next to Mehmet and the smell of the docks, and the added odour of onion, turned Mehmet’s empty stomach. The boy grinned with a frightening sneer and Mehmet was staring at moss-covered teeth and snot that had smeared the boy’s cheek from him cuffing his nose earlier.

Fear flowed through Mehmet. He wanted to run, but there was only one way out of the alley and the boy blocked it, so instead he answered, “Err, yes.”

“Good. I’ve come to take you to your father.”

His heart leapt. “My father … but who are you? Where is he?”

“My name is Zeki,” the boy said. “Don’t worry, your father sent me to bring you to a safe place… Come, hurry, we don’t have a lot of time.”

Blindly, Mehmet followed Zeki from the alley and onto the open avenue. Zeki frightened him, true, and he didn’t trust him one little bit, but what else could he do? He was taking him to his father.

On the way, Zeki stopped and bought a Yufka unleavened flatbread from a late-night vendor. He tore off the bigger half and handed it to Mehmet. “You must be hungry,” he said.

“Yes, thank you, this is the first I’ve eaten today,” he replied and bit greedily into the stale food.

“Come on then, no time to hang about,” Zeki said and was off again.

Mehmet followed. Sometimes Zeki veered from a main street into an alley, only to make his way back to that same avenue further down. It all seemed very strange to Mehmet. He tried asking questions, but Zeki just forged ahead and when Mehmet stumbled, Zeki cursed under his breath. But it was him moving too fast and Mehmet having to run a half-step behind him that had caused him to stumble in the first place. More than once Zeki cut through a bar, or restaurant kitchen, strutting past the workers, almost daring them to say something – no one did.

They reached the quayside and walked with the strait behind them, eventually coming to an old, wooden staging where Zeki climbed down a ladder at the side of the jetty.

“Down here,” he ordered in a quiet voice.

Mehmet took hold of the ladder and began his descent, but the upward posts were rotten and his hand slid on slime. The stink of seaweed, moss and who knows what else wafted up from below. It was dark by now and the water lapped eerily against the beams. Why would his father have him brought to such a place? He looked down. The black liquid at the bottom of the ladder shimmered under bright moonlight. If he fell or the rungs gave way, he would fall in, drown. Fear took a morbid grip of his chest and he froze.

“Zeki?” he called. “Zeki, I don’t think I can climb down. Is this really where my father is? Why does he want me to come here?”

Zeki’s answer came back in a loud whisper: “If you don’t come down, and now, I’ll have to come back up. And believe me you do not want me to do that.”

Why Zeki would threaten him he didn’t know, but he knew if he didn’t get moving he’d be in trouble. He lightened his grip and eased his body away from the rungs. His clothes were now covered in slime and he smelt like everything else around him.

He’d only managed one more rung when fear revisited like a wave. He pulled hard against the ladder, but if he didn’t carry on Zeki would come up and thrash him. He took a deep breath, lowered another rung and then another, until at last he reached the jump-off point. When he looked through the space between the rungs, he couldn’t see his father, but found it difficult to believe what he could see: a crowd of boys and girls lounging about on the lower staging, maybe thirty of them, even forty. Who could tell? But there were a lot.

Mehmet’s chest tightened as a new terror filled him: what did these people want with him?

Chapter 2

So many children, yet so much space to spread out in. The wooden beams across the base of the staging were mostly covered with sheeting that was buried in seaweed and gunge. The confines of the area gave the impression of being in an open-sided room and candles flickered within glass lamps, the light of which danced on slime-covered walls.

“In here,” Zeki whispered.

“Where’s my father?” Mehmet demanded as he stepped off the ladder and stared around, trying to work out what was going on. As he did, a blinding thud sent him to the floor.

“Don’t ever raise your voice in here,” Zeki said softly. “The law will find us and we’ll be finished. If that happens because of you, boy, I’ll fill your lungs with that shit water before they get to me. Understand?”

Mehmet got to his feet unsteadily. “Yes, Zeki, but … but you said you were bringing me to my father.”

The children couldn’t contain themselves and fell about in quiet fits of laughter and as the reflection of the flames danced in Zeki’s eyes, Mehmet wondered if he’d gone to hell.

“Some people are so fucking stupid and you, you beat them all. Listen, Levent lost his money playing cards and then he bet you – and lost. Now you belong to me.” The last of Zeki’s words trailed away as he failed to suppress his own mirth.

“No!” Mehmet shouted and Zeki punched him in the jaw. When Mehmet hit the floor this time, he slid on the seaweed and only the ladder stopped him from ending up in the water. Again, the children thought it great fun and the hilarity got louder until Zeki pulled a knife and slashed it menacingly through the air.

“I won’t tell any of you again. Keep the noise down.”

Everyone quietened respectfully and Zeki turned his attention to the opposite corner. “Senturk,” he whispered. A tall, skinny boy came out from the shadows, older than Mehmet, probably around twelve.

“This is Mehmet. I want you to be his handler.”

“What’s in it for me?” Senturk asked.

“You’ll take a cut of anything he makes, so it’s up to you to train him right.”

Senturk gave Mehmet the once over, took his arm and guided him into the shadows from where he’d come. Old clothes had been gathered into a nest, close to, but not touching, the sludge on the back wall. “You’ll be safe here … for now,” Senturk told him.

Mehmet found a little solace as he stared into Senturk’s face He looked mournful, had hollow cheeks under large, haunted, brown eyes and pools of water appeared to float in them. He was scruffy like Zeki, but he had a kind face and Mehmet hoped the bigger boy might be someone to form an alliance with. He tried settling on the old clothing, but Senturk pushed him off and got comfortable there himself. However, eventually, he patted the edge of the bedding.

Mehmet curled up and sobbed quietly.

“Why would my father do this to me?” he whispered, more into his chest than to Senturk.

But Senturk answered anyway, saying, “Look, Mehmet, we all have our troubles. I don’t know anything about yours, but I’ve lived with this lot long enough to know you can’t believe a word they say. Truth is, your father might well have bet with you, but then again Zeki might have kidnapped you. Wait and see how things shape up. Doesn’t matter what really happened – you’re stuck here for now.”

*

Mehmet’s eyes opened with the first light of day and he ached – everywhere. It had taken ages for him to get to sleep. When he did, his new surroundings filled his dreams. Suddenly, he became aware of children messing around the staging, organising themselves, for what, who knows, but when a boy climbed down the ladder with a sack over his shoulder, the others rushed him, diving into the bag, competing for the prime pieces of pita bread within.

The early morning breeze blew up the inlet and Mehmet stared out to the water in a daze. His jaw started to throb and a surge of panic coursed through his veins on remembering why. He’d had a horrible night’s sleep, but, at that moment, he’d have gladly returned to it. However, nothing could change what had happened, he knew. Sleep or not, he’d still be on that stinking staging – abandoned by his father.

The chill shook him as he looked around in the cold light of day. It was hard to believe, but the previous night’s darkness had veiled the truth: wooden stanchions covered in green slime, piles of … who knows what everywhere, foul smells of seaweed and moss acting as background to the awful stench of human waste. Filthy boys and girls were dressing, but clearly had slept all but naked. One girl squatted without shame and shit through the rafters. His nostrils took in a lungful of the foul air and if there’d been anything in his stomach he’d have brought it up for certain.

Mehmet could see what the girl did was part of a normal routine because the other children were soon to follow suit. Mercifully, it wasn’t long before they filtered from the staging in threes and fours, and climbed the ladder on their way to – where? – Mehmet couldn’t guess. He veered his attention and saw Senturk get up from his nest, stretch upward and go to the sack to fish out a couple of flatbreads and baklavas. He returned to the dry spot and beckoned Mehmet over, offering a share of the food. Mehmet took it, but after what he’d just witnessed, he couldn’t face eating it.

Then, out of a corner, Zeki made an appearance. A small boy was shadowing his every movement and when Mehmet thought about it, that same boy had been by Zeki’s side when he’d got down to the landing the previous evening. The boy was short with blond hair and blue eyes, but he was older than Mehmet.

“I don’t suppose Senturk has told you the rules yet,” Zeki said and his little blond shadow nodded as if in mediation.

“No, Zeki, he hasn’t told me anything,” Mehmet answered softly, not wanting to make him mad again.

“Not much to know; you wake first light and eat then in an orderly way you leave the jetty quick as you can. You complete business and come back. You don’t hold anything back; everything comes to me before you get a share. You keep your hair short. And last, before you go out with the others, you must be good with a blade. Senturk will teach you.”

Mehmet answered the only rule he’d understood. “Your hair is long,” he said and got a slap for his trouble. He lifted a hand to where his face glowed warm, but pride forced him not to cry.

“What I do is up to me,” Zeki said, scratching his head. “But you keep your hair short or everybody will be riddled with lice. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Mehmet said, longing for his mother.

Zeki took a baklava from the sack, bit into it and scaled the ladder with the food sticking from his mouth. The smaller boy followed suit and they both disappeared from sight.

“Who was that boy with Zeki?” Mehmet asked Senturk.

“His name is Oz. He’s Zeki’s little toad. The only thing you need to remember about him is he can’t be trusted.”

He fished out a knife from a small bag and gave it to Mehmet.

“But why would I need this, Senturk?”

“What Zeki didn’t tell you is that you’re now a thief. You’re part of a gang known as the Little Dogs. The knife is your defence and your weapon for attack. We rob the markets but don’t bother the traders; they’re protected. We only hit people who are buying and only those who’ve just arrived; that way we know they still have money. We gather around the target in a group and if he kicks up a fuss, we stab him in the legs or backside. They usually hold their arms out straight and let us do what we want, but if you ever do need to use the knife, don’t stab anyone above the arse. If you wound them up top and get caught, you’ll be done for attempted murder.”

Mehmet’s eyes burned. “But I don’t want to rob anybody or stab them,” he sobbed.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” said Senturk, “but that’s the way it is. You’ll get used to it and there are always plenty of Little Dogs around to help out. The ones here aren’t the only gang members. We have shitholes like this all over the Beyoglu district.”

“Is Zeki in charge of them all?”

“He runs them, yes, but every so often he takes a bag of money and goes to meet with someone.”

Chapter 3

Since Mehmet had been picked up by Zeki, enough time had gone by for another summer to begin and wane and by now he was used to living with the enforced whispering and the foul smells. He still yearned for his mother and occasionally thought of his father, but thoughts of him were generally of resentment. He could accept having never received his love, that’s the way things go, but to gamble him away…? No, that was something way beyond his understanding.

It became routine that Mehmet rose before the others and this morning, he leant against the steps that had been his introduction to the Little Dogs. Staring down the length of the Golden Horn towards the Bosporus Strait, he watched a rising sun cast an orangey-yellow flame. The flare hit the Galata Bridge and light fractured into an arc of split rays. He almost felt peaceful, until the spell was broken as the gang began stirring. They buzzed about, ate when the sack of food arrived, shat and then left. They were gone by the time Senturk woke and stretched.

“Where’s the sack?” he asked, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes.

Mehmet pointed and Senturk took out a couple of flatbreads.

“You?” he offered, while smoothing his hands back over his head.

“No, I’ve already had mine.”

Senturk tossed the spare bread towards the water and it bounced off the platform before going in. A horde of seagulls swarmed from nowhere and in a beat, the feast was devoured and they were gone.

“Okay, give me a minute and we’ll be on our way,” Senturk said, mouth full and chewing through his words. “Your first day at work,” he laughed.

First day at work; what that meant was today would be the day when Mehmet led an attack at a market – and he dreaded it. He’d been taught what there was to know, had become expert at handling a knife, passing a blade smoothly between hands while staying balanced and ready for action. He knew where to stab a man in the legs without hitting a main artery. And, holding the stare of a victim without looking away was no small feat. So, he knew enough; he just didn’t want to do it.

First day at work, but not his first robbery; he’d been taken around the markets since day one, but only to make up the numbers, to help swell the gang as they swarmed on a target. That was what most of the gang did, but today, Mehmet had to hold a knife to a man’s chest and Senturk said he was ready. He wasn’t so sure.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit soon for me to be taking the lead? I would hate it if you were caught because I’m not ready.”

Clearly liking that, Senturk laughed so much he had to clutch his belly. “Nice try. You’re as good with that blade as I ever was. No, the only thing you need to prove is that you can keep your nerve when you lead the pack.”

Like it or not, Mehmet knew there was no getting out of this one. They left and as always, checked the security of the immediate area on their way from the jetty. They disappeared into a nearby alley and then kept to narrow throughways until coming out onto a road where the Attaturk Bridge ended. After ten minutes of walking, they changed route, passed the Neve Shalom Synagogue, crossed over open land and came to a place where they knew the alleys wound through the area like the holes in a Swiss cheese.

One of the alleys brought them out to a small flea market and Senturk stopped Mehmet with a hand to the arm. “This one isn’t very big,” he said. “It’ll be an easy start for you.”

True, with only three sellers, it wasn’t even big enough to call a market, but there were plenty of people hanging around. The sellers had their wares spread out untidily on sheets; one had a few stone earthenware jugs, another, old paste jewellery, and the third, a couple of stacks of flatbread. Glancing around, Mehmet saw several Little Dogs lurking and wondered how they knew to be there.

Copying Senturk, Mehmet leant against a wall near to the man selling stoneware. At first the trader stared nervously at the boys, but then he nodded and grinned at Senturk, the grin revealing black, yellow and gold teeth.

Mehmet tilted his head towards Senturk. “Do you know him?” he asked.

“The sellers are protected. We know them all. I told you that on your first day with me, remember?”

Mehmet nodded his head and set his mind to what he had to do, checking out passers-by that showed an interest in the displays. “What about that one?” he suggested, pointing to an older man who didn’t look capable of standing up for himself.

Senturk shook his head. “No, no money on that one.”

How he could have known that was a mystery to Mehmet.

The summer was all but over, so the winds should have cooled the city streets by now, but the warmth from a blistering sun basted Mehmet’s face. He relaxed, started to come to terms with what he was about to do. But then a man in a grey striped suit, who stood out in the crowd, showed an interest in the display. He was tall and had a face the colour of burnt sienna. His slim body looked fit and sinewy. Mehmet gulped. He no longer cared about robbing someone, but prayed it wouldn’t be this man.

Senturk nudged Mehmet and said, “He’ll do.”

“Err… no,” Mehmet replied. “I think we should wait for somebody else, someone a bit easier. This is my first time after all, Senturk.”

Senturk laughed as he pushed away from the wall. The Little Dogs started moving over from a nearby alley, but Mehmet stayed rigid, hoped Senturk would maybe do the job without him. But as Senturk moved, he grabbed Mehmet’s arm and pulled him along with him.

*

The Little Dogs crowded in and the buyers moved away quietly as if none of this was their business. Mehmet pulled his knife and pushed the blade against the man’s chest. The man looked surprised and tried to step away, but half a pace put his back against the wall. Mehmet’s confidence grew seeing his target lower his gaze and spread his arms in submission. The suit the man wore was old and wrinkled, like Zeki’s; he didn’t look well off at all, but Mehmet hadn’t chosen him, so if he had nothing it wouldn’t be his fault.

As Mehmet rifled through the man’s pockets, a thought crossed his mind: he could use the opportunity to practise the stare Senturk had been teaching him. But as he locked eyes with the man, he didn’t fold. Instead, he stared menacingly back, only for a moment, but long enough for Mehmet to find himself absorbed by an unnatural darkness that frightened the life out of him. He felt evil had invaded his soul. He had to get away.

His arm dropped. The knife slipped from his grip. He made to run, stubbed his toe and kicked a small urn up into the market traders other jugs. Shards of pottery splintered off in every direction and he was lucky none of it had stuck in him as he moved through it. The stoneware seller couldn’t say the same; shrapnel sent him scurrying. But then he got to his feet and began flailing closed fists at Mehmet while spitting a string of obscenities.

Mehmet’s woes were yet to end. Ducking down while moving, he stomped on the paste jewellery, powdering it underfoot, and then, to round off the mishaps, he kicked the final trader’s flatbreads everywhere. The trader reached to grab him, but slipped on the breads and fell forward onto the concrete, but as he fell he caught Mehmet’s ankle, bringing him down too. Mehmet couldn’t move. He’d been caught and the police would arrest him. But then a vice-like grip took hold of his arm and he was up and running again. Senturk had come to the rescue.

The other Little Dogs must have taken the panicked moments as a signal that the police had turned up and had already run for it. Mehmet and Senturk were quick to follow, running with all the strength they had, gaining their freedom with every step. But when Mehmet turned his head, he caught a glimpse of the tall, scruffy man. He was giving chase – and quickly closing the gap. Mehmet looked sideways, expecting to see Senturk in a panic, as he was himself, but Senturk was almost wheezing with laughter.

Over his shoulder, Mehmet heard the vendors shouting and saw them waving their arms in the air; their goods were useless, scattered everywhere, broken or inedible. He was about to lose his freedom, but he couldn’t help it – he began laughing along with Senturk and his pace slowed. However, the laughter died and renewed fear gave him the strength to spurt forward and run harder when a hand clawed at his shoulder. Then the sound of ripping material was followed by Senturk going backwards, but as quickly, he surged forward and was by Mehmet’s side again.

Mehmet’s stamina began dwindling. He wouldn’t be able to keep going for much longer. He saw an alley ahead and pictured the two of them giving their follower the slip. Senturk had other ideas and kept running in a straight line. But as they came alongside the alley, he unexpectedly raced ahead and pushed Mehmet sideways into it. The pursuer hurtled past. Whether the ruse had put him off or he just got fed up wasn’t clear, but the chase seemed to end at that point. They’d made it, but a new worry came to bear: what would Zeki do to him for this?

They ran through a few more alleys before slowing to a walk. Senturk began laughing again, but when the laughter eased, he said, “Zeki won’t be very happy with you. Our total profit for the day is minus one knife.” He twisted to look over his shoulder. “And a ripped shirt.” Mehmet flinched and Senturk laughed.

A spot of blood ran down Mehmet’s cheek. He wiped it away and felt a small gouge. It was probably from when he broke the jugs. He ran a finger over the nick and wondered if he would get a scar. If so, he would look like most of the other boys. The idea appealed and he walked alongside Senturk with the swagger he’d been trying to learn for ages.

*

They wandered the streets, messed around, laughed over what had happened and joked as young friends do, but it turned dark and the dreaded time came: they had to return to the staging and face the music. Down on the jetty, Zeki was waiting, arms folded over his chest, a mean expression on his face; at least that part was normal.

“Ah, at last, you’re back. Let me see the booty then.”

Senturk melted into the darkness of his corner. Mehmet peered over his shoulder, hoping he’d come back and support him – he didn’t. Other than the water lapping against the stanchions below, silence reigned.

Suddenly, the figure of a tall man emerged from the shadows behind where Zeki stood. Mehmet froze. It was the man he’d tried to rob at the market. The light from the candles flickered across his face and Mehmet felt even closer to the devil than he had earlier. He trembled and the pain from the cut on his cheek worsened.

The man moved nearer and leaned over him; his breath blew hot and sweet against Mehmet’s face. But then, instead of using his might against him, the man shook his head and handed Mehmet the knife he’d dropped. Without a word having left his lips, he patted Zeki’s arm, nodded and left the landing.

Zeki sniggered. “If today had been for real, by now you would be in jail. Be sure of yourself next time.” He gave Mehmet a cursory slap across the side of the head and walked away.

Mehmet skulked over to Senturk. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, feeling betrayed.

“And if I had, what would you have learned?” he said, all the time shaking with laughter.

Chapter 4

Icmeler, Turkey, 1954

Beyrek Ozel settled back in the private compartment of a train heading for Istanbul. He didn’t like going to the city, but he had to make sure he kept total control over his businesses. But the rabble there, the noise, the perpetual smog and the stink of piss in the streets – he hated it.

When the club he’d set up in Icmeler with Otto Mitrokhin prospered, he’d moved out to those rural suburbs and found there were no crowds and people never laid filthy hands upon him. But he wasn’t willing to give up what he’d fought for in the city, so he kept his base covered by leaving his most trusted captains to run things. Although, on reflection, he was sure his wife, Gizem, would take the credit for those decisions.

“Move out? Yes. Leave your people to manage? By all means. But you must keep each of your activities isolated from the other,” she had insisted. “If anyone has the cunning to take over one of the operations, only one business will be lost, and you can always get it back another time.”

‘You must do this’ and ‘you have to do that’. Who the fuck did that woman think she was? Her words made sense, sure, but he had every intention of doing what she had said anyway. During their marriage she never suggested anything; always told him what he had to do. This woman failed to recognise just how important he was. He sighed and veered his thinking. He hated the train journey into the city almost as much as arriving. Why? Because he’d sit for hours thinking of Emel and Levent, and he didn’t need that.

The thought of Emel still obsessed him; he loved her. His mind drifted, wondered about the parts of his life he might change given the chance. Strangely, it was the killing of Levent that brought pangs of regret, and why not? For so much of their lives they’d been like brothers. But Levent shouldn’t have upstaged him with Emel the way he had. He’d made a fool of him. Then Gizem had gone and told him he must take him across the Bosporus; it all got out of hand.

And here he was, thinking about them yet again. He tried shifting his thoughts, looking for the positives in his life. There was Otto Mitrokhin for one. When Otto came along, everything had changed. And setting up the club, The Turkish Delight, had only been the start.

Not long after that, another Russian made contact with him. “My name is Borislava,” he’d told Beyrek. “I work for one of Otto’s military colleagues. We’ve been keeping an eye on how you’ve conducted things and have decided to set up a couple of new clubs between Icmeler and Marmaris. We want you to handle the business. The premises will have merchandise delivered from Russia. You will exchange those shipments for cargo coming in from the east.

“One proviso: Otto must never know of the venture. We like to keep our projects separate, so the day he finds out about our partnership will be the day it is over.”

The clubs were a front – caches for heroin from the poppy fields of Afghanistan. The drugs were moved across the borders of Persia into Iraq, through Syria and down the northernmost part of Israel to Haifa. From there they were loaded onto a Turkish gulet and sailed across the sea into Marmaris – by a religious Jew no less. Beyrek took possession of the heroin and handed over Semtex from the Soviet Union in exchange.

Beyrek’s chest expanded. Now it was one of the main transportation hubs for the shipment of drugs to the west. And he controlled it. He pressed his brow to the carriage window and Levent came back to mind. If he could see me now, he thought.

His brow bounced as the train jolted and his thinking returned to the present. Never mind Levent – to the business at hand. He’d stay at the apartment in the Sultanahmet Quarter for a few days, spend a little time meeting with his managers on either side of the Golden Horn. Finally, and leaving the easiest task until last, he’d deal with Zeki. Only a cash pickup, so he should be able to make a quick getaway back to Icmeler.

Chapter 5

Galata, Istanbul, 1954

More children joined the Little Dogs and some left; the leaving usually meant disease and an early death, but if not, they’d been caught by the police. Mehmet was now eleven years old and had become one of the most skilful thieves in the gang, his ability with a knife being easily the best amongst them. But, good gang member or not, he clung to what his mother had taught him about right and wrong, and if a chance were to show itself he would be gone and never steal again.

The day had moved into afternoon and Mehmet and Senturk had just put a safe distance between them and a market they’d just robbed. Pressure off, Senturk strolled by Mehmet’s side, preoccupied with his new toy, a baglama. Fooling around, he began marching like a wooden soldier, holding the long neck of the Turkish guitar balanced over his shoulder like a rifle.

Earlier, around fifteen of the gang had hit on three targets in a market crowd on the edge of Sisli, a neighbouring district to Beyoglu. As the boys made off, Senturk had swiped the instrument from under the arm of an unsuspecting shopper. Bringing the instrument across the front of his body now, he plucked at the strings and if his intention had been to draw out all the animals in the area and set dogs a-howling, he’d every chance of success.

Eventually, they came to the end of the dark alleyway leading to the jetty. Senturk had decided to give Mehmet a minute’s peace and had gone back to carrying the baglama over his shoulder. It had been a long walk back, twilight had crept up on a fading sun and only a few shards of crimson light remained. Mehmet watched as the shapes of minarets and domes turned to silhouettes across a darkening skyline. On the opposite side of the waterway, lighting ignited along the Sirkeci quayside and around the old city of Eminonu. But then Mehmet caught a glimpse of Zeki and grabbed Senturk’s arm roughly.

“Hey! What the…?” Senturk complained, pulling his arm away sharply.

“Shush!” Mehmet whispered. “Look. Zeki’s leaving the staging and he’s got the bag with the money in.”

“So?” Senturk said.

“So, he hasn’t got Oz with him. He’ll be sneaking off to meet whoever it is we work for, the one who gets the biggest part of what we steal. Wouldn’t you like to see who it is?”

“Not really, no. It’s probably the man you tried to rob. I know he collects the protection money from the market traders. Remember? He was the one who gave you your knife back when you did your first robbery,” Senturk sniggered.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Mehmet said and felt disappointed, but then he perked up. “Okay, even if it is him, it’s worth finding out for sure. And if it isn’t, if he and Zeki are working for someone else, there might be a chance of turning things in our favour.”

“How?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, but if you know something you’re not supposed to, it has to be worth something.”

“Hmm, it would be good to get something on Zeki. Okay, let’s follow him. Can’t do any harm.”

Senturk hid the baglama under a mound of rubbish at the end of the alley, pulled at Mehmet’s sleeve and they began following Zeki. As usual, Zeki sneaked his way through alleys and streets, cutting through bars and cafes. Occasionally stopping to light a cigarette, he’d sneak his head this way and that, checking to see whether anyone was on his trail.

The sun dropped from sight and workers, having ended their day of toil, drifted into the bars and cafes. Zeki went into one of them and the boys trailed after him at a distance. Smoke hazes rose and clung to the ceiling. Sweet fumes of roasted tobacco filled Mehmet’s nostrils. Men were bunched in groups, drinking, playing cards and cursing loudly as the drive to win generated excitement. Coming out of the bar, Zeki continued with the evasive tactics until coming to the Galata side of the floating bridge.

“It might be difficult following him across to Sirkeci,” Senturk said.

“That’s not where he’s headed. Look, he’s cutting down the steps to the lower landing.”

At the bottom of the steps, Zeki walked along the wooden promenade, stuck close to the edge near the water, but then he stopped, threw his cigarette over the side, took one last look around and strode towards a man standing in the shadows near the back wall. Whoever it was, it wasn’t the man who’d taken Mehmet’s knife. And he looked … smart. He wore shiny shoes, his hair was neat, he had creases in his trousers and the buttons on his jacket were done up. Nothing in itself, but people in that area, well, they didn’t look like that.

Zeki put out a hand for him to shake. The man ignored the gesture, but looked happy enough to reach out and take the money bag.

Suddenly Senturk, who was already under the balustrade, grabbed Mehmet’s arm. “Get down,” he hissed. “They’ve seen you.”

Mehmet crouched down next to him, but too late.

“Mehmet!” Zeki cried out.

Mehmet stood, covered a hand to his mouth and whispered. “Stay there, Senturk. Maybe they didn’t see you.”

Senturk stayed down while Mehmet went over to the two men. He swaggered slowly, trying to look calm, but his body trembled and for that moment, he thought his legs might give way.

Chapter 6

The timing had been sweet for Beyrek. He left a band of happy racketeers running things and now only had Zeki to deal with. Beyrek always made sure to dress nicely when meeting with a subordinate and stopped now to admire his reflection in the full-length hall mirror before leaving his Sultanahmet apartment. A new Armani suit, silk tie, Italian shirt and shoes, everything pristine, everything expensive; there was no doubt, he did look good.

But then his gaze lifted and he sighed in disappointment. His hair was still thick in the main, but he had to admit it was receding at the front. The widow’s peak seemed to get ever longer these days and his face looked a little puffy, his cheeks slightly bloated. Though typically Mediterranean skin, it seemed pale and dark circles around his eyes made him look like a panda … and that sweaty skin. He’d seen doctors galore. They all said the same thing, glands, like he was a monkey or something. But then he stepped back, took in the overall picture and smiled. No, you’ve never looked better, he thought, and he left the apartment for his next meeting.

*

Beyrek stood near the back of the landing, close to the wall beside the Galata Bridge. He watched Zeki check out the area. Even when Zeki had been a young boy Beyrek had thought he had potential. Maybe he was ready for more responsibility. Maybe run the protection side of things, that position had just become available. Yes, he just might let Zeki do that.

Zeki walked over and put out a hand. “Hello, Mister Ozel. I hope you haven’t waited too long.”

Beyrek looked him up and down. A dirty little shit; no way would he shake that hand. “No, not long.”

Zeki handed the bag over, but when Beyrek held his face away to get above the stench, he thought he saw a head bob up and down near the lower level of the bridge. Was someone watching them?

“I don’t want you to look now, but I think you’ve been followed.”

“That can’t be. I…” Zeki turned to where Beyrek had indicated. “Little bastard. I see him.”

Beyrek shook his head. Doesn’t anyone listen? “Call him over,” he told him.

“Mehmet!” Zeki yelled.

The name sent tremors tingling up Beyrek’s spine. “Mehmet? Mehmet who?” he asked.

“Pasha, the boy you told me to look after, remember?”

“Remember? Of course I fucking remember! I told you to take care of him. What’s he doing here?”

“But we have taken care of him, Mister Ozel. He–”

“You fucking idiot. I meant you should kill him. Get rid of him. What other words do you need so you’ll understand?”

“Oh, but…”

Beyrek’s anger calmed. “Okay, okay, a misunderstanding. There’s still time to put it right.”

Beyrek watched the boy sneak over. He’d pulled back his shoulders attempting to look unflustered, but he failed to hold a straight line.

“What’re you doing, sneaking around here? Who told you to follow me?” Zeki asked when he got to them.

“No, Zeki, I wasn’t following you,” Mehmet replied. “We did a job at a market in Sisli. I didn’t want to go to the jetty so carried on a bit further, that’s all. When I saw you I wasn’t sure whether I should come over or not.”

“Is there anyone with you?” Zeki asked.

“No, I’m by myself.”

Beyrek was unable to take his eyes from Mehmet. Levent’s boy – and he looked like Emel. Buoyant feelings of going home on the midnight sleeper fizzled.

“You better make your way back to the jetty now, Mehmet, and no stopping on the way. Do you hear?” Beyrek said.

“Yes, sir, I’ll go as fast as I can,” Mehmet replied and left in a hurry.

Once the boy was out of earshot, Beyrek said, “He wasn’t the only one over there; there was at least one other, which means two of your boys can identify me. I want you to arrange for Mehmet and the boys he usually works with to hit the Galata Bridge market on the Sirkeci quayside. I’ll stay in the city for another night and organise it so Captain Ahmet will be on the scene. Don’t say anything until I tell you when the job is to be done. And don’t get mixed up this time. Got it?”

“Yes, Mister Ozel.”

Chapter 7

The man with Zeki had seemed friendly enough, so why did Mehmet feel like the worries of the world were burdening him? He couldn’t understand what, but there had been something strange about him. And to add fuel to the thought, Zeki had been too friendly since the meeting.

“Senturk, Mehmet, come over here for a minute, please.”

The pair hadn’t long been back from the markets and Mehmet was shattered. He’d been on his feet all day, walking, running, worrying for his security after a series of small robberies. It was too hot and humid for that time of year, especially under the jetty where there was no chance of picking up a breeze. He just wanted to be left alone. But now Zeki was calling them over with a sickly sweet voice. And he said please – so unbelievable. What was he up to? Senturk rose from his nest and Mehmet came into line beside him. They sat next to Zeki on the beam behind the ladder, dangling their legs over the side.

Zeki smiled. “I’ve been doing some thinking about the markets,” he began. “The two of you are a good team and it’s time to move you up. I want to expand the target area and start by hitting those markets on the other side of the Golden Horn. I’ve decided to let you two head up a gang there and I want you to start with the quayside market at Sirkeci. Take the cell you usually work with and do it tomorrow around mid-morning.”

“But that’s crazy,” Senturk said. “Nobody over there knows our reputation, so seven won’t be enough. You know from way back that if we’re not in a mob and the victim isn’t scared, he’ll turn on us. If the crowd see that, they’ll help. No, it’s crazy. We’ll be in prison by the end of the day.”

“If what you just said were true then yes, but there won’t only be seven of you. I’ve been collecting boys in Sirkeci for months now and I’ve set them up under a jetty over there. I told you to do it mid-morning because that’s when the new boys will be there. Including the boys from here, you’ll number about thirty. When the jobs done, they’ll take you to your new home. Any problems with that?”

“Are these new boys any good?”

“You know you don’t need to ask me that, Senturk.”

*

The following morning, Mehmet and Senturk hung over the railings on the upper level of the bridge and watched the activity in the open-air market below. There were stalls all the way to the barrier at the jetty edge, most selling fish. However, every so often, blankets of smoke clouded upward highlighting the kebab stalls. Buses lined up where the market ended and made a natural perimeter fence. Mehmet had been scouring the place for over an hour and was beginning to feel edgy. Until now, the only boys he’d seen had come from Galata with him and Senturk.

“Our group is clear enough, so where are these new boys?” Mehmet asked. “Maybe a few could’ve melted into the crowd, but more than twenty? I don’t think so.”

Senturk made no response.

“I don’t like this,” Mehmet continued, almost pleading now. “I think we should cut and run. This doesn’t feel right. You must’ve noticed how weird Zeki’s been since we followed him.”

Senturk gave Mehmet a long-suffering stare. “Look, I don’t like the idea of moving over here much either and that’s the only reason you’re worrying now. But there’s no need; if they don’t turn up, we leave – simple. And as far as Zeki goes, he didn’t even know I was with you at the bridge.”

Senturk wouldn’t be moved and Mehmet supposed he was probably right. If the boys didn’t show then they wouldn’t rob. Like he said, what could go wrong?

“Let’s see if we can get a better handle on things from below,” Senturk said. “They might be underneath the bridge where we can’t see them.”

They went down onto the lower jetty and Mehmet stared over to the floating pontoons that held the centre of the bridge up and watched a small boat motor through and towards the strait. Black smoke billowed as it chugged towards the main stream. The backwash from its wake lapped small white horses against the floats.

Senturk pulled on his arm and Mehmet went along – reluctantly. “Let’s get to the main part of the market. Maybe they’re there now.”

But they weren’t.

“Still no sign of the boys, but there are two of the gang we came over with,” Mehmet said and pointed to a couple of boys who stood making faces at the dead fish on the stalls and laughing. They went and chatted to them, but they hadn’t seen any potential gang members either.

It was midday now and the smell of food was everywhere. “I should be feeling hungry, but I’m not. Something isn’t right here, Senturk,” Mehmet said, and just as he finished speaking, as if the words themselves had signalled his demise, gunfire rang out and an undulating crowd flowed from whatever had happened. The boys went off one way while Mehmet and Senturk went the other. Two shots in quick succession and then a third; someone was firing at the two boys who’d just left them. Mehmet picked up speed. A shot whizzed past close by and a child ahead of him fell. It could only have been the mother who screamed, as she bent over the boy, clutched his blood-spattered body to her breast.

“Quick, get along to the end of the lower level,” Senturk yelled. “If we can get to the rail, we can jump onto one of the floating pontoons and hide.”

They raced the length of the jetty but a crowd of people had gathered near the rail. More gunfire echoed, the boys raced straight at the throng and it separated into folds along the boardwalk, like Moses parting the Red Sea. They crouched down and arched arms protectively over their heads as if it were the boys who had the guns. As the minutes passed, the shooting seemed to be moving further away. There was still a chance they could make an escape. Mehmet’s heart pounded in his ears. Fear had stopped his legs working properly, but surely he could make it a few more strides. If he could get to the railings and jump to the pontoon, he’d be safe.

Another shot cracked out; they were closing in again. Senturk was running a couple of steps ahead when a sudden thud resounded and sent his body forward that much faster. His head turned sideways as blood spurted from his mouth and he fell to the jetty, his chest exploding in front of him.

Chapter 8

“Senturk!” Mehmet cried as he ran on past, but then he gritted his teeth and looked back. Senturk lay on the boarding, a curious crowd already moving in on him. “Oh, Senturk, please don’t be dead. Please don’t leave me,” he said, but the words that cracked in his throat were futile. Senturk had just become another dead street urchin awaiting disposal.

Mehmet’s legs suddenly found a well of energy as he reached the railings. Whoever was shooting knew where he was, so he wouldn’t be able to hide on the floating pontoon as Senturk had suggested. But if he could get into the water, maybe he could swim to a float on the other side of the waterway.

No more time to think. He climbed on top of the barrier, straightened his body ready to dive, but then a bullet sparked off the ironwork and he jumped instead. More gunfire and he suddenly felt like his body had been hit by the Orient Express. He plummeted, turned circles as he went, a bright sky was followed by dark waters. The sequence rolled out until he did a belly-flop onto a surface that felt like concrete.

The late morning had been balmy, but hitting the cold depths sobered him. He plunged deep into the canal, deep enough that echoing drummed in his ears. He forced his eyes open, but only saw clouded water. The pain was unbearable and scorched his shoulder as he tried to swim to the surface. He’d been shot and his left arm had stopped working. He kicked his feet while clawing at the water with one hand and eventually bobbed to the surface. Bullets zipped by on either side of him from a number of angles; taking prisoners obviously wasn’t on the minds of the shooters this day. But then the noise of the gunfire was drowned out by a churning drone. Mehmet looked behind to see the bow of a small craft, metres away from pounding him into the outlet.

He pushed furiously, trying to get out of the way, but it was too late; the bow absorbed him and his body was drawn under the hull. The engines rumbled and the propellers whumped a death knell. He was about to be ploughed back into the depths.

Just before the propellers could claim him, he surfaced on the blind side from where his pursuers had shot at him. But he couldn’t sustain the effort much longer, his body screamed for oxygen and when the boat passed he would be an open target to the shooters. Then he saw the huge end knots on large braided rope-fenders coming at him; the skipper hadn’t yet pulled them up. Mehmet ducked as the first fender almost struck him and then lunged to grab the knot of another. The boat chugged on, dragging him with it. His energies were spent, but he consoled himself that, for the moment, he was clear of his would-be killers.

Nearing the strait, Mehmet looked back and saw Zeki. The bastard was standing next to a policeman and they were gaping over the rail to where he’d fallen from the jetty. Zeki had betrayed them. Mehmet ignored his own pain and thought of Senturk. He cried uncontrollably. He couldn’t understand Zeki’s betrayal, but knew intuitively that it had something to do with the man at the bridge, and with that thought he realised that Senturk being shot down had been his fault. If he hadn’t insisted they follow Zeki, none of this would have happened.

The boat left the Golden Horn and motored into the Bosporus Strait to starboard. Turning his head slightly, Mehmet saw the east bank, the Asian side of the city. Too far; even in good shape he couldn’t swim such a distance. His only hope was that the craft would cross the strait or at least get near enough to the bank to give him more of a chance. But those thoughts were academic; he lost his grip and was left bobbing in the water. The vessel ploughed on. He was lost.

He swam as best he could with one arm, but strength deserted him. He couldn’t lift his face from the water. He didn’t gulp. He wasn’t choking. And surely, that was the way to drown. But not him; he just stared down into the black depths until consciousness left him.

Chapter 9

Yuri Aleksii was thirty-six years old and had spent much of his early life globetrotting on active service for one of Russia’s elite armed forces: Spetsnaz. In that period, he’d seen his share of enemy fire; in fact, he was a shining example to his comrades. But towards the end of his active service weaknesses unfolded; he became aware that he was as fallible as anyone else and fear came to the fore.

His commanding officer and friend, Colonel Michel Petrichova, noticed the decline and gave him an easy way out. “I need your expertise away from front-line action, Yuri,” he said. “You speak fluent Turkish, so I’m sending you on permanent assignment to Istanbul. I want you to work undercover alongside the city’s racketeers, pimps and other under-classes. Find out what you can about minor officials who mix in the wrong company and those whose desires follow the white powder trails, gain little bargaining chips for times when local influence might be needed.”

Yuri had collected more than a few minor officials since first living in Turkey, but his self-esteem had never quite recovered. And then a chance for all that to change came with Levent Pasha telling him of a rogue Russian military man setting up a club in Icmeler with Beyrek Ozel. But he couldn’t even do that right. He’d kept the information back from Michel instead of making immediate contact, choosing to get Levent and his boy to safety first. If he’d contacted Michel, there might have been enough operatives on active duty in the area to move in straight away. But he had to show Levent what a good friend he was and because of it, Levent was murdered and Yuri had put himself in a position that he couldn’t tell anyone about what had happened.

He’d terminated enough people himself in his time, but the death of Levent was different: Yuri had been cowardly and that fact still haunted him. Thoughts drifted, noon ticked by and Yuri watched the Bosporus Strait as it melded into a blue horizon. And it was out of the blue that he suddenly needed to spin the ship’s wheel hard and swing the vessel to port to avoid hitting an oncoming fishing boat.

“You fucking moron!” he shouted, mixing Russian with English and flipping a hand out in anger. “Don’t you know any rules of the sea?”

Yuri could see into the boat’s wheelhouse and the strap on a spindle that kept the Turkish vessel on a straight course: a simple automatic pilot allowing the Turkish skipper to wander the deck and pull in large braided fenders, left hanging over the gunwales, but that was no excuse; he should have kept vigil whatever the distraction.

Yuri pointed a finger to his eye and changed back to Turkish when shouting, “Keep an eye on what you’re doing – fool!”

The Turk pulled the last of the fenders over, stowed it against the bulwark, opened both hands out in bemusement and gave Yuri a cheesy grin. Before the Russian could come up with a response, the skipper had turned his back and taken command of his vessel.

Anger spiked. Yuri could have cheerfully throttled the man, but then his own vessel wandered and he had to hurry to release the throttle. The boat slowed to a halt and rocked in the water. He went back out on deck, took a Druzhba cigarette from his shirt pocket and ignited it. “Crazy fuck!” he said in English.

Drawing hard on the cardboard-tubed end of the cigarette, he smiled a smile that turned into a grin and swallowed toxic smoke that seared his throat. Quickly, he exhaled. He’d started smoking the strong cigarettes in the hope of cutting down. If they didn’t cure him of the habit, they would kill him in the attempt. Walking to the bow, he put a foot on the bulwark and flicked the butt over the side. It wasn’t much past midday. If he could get back early, it would give him a chance to sink a couple of vodkas and then collar one or two of his contacts, find out what was happening in the murky world of deceit and deception.

Something caught his eye off the starboard bow: a dangerous-sized log, a dead animal, maybe even one of the drunken bums who sometimes ended up in the drink. He couldn’t be sure what it was, but it wouldn’t take much to find out. He took the helm, throttled up and approached the object. The outline cleared and he saw the body of what looked like a young boy face down in the water. It was not the first time Yuri had seen this, but finding dead children wasn’t an easy thing to get used to. He edged the starboard of the vessel alongside the body, grabbed the boy’s waistband with a boathook and fished him up onto the deck. There was a hole in the back of his left shoulder. It looked like he’d been shot.

Thin blue lips, no sign of breathing and no pulse at neck or wrist. Yuri pressed an ear to the boy’s chest: no discernible heartbeat. He pulled the eyelids back: the pupils had dilated widely.

Yuri shook his head. “Last chance, boy,” he said, and he began compressing his chest at the centre.

No joy there. He had a dead boy on his hands.

So much for his plans for the rest of the day – he’d have to hand the problem over to the authorities in Eminonu. Maybe they could find out who the boy was – had been. But it wouldn’t matter, Yuri thought, noticing how dirty and smelly the child was; he must have been a street urchin and the authorities certainly had no interest in those little ones. His final journey would end at the morgue and there wouldn’t be a tear or a sigh from anyone.

The boat had drifted midway across the strait, on a line with the Golden Horn. Yuri looked at the boy and thought of his friend Levent being drowned in the Bosporus all those years earlier. Thoughts of weakness came and he felt ashamed. He should have had the courage to do more that night. If he had, they might both have walked away unharmed.

Yuri slouched as he took the leash from the wheel and motored towards the channel, but then noticed a commotion around the Galata Bridge. A police launch carrying several officers circled near the floating pontoons; three dragged boathooks through the water, the rest were leaning over the side and scanning under jetties. On the bridge’s upper and lower platforms a legion of dark-blue uniforms scurried around and even more busied themselves near a wagon parked at the Sirkeci quayside, loading up what looked like occupied body bags.

Yuri wondered whether they might be looking for this boy, but that wasn’t likely; he was too young to draw such attention. Then his mind appeared to play tricks: the boy’s head moved. But, no, dead people don’t move.

Of course, he’d love to think it possible that the boy had come around. And he had heard of children being trapped under the ice in Russia for long periods. Even doctors had pronounced them dead, so how had they miraculously come back to life? No one had come up with a scientific answer. All they could guess was that some primeval mechanism had allowed their bodies to shutdown … so why not this boy now?

Yuri hitched the loop onto the helm and went to the body. The boy’s head had moved and the formerly dead eyes were staring fearfully. Broken red lines smothered the sclera, but otherwise he seemed to be focussing normally.

“Can you hear me, boy?”

“Yes,” he slurred.

Surprised, Yuri raised his eyebrows. “How did you end up in the strait?”

“Police shot…”

Yuri looked up over the bow and pondered his next move. If he swung the boat back out into the strait, the police would come after him to find out what he was up to. He had to hold his course.

The boy’s eyes had shut. He might have slipped back into unconsciousness, but Yuri thought he should let him know what he was doing. “We’re approaching the Galata Bridge. The police are still there, so I’m going to cover you and motor past. You mustn’t move until I tell you otherwise.”

No response. Yuri covered him with a tarpaulin and sailed towards the bridge. Captain Ahmet was standing next to a familiar-looking young man. The captain had aged and looked different, baggier, but there was no mistaking the scruff beside him. He’d attended the first part of Levent’s murder. How could Yuri forget any of the faces from that night?

Ahmet saw Yuri and shouted down to him, “You haven’t had any young thugs float past on your way in, have you?”

“My hull did hit something, yes. Maybe I put one of them to the bottom of the strait for you,” Yuri answered and he laughed outlandishly.

Ahmet threw out his hands and laughed also, but the young man just stared sullenly.

Yuri carried on upstream, deciding to dock further up the Horn than usual, out of sight of prying eyes. Tomorrow he’d take the child to the eastern side of the Bosporus. He had a berth and a safe house over there. He could help the boy without anyone knowing about it. First, though, the child had to make it through the night. The wound in his shoulder looked like it could be life-threatening.

After docking and securing his boat, Yuri carefully pulled back the tarpaulin. The child roused and Yuri looked down into a face full of terror.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to help you. What’s your name, boy?”

“Mehmet,” he answered.

A shockwave tingled up Yuri’s spine, something about the boy’s face seemed familiar and the name jarred him.

“Do you have a second name?” Yuri enquired.

“Pasha,” Mehmet responded.

Yuri fell back onto his butt. “And do you know your father’s name?”

“Yes, Levent, Levent Pasha,” he said, and that, Yuri thought, was exactly who he looked like.

Chapter 10

Resident smog hovered over the Suleymaniye district, swirling menacingly over domes and minarets, sinister shapes rose up and hissed at the temples as if demons on the offensive. The big man got off his butt and pulled the covering all the way from Mehmet.

“My name is Yuri,” he said.

The face Mehmet stared into was unforgiving, but the large, square jaw underlined good-looking features. And he was a huge man, like the Turkish wrestlers Mehmet had seen practising in the parks near the Golden Horn – bigger. Yuri helped him to a sitting position and took a look at the wound. As he moved his fingers around the injury, Mehmet clenched his jaw, refusing to reveal to the stranger the mind-numbing pain he was suffering.

“Barely a scratch. The bullet has gone straight through,” Yuri said, lifting Mehmet into his arms as if he were a small bag of feathers. He took him into a cabin behind the wheelhouse, sat him up against a bolster cushion on long bench seating and took a large first aid kit from a locker. He proceeded to sterilise and dress the shoulder wound and, on finishing the job, took Mehmet by surprise, saying, “I was a friend of your father.”

Even through the pain, shock tingled over his skin. “You knew my father. Where is he?”

“I heard he’d been killed,” Yuri told him, showing no emotion as he did so.

Mehmet felt somewhat indifferent to the news. But talking of death brought Senturk to mind and for him he cried until he could cry no more.

Yuri said, “Don’t worry, you have a home with me for as long as it takes for you to stand on your own two feet,” and looked uncomfortable saying it.

They talked, Yuri shared the small amount of food he had on board and eventually they bedded down on the boat. The trauma had weakened Mehmet so much he slept through that night and the following day. In the evening of that next day, Yuri took the boat to a berth across the Bosporus Strait, on the Asian side of the city.

“For the time being, this is our new home,” Yuri told him. “You’ll be safe enough here.”

Yuri seemed so matter-of-fact about everything, unlike Mehmet, who was now feeling an overwhelming gratitude towards this new benefactor.

*

Usually, Yuri kept the boat in Sirkeci, but it had been moored on the Uskudar side of the Bosporus for a week now, though he’d keep it there on a more permanent basis. It didn’t make much difference to him in terms of keeping his lists of transgressors in line and it would be safer for the boy. And suddenly, Mehmet’s safety had become paramount to him. He felt his turning up had given him a second chance and besides, putting his bitterness aside, he was a likeable youngster, easy to be around. But in the main, Yuri hoped he could make amends for letting Levent down so badly.

He’d not long had a communication from his commanding officer, Colonel Michel Petrichova; the message said he was coming to Istanbul and wanted to speak with him personally. Now Yuri watched Michel’s giant proportions as he walked the quayside towards him and reaching the boat, he stepped onto the gunwale before jumping down onto the deck. Yuri smiled; Michel was wearing a black, blouson, leather jacket, whose creases revealed many years of use, and a crumpled checked shirt tucked sloppily into workman-like jeans that had also seen better days. Yuri’s smile had been because he knew how formal Michel was in his everyday life in Moscow.

“You know I’m always glad to see you, Michel, but it’s only been a couple of months since you were here last. Is something wrong?” Yuri asked.

Michel’s small features crinkled and his rich brown eyes flashed. “No, Yuri. There’ve been changes back home and I wanted to come over and tell you about them myself.”

Mehmet had sat on the seating that wrapped around the aft gunwale and Yuri noticed Michel watching him while drumming fingers on the bulwark, agitated, but then he smiled towards the boy and said, “You have a new deckhand, I see. Does he speak Russian?”

“No. Don’t worry, Colonel, it’s safe to talk. Mehmet joined me about a week ago and this is his first outing.” Omitting the part involving the Russian rogue and Beyrek Ozel, Yuri told the colonel the story – of Levent being weighted down and sunk in the Bosporus by local crime lords, through to how he pulled the boy from the strait.

Michel’s brow furrowed. “Funny, you’ve never told me anything of this Levent before.”

Yuri squirmed without answering.

Michel continued. “Still, I understand why you want to look out for Mehmet… But enough of that; I want to tell you why I’m here. You addressed me as colonel a moment ago, but that’s no longer accurate. I’ve been promoted to lieutenant general and–”

Yuri threw his arms around Michel, giving him the kind of hug you might expect from a grizzly bear. “Well done, my friend. I can think of no one who deserves it more.”

Yuri noticed Mehmet shake his head before turning his attention across the water to the European side of the city: clearly not a hugger.

“Thank you, Yuri, I appreciate the words. But – if you’ll put me down – I’ll tell you why I’m here. My promotion demands I relinquish command of my security units and take office in Moscow’s Kremlin. I’m to assist Nikita Khrushchev with his reforms.”

Yuri had worked with Michel in one way or another for longer than he could remember. “Oh,” he said weakly, imagining being taken under someone else’s command. “And when does all this take place?”

“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.”

“But everyone over there who might remember me will think I’m dead.”

“Probably, but remember what I’ve taught you: take nothing for granted.”

*

Afternoon had peaked by the time they’d followed the wake of a ferry across the Bosporus to Eminonu and berthed near the Galata Bridge.

“The man I’m hoping will help us works in the local government offices behind Sirkeci Station,” Yuri said. “The one next to where the Orient Express used to terminate. His name is Rifkin Ertug and he’s a senior clerk for the municipality.”

“That’s not a very high position. What makes you think he knows Volkan?” Mehmet asked.

“What…? Oh, no, he doesn’t. But I’m hoping he might be able to point us in the direction of someone who does.”

It only took minutes to walk the short distance to Sirkeci. They arrived at the railway station with time to kill and waited for Rifkin’s working day to end. The late afternoon had begun to dim when a cheery-looking little fat man came out of the municipal building.

Yuri pulled his head back. “That’s him now,” he said. “We’ll let him get well clear of this stretch and then we’ll stop him for a chat.”

Mehmet’s mind mustered a whole bunch of imaginings, wondering what Yuri meant by a chat. The main thought being: would they shoot Rifkin down after getting the answers they wanted from him, so that he couldn’t let anybody know what he’d told them?

“He’ll be going home,” Yuri said, cutting into the thought, “or perhaps to a bar.”

Rifkin walked down to the waterside and turned northward along the quayside. Yuri and Mehmet followed. The wind was warm; nevertheless, the little man seemed chilled by it and pulled in his shoulders and drew his jacket tighter around him, before shuffling along with steps so short, he looked afraid his feet might slip away from under him.

“Drugs might well be his addiction, but exercise certainly isn’t,” Mehmet said, musing over how such a little man could be so fat.

Yuri chuckled. “Hmm… I don’t want him spooked and he knows me, so I’ll drop back. You stay with him. Make sure he doesn’t accidentally give us the slip.”

Mehmet followed alone until Rifkin stopped for a moment and stared at something in a shop window. He turned, looked this way and that, and again Mehmet noticed how round and cheery his facial features were. He suddenly felt sorry for him and truly hoped they wouldn’t have to shoot him down.

Rifkin shambled on until stopping at a café and staring in through the window. He licked the palm of his hand, curled his thin, longish hair over his pate and smoothed it down. Out came the tongue again, this time to lick a finger and flatten a small, bushy moustache. A moment looking at his reflection in the window and, clearly satisfied, he pushed open the entrance door and went in. Mehmet caught hold of the door before it had closed.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you, young man,” Rifkin said and smiled.

Mehmet merely nodded in response.

“Good evening, dear people,” Rifkin announced, once inside. “I see you’re all looking as beautiful as ever.”

Several of the staff mumbled a greeting and an older man, maybe the owner, came to Rifkin and patted his shoulder. “Hello, Rifkin. How are you?” he asked.

“I have never been better,” he chirped and he went straight on, through a door and into another room.

The door on the main entrance clicked shut and in a blink, Yuri was standing by Mehmet’s side. “I’ll get drinks,” Yuri said and went to the bar. “One coffee, one vodka,” he ordered.

Mehmet sat at a quiet table near the door where he could talk to Yuri without being overheard. Yuri came over and a waiter followed a few seconds after him. The waiter put the drinks on the table and Yuri took a Druzhba cigarette from his breast pocket and lit up. He coughed, looked at the cigarette sneeringly then stubbed it out.

“Do we wait for Rifkin to come out, Yuri? If we try going in, one of the staff might make trouble.”

“Drink your coffee. We’ll leave him for five minutes before making a decision.”

Not long after that, Mehmet emptied the last of the coffee and without further discussion, Yuri got to his feet and headed for the room Rifkin had gone into – Mehmet followed. A waiter stepped out into the aisle and tried to stop them. “This is a private area,” he said, but Yuri moved him aside as if he wasn’t there.

They entered a Spartan room with cushions scattered indiscriminately around the floor. The ceiling had been swallowed by a cloud of smoke, yet Rifkin was the only one in there.

“Hello, Rifkin,” Yuri said and smiled the smile he usually reserved for friends.

Rifkin sat on one of the larger cushions near the wall. Warmth pulsed from his round face as he leaned further back and squinted up at Yuri through lazy eyes. He smiled. “Ah, Yuri,” he said, “it’s good to see you – and your friend. Sit next to me.” He patted a cushion to his right, nodded an apology to no one and then patted the cushion on his left.

They had just sat when a man, almost as big as Yuri, charged into the room. Without moving, Yuri nodded to him and then made a calming gesture with an open palm. The big man looked to weigh up the situation and left.

Yuri smiled at Mehmet. “If you hadn’t already guessed, this is a heroin den. That is why the waiters were so nervous when we came in,” he said and turned back to Rifkin, speaking to him as if they were old friends. “I need your help, Rifkin. What can you tell me about General Murat Volkan?”

He was smoking heroin. Smells nice, Mehmet thought as Rifkin took a long drag on a roll-up cigarette. He watched as Rifkin’s eyes rolled back and he appeared to move into a drowsier mind-set.

“Not much,” he said with a slight slur. “I’m not a big enough fish for him to worry about.” Rifkin inhaled another deep drag from his smoke, held it in and then blew a grey line up towards the lingering cloud. “I do know one or two people who like to drop Volkan’s name as if they know him, but they don’t. I think they might know somebody who does, though.”

Yuri took out one of his lists, showed it to Rifkin. “Any of their names here?” he asked.

As he drifted further from reality, Rifkin browsed the list like a drunk, but his mind was clear enough to pick out two names.

Yuri stood and clasped an open palm on Rifkin’s shoulder. “Thank you, my friend. Take care not to overdo it with that shit,” he said, but by now Rifkin had entered another world.

It had never appealed to Mehmet; he had watched some of the Little Dogs smoking joints, but other than silly smiles on their faces, it had been without effect. But smoking heroin was way stronger than a reefer. They got outside and Mehmet started feeling rather pleased. They hadn’t needed to shoot Rifkin.

Chapter 13

“These people Rifkin gave you, do they hold high positions?” Mehmet asked.

They’d made an early start the morning after talking with Rifkin and were about to follow up on their leads. The weekend had arrived and fortunately, Yuri knew where Goker and Abdallah lived.

“Yes, Gul Goker is a regional standards officer in the public sector. He deals with main government, so it is possible he has contacts. Asli Abdallah is a government lawyer. I’m not so sure about that one. But I do know she’s been a bit of a wild-cat in her time, so we’ll get her out of the way first.”

It was Saturday and they’d waited across from the entrance of her apartment building from first light. Around mid-morning she sauntered out through the main door. If Yuri hadn’t told him she was a lawyer, he would never have guessed. The jeans and tight T-shirt she wore were enough to give Mehmet palpitations, and her long black hair had reddish and blond streaks running through it. She looked to Mehmet like… well, the Little Dog girls when they became too old to run with the gang.

Yuri began walking towards her. She looked up, saw him, and raced off. “Asli,” Yuri shouted, lifting a hand in attempt to stop her, but she was up on her toes. “Shit, here we go again. Mehmet, you go that way, see if you can cut her off.”

They were a stone’s throw from The Grand Bazaar when Mehmet came down a street Asli was running up and cut her off. She stopped looked around to see Yuri come into the street behind her and ran down an alley. Mehmet got there before Yuri. The alley was blind and Asli stood at the end, breathing heavily. He walked slowly up to her and getting to her, he smiled, but she had whipped a knife out and slashed out at him, just catching the back of his hand. He looked down to see a line of blood, and without thinking, he threw a right hook and sent her smashing against the wall, where she crumpled in a heap. Yuri ran up the alley, put a hand to Mehmet’s shoulder to stop him inflicting more damage.

“I told you she was a wild-cat,” he said, and laughed. Asli had dropped the knife when Mehmet hit her. Yuri kicked it out of the way before pulling her to her feet. “There was no need to run, Asli, I just wanted a chat.”

She slumped against the wall. “What do you want?”

“General Volkan, word has it you know him,” Yuri said.

“Oh, is that all? I don’t know him. Well, I did meet him once, but that is all. Truth is, I make up stories to give me a lift in the workplace. I swear, I haven’t had dealings with him or his colleagues at any time.”

Yuri seemed to accept her at her word and gently guided Mehmet by the arm back out onto the main street.

“You only asked her once; she could be lying,” Mehmet said, rubbing at what turned out to be no more than a paper cut.

“True, but once cornered, Asli will tell you anything to take the heat from her past. She would have jumped at a chance to gossip about Volkan. No, she was telling the truth.”

“So how does someone like that become a lawyer anyway?” Mehmet asked.

“Believe it or not, she is incredibly intelligent. She used to run with a gang, a bit like your Little Dogs, the crime lord she answered to saw promise in her and his money greased the path for her to go to college. She still works for them, which is how she ended up on my lists.”

Mehmet nodded. “Okay, so what now?”

“We still have Gul Goker,” Yuri said and took Mehmet directly to the main entrance of the apartment block where Goker lived, which happened to be just on the other side of the bazaar. Getting there, he ran a finger down a list of names on the intercom and pushed the button next to one of them.

“I don’t usually come to their homes,” Yuri said. “If I’m seen with these people, questions might be asked and if that happens, I could lose a contact. But we’re in a hurry. If we don’t get anything out of Goker then we’re back to starting over.”

The intercom crackled and a voice rattled in the speaker. “Yes?”

“Open the door, Gul. It’s Yuri.”

The door clicked before cracking open. Yuri pushed it inward and they went up to the third floor. Gul waited in the doorway. He was quite tall, narrow at the shoulders, but not at the hips. The picture of a pyramid with a head on top jumped into Mehmet’s mind.

“Hurry, come in…” Gul demanded.

Mehmet was first through the door and followed Gul along the apartment’s long passageway. He had to smile on seeing Gul’s great wide backside waddle along in front. Whatever Mehmet eventually did with his life, he thought, it wouldn’t be working in an office and sitting in a chair all day, that’s for sure. And Gul must have rubbed his head a lot too: he had a full head of thick hair everywhere except on the crown. It was completely bare and glowed like a burnished dome. Mehmet chuckled and Yuri pushed him in the back as if he’d read his mind.

“What can be so important you need to come here?” Gul asked as they came down three steps into the living room: a strange design considering they were on the third floor.

Two large, arched windows almost covered the outside wall and could have bathed the room in light, but latticed shades had been placed across them in an attempt to filter out the bright sunshine.

Yuri lounged back on a cushion-adorned sofa against the window wall, put his feet up on a small coffee table and wobbled an ornamental Nargile water pipe in the centre. Gul rushed to steady it and then looked disdainfully at Yuri’s boots while chewing on his bottom lip. Mehmet knew Yuri well enough to know he was winding Gul up.

Yuri gave a commanding smile and said, “Tell me about your friendship with Murat Volkan.”

“Volkan…?” Gul’s brow furrowed and then his eyebrows rose. “Oh, General Volkan. No, I don’t know him. I’m sure you’ve heard I do or you wouldn’t be here. I just tell the right stories and they put me in good stead with my associates’ … err, higher-placed associates.”

“Anyone could make such noises, so why should your colleagues believe you?”

Mehmet had no idea what Yuri had on Gul, but the hostility between them was clear enough. And the way Yuri prodded with his questioning had Gul’s already sunken cheekbones drawing in further, as if he were sucking a lemon.

Gul gave a resigned sigh. “Hasim Ediz. He is a man I know and he is friends with the general. Hasim has told me about some of the functions Volkan attends. When I tell my stories to colleagues, they’re usually about events that are made public later, so people see the evidence of what I’ve said. What’s this about anyway?”

“Hmm, Hasim,” Yuri said, ignoring the question. “He isn’t so highly placed. How does he know Volkan?”

Gul had a superior moment. “You’re out of touch. Hasim is well placed. He was given a job working directly for Kemal Aygun, the province governor himself. And he has been friendly with Volkan ever since taking up the position. I haven’t a clue what they get up to, but I believe they have similar tastes in women.”

“Hasim hasn’t got any sort of taste in women,” Yuri said, and considered. “So … you’re telling me that Hasim and Volkan have similar sexual preferences and that they have been friends for some time?” Gul nodded, face sullen. “Okay, I’ll check it out, but if this information isn’t good, I’ll be back. Oh, and we didn’t have this conversation, Gul.”

“You think I’m stupid? As far as I’m concerned, we’ve never had any sort of conversation – ever. Anyway, what’s your interest in Volkan?”

“That is my business, but if I get friendly with him it could go in your favour.” Gul raised his eyebrows hopefully, but then quickly looked to the floor; Yuri stood and pushed him to one side, walked to the top step and said to Mehmet. “We’re finished here.” They left without a goodbye being uttered – either way.

Out on the street, Mehmet asked, “Why did you tell him you wanted to be friendly with Volkan?”

“When Gul hears of Volkan’s death, he might have thought he had something on me. Giving him a bit of bullshit protects my position – and his life.”

Mehmet shook his head; this silly cloak and dagger stuff was so … silly. “And you knew of Hasim Ediz. Is he a name on your lists?”

“Yes, and don’t ask me why. This is one nasty piece of shit, believe me.”

*

It was mid-evening when Hasim left the government building Yuri and Mehmet had been staking out. Looking him over, Mehmet thought him every bit the successful businessman; he was tall, slender, dressed in a dark suit that was complimented by a white shirt and black tie. From a distance, he appeared to be a good-looking man; finely chiselled features with thick hair flattened back from his forehead and a Ronald Coleman moustache for the finishing touch. Mehmet failed to see the nasty piece of shit Yuri had described.

Hasim walked with purpose, checking every ten or twenty paces to make sure no one followed him. Yuri dropped back while Mehmet trailed Hasim close up. He went into the front entrance of the Spice Bazaar in Eminonu, wheedled his way through narrow, cobbled alleys, occasionally stopped to look at the spices, swivelling his view as if to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The way he acted made Mehmet think of Zeki and the night he’d met the stranger by the bridge: Hasim was going somewhere secret. Mehmet felt evermore sure of his feelings when Hasim left the bazaar and went into the nearby Yeni Mosque. It wasn’t a shortcut, so why veer off to go in a side entrance only to go straight through and leave by the main entrance? Back outside, Mehmet dropped back and waited for Yuri to catch up, all the while keeping Hasim in sight.

“Even I can see he’s trying to get somewhere without being seen,” he said as Yuri came by his side.

“Looks like… Go on, off you go before you lose him… Oh, and you’re doing well,” he said, but Mehmet was enjoying himself. He didn’t need encouragement.

Hasim wandered aimlessly for ten more minutes, but then, after bobbing his head this way and that, he disappeared into a nightclub near the waterfront.

Yuri caught up. “I don’t think we want to follow him in there,” he said.

Mehmet didn’t ask why; he could see Yuri felt cold about the situation.

It was more than an hour before Hasim came back out and Yuri said, “He’s had his fun.”

“How do you know–?”

Yuri cut in. “Because he went in with his suit immaculate and his collar and tie flawlessly set. Look at him now.”

That couldn’t be argued. Hasim had come out more than a little ruffled. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, his tie was loose and his hair had fallen in curls over his forehead. He appeared to be in a hurry to get away from the entrance and tucked his shirt into his waistband, smoothed the sides of his hair back and noosed his tie back into position as he walked away.

Mehmet and Yuri were standing in the mouth of a dimly lit alleyway about fifty metres from the club. Hasim drew level and Yuri stepped out. “Hello, Hasim. Still up to your perversions I see.”

Hasim stepped back in astonishment. “Oh … ehm … oh, it’s you. I thought I was being mugged. You’ve heard of these gangs that call themselves Little Dogs. I thought you were one of them for a minute.”

“Yes, I suppose I am a bit on the small side,” Yuri said and Mehmet laughed.

“I didn’t … yes, err, no. But over the years they’ve grown in power and still nobody touches them. They seem to have a free run of the city, but something will have to be done – they’re spreading like wildfire. I … I haven’t seen you for years. Where have you been? I was sure somebody said you’d gone back to Russia. What are you doing here anyway?” He babbled like a fool and then silence ruled for a moment. Suddenly, his breath caught in his throat. “Oh, err, and what do mean, perversions? I was having a drink with a friend,” he replied.

Yuri let loose a deep breath. “I’m not here to argue with you about what you’ve been up to, Hasim. I already have enough to blow you to hell, so I’ll get straight to the point. I need to know the forthcoming movements of General Murat Volkan.”

“Volkan, you say? I know of him, of course I do, but he’s too high up the tree to have anything to do with the likes of me. I–”

Mehmet saw another side to Yuri when, without warning, he grabbed Hasim by the lapels and slammed him against the wall. “Stop right there, you little shit, and let me start again. There will be no discussion here. I ask questions and for each one you refuse to answer or fuck me about with, I break a bone. Should that fail, I will make sure you will be reading about your little foibles in one of the city’s bigger newspapers. And, if you do answer my questions and tell someone about it later, I will kill you. Do we understand each other, loser?”

Yuri let go and Hasim’s body slid down the wall until his feet touched terra firma. He brushed at his suit nervously as if he’d spilled something on it and tried to grab at some dignity by standing upright and holding his head back. Not a sound could be heard as Yuri gave him time to mull over the options.

Hasim folded when it sunk in that he had none. “What was it you wanted to know?” he asked sullenly.

“Simple enough: when will Volkan be in the city and what will his movements be?”

“Friday. I happen to know he’s arranged a meeting with the manager of a club in Galata – The Sultan’s Choice.”

“Meet with the manager? What is the manager’s name and what time is he meeting Volkan?”

“He’s called Zeki,” Hasim replied. “And he’s meeting with him at the club late evening.”

“His name’s Zeki, you say – is that it?” Yuri asked.

“Yes. I know the decree was made that everyone should take a second name, but he never did. You know the type.”

Oh yes, I know the type, Mehmet thought. “What does he look like?” he asked, and Yuri gave him a withering look for interrupting. But Mehmet didn’t care. Suddenly, the game had changed.

The description Hasim gave made Zeki sound like a city gent, so maybe it wasn’t the Zeki that he knew. Yuri continued questioning Hasim until sending him on his way, but not before reminding him that any discussion about the chat would cost his life.

With Hasim gone, Yuri leant against the wall in the alley for five minutes without speaking before standing straight and abruptly walking off. Mehmet quickened his pace to keep abreast.

“Okay, we know enough to make a move. Remember, there can’t be any loose ends,” Yuri said. “We must make a clean sweep and leave things so there’s no way anyone can trace the job back to Soviet soil.”

*

For two days they watched the places that Mehmet knew Zeki would haunt, but there was no sign of him.

“It would have been easier if it had been your Zeki,” Yuri said, “with all the dark alleys you say he wandered through, but … never mind, we’ll stake out The Sultan’s Choice.”

However, when Zeki came strutting out from the main door of his club, it was clear to Mehmet that it was the same Zeki who’d run the Little Dogs, even with the smart suit and fancy hairstyle. No longer the skinny urchin Mehmet knew, Zeki had filled out, looked like he worked out; in fact, he was a similar size and build to Mehmet. And his face wasn’t dissimilar either. That observation alone turned Mehmet’s stomach.

“Look, it is him,” Mehmet said. “I can’t believe it.”

Zeki hurried down the avenue. They followed at a safe distance. Zeki picked up a bodyguard who appeared to be waiting for him and they went from one club to another. Zeki carried some sort of hand bag that seemed to swell a little after each venue. They finished, not at a club, but at the same building where Rifkin Ertug worked. When he came out, Zeki was alone – and without the bag. Walking alongside the Golden Horn, he came to the Sultanahmet Quarter and disappeared into an apartment block.

“That block contains an apartment belonging to Beyrek Ozel. Remember, the man Michel told us about?” Yuri studied Mehmet as he spoke, as though he might know Beyrek Ozel.

Mehmet shook his head. “I remember the discussion, but I’d never heard of Beyrek before Michel mentioned him.”

Two minutes of watching from across the street and they went into the foyer. Yuri spoke to a man sitting at a desk against the back wall. “I saw a man come in a couple of minutes ago, an old friend. But I haven’t seen him for some years, so I can’t be sure. His name is Hasim.”

The man looked up and shook his head. “No, the only person who’s come in here in the past hour was Mister Zeki.”

“Oh, that’s disappointing… Thanks for your help.”

The man smiled and Mehmet and Yuri went back out into the street.

“Good, he lives there. Come on, we’ll go back to the boat and bring it along to the floating bridge.”

*

The next morning they stood outside Zeki’s apartment block, still without a plan.

“The situation could be better,” Yuri said. “I’ve told you in training, Mehmet, never go into action blind. But here we are, sorely in need of a strategy. We haven’t time to do anything elaborate with Zeki, but we have to be sure of the setup for Volkan. I’m thinking that somehow Zeki will have to be the tool to set him up.”

“How?” Mehmet asked.

“We grab him off the street. If Volkan has similar sexual tastes to Hasim Ediz then Zeki is his conduit to satisfaction. But I can’t just grab him like with Hasim. We need to get him to the boat.”

The discussion ended when Zeki swaggered out onto the street. “He’s coming now,” Mehmet said and pushed behind Yuri.

Yuri’s face strained in concentration. “And he’s heading for the Galata Bridge. Yes, of course, his club is on the other side, so he’ll need to cross the bridge.”

“And that’s a help?”

“Yes, Mehmet, that’s a help. To get to the bridge he’ll have to pass by the quayside, so if we can overpower him near the boat… Right, okay, get down to the pier and bring back one of the small tarpaulins and a short rope. Take the quickest route and come back the same way to meet me.”

Mehmet ran down to the boat, picked up what Yuri had asked for and was halfway back when he was pulled into an alley. His heart jumped into his mouth.

“I pressed on ahead,” Yuri explained. “We have plenty of time. He doesn’t seem to be a man to hurry anywhere.”

It was a busy main street and people were everywhere, but as Zeki strolled aimlessly past the alley, Yuri clasped a hand around his neck and pulled him in.

“Wha–!”

Mehmet watched people pass and no one so much as changed step.

“I… What do you want?” Zeki cried out, but Yuri clumped him on the side of the head and Zeki’s feet buckled under him.

Yuri dropped Zeki’s almost unconscious body to the cobbles, tied his hands and legs, pulled an oily rag from his waistband and stuffed it in his mouth. Within seconds Zeki was rolled up in the tarpaulin, Yuri had slung him over his shoulder and was walking towards the quay.

Chapter 14

“Yuri, he’s in trouble!” Mehmet shouted from the wheelhouse.

Mehmet could clearly hear the howls of distress, even from within the cabin’s confines, although Zeki was wrapped up in tarpaulin with an oily rag stuffed in his mouth. Yuri came from aft and punched the bag where the head would be. Moaning and then silence. Mehmet hadn’t expected such a response from Yuri and couldn’t but laugh at the slapstick impressions that jumped into his mind. Shaking off the mirth, he carried on, motoring out towards a part of the strait that was away from the traffic lanes where only distant sounds could be heard.

Yuri shouted, “This will do,” and threw an anchor aft and moved fore. “Your friend can make all the noise he wants now.”

Friend? Mehmet slatted his eyes in response before pulling the throttle into reverse, stilling the craft. He shut down the engine and the cries of the Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer echoed eerily over the sound.

“Right, give me a hand,” Yuri said, having thrown another anchor fore and coming back to Zeki.

Mehmet took one end of the tarpaulin and helped unroll the captive. Zeki squinted at being exposed to stark light and raised his arms to block the glare of the sun; his face had already swelled and heavy bruising covered his cheek. Yuri grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet. The moaning was pitiful and it sent a twinge of humanity through Mehmet. But the thought of how Zeki had assisted in turning his life to shit came to mind and he dismissed the sympathy in the blink of an eye.

Yuri pushed Zeki on and past the wheelhouse. Mehmet followed.

“Now then,” Yuri said, forcing Zeki to sit on the aft benching. “I don’t expect you’ll remember me after so long, but I have vivid recollections of you.”

Zeki’s eyes narrowed and Mehmet could tell he’d recognised Yuri, but he said, “I think you’ve mixed me up with someone else, sir. I don’t know you.”

Yuri filled a mug with water, took a sip and then threw the rest into Zeki’s face. Zeki shook his head like a wet dog.

“Oh, but…” Yuri began. “No, who I am doesn’t matter. You’re here to tell me about General Volkan’s visit to your club tonight. And before you reply, be aware: I won’t be messed around by silly answers. Are we clear?”

“Who is General Volkan?”

Yuri shook his head. “Seems I wasn’t clear,” he said then took a handful of Zeki’s hair and threw a short punch. A scrunching sound was followed by a screech. Zeki’s nose had broken and blood gushed over his mouth and chin.

“Okay, let’s start again. We know something is happening tonight and we know you are the contact. So, last chance…”

Zeki shook his head arrogantly. “No, I don’t know him I tell you.”

He looked at Mehmet and his face contorted. His brow furrowed in sudden recognition.

“Mehmet… Mehmet, is that you? But what’re you doing with him? He was with them when your father…”

Yuri stopped Zeki going any further by slapping him about the face. But Mehmet had only been half-listening and his appetite for inflicting further pain had dwindled as he watched Zeki defiantly hold his own. A different situation and he might have admired him. Yuri showed no such emotion and Mehmet was mesmerised listening to the thudding of bones and flesh as they collided in anger. Mehmet knew Zeki was tough, but he wasn’t in Yuri’s league. Already, his face looked like tenderised meat.

Yuri pushed Zeki back and stood tall. “Save yourself from the real pain when you start saying goodbye to your fingers and toes. Give me what I want and you’ll be out of the loop.”

Suddenly, Zeki’s spirit caved and his head fell forward to hide the tears Mehmet had seen break from his eyes. “Yes, all right, all right. I don’t owe anyone any loyalty here. I’ll tell you what you want if you stop hurting me.”

“Good … like I said, we know what is happening tonight and we know you are the contact. So, Volkan is going to the club. What time will he arrive?”

Zeki sniffed blood back through his nose. “I don’t know, he gets there when he gets there, but it won’t be before nine o’clock.”

“What is it you supply him with?”

Zeki lifted his head sharply, a surprised expression crossed his face. “What, you don’t know anything about what is going on, do you?”

Yuri sighed before giving Zeki a thudding backhand that lashed across his face and knocked him from the seating. He pulled him back into sitting position. “Do not enter debate with me. I ask the questions, you answer them, and it all happens without further discussion.”

Zeki lifted his tethered hands to soothe the latest blow and sobbed. “Little Dogs, I get an attractive Little Dog to come to the club.”

“Girls or boys?” Mehmet asked.

“Boys are Volkan’s only interest. I tell them I have a special job that will move them up the ranks. The boy I choose arrives early evening, we dress him up in new clothes and tell him to wait in the office for his new benefactor.”

Mehmet couldn’t control himself, as he stepped forward and punched Zeki in the nose. Zeki screamed when the injured nose squelched once more. Mehmet had always known Zeki was a bastard, but what he was doing here was a new low even for him; he sacrificed Little Dogs in exchange for – for what? – a higher place in a nightclub chain.

Yuri pulled Mehmet back and then continued. “If you’re not there, will the plan still go ahead?”

A new fear crossed Zeki’s face. “Not there, why? What are you going to do with me?”

Yuri laughed. “Don’t be stupid. I said you’d be out the loop, and you will, but I can hardly let you go running free before I’ve done what I have to do, can I?”

Zeki’s shoulders relaxed and he nodded, warily. “Suppose not… yes, the evening will go ahead without me. I’m not always available, so there are people at the club who will take up the job.”

Mehmet watched in silence, hardly able to believe what he was listening to.

Yuri threw a few more questions, but they began going in circles. “You’re sure that’s everything?” he asked.

“Yes, I swear,” Zeki said as he sniffed more blood and snot back.

“Okay, only move from that bench if you want the pain to start again,” Yuri said and went to the wheelhouse. He came out holding the Welrod silent pistol.

“What? Are you going to shoot him?” Mehmet asked, not sure whether he was feeling pleased or unnerved.

“No, of course not – you are,” he answered and handed Mehmet the gun.

“No…” Zeki mumbled softly, as if he already knew he’d met his kismet but thought he should pay lip service to his predicament anyway.

Yuri ignored him. “Rotate the bolt and pull-push like I’ve shown you. Squeeze the trigger and follow the routine until you’ve put enough bullets in him to satisfy your revenge.”

Mehmet looked down at his hand and saw the weapon quivering uncontrollably. He turned his eyes on Zeki and felt the pain and fear that he was clearly suffering. The venom in him weakened. “No, Yuri. I don’t care what he was or what he’s done; I can’t do it. I’ve never killed anyone and I won’t start like this.”

Mehmet handed the gun to Yuri and stepped back.

“Good. This line of work is not about vengeance.”

Yuri pushed the Welrod into his waistband and went to the prow of the boat. He opened a rope locker and pulled out a small, cast-iron anchor and a rope. Mehmet watched Zeki’s face turn to stark fear. His eyes popped wide, his eyebrows aimed skyward and his mouth gaped. He’d sat on the bench, tamed, spirit broken, but when Yuri tied one end of the rope to the anchor and got hold of his legs, he screamed and tried to get up, lashing out.

“What’re you doing? Please! You said I would be out of the loop,” he shouted, his broken nose making him sound almost comical.

“And this is what takes you out,” Yuri said, punching Zeki in the side of the head and getting back to the task of winding the rope around his arms and legs.

Only half-conscious, Zeki pleaded to Mehmet. “No… no, please, Mehmet! Please! Stop him!”

He cried, he begged, but the words went unheeded. Mehmet hardened himself by thinking of how Senturk’s body had almost been blown in half. He thought of his shoulder and the pain that seared through it when he was shot. He thought of himself floundering in the water on the brink of death. And it had all been down to Zeki betraying them.

Yuri lifted the anchor and chucked it over the aft side. A splash and the slack of the rope snaked over the gunwale. Zeki screeched as Yuri took hold of him to make sure his transition followed smoothly. Mehmet watched Zeki belly-flop into the water and disappear from sight. He leaned over the side and saw the ever-increasing circles weaken in growth.

He hated to admit it, but apart from a little guilt, the only thing that really filled him was satisfaction.

*

They upped anchor, carried on over the strait and berthed at Uskudar before going to the Ottoman house.

“Things have just improved. We have a plan,” Yuri said.

“Do you want to share it?” Mehmet asked as he sat up at the table, drinking coffee and chewing pita bread.

“Not right now. I want you to stay here while I get some stuff in town.” Yuri took a last swig of coffee and left Mehmet with a parting shot. “I hadn’t noticed before, but your eyebrows seem to have come down to rest on your top lip. I expect them to be gone by the time I get back.”

Mehmet had just finished shaving off the moustache when Yuri returned.

“That’s better. Now with that pretty little face of yours, you look just like a girl.” He laughed as he threw Mehmet a parcel. “And by the time you put on some makeup and change into this clothing, that’s exactly what I hope you’ll pass for.”

Chapter 15

General Murat Volkan preened at his reflection in the mirror, proudly held his head back and pulled in his stomach while smoothing the sides of his salt and pepper hair. If he wanted he knew he could have any woman he chose, but women had never been of interest to him, so … well, why even think of it. Now, a score was imminent and, as always, his mind wandered back to how it had all begun.

Stationed in Elazig in the southwest province of Eastern Anatolia, it was 1937 and he’d volunteered to go to the Turkish front during the latest Kurdish revolt. But things weren’t going according to plan. Murat’s family had been well placed on the social side of politics in Istanbul and he had gone into the land army as an officer. While serving, he dreamt of being part of the vanguard – for no particular reason other than it had caused a strange sensation that warmed his stomach when he visualised it. The Kurdish uprising had moved him so close to the action he wanted, but he ended up overseeing a team of provisions clerks: the placement just wasn’t good enough and he made sure everyone knew his feelings.

A position came up when an officer, a Captain Duygu, was killed while on patrol outside Dersim. Murat had applied for the posting as soon as he heard and was called to the tented field office soon after to see Colonel Aygul, the commander in charge of the Kurdish operation. None of the other officers had been foolhardy enough to volunteer for such a dangerous post, so Murat was assigned to the task without preliminaries.

The colonel briefed him, ending with, “…you know this revolt is ultimately under the command of Shaikh Sayyed Reza. He has organised squads all over the north-western region of Turkish Kurdistan and they’re causing problems. I want you to take command of several of the advance units. Root out these insurgents and either get the information of their whereabouts back here or, if the groups are small enough, deal with the situation.”

Murat had exited the tent like a man on fire.

It turned out that, for the most part, the men in Murat’s units were prison conscripts who’d chosen the army over being locked up. His unit sergeant was a man called Soner Khan and murder had given him a lifetime contract on the front.

“I hope you have a strong stomach, Captain,” Khan had said to him when they first met. “The way we get information from this rabble shit can be a bit messy.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Sergeant,” Murat replied, but hearing Khan’s words had given him an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Out on patrol, the unit captured two men and a woman, Kurds who’d been caught aiding the rebels. Murat watched as they were tortured for the locations of their allies. Of course, they told all. Murat took the information and led an attack that took out the rebels, the first sortie that got him mentioned in despatches. As it panned out, they were only talking about a few poorly armed people, so the accolades he received for his success seemed a bit exaggerated at the time, but amusing nevertheless. The torture, however – that had been something else. Up to that point, he couldn’t remember ever having enjoyed anything so much.

Sometime after that episode, his sergeant came to him. “You said you wanted to be present at interrogations, sir.”

“Yes. You’ve taken another prisoner?” Murat asked.

“Yes, sir, a Kurdish boy. We caught him with a regular army revolver tucked into the back of his trousers. The gun is one of ours.”

Murat felt his cheeks warm. “A boy, you say. How old?”

“Around ten I would think, sir. Not much more.”

Murat’s breath caught in his throat. “Bring him here to my tent. I’ll do the questioning myself.”

“You…? Very well, yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

A young boy, the sergeant had said and with the words, Murat had a rush of feelings he’d never had before.

He imitated the torture procedures he’d watched his men inflict and the boy surrendered his spirit. But the excitement reached an uncontrollable height. Murat sodomised the child, all the while watching the proceedings in a full-length mirror. He tied a belt around the boy’s neck and his pleasure reached new heights when the boy’s eyes bulged in finality. The child lost his fight for life and it became all too much for Murat. He climaxed as he had never done before.

His career had soared alongside his passion for cruelty and later, the power he’d gained brought Beyrek Ozel to him. When the deed was done with the young boys Beyrek supplied, he’d leave whichever club had been set up for him. The man called Zeki, who managed Beyrek’s clubs, had his people clear up the mess. In exchange, Murat made sure that no one in Istanbul interfered with Beyrek’s ever-growing enterprises.

The memories sparked the fire in his loins he’d come to know and love. “Be patient. Be patient. Your time is near.”

Slightly aquiver, he fastened the bottom button of his three-button, regular-fit jacket, straightened his tie, smiled at his reflection and dragged himself from the mirror. He left for The Sultan’s Choice nightclub with the blood pumping in his ears.

Chapter 16

“Ouch! Take it easy,” Mehmet yelped as Yuri used some sort of sticky paper to pull the hairs from his cheeks.

Yuri laughed. “This is the price a young lady has to pay for being beautiful.”

Mehmet came close to answering, but realised further bleating was pointless. He closed his eyes and accepted the indignity.

When Yuri finished, he handed Mehmet a black silk scarf. Mehmet covered his head and half his forehead, and finished by wrapping it around his neck and under his chin. More insult came when Yuri applied makeup to the bits of his face left showing. Mehmet looked in the mirror and his face flushed deeper than the rouge on his cheeks. His eyelashes had been long before Yuri started, but adding something black to thicken them and curling them upwards with a little steel tool made him look … like a girl.

Yuri laughed his belly laugh and shook his head. “You look more feminine than most of the girls around here,” he said, still shaking.

“We’re supposed to be doing a job here,” Mehmet retorted, irritated at the pleasure Yuri was getting from his discomfort. “Not enjoying making me up to look like a circus clown.” It was a waste of breath; the words only made him laugh the more.

At least the clothes weren’t as bad: a simple smock-like, grey-blue tunic blouse over baggy trousers nipped in at the ankles and Arabic-style shoes with long, curled toes. But the clothes and makeup clashed, making him look like a religious Muslim girl seeking to pick up a trick.

“Tuck the Uzi into your waistband… That’s it. Cover it with the smock,” Yuri said. “Try not to use the gun. It’s too noisy for this job. You’re just carrying it for insurance, in case things go wrong.”

Mehmet took it without replying.

Dusk was ready to play its part in the day’s progression and Mehmet stood, ready to leave.

“Just a minute. Don’t go running out yet. It would be handy if you had some idea what Volkan looked like.” Yuri laid a couple of photographs side by side on the table. “I got them from one of my helpers. Her name is Pinar Yeter, a senior reporter on the Hurriyet national newspaper. We’ll be looking to her for help over the next day or two.”

“Is there anyone in Turkey who isn’t on one of your lists?” Mehmet asked with a hint of sarcasm.

Yuri twisted his head and gave him a wry glance. “Is it my fault you Turks can’t stay out of trouble?” he said, grinning.

“And what did this Pinar do anyway?” Mehmet asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t. Now he’d have to listen to Yuri telling him every detail of how cleverly he’d unearthed the lowdown on this woman.

“Not much, but ladies who’ve been married shouldn’t have secret liaisons with admirers.”

“A bit thin, isn’t it? You can’t make her dance to your tune for a mistake like that, especially as you say she’s been married.”

“Maybe,” he laughed, “but she shouldn’t have fallen for my charms, should she?”

“Oh,” was all Mehmet could think to say. And then he realised that was why Yuri kept making trips to the old city without wanting him along. He had a girlfriend.

Still sniggering, Mehmet picked up a photograph of Volkan: he was leaning against the open door of a limousine with conceit written on his face. He clearly thought he had the features of a film star, but it didn’t look that way to Mehmet. His face was drawn too thin, too long and narrow. His eyes were mean and slatted. He had a longish yet not unattractive nose and thin, straight lines for lips. Of the few things Mehmet remembered of what his mamma told him, ‘never trust a man who has no lips’ was one of them.

*

Dusk surrendered to night and the two men hung around on a corner opposite and along from The Sultan’s Choice. Mehmet saw two enormous men come out of an alley about twenty metres down from the club. One was oriental and built like a super sumo wrestler; the other wasn’t quite as big, but he was still bigger than Yuri – so big enough.

“Well, well,” Yuri said, nodding in recognition.

“Don’t tell me, you know them as well,” Mehmet said.

Before they could discuss the point, the big men stepped out on either side of the pavement and Volkan – easily recognisable from Yuri’s photographs – followed them from the alley.

Yuri said. “The oriental is known as Arti; his full name is Arataki. He’s a shit of the highest order and could most definitely be a problem for us. The other one is called Turk. He’s also a handful, but nothing compared to Arti.”

Mehmet looked at both man-mountains across the way and fear seemed the obvious choice. Even if he had been sitting behind the gun of a fully armed tank, he still would have felt that they had the edge. Relief came when Volkan and the heavies disappeared through the main door into the club.

“Instead of killing him in the alley when Volkan comes out, don’t you think we should maybe just follow them until the heavies are gone and then take him when he’s on his own?” Mehmet suggested, hoping that Yuri would agree.

“A nice thought, but not realistic; by the time he separates from these baboons he’ll have more security around him than the old Ottoman rulers had. Remember, down here he’s travelling covertly, so the two goons are only light security. No, we hold to the plan… And going back to it, I want you to stay here and keep looking sweet while I go through the alley they’ve just come from. I have to check something out.”

He crossed the avenue and disappeared into the black hole. Fifteen minutes later he still hadn’t returned and Mehmet hoped that he’d liked his idea of leaving it until later but had been too embarrassed to admit it. No such luck; he came out of a different alley further down the street looking confident and returned to Mehmet’s side.

“I’ve checked out why he came from that alley,” Yuri said. “The answer is obvious enough. There are two soldiers at the other end awaiting his return, and more soldiers hanging around a government limo further up the road. I wandered around before coming back through the other alley so as not to appear suspicious.

“So, we now know which route he’ll take when he leaves the club … and the soldiers make it even more important that the operation remains a silent one. If we station ourselves at the mouth of the alley, we can watch the club entrance until Arti and Turk come out. They’ll watch for a minute or so before Volkan joins them. When he does, we move along the alley and wait. We canoodle near, but not inside a doorway; we don’t want them thinking we’re hiding.”

Mehmet would have made a joke at the last part of what Yuri said, but he was feeling sick.

Chapter 17

Two hours had passed when Arti stepped out onto the pavement with Turk close behind him. They stopped, looked up and down the street and then gave the all-clear. Yuri pulled Mehmet further into the alleyway that Volkan would have to come through to get back to his limo. He took Mehmet in his arms and they waited.

The big men blocked what little light there was as they entered the alley a half-step behind Volkan. The walls weren’t far enough apart for them to walk two abreast and get past, but they still filled the width of the alley. Mehmet pressed hard into Yuri’s chest. Volkan neared.

Mehmet stared from the corner of his eye and saw Volkan closing in. His nerves tingled and he gazed down shyly, but his eyes went big and he involuntarily looked up and fluttered his lashes. Life at risk or not, he told himself there and then, I don’t ever want you to do that again! But Volkan looked at Mehmet with disinterest before turning his glare on Yuri.

“A bit young for you isn’t she?” he said.

Volkan’s stern expression folded into one of sarcasm and the lines around his slatted eyes crinkled a little before he moved on without waiting for an answer.

They let the bodyguards squeeze through and get a couple of paces beyond them when Yuri sneaked out the Welrod from between him and Mehmet. He fired a single shot. Mehmet was thinking Arti would be the first to go, but no. The muffled, near-silent burst from the barrel expelled a bullet that flew between the guards and struck Volkan in the upper centre of the back.

Volkan hadn’t yet hit the ground before Yuri had fired a second shot. Even in the dim light of the alley, Mehmet witnessed a piece of skull tear away from Turk’s head. But why leave Arti until last? Did Yuri have a death wish?

Only two seconds could have passed between the shots, but in that time the oriental had turned his large frame and moved faster than should have been possible for someone of that size. He reached Yuri and his huge hand took a firm grip on his throat. The pistol fell, Yuri was pinned against the wall and as big as he was, his feet dangled from the ground. Mehmet watched Yuri’s eyes pop and his face darken. If he didn’t react quickly, he would be dead.

His mind raced. Should he use the Uzi to spray shot into Arti and then … no; he was a lousy shot and was as likely to hit Yuri. Forget the gun, he thought and freed his knife from its sheath. He then ran at Arti and slashed at his buttocks. Arti turned his head and used his free hand to swipe Mehmet away.

Cutting Arti’s buttocks was as violent an act as Mehmet had ever committed. Now he had to go the full distance. He braced himself, worked out an angle and plunged the dagger deep into Arti’s thigh. Withdrawing the blade caused blood to spurt an arterial jet.

This time, Arti gave the response that Mehmet hoped for: he released his grip on Yuri’s throat, grabbed his leg with both hands and fell back against the wall, mouth open in silent agony. It was then that Mehmet remembered Yuri telling him Arti was mute. That would be the reason he’d left him until last. Yuri rubbed his throat, cleared his head with a shake and picked up the pistol. Blood now leaked from Arti’s leg, thick and strong, like magma. He was dying for sure. But he wasn’t about to give it up too easily. A renewed anger filled his face and he charged at Mehmet like a raging bull. Yuri aimed the Welrod and squeezed off a shot. Arti took the bullet in the side of his chest. He pressed his hand against the wound with a look of surprise. Maybe it was the realisation that he was as vulnerable to the fear of death as anyone else. Whatever, it was a short-lived revelation. Yuri reloaded the chamber twice and with each shot, put a second and third slug into Arti’s chest. His attention was then drawn to Volkan trying to pull himself along the alley, but his legs weren’t working and his chest wheezed as he fought to get air past the blood oozing from his mouth.

Yuri leant over and pressed the Welrod’s barrel aperture against the back of Volkan’s head. He pulled the trigger and not even the click of the hammer sounded, but Volkan was down and the smell of sulphur and cordite increased. If it drifted to where Volkan was headed, the soldiers waiting for him would soon be at the scene.

Yuri then returned to Arti. The oriental had taken many hits and yet he sat squashed between the walls in the alley, face drawn, eyes drooping, looking bewildered, but still alive. If Mehmet hadn’t witnessed it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it. Yuri must have had similar thoughts; he dropped to his heels, stared at Arti as if in respect, but then tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders as if saying, “That’s life.” Reloading the magazine, he shot Arti close up, scurrying out of the way of the fallout as the top of Arti’s head exploded. Arti’s body fell forward and Yuri put a bullet through the base of his skull. A breeze blew along the passageway and the smell of spent cartridges drifted away to the waiting soldiers.

A gasp from a doorway and Yuri swung round, aiming the pistol towards the shadows. Darkness changed shape and a girl stepped from a recess. Her rapid breathing sounded louder than any of the shots that had been fired. Yuri lifted his arm and was about to shoot, but Mehmet jumped between them and covered the girl with his body.

“No…” he said. Too loud; he quietened his voice. “No, Yuri, she’s an innocent. Please.”

Yuri looked exasperated. “Mehmet, we can’t leave her.”

“Then take her with us, but please, Yuri, don’t kill her.”

“I’ll come quietly. I won’t say a word, I promise, please,” she begged, words barely audible, but Mehmet detected an accent.

He had his back to the girl, but she’d probably heard Yuri call him Mehmet. She moved in close and slipped a hand into his. It was long and slender, fragile and made Mehmet think it might crush if he squeezed too hard.

Yuri bowed his head in thought.

Mehmet turned towards the girl and the odour of tobacco sweetened by perfume overpowered his sense of smell. They came face-to-face and the notion of frailty dissolved. She was tall and trim, yet voluptuous, womanly. Heavy lips graced a full face and her simmering eyes approached black. Chestnut-brown skin glowed under raven-black hair that cascaded luxuriously over her shoulders. Mehmet stared deeply into her eyes, felt like a deer caught in the headlights. Something in his chest flickered and his abdomen grew warm. She caught his gaze. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating.

“Okay,” Yuri conceded, “but she stays with me. Now go and do what you’re dressed up for. You shouldn’t have any trouble getting in. These bodyguards are Zeki’s people, so the door won’t be covered… Just a minute. Give me your knife.”

Mehmet gave him the dagger and Yuri pressed the blade in Volkan’s blooded hand. He folded a handkerchief around the weapon and handed it back to Mehmet. Frisking Volkan’s dead body, he took a wallet from his jacket and gave Mehmet the ID card from it. Mehmet took it, but showed reluctance to leave the girl.

“Do it,” Yuri commanded.

“I’ll go, Yuri,” he said, handing him the Uzi, “but if you hurt this girl, I will never forgive you.”

“Just go, Mehmet.”

Chapter 18

Mehmet stood outside The Sultan’s Choice nightclub. If he’d said he was without fear he’d have been lying, but he took a deep breath and pushed the door open before his misgivings had the chance to change his mind. Warm air filled with sweet-smelling smoke rushed out to greet him and he had to stop inside to adjust his vision. The invisible mist of alcohol swamped his nostrils: alcohol, one of the reasons Turks could never be ultra-religious.

Privacy booths ran the length of one wall, but it was too dim for Mehmet to tell if they were occupied. Several tables and chairs filled the rest of the room and all but two near a half-round bar had been taken. Some men drank with men while others chatted to the hostesses. His attention veered from the bar when someone swore. A hostess came from a booth with a tray, a bottle of champagne and two glasses, and a voice yelled after her. “I’m not about to pay that sort of money for fizzy water. Do I look like an idiot?”

The girl threaded a path through a small group of men who’d left their table and were chatting with hostesses in the middle of the space. She got to the bar and leaned towards a big man sitting on a stool there. He tilted his head towards her and she said something through a cupped hand. When she’d finished, she straightened her blouse, patted her hair, picked up her tray and headed off to serve someone who was beckoning her from a table.

The big man lumbered from his stool, walked to the booth and without speaking, dragged the complainer out. Mehmet heard ripping as the heavy tore the man’s jacket open and took his wallet, retrieved what looked like all of his money, and dragged him past Mehmet towards the door.

“Put me down, or I’ll…” the man complained.

Against such a big man, Mehmet had no idea what he meant by ‘or I’ll’, but he started kicking and screaming. The heavy’s answer was to lift him off his feet and carry him. He then steadied him onto his feet, pulled the door open with a free hand and threw the man out onto the street. The man made no attempt to come back in, but he shouted a lot.

Back to work. Mehmet knew the office was to the left side of the bar, Zeki had told him and Yuri on the boat, so, not wanting to become part of the furnishings, he moved discreetly towards it.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” the barman asked, stopping Mehmet in his tracks. He wore a black dress-shirt and red bowtie. His hair was curly and his ears too big. Mehmet had noticed him on entry because he was trying it on with one of the girls, probably after a freebie. The girl now sat on a high stool facing Mehmet, blowing a line of blue smoke towards the ceiling. Her natural blond hair and blue eyes dictated that she wasn’t a Turk. When she looked at Mehmet, just for a moment, her eyes widened, but then her gaze quickly dropped. Her blouse was unbuttoned too far and she looked up in time to catch Mehmet staring at her overexposed cleavage. Her expression changed to distaste and she swivelled on her stool. Mehmet wondered a moment: why the revulsion? And then remembered he was a girl.

“I asked you a question,” the barman said.

“Oh, yes, you did,” Mehmet said in a husky voice. He’d practised lifting his tone an octave, but only managed to squeak, so he ended up with husky. “I have an appointment with Zeki.”

“He’s not in yet.”

“I know. He told me to wait in the office.”

The waiter’s demeanour changed. “What, are you starting work here?”

“Depends on whether Zeki keeps me waiting too long,” Mehmet said, smiling confidently.

The waiter grinned seductively and Mehmet began worrying that he was doing this too well.

“Well, if Zeki said it was okay, I suppose … yes, fine,” he said and the smile grew.

Mehmet shrugged his shoulders as though he couldn’t care one way or the other and went to the office.

The door opened inward and once inside, Mehmet leant his back against it and slowed his breathing, tried to steady his nerves. But lifting his gaze, the view was filled by a little boy – Mehmet was staring at the carcass of a child. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old. How could he ever have deserved such an unfitting end? Lying naked at the foot of a full-length mirror, his head was twisted sideways and a belt had been buckled around his neck. There were burn marks on his back where cigarettes had been stubbed out on him.

“Bastard,” Mehmet said, but the word croaked from his throat and his eyes burned.

Zeki had told Mehmet and Yuri that they had been supplying Little Dogs to Volkan, but it had been unreal, unthinkable, until this moment. Mehmet didn’t know this boy, but he had known hundreds like him, including himself.

His clothes were folded over the back of a chair next to the office desk. Mehmet took a white vest from the pile and used it to wipe the blood from his dagger. He then put the knife under the desk as if it had dropped out of sight and slipped Volkan’s ID card under the clothes. The scene was set. Mehmet waited half an hour and left the office.

“You’re not leaving already?” the waiter said as Mehmet came back into the bar.

“Yes, he’s had his chance.” Mehmet smiled confidently, winked and kept walking.

“Spirited young thing, aren’t you… Pity.”

“Mmm,” Mehmet replied and then checked himself for falling back into his usual deep voice. He moved slowly through the bar, but getting outside he hurried back to the quayside while trying not to use his natural gait. The last thing he needed was someone reporting a too-tall girl walking like a man. He swayed his hips and by the time he got to the jetty, thought he was really quite good at it – another worry in his fucked-up life.

“Did you have any problems?” Yuri asked as he climbed back onto the boat.

“No, no worries,” he said, not mentioning the way he had walked back. “But you made a mistake.”

“I know,” Yuri answered with resignation.

Back in the alley, Yuri had finished each man with a bullet to the base of the skull, the mark of a professional. But the killings were supposed to look non-political, amateur. He’d taught Mehmet these things himself and now Mehmet wondered whether maybe Yuri hadn’t been as calm as he’d appeared.

“Is the girl all right?” he asked nervously.

Yuri sighed. “Yes, she’s down below.”

“Did she say what she was doing there? I could see by her clothing that she works in the club.”

“She was sneaking a smoke break. When Arti and Turk came through, she hid in the doorway. Said if they’d found her, they would’ve beaten her. She didn’t know who he was, but said that Volkan was a regular. Normally, when he leaves, Zeki and his men go ape and herd the hostesses around so they can’t see what’s going on. She thought she’d stay in the alley until he left.”

Mehmet nodded, smiled and embraced Yuri before going below to introduce himself.

“Her name is Nina,” Yuri said, the words catching up to Mehmet as he went down the steps.

Chapter 19

Mehmet left Yuri in the more spacious wheel house and went down into the cubby cabin below. Nina was down there playing a game of patience with an old, dog-eared pack of cards. The cabin was cramped, she’d shuffled along the U-shaped seating and her sheath-like, black skirt had ridden up over her thighs. Her breasts fought to be free of a white blouse that could have been borrowed from her little sister and Mehmet was captivated. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt, probably twenty years old, maybe more. And that should have been enough for Mehmet to contain himself, him being a mere seventeen years of age, but he wanted her and those very reactions had him cursing his father. The fire in his stomach grew hotter as it crept downward. Knowing his father’s reputation through Yuri occasionally forgetting himself and making jokes about ‘Levent’s’ sexual prowess, he knew that it was because of those rotten genes that he was now feeling like this. He couldn’t look at an attractive woman without his loins taking over.

She lifted her head and looked him over with smouldering eyes. Their gazes clashed, she held his lecherous glare and his face caught the same fire as was going on further down. He hooded his eyes submissively. She took a long drag from a Fatima cigarette, dribbled smoke through her nostrils, tilted her head, blew a line to the ceiling and appeared as if she’d never seen him before.

Mehmet cleared his throat. “Err, Nina, I’m Mehmet. You must be quite shaken up after what has happened.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not really, no,” she said and sniggered. “Aren’t you going to change your clothes, or is that the way you always dress?”

“Huh? Oh, yes, of course,” he said, unravelling the black scarf from his head and using it to wipe the makeup from his face while pushing away the deep fringe that had flopped over his forehead.

He thought he saw a flicker of interest in her eyes, but then she said. “You’ve smudged your lipstick.” She was laughing at him.

“How can you be so calm after seeing those people killed?”

“Oh, I don’t know. These things happen.”

Something tugged in his chest. “Really? Not for me they don’t. You must have had quite a life. Tell me about it.”

She took a moment, tilted her head to one side and looked confused. “You want to know about my life? Hmm, I suppose I owe you that much, but stop me when you get bored.”

She pushed the cards away, parked the cigarette in an ashtray next to a crushed cigarette packet and sat upright – and again, his eyes were drawn to her breasts.

“I grew up in Naples, in Italy. My mother was a puttana, a whore.”

Mehmet slapped the side of his thigh. “Yes! I knew it… Oh, I err, I meant… when I first saw you I had an idea you were Italian.”

She huffed through her nose. “You did?”

Mehmet nodded.

She raised her eyes. “Okay, my life… I never knew anything about my papa. But I don’t suppose my mother could have told me much if she’d wanted to. And she wouldn’t have wanted to. She treated me like one of the city’s stray cats: a pat on the head followed by a kick up the ass.”

He grinned. She didn’t.

“On my twelfth birthday she was in the bedroom turning tricks. I could hear her laughing and groaning on cue. And then it stopped for a minute. Then she shouted, ordered me into the bedroom.”

“Oh, she didn’t expect…”

Nina nodded. “Yes. I nearly ran away. I wanted to, I should have, but to where? So, trailing my feet and sobbing, I went into the bedroom.”

Mehmet could see in her eyes that Nina was reliving every moment. He wanted to stop her, but felt compelled to hear her out. She licked indecently full lips and drew in a deep breath before continuing. Mehmet stared as her cleavage grew with the intake of air and felt guilty because the heat continued burning in his lower gut.

“Anyway, it happened, and after that Mamma realised there was more money to be made by including me in her bag of tricks. She got a slot prostituting in a nightclub near the port. I was too young for admission, so I became her hook to get the punters back home.

“One evening, the police raided the club. My mamma slipped out the back and ran across the street. She was hit by a police car as it sped to the scene. She died.”

Mehmet wanted to say ‘served her right’, but held his tongue.

“I thought God had smiled on me that day and I swore to him I’d never sell myself. Then I was thrown out of the hovel where we’d lived. I remained determined. I even spent the next couple of years living on the streets, begging. I made it through until I was eighteen, but a couple of years ago I saw an advert for dancers in Turkey. Mamma had lived with a Turkish man for a few years when I was a child. He was probably her pimp because she still sold herself during her time with him. Indoors, he insisted we spoke Turkish, so I got to speak your language as well as I speak my own.”

Mehmet understood that. He and Yuri only spoke Russian when there was no one else around.

“What happened to the Turk?”

“I heard he knifed someone and was caught by the police, but I’m not sure whether that’s true. Never mind that, the advert seemed a wonderful opportunity. But thinking back, I was such a scruff. I should’ve known better. Why would they want someone like me for a dancer? But I was accepted. They brought me to Turkey and they kept me poorly fed so that I would stay slim enough for the clothes they’d given me. When I wasn’t with a punter, I was locked in a room with other girls. Always different girls, so I never made friends. When my masters believed I was broken, the beatings lessened.”

The hairs on Mehmet’s neck rose and he wanted to kill somebody.

She sighed. “So, you see, Mehmet, it was just the surprise of seeing the carnage that made me catch my breath. Other than that, I was glad to see the bastards die.”

Mehmet backed up the steps. “One thing you were wrong about, Nina. You would have made the most beautiful dancer I’ve ever seen.”

She looked away and began laying out the cards and then she picked up her cigarette and tapped the long ash from it. As she took a drag he noticed her fingers were trembling.

Chapter 20

By the time they got back to the Ottoman house, midnight had tipped over into a new morning. Yuri stayed long enough to make sure Mehmet and Nina were okay and then left for Eminonu. Down at the boat, he cast off and motored across the strait with thoughts of the task spinning circles in his mind.

Mehmet could never have guessed how Yuri had felt when Arti lunged at him. To begin with, he’d never told him about the general stationing him in Istanbul because he’d lost his nerve. The truth was, in the alley he’d had plenty of time to shoot Arti, but he froze. The gun became heavy, he dropped it and if it hadn’t been for Mehmet…

The thoughts moved to Nina and they worried him because he knew any other Spetsnaz agent would have killed her. Probably another failure on his part, but he would do the same thing again and not just because of Mehmet. Mehmet had only put an end to his procrastination.

Reaching the eastern shores of Sirkeci, he pulled the boat in alongside a jetty, tied up and left for the city centre. When he got to Pinar Yeter’s door, the misgivings faded. But they were soon replaced by a heartbeat that was all over the place. There was no denying it: he was falling in love with this one. No, face it, he thought, you’ve already fallen in love with her.

Pinar lived in an apartment block, a fourth-floor penthouse overlooking the Bosporus – but from a distance. A plush building, but he had to climb the stairs to get to her front door. However, that wouldn’t be for much longer. An electric elevator was in the middle of construction. Because of this, it had been messy on the stairway, but the builders were yet to reach her corridor and the smell of polish and scented spray filled a spotlessly clean space.

He knocked, the door flew open and arms had encircled his neck before his hand was back down by his side. Pinar snaked herself around his body.

“Oh, Yuri,” she said, sounding near to tears. But then she beat a tattoo on his chest. “How could you make me go through that?”

“There was never anything to worry about. Everything went according to plan and civil war is off the agenda… Pinar, I, I missed you. When we were out there, my only concern was that if I was killed I would lose you.”

She giggled dismissive. “Silly.”

His shoulders relaxed and he leaned into her, kissing her with a passion. She pulled back to catch her breath. “Calm down, big boy, we have all night – or do we?”

“Yes, in fact I can stay over a couple of nights if you can put up with me. I have to see a young policeman later this morning. He, uhm, works for me. I need him to find something at the club – or at least bear witness to it being found. I left Mehmet with someone at the Ottoman – a girl…” Yuri paused, searching his jacket. “But I’ll tell you about that later. This should help you with your article,” he said, putting a notepad on the hall cabinet and gently pulling her towards the bedroom.

Not so long after, they lay in a pool of sweat and Yuri told Pinar of Nina and that Mehmet now knew about their relationship.

“Well, if you told him, you must be serious,” Pinar said and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him towards her. “And don’t you go thinking the feeling isn’t mutual.”

*

Yuri had returned from Sirkeci the previous evening and now, the following morning, he nipped out of the Ottoman house for a copy of the Hurriyet newssheet. He came back indoors with the paper wrapped so close around the front of his face that it obscured his view and he bumped into the living room table where Mehmet sat with Nina. She sniggered, but Mehmet felt worry tingles on his neck; Yuri wasn’t clumsy without reason.

“Shit, why can’t things stick to plan?” Yuri said,

“Has something gone wrong?”

“Yes, Mehmet, something’s gone wrong. Read it for yourself.”

He handed over the paper and Mehmet opened it out across the table. Nina had also picked up on the worry and stood behind him to read the article over his shoulder. Her left breast pushed against his upper arm. He knew he shouldn’t have taken notice, but he did. Warmth began relaxing the tightness in his lower stomach, but he snapped himself out of it and began reading the piece by Pinar.

General Murat Volkan, Adnan Menderes’s leading adviser, was killed on Friday evening near one of the nightclubs of Galata, in the Beyoglu district. He was found in an alley near The Sultan’s Choice along with two doormen who worked at the club. After being gunned down, each of the men were shot in the head.

The method of operation used to kill the victims initially led police to believe a professional assassination had taken place. Yesterday, however, Captain of Detectives, Emin Iskander, the lead officer in the case, reported at a press conference that evidence had come to light suggesting a different scenario.

The detective insisted there would be no cover-ups in the case and told reporters that the body of a young boy had been found in the nightclub’s office after General Volkan had left the premises. The boy had been tortured and sexually assaulted before being strangled with a belt.

The reasons for the killings in the alleyway are still unclear, but the manager of the club, a man with known criminal associates, is currently being sought for questioning. A club hostess is also missing and is thought to be involved.

The police said they were looking to speak with a third person; a young woman who went into the club later that evening and waited in the office for the manager.

“Shit!” Mehmet exclaimed. “What’re we going to do, Yuri? They’re looking for Nina.”

Yuri sat and took the weight of his head in his hands. “I told you that Pinar was writing this article, so I know she would have had no choice other than to write what she was given,” he said.

Nina lit up a Fatima cigarette, flopped into a couple of large cushions in the corner of the room and stared towards the window. Mehmet thought she looked resigned, probably used to being on the losing side.

Several minutes crept silently by and then Yuri jerked his head back. “Sorry, Nina, but you’re grounded until further notice. You stay here in the Ottoman. And when the time is right, you give yourself up to the police.”

Chapter 21

Nina cast her thoughts back over the two weeks she’d spent at the house, flitted about dusting as she did, wondering how long it would be before she would have to give herself up to the police. When Mehmet wasn’t out working, he was hanging around trying to amuse her so she wouldn’t get bored. And it had to be said, he was intelligent, witty and very good-looking – not that looks made much difference; she’d had good-looking before and lived to regret it. But it seemed different with Mehmet. True, she’d been a whore, but what was he, an Ottoman prince? No, they’d both been forced onto paths they wouldn’t have otherwise taken and on that basis had things in common.

There was a downside; she’d begun getting excited on seeing him, even now just thinking of him. But he was too young … although, he did come across as older, manly. She sighed. She’d tried indifference, but at the same time tantalised him without thinking, let a breast touch his arm or brushed a leg against his. Put silly thoughts aside, she told herself. Mehmet had been taken under Yuri’s wing and was carving out a good life. When the problem with Volkan was done with, she’d be sneaked off to Italy and that would be the end of it. So, forget him.

And what about Volkan anyway? The murder hunt was still ongoing but had lost its impetus. Volkan’s character had been assassinated along with his body, mostly by that newspaper Yuri always carried around, but the other rags had been quick to pick up on the story’s slant. Now, no one really cared about the killer being tracked down, except maybe the policeman in charge. On that account alone it wouldn’t be long before the dreaded day she had to go in.

She put the duster away and washed the breakfast dishes. With the chores done and Yuri and Mehmet not due back for several hours, she sat at the table in the living room and dealt the playing cards for a game of patience. She had just revealed two blackjacks in a row when the sound of someone coming in through the front door made her jump – it was Yuri.

Offering no real greeting on entry, he simply said in a matter-of fact voice, “The time has come for you to go to the police station and tell your story. I know you’ve settled in, but this has to be done – for your safety as well as ours.”

“I know,” she answered, lighting up a Fatima, drawing deep on it while letting dragon-like plumes trickle from her nostrils. Looking at the cards, she snickered: two blackjacks, bad luck, how apt. She’d been expecting Yuri’s words, so why did her heart feel like flower petals being crushed underfoot?

Yuri kept talking, oblivious to her sensitivity. “I’ve been in touch with an acquaintance of mine, Sergeant Baghatur. He’ll be waiting for you in the station foyer. But remember, it’s crucial that you only speak with him. If Captain Ahmet gets wind of what’s happening, you might not get as far as Iskander’s office.”

“When do we go?” she asked, and the walls around her spirit grew and hardened.

“As soon as you can get yourself together. Baghatur will be hanging around until early afternoon.”

Nina sighed and pulled the cards into a pile. “Well, let’s not keep him waiting.” She got to her feet, took the small jacket Yuri had bought her at a bazaar and followed him from the house while pulling it on. Mehmet was outside, scraping his foot along the kerbstone. He looked up and his big brown eyes looked sad. They walked silently together down to the quay where he helped her climb aboard, and then jumped onto the deck with her.

She was surprised. “I thought you were staying over on this side? Yuri said it might not be safe for you in Eminonu.”

“No, I’ll sail across with you. Yuri says it’s okay as long as I stay on the boat until he comes back from the police station.”

Nina nodded, smiled sadly. They chatted as the vessel crossed the strait, but the conversation was stilted. And then the boat shuddered as it bumped into the Sirkeci quayside. Mehmet grabbed her arm as she almost lost balance and they stood for a moment, staring into one another’s eyes. Mehmet let go first, jumped onto the jetty, helped her up and before she could disengage, pulled her to him and kissed her.

“Plenty of time for that later,” Yuri said, coming between them. “Let’s get this done.”

Mehmet held Nina’s hand until Yuri took her arm as if to drag her away. “Don’t worry, Nina, I’ll still be here when you get back,” he said.

She smiled weakly and held his gaze until turning off and out of sight. She got to the police station without her or Yuri having spoken. For her, thoughts were full of Mehmet. What had the kiss meant? Did he expect a relationship when this Volkan ordeal was over? They stopped at the mouth of an alley across from the police station, and Yuri re-emphasised that she should speak to Sergeant Baghatur and him alone. He squeezed her arm and gave her a reassuring wink.

Nina turned away, crossed the street and opened the door to the police station. A sergeant paced in the foyer. He saw her and without asking who she was, nodded and gestured her towards the stairway. Taking her to the first floor, he bade her wait and went into an office.

Two or three minutes went by and he came out into the corridor. “Captain Iskander will speak with you now,” he said and left.

The office wasn’t as big as she would have expected, about three-door widths one way and maybe five metres in length, a corridor really. It was barely wide enough for the desk the senior detective was sitting behind now. How he got around it to leave the office was a mystery. A large, double-door, steel cabinet stood in the corner to her left and a guest chair was stationed in front of a paint-chipped, metal desk. Other than that, Spartan was the only word that came to mind. The detective peered up from the papers he scribbled on and stood. Getting up onto tiptoes, he squeezed by the desk and approached her. He was a tall slim man and Nina was surprised when he smiled and shook her hand.

“Hello,” he said kindly, “I’m Captain Iskander. You can’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to this chat. Please, sit … Nina, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it is.” She sat and looked up into the captain’s face: narrow, but nice. He had a thick moustache that hung heavily, covering the whole of his top lip. The hair capping the front of his head had fallen over his dark brown eyes and it flopped around his forehead like a rogue wave. He was middle-aged, but the hair was showing no sign of weakening, unlike the charcoal pinstriped suit he wore. That was old and a bit sad: grease shines and creases dominating the fabric. He was the picture of a man with no time for anything but his work – Nina would have bet money that there was no woman in his life.

“Well, Nina” he said, shaking his head while squeezing back around the desk and sitting. “I’m ready to listen to what you have to tell me and I must say, with baited breath.”

He waited. Nina coughed into a fist to clear her throat and dropped her hands into her lap. “On the night General Volkan was killed I was in a doorway in an alley near the club. Four men came along. I knew three of them because they worked at the club, but I hadn’t known who the general was. I also knew if I’d shown myself I’d have got into trouble for sneaking off, so I hid in a doorway. The men started arguing and General Volkan walked off alone. Zeki, the club manager, pulled a pistol and shot him in the back. Turk was scared and argued with Zeki.”

“How do you know he was scared?” Iskander asked.

“Oh, I don’t. He just sounded scared.”

“Okay, carry on.”

Gratefully, Nina smiled before composing herself. “I’m not sure why, but Turk went to check the injured man. Zeki stayed where he was and was giving orders to Arti, but then he turned to Turk and said there wasn’t a problem, that he would make it look like a political assassination. He went to the injured man and shot him in the back of the head.

“Turk moaned on, Zeki seemed unhappy, shook his head and said it wasn’t going to work if he felt like that. I had no idea what he was thinking until he followed up by shooting Turk.

“Arti charged Zeki and I know it took Zeki by surprise because he dropped the gun. Arti pinned him to the wall, but Zeki pulled a knife, cuddled his arm around him and cut his backside. When Arti eased back to check the wound, Zeki sunk the knife into his thigh. Arti made strange hissing noises and backed away.”

“He was a mute.”

“I didn’t know. He never spoke to me at the club. Oh, but he wouldn’t… Anyway, Zeki picked up the gun and shot him. I don’t remember, maybe two or three times in the chest.” Her own chest heaved as she braced herself. “Arti went to his knees and Zeki shot him in the face, I think. I’m sure the men were dead, but Zeki shot Turk and Arti in the back of the head from close up. There was blood splattered everywhere and I gasped. That was when Zeki turned the gun towards me.

“I ran. I was lucky it was dark, but I still kept jumping in and out of doorways to make myself a difficult target. When he’d shot the others, the gun hadn’t made a noise, so I’m not sure whether he fired at me. When I got out of the alley I hid across the street. Zeki came out and disappeared into the club. I slipped away, went into hiding and that’s where I’ve stayed until now.”

“And what made you decide now was the time to come in?” the captain asked, bushy eyebrows lifting.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t stay in hiding forever and I don’t have enough money to return to Italy. I thought if I came in and told you what happened, Zeki would stop looking for me.”

The captain rubbed his jaw. “How do you know he’s looking for you?”

“I don’t, but he knows I am a witness.”

“Hmm, maybe Zeki was a hired gun. A silencer was used.” He coughed into his fist. “Sorry, thinking out loud.” He cupped a hand over his mouth in contemplation. “Where exactly have you been hiding?”

“With an old friend, sir. We’ve known each other since I came to Turkey and while he does know about the case, he’s always known me as Cassandra, so he had no idea I was involved.”

“I suppose in your profession you use a lot of different names?”

Guiltily, she bowed her head.

“Very well. You’ll need to give us the details of your old friend. If they check out, I don’t imagine we’ll need to hold you for too long. But you won’t be able to return to Italy, I’m afraid. You’re a valuable witness and must remain available until this case has been closed.”

And of course there were no worries about the old friend checking out. Yuri had sorted that part of the plan before he’d even discussed it with her.

Chapter 22

Back at the Ottoman house, Mehmet felt desperate for Nina’s safety. She’d been dragged into this affair by accident and he wouldn’t forgive himself if anything happened to her. Yuri seemed to sense the anguish.

“Sergeant Baghatur has told me they’ve already contacted her alibi and said they seem satisfied. There won’t be any problems. Don’t worry,” he said, but watching him from the corner of his eye, Mehmet thought Yuri looked as bothered as he was.

Later that evening, a knock startled them. Yuri opened the door, gun tucked in the back of his waistband, hand on the grip.

“Nina,” Mehmet said as he pushed past Yuri and ushered her indoors. “You should’ve let us know you were free. We would have come for you. How did you get back?”

“I took a ferry. I just wanted to get home.”

Mehmet and Nina sat at the table and Yuri got her a brandy. She sipped it and suddenly the tears flowed. Mehmet reached for her hand and held on to it.

“Are you up to telling us how it went?” Yuri asked, also taking a seat at the table. “I need to be sure we don’t have problems.”

Nina gathered herself and told them how the interview with Iskander went and where they had held her until the alibi was verified. Once she’d finished her account she said, “I’m drained. I’m going to bed.”

Mehmet gave her a brotherly hug and she went upstairs.

The next morning, when Mehmet came downstairs, he was greeted by the pungent smell of garlic. And coming into the lounge revealed why; Nina had set a table in traditional Turkish style, Sucuklu Yumurta: fried eggs, spicy sausage, garlic and onion – and Borek: cheese folded into thin pastry. Yuri was sat in his normal seat and looked like a hungry child waiting permission to eat. Mehmet’s mouth watered as he smiled into his chest and took a place next to him. A silent moment passed, mainly because Mehmet was afraid he might laugh out loud at Yuri, and then Nina waltzed in with both hands wrapped around the handle of a copper teapot. It was then that Mehmet noticed something different about her – what? She always made him feel aroused when he looked at her, so that wasn’t it, but today her face was flushed and fresh. She looked more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. Perhaps she was relaxed now her ordeal with the police was over.

“Good morning, Mehmet. How are you?” she said with a voice so light and cheerful that Mehmet couldn’t believe it could be this early in the morning.

“Seems someone’s happy to have unloaded their worries about the police,” he said.

She smiled. “Oh, it’s a bit more than that.”

The words hit him like a cold shower – the kiss! It had been a spur of the moment reaction; he hadn’t been thinking straight. Of course, Nina was a girl he could fall in love with at the drop of a hat, but he couldn’t; he wouldn’t allow it. He was too much like his father. He would only let her down. He decided to leave the comment where it was and reached for the spatula laying on a plate next to the food.

Yuri slapped his hand. “I’ve had to wait for nearly half an hour for you to make an appearance. If you think you’re getting served before me, think again.”

Nina giggled and retired to the kitchen while Yuri scooped more than his fair share of the main dish onto his plate. Nina came back in holding a cup of coffee – she preferred it to tea – and sat on the sofa. Mehmet raised his eyebrows in question.

“I ate early,” she said, reading his expression.

After watching Yuri mop up the last of the breakfast, Mehmet helped Nina clear up the dishes and then they sat on the sofa, talked over life before they’d met. When Mehmet came to recent events and told her how Zeki had given them the information about Volkan, a hidden memory revealed itself. He hadn’t taken much notice of what Zeki had to say about Yuri on the boat; he’d only been half-listening, but discussing it with Nina brought it to the surface – “He was there when your papa…” What was that supposed to mean?

“Are you all right?” Nina asked, jarring him back to reality.

“What? Oh, yes. I just need a minute to sort something out in my head. Sorry.”

“Whatever it is, you’ve paled a little. Would you like a fresh cup of tea?” Mehmet nodded and she smiled, left him to his thoughts and took his cup to the table for a refill.

Mehmet’s memories swirled. Were his recollections serving him correctly? He’d have to talk to Yuri about it. But the opportunity didn’t arrive until the evening when Nina went up for her bath. After a day of biting his lip, Mehmet finally took a deep breath and said, “Yuri, I need to ask you something and it’s important.”

Yuri was sitting in his armchair reading a letter from his girlfriend. Mehmet usually laughed at the amount of times in a day he read her letters – but not today. Yuri looked up and put the letter down. “Don’t worry, Mehmet,” he grinned. “I already have a girlfriend, so you have no competition from me.”

“What? Oh, no, it isn’t about Nina. I don’t know how to say this, Yuri, so I’ll come right out and ask. What did Zeki mean on the day we killed him? He got as far as saying, ‘He was there when your papa,’ but you stopped him going any further. What was he talking about?”

Yuri heaved a sigh. “I wondered if that little gem would surface,” he said. “Okay… I think Zeki thought I was working with the people who murdered your father. He was right in a way. I was ferrying them across the Golden Horn. Zeki got off the boat in Beyoglu and I took the rest of them out into the Bosporus. They decided to throw your father into the strait and held me under gunpoint while they did it. There was nothing I could do.”

“Who are these people?” Mehmet asked.

“I can’t tell you that. I know if I did you would end up putting yourself in great danger.”

Mehmet felt his blood boil; Yuri had no right to hold something like that back from him. “No! You think I would risk my life for the sake of my father?”

Yuri remained calm. “I don’t think that, no, but I do think you carry enough venom inside you to go looking for revenge.”

“And I suppose you only took me under your wing because of your guilt for not helping?” Mehmet said and regretted the words even as they spilled from his lips.

Yuri’s eyes saddened. “It wasn’t like that, Mehmet, no.”

Since fishing him out of the strait, Yuri had been like a father to him and Mehmet loved him for it. But he was mad … at everything. He didn’t want to upset or blame Yuri; he hadn’t done anything wrong but frustration was building. He had to get out of the house.

As he turned to leave, Yuri grabbed his arm and said, “Don’t go running out like this. Let it sink in. You’ll realise I bore no malice towards your papa. He was my friend.”

Mehmet pulled to release his arm, but Yuri held on.

“I know that,” Mehmet said. “Please, Yuri, I just need to be on my own for a while to sort my head out.”

Yuri let go and Mehmet left the house. Hurrying down to Salacak quayside, he slowed his pace to a stroll and then stopped altogether, struggling to grasp how he could be so angry. Yuri had been the father he never really had, so it wasn’t him that was causing this furore within. No, he was bitter for the life he’d been plunged into. Living in poverty with his mother was one thing, plenty of people are poor, but being cast into a den of thieves and treated like shit, that was unacceptable – and someone was to blame for it.

He began to plan; somehow he would get his own back, avenge the wrong doing. He’d find out who it was and… But then his thoughts suddenly dissolved into a black cloud and his brain shuddered. Something had hit his head and he was going into freefall. A second blow sunk into his side, curving his body inward. He hit the ground with a thud. Two uniformed police officers leaned over him while returning riot sticks to their sheaths. They grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. He had no fight in him and they easily dragged him to the water’s edge.

“Watch your step now,” one said as they threw him from the jetty. The deck of a police launch brought his fall to an end and he was reminded of the old wound in his shoulder. “Wouldn’t want your pretty little face damaged.” They laughed.

The younger of the two policemen got on the launch and fired up the engine, and they both pushed the boat away from the jetty. Pistol shots rang out from deep in the streets of Uskudar.

“That’ll be the end of your friends,” the older of the two said.

The gunfire quietened and the boat’s engine droned on in an evening otherwise dominated by silence. Then a burst of automatic shots echoed out – an Uzi; Mehmet couldn’t shoot straight, but he could recognise the sounds of guns well enough. Whoever had started the firefight used pistols and that would have been the police, which meant Yuri was still alive.

The older officer kicked Mehmet in the ribs. “You can take that stupid smile off your face,” he said. “The whole area is blanketed with my men; he won’t last long.”

The boat moored up at the Sirkeci jetty and more shots could be heard – this time from revolvers. An explosion and then an orange glow lit up over Uskudar. The policemen held onto Mehmet while watching the inferno build.

“Fucking idiots,” the older officer said. “There’ll be hell to pay if they’ve burned down any of those old Ottoman houses.”

And with that, Mehmet was dragged off towards the old city.

Chapter 23

Mehmet was taken to the police station where Captain Iskander had questioned Nina. They had dragged him from the van that brought him from the quayside, frog-marched him to an underground section without registering him as a prisoner and put him in a cell without windows or false lighting. Now, dropping to his hands and knees, he ignored the pain in his shoulder and felt his way around the floor – concrete, maybe natural sandstone; whatever, it was grimy and stunk of urine. He found the toilet and recoiled; it was a sink hole in the corner and he’d dipped his hand into it. He traced fingers where the floor met the wall, came to a water trough and washed the offended hand; it came away smelling worse than it had gone in. He carried on and came to a stone bed with a curved section for his head. He sat, leaned back against the wall and let the endless hours pass.

Hours turned to days that might well have spilled over into weeks. During that time a steel panel opened at the base of the door and something that passed for food was pushed through. Sad really, but he began looking forward to hearing the guard and seeing the glimmer of light that accompanied him.

It would have been nice to have been able to say what part of day it was when a particular serving of couscous slime was pushed through the flap, but he really had no idea. However, a routine emerged; he ate the food with his fingers, left the wooden board it had been served on next to the flap and sat on the bed.

One day, he allowed his thoughts to drift and Nina and Yuri came to mind, but he was quick to pull back and cast his feelings aside. Only his own survival mattered now; he’d learned this much living under the jetty. But then … a disturbance. Someone had unlocked the door, not the panel, the door – that had never happened before.

The access swung open and Mehmet’s eyes were attacked by blinding light before the silhouette of a large man filled the entrance, casting him back into the shadows. The figure stood for an age and then before Mehmet could work out what was going on, the man moved forward, grabbed his arms roughly and spun him to face the wall. Mehmet’s wrists screamed in pain as handcuffs were snapped onto them. Jostled from the cell, he was pushed along a corridor. They stopped at a door on the same level and he was pulled onto his tiptoes by the roots of his hair and frog-marched through … where? A cell? An interview room? No, this was a torture chamber.

A gruesome chair made of rusted metal had wrist and ankle irons attached to the arms and legs, and a steel helmet fixed to the back. If this was a campaign to break his spirit, it was already working. And what else could it be? First they confuse him by leaving him in a cell for … forever, and then they bring him to a torture chamber. Yuri had told him about such places and he also said if you should end up in one, then it was because someone wanted information – but who? What?

The guard forced Mehmet to sit in the chair and removing the cuffs, snapped the restraints around his wrists and ankles. His head was pulled back and the helmet locked onto his skull. Mehmet rolled his eyes upward and saw a dim yellow bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. It emitted a buzzing sound more powerful than the light itself. The material on the twisted braiding above it had worn through and exposed the copper within. He concentrated on the bulb and tried to take his mind to a different level.

A soft voice spoke without emotion. “That will be all.”

The guard left and a different uniformed policeman came to stand before him. It was no surprise to see that it was one of those who had arrested him at the quayside. Mehmet squinted and recognition sent further shock coursing through his veins. It was the same policeman who had been with Zeki on the day he and Senturk were shot.

“So, Mehmet – or at least that’s who the locals in Uskudar told me lived with Yuri.”

He waited a beat. Mehmet didn’t answer.

“Whatever,” he said patiently. “We’ll come to that. First let me introduce myself. I’m Captain Ahmet. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of me, but you can believe it when I say you’ll not be quick to forget me.”

He sniggered and Mehmet’s anxiety rattled in opposition. If he had been standing at that moment, his legs would surely have given way. Yuri had warned him time and again over the years: “If ever you come over to the old city, take care to avoid the policeman called Ahmet.”

Footsteps shuffled into the room behind Mehmet and then a second set of steps followed that. One of the new visitors joined Ahmet, and Mehmet found himself staring into the face of a woman, a dwarf. She bent over him and her eyes appeared massive through the pebble-lenses of the glasses she wore. Her face warped when she smiled the ugliest yellow-toothed smile he’d ever seen. Even in dim light her skin appeared jaundiced and her hair looked thin and wispy. She shuffled to a corner and placed a steel briefcase on a small table. That was when Mehmet noticed that she hadn’t been bent over him. She was crippled by a hunched back. The whole routine was macabre and he wondered if she had been employed for her sinister looks.

Captain Ahmet spoke. “Right, let’s get back to your name. I believe your first name is Mehmet, so tell me the other part.”

Whoever had walked in with the hunchback had stayed out of sight, so it must have been that person dragging the chair across the floor behind where Mehmet was secured.

“Pasha, his second name is Pasha,” a voice said behind him; a man.

“Oh, you know him…” Ahmet said.

“Yes, so don’t worry about his name. Proceed to the next step.”

“Of course, sir – yes. Yagmur, you can begin,” Ahmet told the hunchback.

In Turkish, Yagmur means rain, which seemed more than appropriate for the moment; Mehmet just knew she was about to rain on his parade. He watched her take a rubber block from the case and return to hold it near his face. It was in two parts, held together by a scissor-like screw device. He shuddered thinking how she might use it.

Ahmet moved behind the chair, cupped one hand under Mehmet’s chin and pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger with the other. Mehmet couldn’t breathe, so opened his mouth to catch his breath. Ahmet forced his chin down further while Yagmur forced the rubber blocks between his teeth. She turned the screw and the blocks forced Mehmet’s jaws as wide as they would go. Panic stiffened him.

“There are a few things I want you to think about, Mehmet,” Ahmet said. “First, I want you to tell me what happened to Zeki. We know he couldn’t have had anything to do with Volkan’s death, so don’t go telling stories along those lines. Also, we retrieved part of a list from the fire at the Ottoman wooden house. There are six names on it.” He held up a piece of paper.

Mehmet’s heart skipped – the code. Yuri had devised the plan before they hit Volkan. He said if Mehmet was caught and he wasn’t, Yuri would make sure a list of names would be found. Mehmet was to confess to his captors that the six people on it were part of the gang who forced him into taking part in Volkan’s killing. In truth, the men listed were paedophiles Yuri had uncovered. He hated them and said they would be of no loss to society, and they just might get him off the hook. But the list meant Yuri must still be alive, no one else knew of the plan.

Ahmet continued. “I want to know what their involvement was. I also want you to tell me where Yuri would hide if he’d escaped. And I want to know who you were both working for. Yuri is Russian. If the Russians are responsible, I want you to tell me why they wanted Volkan dead. I would advise against being brave. Time will reveal all, whatever your resolve. We’ll let Yagmur take over now. She’ll give you something to help you think about how you might want to answer those questions later.”

“Hgnn,” Mehmet grunted, long and pleadingly, trying to nod his head in acknowledgment. He was willing to give Ahmet most of the information without Yagmur’s help, but the blocks stopped him from saying anything.

The legs on the chair behind scraped the floor and Ahmet left with whoever had sat there. That meant Mehmet and Yagmur were alone. She smiled that smile and he shuddered.

“Oh, before we begin, Mehmet, I think it’s fitting you should know…” She leaned her face into his and let her breath chastise him. “Nina, a friend of yours, I believe? She is the one who betrayed you. After chatting with Iskander, she was released and came straight to Captain Ahmet. Everything is about money with that one – the bitch sold you out.”

If the dwarf had punched him in the face it couldn’t have hurt any more. And her words were true. How else could they have found the Ottoman house?

Yagmur concealed her mouth with a mask and Mehmet supposed that her face being covered was a step in the right direction. But she took a drilling machine from the briefcase and his flippancy took a back seat. Terror revisited his soul. She fit a tiny drill-bit into the chuck and plugged the machine into a wall socket. Unravelling the long lead, she rested an arm on his chest, but something wasn’t working for her. She clicked her tongue, put the drill aside and moved behind him. Tilting the chair back, she somehow rested it at an angle and with contentment written in her eyes, she got back to work. Her head was almost on his chest as she angled her view in line with the machine and looked up into his mouth.

“An almost perfect set of teeth, Mehmet. You should make a good subject,” she said, grunting with satisfaction.

The machine whirred into life. Yagmur placed the drill bit on a tooth and pushed her weight behind it. She was drilling a hole in his upper back molar. At first it was only the discomfort of his head being jarred, but then the tool neared the nerve and pain penetrated his skull.

“Ugh, ugh!” he cried, pushing the noise from his throat. He screamed. And then he screamed some more.

She pressed on and pieces of tooth flew. Mehmet’s mouth filled with fluid. Her hand slipped a couple of times and she cursed while Mehmet’s inner core recoiled in pain. He gagged as he tried to suck in through his nose and the spark of life flickered. At that moment, he would have happily died.

“Tsk,” she complained, “such a baby. I’ve hardly started.”

She dropped the chair back onto four legs and Mehmet was sure something worse was about to happen. His body stiffened, readying for more of the same. But instead she offered up a cup of water. It was awkward because of the rubber blocks, but Mehmet was grateful to wash the tooth fragments and blood from his mouth. The act had seemed almost kind but it wasn’t: the water was freezing. It took a moment to make an impact, but when it did…

She chuckled as she leaned him back again. Mehmet couldn’t let go of the final mouthful and had to hold the liquid in his mouth, or choke. Cold water filled the cavity. His sockets widened and his eyeballs tried climbing out of his face to escape the anguish. Agonising throbbing engulfed his body and sweat popped on his brow and ran down his face. How could anyone endure such pain and remain conscious? She stopped, the pain subsided and a warm glow washed over him. For a moment, he wallowed in the relief, exited the water by pushing air from his throat. But it wasn’t over. Again, the drill whirred and she renewed the pressure. The tooth gave, the nerve was breached and in his mind he prayed to be returned to his cell until Ahmet returned for the answers. But no, Yagmur was only changing the drill bit.

“We don’t want one of these little beauties breaking, do we?” she said, curdling his blood with her gruesome laugh. She then dropped the mask and smiled that ugly smile. “Never know what trouble that could lead to.”

Somehow, her sarcasm relieved the pain. Hatred stepped in and Mehmet swore that this little hunchback bitch would die at his hands. As it stood, that would never be possible, but his spirit steeled. He made himself believe it could be so. He had carried bitterness ever since being abducted by Zeki and now she had given him someone new to focus it on.

Still behind him, she moved her forearm and leant it heavily on his brow, her withered breast brushing the top of his head as she did. “Now, don’t get all excited,” she cackled.

The drill whirred and she drilled the lower back molar, directly below the tooth she’d just butchered. Minutes passed like hours and finally the protection over the second nerve was overcome. This time she unplugged the drill, took it back to her case and put it away neatly. She came back with a wooden toothpick in her hand and measured it against his holed teeth. She snapped the stick, fitted it into the cavities and removed the rubber blocks. His tired jaw closed and he bit on the stick.

“So ends the first session, Mehmet. I still have some other little bits and pieces I want to introduce you to should this fail. I’ll be bringing you back for the hat. What’s that? you ask. Okay, the mesh helmet on your head has clips for electrodes; wiring it to the mains causes the temperature to increase gradually. As it gets hotter it sizzles through your hair and then your skin melts. After that, your excruciating battle for life ends as the helmet collapses through your skull cap. I’ve used it before… Interesting, I don’t know why, but I always get hungry near the end.” She cackled like the old witch she was and waited a beat for a response.

But how could he answer? The toothpick forbade it. And his mouth was full of potatoes, or that’s what the swelling made it feel like. “Ughnnnn” was all he could manage.

She exposed her yellow teeth with a smile. “Oh, well, maybe tomorrow,” she said and opened the door. “Take him back to his cell. My work is done – for now.”

Yagmur looked at Mehmet and a chuckle crackled in her throat. The guard came around front and detached the shackles from the chair, leaving them attached to Mehmet’s wrists and ankles. He linked a chain through them, pulled it tight, secured it with a shackle and brought him to his feet. The chain was short and caused Mehmet’s body to arch backwards as the guard marched him from the room. Mehmet shuffled within his limited freedom, stumbling through corridors, terrified he might trip. If he did, he would surely bite on the toothpick. He kept his mouth as wide as he could and stumbled along, the guard occasionally stopping him from falling by grabbing onto the roots of his hair.

At the cell, the guard pushed him in and slammed the door shut, a key clicked in a lock. Tentatively, Mehmet navigated through the darkness until reaching the wall and lay on his side. With the stick where it was, there would be no way he could rest; it had to come out. He moved his jaw sideways, but that only served to hurt him the more. He had to get his hands in front and nearer to his face, break the stick with his fingers.

Moving his arms, he noticed the guard hadn’t pulled the chain as tight as he might have. Mehmet ignored the pain, wriggled and bent his back until his hands touched his heels. He squirmed. He twisted. He accidentally bit down on the stick but then at last the chain, and his hands, was in front of him. He doubled forward and pushed his fingers clumsily against the toothpick. It broke, the pieces dislodged and he was liberated. Mehmet worked his jaw, made sure it wasn’t about to lock up, spat out a mouthful of blood and laid his head on the greasy curve of the bed. In a snap, he’d slipped into an exhausted sleep.

Chapter 24

Another day, maybe the same day, Mehmet was woken by the clattering of the cell door. Without thinking, he stretched and yawned. His jaw had locked and the hinges creaked in unison with the pain. To round off his woes, he let his tongue clack on the roof of his mouth and activated the foulest of tastes. His shoulders sagged in submission; he wondered if his situation could get any worse, and knew it could.

A guard stormed over and rousted him to his feet. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d eaten, but for now dizziness had the upper hand. He lost balance, tottered uncertainly and the guard, being the compassionate kind, pulled him roughly from the cell.

“I didn’t say you could go wandering, did I?” he said, bouncing him against a wall as he spoke.

Jostled and shoved, Mehmet was taken to the interrogation room where they kept the metal chair. Yagmur was already there and was rifling through her bag of tricks, but she stopped to look up at him. He tried ignoring her, while looking around the room. It appeared to be the same room, but the chair had gone and a tin bath had taken its place. And there was just enough water in it to cover the base. A pedal generator had been set up in the corner opposite the small table; a bicycle with the back wheel spindle rigged up to a motor had two clamps with corresponding cables coiled up on the floor next to it. Mehmet wanted to be scared; he should have been, but he felt nothing. His spirit had crumbled. His face and head hurt, his body ached and he could have been about to die, but he really didn’t care.

“You won’t get much from this one,” the guard said. “He nearly collapsed on the way here. He hasn’t eaten for a couple of days.”

“That isn’t your concern,” Yagmur said, foreboding. “Just pedal the generator when I tell you to.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Oversized, the guard’s great bulk looked ridiculous as he mounted the bike.

“Not yet,” she hissed. “Secure him in the bath first, you fool.”

He lumbered his way off the contraption. “Yes, Doctor. Sorry, Doctor.” In seconds, he had released the chains from Mehmet’s manacles and stripping him naked, forced him into the bath and shackled his ankles and wrists to holes on either side of it. The water was cold and Mehmet shivered miserably. The guard got back on his bike and the hunchback clipped the clamps to the manacles then told him to start pedalling. In seconds, Mehmet’s fists had clenched and his toes curled. But his head sagged. He rolled his eyes up to Yagmur and saw her put up a hand.

“He’s supposed to drop his head when the voltage stops, not while you’re generating it,” she said. “You just might owe the guard a favour, Mehmet. Maybe you are too weak for this. You don’t look so good. And we don’t want you dying on us, not yet.” She signalled for the guard to dismount. “One chance, Mehmet. If you tell me what I want, I’ll let you go back to your cell.”

“Anything, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just please don’t hurt me anymore.”

Yagmur leaned towards him, made him face her using a hand under his chin and smiled her yellow smile. “Who are the six people on the list?”

“They’re perverts. They like little children,” he answered, the words crawling from his mouth.

“That’s as maybe, but were they involved in the death of Volkan or were you just blackmailing them for their little indiscretions?”

“No, I wasn’t blackmailing them. Volkan died because he was a pervert too.”

Her face soured. “Don’t fuck with me, you little turd, that is not a reason to kill him.”

“Yes, yes it is,” he said, a new hope quickening his speech. “Volkan was under the impression he was being investigated because of what he was doing to the boys. The perverts were members of his group. Those on the list thought he was going to distract the investigation by turning them in. They hired me to kill Volkan.”

Yagmur cupped a hand over her mouth and shuffled around the room.

“So, you and Yuri killed him and the bodyguards?”

“No, Yuri wasn’t involved. I acted alone,” he answered.

“Huh, you expect me to believe you could do such a thing by yourself? You nearly took me in there, Mehmet. I–”

“No, wait, it’s true! I’ve lived with Yuri for many years. He knew about combat from his early life in the Russian Army and taught me how to fight like a soldier, showed me how to kill people. I used what he taught me. I killed Volkan. I used a couple of boys I know in the Little Dogs gang.”

“How do you know boys from the Little Dogs?”

“Because I was one of them,” he said.

Yagmur’s face told Mehmet he’d reached a turning point. She was taking the bait.

She mumbled, paced some more. “And the names of these two Little Dogs are?”

“One is called Senturk and the other Oz,” Mehmet answered.

The hunchback stood, traced her eyes back and forth over Mehmet’s naked form as his muscles quivered in the cold water. “So you knew Zeki?”

“Yes, I knew him well.”

She nodded. “Very well, what about Yuri? Where is he?”

He knew it; Yuri was still alive. His spirit renewed. “I swear to God, I have no idea. How would I? As far as I was aware he was killed on the night I was taken.”

She nodded deliberately. “So, you’re saying this wasn’t a political assassination, but a paedophile ring watching their backs?”

“Yes, Doctor, and that’s the truth,” he said.

Her face changed as she spit out her next question. “Why was Zeki killed?”

Mehmet had rehearsed this so many times in the cell, he almost believed it himself. “I don’t know how he found out, but he knew what was planned. He was going to warn Volkan that night, so those on the list had him killed – I swear. I was alone on the boat a few days before Volkan died. They delivered the body to the quayside in a tarpaulin. I took Zeki out into the middle of the Bosporus, weighed him down and threw him in.”

Yagmur sighed and turned her attention to the guard. “Put him back in those stinking rags and take him to his cell… There are some things I need to check out, Mehmet, but … we’ll see.”

Taking Mehmet’s trousers from the guard, she put something in a pocket and handed them back.

The guard released Mehmet from the chains. He dressed without being allowed to dry and was marched out of the room and along the corridors. The guard pushed him through the door and he fell to the floor. Hurriedly, he clawed his way to the wall, pitched his back against it and searched the trouser pockets to see what Yagmur had put inside. Something tacky; it felt like clay. It was for his teeth. She’d rewarded him for telling all. Mehmet tore the substance in half, worked it between fingers and thumb until it became pliable enough and then gingerly pushed a piece into each tooth. A moment to get used to the pressure and the relief became exquisite. He lay down and slipped into a relatively comfortable sleep.

*

The routine returned to what it had been before the torture began: warm and then cold, but always dark. When coldness came the guard pushed food and water through the bottom of the door. And that was it. That was Mehmet’s life. He was left alone with his thoughts and felt satisfied that what he’d told the hunchback couldn’t prove him a liar. How could she investigate the Little Dogs? And she wouldn’t accept the word of perverts, especially as he’d admitted the killing. Why would he lie about them? So at least the torture was over.

Thinking he’d been left to his own devices in the cell to live out his life in darkness, he was both surprised and frightened when one day the guard opened the door and used his usual gentle manner to lift him to his feet. Terror cut through him like a knife. Yagmur – somehow Yagmur had found out he’d been lying.

“But I can’t tell her anything else! Please, don’t take me back there.”

The guard laughed as he pushed him through into the corridor, guided him up to ground level and out through the main door. Mehmet couldn’t believe it; he was out on the street with the sun and fresh air stimulating his skin. The guard tugged him around and stood him against a wall. The light dazzled his eyes, but even through the sting of the glare, his soul lifted. He could see a clear blue sky.

Several other men were lined up next to him.

“What’s happening?” Mehmet asked one of them, but the man turned away without answering.

The group waited in silence until a tarpaulin-covered lorry pulled up in front of the police station. Mehmet was first to be bundled into the rear of the truck. The others shuffled in a row along the bench seating next to him and two policemen climbed in after them. They threaded a heavy chain through the prisoner’s manacles, anchoring it to steel rings at the front and rear of the truck. An officer on the pavement tapped the tailgate with a riot stick and the lorry started up, clunked into gear, fought for enough power to get moving and chugged away from the police station, soon to be absorbed into the mainstream traffic.

Chapter 25

There was no way of guessing where they were going, but Mehmet knew it had to be a long way from Istanbul. Apart from the many hours of driving, the sight of the landscape through the open tarpaulin at the rear of the truck had far-reaching views over open countryside and only ended when hills or pine forests popped up to mask the skyline. They travelled along coast roads where woodlands grew on mountainsides and large islands lingered offshore.

The day darkened, the shackles were undone and the officers led the prisoners from the truck to the sidings on one long chain so they could carry out their ablutions, which reminded Mehmet of his time under the jetty. Returning, they were fettered to the truck before being fed a sprinkling of couscous. Mehmet had no idea where the guards went, but the prisoners were left to fend for themselves.

An early start, several more hours of driving, and they came to a shuddering halt. One of the escorts dropped the tailgate, unlocked the chain and rattled it through the shackles, freeing the prisoners. They removed the shackles and a man who had sat next to Mehmet throughout tried speaking to him as he rubbed his wrists. Not one of those prisoners had so much as looked at him in two days. Mehmet turned away: fuck you. The guard ordered them out and they were marched through a small door fitted into the middle of a large stockade gate. Inside was an open compound surrounded by high walls. Uniformed men in watchtower turrets stood at each corner, machineguns mounted in tower openings pointed down into the courtyard at inmates who seemed to wander about aimlessly.

“Get in line and stand to attention,” someone shouted.

They shuffled together, facing a penitentiary-like, multi-tiered building cut into the hillside. As if in synchrony, the prisoners arched their backs and stretched. A senior officer, probably a captain, then came from the entrance of the main building and walked regimentally towards them. The policemen from the truck saluted him and were formally dismissed by a sergeant. They climbed into their vehicle. One took a riot stick and beat it on the floor. The engine sprang into life and they pulled away. Somehow, Mehmet felt abandoned hearing it go.

The sergeant stood, hands behind his back, relaxed, but when the captain neared, he came to attention. The captain stood next to him and addressed the prisoners.

“I am Captain Iscan and I don’t run this prison with too many rules. It’s up to you to find a bed and a cell. We do not lock cell doors. You might think life has just got easy – but it hasn’t … or maybe it has; that’s up to you. Cause me a problem and I will deal with you brutally – believe it! And don’t think of escape. Overnight, the walls are lined with armed policemen and dogs. If you attempt to go over the wall, I won’t have to deal with you because there won’t be anything left to deal with. How the guards react to someone escaping is left to them. Do you understand me?” he shouted.

“Yes, sir,” they answered together – almost.

“Very well. A meal is about to be dished up over in the corner.”

While the prisoners swivelled their heads towards where food was being served, the captain turned on his heel, tapped the back of his thigh with a switch stick and left.

Mehmet had watched it all with disinterest before trailing over to where inmates crowded in on the food. He felt worn out. He couldn’t be bothered. If there was anything left when they’d finished squabbling, he’d eat. If not, tomorrow he might feel renewed. All he wanted now was to find somewhere to get his head down.

A little man pushed his way out of the crowd. He had a large plate heavily laden with beans in tomato sauce, rice salad and bread. He was the only prisoner that no one had challenged and Mehmet wondered how he’d managed it. The man stopped and stared. His expression made Mehmet think he knew him, but he couldn’t imagine how; he had never seen him before, or so he thought.

His face lit up. “Mehmet?” he said.

Mehmet was still convinced he didn’t know him, but answered. “Yes.”

Holding the food against his chest, the man tried taking Mehmet into an embrace, but he couldn’t manage it and stood back. “Mehmet, it’s me, Oz. Remember the Little Dog who stuck to Zeki like shit?”

Mehmet looked at him as he combed fingers through a beard that had taken on a life of its own since Yagmur had last tortured him. “Oz, Oz? Oh, yes, I remember you.” And now he wondered how he could forget. Senturk had continually told Mehmet the boy wasn’t to be trusted. Said he was Zeki’s toad and got the others into trouble for the sake of it. But Mehmet hadn’t seen any truth in those words. In fact, Oz had always seemed friendly towards him and he had liked him well enough in return.

“I just didn’t recognise you. But believe it or not, your name is one of the last I’ve mentioned to anyone in months,” Mehmet said, thinking of his confession to Yagmur.

Oz gave him a confused smile and shrugged. “Come over here,” he said. “We can share this food and that part of the wall over there is mine – nobody will come near.”

He moved to his pitch. Mehmet followed and sat against the yellow sandstone wall with him. Oz handed him a piece of bread, which Mehmet scoffed greedily; he was hungrier than he’d realised. In the station cell he’d had couscous one day and … actually he’d had couscous every day they’d remembered to feed him. This was a plain piece of bread, but it tasted like heaven.

“It was a good day for food, Mehmet,” Oz said. “We usually have couscous.”

“Oh,” was all Mehmet could think to say.

As he sat, the sun beat down on his face and he loved it. Apart from little fluffy white clouds, the sky was clear and blue and other than the permanent musk of urine that had infested his nostrils ever since leaving Istanbul, the air was fresh. But life felt good. To see, to experience, to feel the real world touch him after the darkness, this new prison meant only freedom to him.

His thoughts moved to Oz. “Are you the only Little Dog here?”

“Not any more, Mehmet. I have you.” He grinned wide and happily. “But no, there is one other. He isn’t a prisoner; he’s the sergeant of the guard on the nightshift. His name is Selim.”

“Should I know him?”

“Maybe not, but you should have heard of him. He ran the Little Dogs before Zeki.”

“Oh, yes, Senturk told me stories. Is he giving you protection? Is that how no one bothered you in the food queue?”

Oz grinned. “Yes, he had a sudden change of heart and left the gang. He’s never told me why, but the good news is he’s still our man when it comes to favours. And a lot of the guards here are perverts, if you know what I mean. Not Selim; he’s watched over me well and those who’ve tried to touch me have ended up with broken bones.” He nodded vigorously as if Mehmet might not believe him. “And I get to find out what’s happening in the outside world. From the things he’s told me, you’re a lucky man, Mehmet.”

“I am? And here I was feeling sorry for myself.”

Oz laughed. “I always liked you, Mehmet; you stay happy whatever happens.”

Mehmet suspected he wouldn’t have said that if he’d spent time in the police station with him, but said, “Thanks, how come you’re the only one here? Did the others desert you?”

“Not really. After you and Senturk left to run the gangs in the old city, we robbed a man in a small market, a souk in Beyoglu. The victim turned on us. I was caught. It all happened so fast. I panicked and slashed his arm and you know if you knife anyone above the backside you get prosecuted for attempted murder… So now, unless I escape, I’m here forever.”

“That’s tough,” Mehmet said. “But you were wrong thinking we took over anything in Eminonu. Zeki set us up.”

“Zeki!” Oz shouted. “He didn’t!”

“Yes, I don’t know why, but he had a unit of policemen waiting in Sirkeci. He was there with them. I saw him.”

“What and you were all arrested and kept in a police station?”

“I wish. As far as I know I was the only gang member who wasn’t killed. And I took a bullet in the shoulder.” He pulled his shirt away and showed him the scar – back and front.

Oz shook his head. “He always was a bastard. I was shit scared of him. That’s why I hung around and tried to make it look like he was my hero, save myself from getting a kicking.”

“Hmm, it was a long time ago, but he’s paid the price now.”

Oz’s eyes went wide. “You killed him?”

“Well, not exactly, but I did play a part in his downfall.”

“Anyway, from what you say about the police cell, you’ll be one of the ghosts,” Oz said.

“What, like I don’t exist?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what it means,” he said, and Mehmet noted an air of excitement in his voice.

Oz had been one of the older boys in the gang, probably around twenty-five now. He wasn’t tall then and he hadn’t grown much since. He was scruffy and unusual-looking for a Turk: blondish hair and dark blue eyes.

He went on. “You know who Adnan Menderes is?”

“Yes, the prime minister.”

“Not any more. The generals imprisoned him last May when they took over the senate. The reason you’ll have been moved from a police cell is that the military have begun scouring the stations for political prisoners falsely imprisoned.”

“This might sound stupid, but what year is this and what month?” Mehmet asked, realising he had no idea how long he’d been in that cell.

“It’s March, 1961. Seems they’ve kept you in the dark.”

Mehmet couldn’t help but laugh. “Something like that … but I wasn’t falsely imprisoned and I’m not political,” he mused. And he wasn’t surprised to hear of the military coup, in a way he’d been part of it, but he failed to see how that had an impact on his situation here.

“Maybe you’re not, but I bet you never had a trial.”

“No, you’re right, I didn’t.”

“See? To keep their backs covered, local government ordered all prisoners who hadn’t been through the courts to be moved out of the police stations and into state prisons. But there’ll be no paperwork on you, so unless you escape this is where you’ll live out your days. As I said, you’re a ghost, so if you can get far enough away, they’ll stop looking for you. They can’t be seen to hunt down somebody who doesn’t exist, can they?”

Oz rambled on but Mehmet followed the gist. “I suppose not.”

“So, all we have to do now is find a way out.”

“We?” Mehmet asked.

“Of course. Two of us will stand a better chance.”

“But the captain sounded like the night guards are unforgiving. What would happen to us if we got caught?”

“Don’t think about that one. The last two to escape were dead by the time they’d brought them back through the gates. Don’t worry,” Oz said gleefully, “Selim will help. He’ll make sure our escape is fool-proof.”

Mehmet felt himself warm to Oz; such little-boy optimism. “Okay, if we can find a way we’ll do it together. But I’ll be heading back to Istanbul and when I get there I’ll have to go it alone. I’ve scores to settle that don’t include you.”

“That suits me fine. I can disappear in Istanbul easily enough. It’s getting there that’s the problem. I feel more excited than I can remember! Let’s make the pact.”

They gripped each other’s wrists firmly and shook on the deal.

“Speaking of going to Istanbul,” Mehmet said, “exactly where are we now?”

“This is Synopi Prison, east of Canakkale.”

Mehmet winced; even if they were to escape, Canakkale was a long way from home on foot. They spent the rest of the day in the open compound and shared Oz’s cell overnight. It wasn’t much, but better than where he’d just come from and it kept the night chill at bay. Wide corridors led to tiny cells, a narrow bed left the same amount of floor space and it was the floor where Mehmet was destined to sleep; they weren’t about to become that close.

That day and night had been much the same as the ones that followed and Mehmet came to appreciate Selim. Oz told him the pretty prisoners were sexually assaulted, which Mehmet knew could have meant him too, but the protective arm of Selim cast a frightening shadow amongst his peers, enough to keep them away from him and Oz. He also stood between them and the torture that other prisoners were subjected to; cells weren’t locked, but the iron-barred doors still existed and prisoners were punished by having their feet jammed between the bars and the soles of their feet beaten with riot sticks. If the guards were really upset with them, they’d beat the tops of their feet, which meant they couldn’t walk and in some cases, meant they didn’t live because they couldn’t hold their corner in the food queue.

Mehmet had seen derelict places in his time, but nothing as depressing as the prison building where they lived. On its jaundiced, sandstone walls, rainfall had leaked from broken gutters and drawn black fungal shapes that presided over the courtyard like vengeful angels. The thick bars at the windows were lined with wire mesh grids: another reminder of times when inmates were kept under stricter control. Inside, the painted walls had worn through to stone and the tiled floors sounded hollow underfoot. They rocked when stepped on and cockroaches scattered in every direction. Nevertheless, the smell of disinfectant was stronger than the incessant stink of piss everywhere else. And he had to admit, there was less disease there than there had been under the jetty with the Little Dogs.

One day, Mehmet took to Oz’s bed after Oz went down to the courtyard. After a little more rest than he got sharing the cold floor with the beetles, he went to join his friend feeling fresher. He found him at his patch of wall talking to Selim. Mehmet made his way over.

*

Selim stood with Oz at the wall as he watched Mehmet lazily walking across the prison yard. A strange young man, he thought, clearly afraid of life and yet fearing nothing. There was a constant bitterness about him, but at the same time he was so open and likeable. A total contradiction, but the way he was fucked about what else could you expect? Oz was different, a brother from the old gang that Selim felt obliged to protect, but with him it was like having a dog, or a small child around, no real peer to peer stuff. Unlike Mehmet, he was intelligent and good company. His only real problem was going on too much about wanting to escape. Even that was understandable, especially knowing the story of how he got there. But what was Selim supposed to do? He didn’t believe Mehmet had even heard of Beyrek Ozel, but listening to his story, it seemed fairly clear to Selim that Beyrek had been his downfall. But it was Beyrek who had moved Selim up from the Little Dogs, got him the job on the police force and stationed him in Synopi so that he’d have somewhere to hold his enemies. In fact, that was how Mehmet had been transferred there. Because of the Little Dogs, Selim felt obliged to both Oz and Mehmet, but he owed Beyrek big time, without him he’d be nothing. No, he had no choice; he had to carry on bullshitting Mehmet, make sure he stayed there, but keep him happy.

*

Selim was pretty much what anyone would imagine a scary-looking prison guard to be: tall, not fat but full figured – all meat. It wasn’t the sergeant stripes that stopped the other guards arguing with him; he was a fearful-looking man with a natural aggression, and the scar that begun at his eye and finished near the corner of his mouth completed the picture. Mehmet ran his finger along the tiny scar he received when robbing the souk and smiled.

As he approached, Oz beamed while Selim stood quietly with his arms folded high over chest. That was one of the foreboding looks that even made Mehmet cower inside. But then Selim’s face twitched. Mehmet had known him long enough now to know he was smiling.

“Listen, Mehmet,” said Oz, “remember I told you about the generals arresting Menderes?” Mehmet nodded. “They hung him in September.”

September 1961, Mehmet had been in Synopi close to a year. He raised his eyebrows, fixed his attention on Selim. It must have been nine months ago that he’d promised to help them get out.

“I don’t want to push you the wrong way, Selim,” he began, “but we’ve been talking about escaping ever since I got here. Do you really believe it’s possible? If it isn’t, I’d rather have an honest answer. Put an end to the idea before it drives me mad.” Oz visibly cringed, but Selim showed no emotion. Mehmet waited uneasily for him to say something.

“There was no loyalty under the jetty when I was there,” he began, “but for me, I looked on the Little Dogs as brothers. I said I’d do what I could to get you out of this hellhole, but the timing has to be right. You want my honest answer? Okay. The right time could be tomorrow or two years from now. I just don’t know. I have to stay when you’re gone, so I can’t afford to have eyes on me after your escape.”

Inside, Mehmet felt his little world collapse. “Of course, Selim, I understand.”

Chapter 26

The next two years disappeared without much happening. Mehmet and Oz embraced a training regime, ready for their big escape, and his muscles grew muscles. He no longer gave thought to Yuri and Nina, telling himself that his survival was all that mattered – and believing it. At the end of that period, a new truckload of prisoners was shipped in; with it came a man called Berker.

He was one of those big men. Some might quake inside looking at him – and not because of his size. The top half of his ear was torn off, a scar in his cheek was so deep it had to have been inflicted with a meat cleaver. An eye looked gouged out and the open socket was left exposed. Things got worse when he took an immediate dislike to Mehmet. Why? Who knows, but he couldn’t stop scowling at him. In itself it wasn’t a problem, but then he moved to tormenting him and elbowing him out of the way in the meal queues; trying to goad him into a fight. And when he wasn’t bullying Mehmet, he was bullying everyone else. As far as Mehmet could tell, there wasn’t anything more to the man than that. He dominated the prison yard; even the guards gave him a wide berth.

Mehmet thought it was his fitness and sculptured body that Berker hated. It had to be, the way he watched him train with Oz. His obsession was too intense. And there was nothing to be done if Mehmet was to keep a low profile. If he became known because of fighting he would be missed after his escape, ghost or not. Berker, however, wouldn’t leave it and Mehmet felt forced into doing something about it. But before standing up to this man he would take it to Selim.

“Berker, the big man with the torn ear,” Mehmet said to him one day when they were alone in the prison yard.

“What about him?” Selim asked, disinterested.

“He’s always trying to pick a fight. I’m not scared of him exactly, but if we come to blows and I beat him, even the guards would remember me. My chances of escape would become hopeless.”

“Bullying you? Okay, leave it with me,” he said, without his interest picking up. But he did warn Berker off – in fact, it took several officers with riot sticks.

The beating should have been the end of it, but Berker seemed to be made of sterner stuff and he wouldn’t leave it alone.

Eighteen months of the same and Mehmet managed to dodge his nemesis, sticking to the workouts with Oz, but it seemed there was no escaping the inevitable. One morning, Mehmet made a ball out of a piece of cloth with sand and weed sewn into it. Him and Oz had been throwing high balls. Oz sent one too high and it bounced off a wall and into the alley that ran up the side of the main building. Mehmet ran into the alley to retrieve it, picked it up and turned to find Berker had blocked the exit.

“At last, I’ve got you to myself,” he said, in a voice that made it clear to Mehmet that Berker hounding him hadn’t been about a fight after all. It had been something much less savoury.

Mehmet took a step back. Berker followed, put a hand to his shoulder and squeezed gently. “No need to be afraid, Mehmet. I won’t hurt you.”

Mehmet weighed up his options. He couldn’t worry about becoming known to the guards now. Berker turned his head slightly to the left to compensate for only having one eye. Mehmet thought if he smiled and moved in, made him think he was a willing party, he could reach up and gouge out the good eye.

He readied himself, about to spring, but then Oz shouted, “Mehmet, what are doing in there? Don’t go hiding just because I’m beating you.” He laughed.

Berker half turned, obviously irritated. Mehmet saw the chance and slipped by on his blind side. Mehmet resumed the game with Oz and their laughter clearly put Berker on the wrong foot, his interest really was aggression now. But then, a new truckload of prisoners showed up with a man as big as Berker amongst them: his name was Nazar. He had a large, round, angelic face and it struck Mehmet strange how gentle and considerate he seemed to be, like a giant baby. Mehmet never found out why Nazar was there, but it couldn’t have been much – he was too … gentle.

Nazar turned out to be the opposite of Berker, which meant he took an immediate like to Mehmet and while the two of them never became that close, friendship wasn’t an unreasonable description of their relationship.

Berker decided to shift the glowering from Mehmet to Nazar. One morning, the big men stood together in the soup queue. Berker nudged Nazar and then bellowed at him, “Did you do that on purpose, you fat, ugly bastard?” and pushed him backwards. Nazar stumbled and fell clumsily. The other inmates laughed.

Nazar got back to his feet, brushed himself down and then stared blankly at Berker, innocently. But then he reacted with unbelievable speed for such a big man. He took Berker into a bear hug and pulled him in close. Berker was trapped, his hands flapping, arms pinned against his sides. Nazar tucked his head in and Berker screamed in agony. It became evident why when Nazar pulled back and spit Berker’s left cheek from his mouth.

Mehmet couldn’t believe it when Nazar turned his head to look at him – and grinned, blood running from his lips and red gore stuck to his teeth. How was Mehmet supposed to react to that? He smiled.

Turning his attention back to the job at hand, Nazar threw Berker to the ground, dropped on top of him and pummelled him, head and body. The crowd encircled them, but were soon dispersed as guards waded in with riot sticks. The sticks were turned on Nazar, but he wouldn’t quit punching – and biting. The guards beat him on the head and body, but he continued using fists and teeth on Berker. How long it went on for Mehmet couldn’t say, but eventually Nazar did fall away.

His unconscious body was dragged off. Mehmet had no idea of the damage he’d taken and he never did find out – he never saw him again. Berker, on the other hand, was dead for sure. His head had been caved in on one side and most of his face had been chewed off.

While the reason for Nazar being at Synopi became a little clearer, Mehmet shouldn’t have taken such pleasure from watching the killing, or felt a glow when thinking back on it, but he’d grown to hate Berker and had been more than happy to witness his mutilation. It was the shock of those very feelings that made him realise he’d become an integral part of the senseless and violent penal system he was trapped in. Desperation filled his soul. He had to get out. And it would be with or without Selim’s help.

*

Yet another three years passed. It was now seven since Menderes was hanged for corruption, and that had happened at about the same time Selim told Mehmet to be patient about escaping. And what progress had been made on that front? None! Selim did watch out for Mehmet and Oz so they never had to work or do anything they didn’t want to, which at least kept them safe. But something had to be done and it would have to be done without Selim helping.

It was early one morning and not long after Mehmet had decided to do things his own way. He and Oz lazed at the wall after breakfast, before their workout, and chatted about nothing and everything. And then nervously, Mehmet went for it.

“Oz, I don’t want you speaking to Selim about this but I have a plan…”

Oz’s expression stayed blank.

“We’re going to go it alone, without his help.”

And then he looked shocked. “But, Mehmet, Selim’ll think you’re dumping on him when he finds out.”

Captain Iscan approached and they quietened. The captain’s hands were firmly clasped behind his back and his head was in the clouds, oblivious to all around.

“Yes, I know,” Mehmet said once the captain had passed. “Believe me, Oz, it’s the last thing I want to do, but Selim’s afraid of losing his job. The time will never be right for him.”

Oz stayed silent and Mehmet could almost hear his brain ticking over – then he pouted like a child. Mehmet’s nervous energy changed course and he burst out laughing.

At that moment, Selim came to the wall. “What’s the great joke?” His face twitched… “Well, are you going to share?”

Mehmet felt his face sour. “Oh, I was just messing with Oz about the work detail down in the fields. He doesn’t fancy it.”

The prisoners tended the fields around the prison: olive and orange groves. A detail went out and down the hill most days to work the land.

“But I’ve always kept you away from those details,” said Selim. “So what’s so funny?”

“Nothing really. I was just saying it would break the routine if we volunteered for a detail. But you should’ve seen Oz’s face,” Mehmet said and forced a laugh.

Selim nodded and his face twitched a little more fiercely. “Oh, right, but do you really want to go down there? It gets really hot around midday.”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind giving it a try.” Mehmet couldn’t believe how lucky he’d been the way the subject had come up; it was the first step of the plan he had in mind. “But I’m not sure about Oz.”

Selim sniggered. “Oz?”

“I suppose it might make a change,” he said sullenly.

“Okay, I’ll arrange it. And don’t worry, if you don’t like it, you won’t have to do it again.”

“Thanks, Selim,” Oz said, his face dropping further.

Chapter 27

Selim had been right about the midday heat; it was stifling. But it was good for Mehmet to watch the day’s events unfold. The guards marched the detail down to the fields first light, they then worked till noon before being allowed to roam the groves looking for shade from the heat. The air cooled mid-afternoon, they worked a couple more hours and then returned to the stockade. The whole event was sloppy and Mehmet thought it could work in his favour; even getting back, there wasn’t a head count or roll call until the general one later that evening. And the return had been equally disorganised. Once in the prison yard, the prisoners wandered off in their own sweet way.

Mehmet wondered how there hadn’t been more escape attempts, but then a new notion sent a thrill up his spine: perhaps ghosts had escaped. Who would know? The revelations were putting flesh on his plan.

The day soon came when Mehmet wanted to test if anyone missing from the detail would be noted. The work gang went down to the fields at first light and worked to midday. Come noon, Mehmet steered Oz along a line of olive trees until they were out of sight from the guards.

“Sit on the opposite side of that tree, Oz,” he told him.

Oz’s face quizzed him and Mehmet gave him a little push and a determined nod. Oz shook his head belligerently, but sat where he was told to.

Mehmet moved next to him and looked to where he knew the guards were resting. “Good, even when they get back to work there’s no way they will be able to see us.”

“Why’s that good?”

“Because this will be our first move when we go. If they do look for us this afternoon, it won’t be a problem. We’ll pretend we fell asleep. No one will touch us for fear of upsetting Selim.”

“But then what?” he asked with a little hostility.

Mehmet knew Oz’s problem was about them not telling Selim what they were up to. “Look, Oz, it was you who said you wanted to be included in the escape. You can go back to the detail now if you want. I’ll do it alone. It will be easier like that anyway.”

Oz huffed in submission. He wasn’t exactly overjoyed, but Mehmet knew how desperate he was to get out. He’d been in Synopi nearly ten years longer. He was sure he’d be happy enough once they put distance between them and the prison.

“Good. If we go unnoticed today, we make our move tomorrow.”

They re-joined the detail late afternoon and returned to the compound. Oz wandered off sulking after saying, “I’m going to the cell.” Mehmet slouched against the wall, let the sun baste his face.

A few minutes later, Selim came over from the other side of the yard. “Seen Oz?” he asked without slowing his footfall. Thank goodness: he was in a hurry.

“He’s in the cell, felt a bit sick.”

“Okay, tell him I’ve got that rolling tobacco I promised,” he said, and with that was gone.

Another hour passed and Oz came back into the yard, still dragging his feet. “Selim has that rolling tobacco he promised you,” Mehmet told him.

“Rolling tobacco,” Oz said, eyes lighting up. “Good old Selim.”

Mehmet wasn’t sure if he’d said that on purpose. If he had, it worked; he felt as guilty as hell. But he pushed the comment aside. Except for the scheming behind Selim’s back, everything was going well. He felt excited, left Oz where he was and walked away with his head down. Almost to the cell block, he hadn't noticed Selim and walked into him.

“Sorry, Selim, my thoughts were somewhere else,” he said.

He gave Mehmet a suspicious look. “No problem. Is everything all right with you, Mehmet? You seem … I don’t know, awkward.”

“I’m fine,” he lied. “I think the heat of the day has worn me down.”

Oz caught up having dogged Mehmet’s footsteps. Selim handed him the tobacco without asking if he still felt sick and Oz whooped with delight. Then what Oz had been feeling hit Mehmet. Selim was his friend and he was betraying him. And he was making it obvious.

“Well, it’s certainly stopped you badgering me about an escape,” Selim said.

Mehmet laughed but knew it didn’t sound sincere. “Oh yes, we must talk about that,” he joked and that didn’t sound convincing either.

Selim skewed his head slightly sideways and stared at Mehmet, but then turned away, left them to complete his check of the inside perimeter wall.

“He knows, Mehmet,” Oz said when Selim was out of earshot.

“No, he doesn’t,” Mehmet said. “He couldn’t.”

*

Mehmet didn’t sleep well that night. Thoughts were of Selim when he dropped off and were still there the many times he woke with a start. After the life he’d had, he hated the idea of betrayal, but… Should he tell Selim and be dammed? A noble thought, but every time it passed through his head, the persistent desire for freedom overruled it. No, he had to get out!

Morning came, Mehmet mustered, and the idea of telling Selim had dissolved along with the night. The detail was first in the yard for breakfast and after eating, they gathered by the gates. The guards led them down the hill and they spent a cloudy morning picking olives.

“It isn’t overly hot today. Do you think we’ll still get our break?” Mehmet asked Oz.

“Definitely,” he said. “Look, the guards are gathering at their usual place.”

The group disbanded, headed for the shade of bushier olive trees. Mehmet and Oz found the spot they’d hidden in the previous day and lay there motionless for hours. The detail finished the afternoon shift and left for the compound. The sun went down and darkness came. The penitentiary walls were a good distance away, but the laughter coming from the gun tower cut through the silence as if they were right next to them.

Mehmet gave Oz a tug. “C’mon, we’ve got to go.”

They crept away, backs hunched and footfall a whisper. Mehmet always felt the first grove would be the telling point, but they crossed through easily and entered the second, creeping forward, but on the other side a stranger’s footsteps dragged in the dust. Mehmet and Oz picked their heads up at the same time and then stopped dead.

“Selim,” Mehmet croaked.

“Going somewhere?” Selim asked, standing at the end of the dirt track, hand cupping a smouldering cigarette. He lifted the stub to his lips and drew deeply. Smoke dribbled from his nostrils like dragon breath. “You think I’m stupid, Mehmet?” He looked more hurt than angry.

Oz moved behind Mehmet. Mehmet felt a lump cram for space in his throat and squeaked his answer. “No, Selim, of course not. We were making the escape without your knowledge out of respect. I swear.”

Selim shook his head. “Oh please, tell me how it’s a mark of respect for the pair of you to go behind my back and ridicule me.”

“No, no, not the pair of us,” Mehmet said, and Oz tucked in behind him so much, Selim probably couldn’t even see him by now. “Oz didn’t want to go along with it. I made him, I promise. I’m desperate, Selim. I have to get out. I have unfinished business and it must be seen to, even at the cost of my life. Please believe me when I say I didn’t want to offend you. If there was anything else I could’ve done, I would’ve done it. You’ve been like a brother to me and I wouldn’t want to do anything to … please, Selim.”

Selim turned away, his head hung low and he kicked up dust from the road. Suddenly, a light flared a beam wide and strong from atop the wall. It lit up the groves and beyond.

“Who’s there?” a voice shouted.

Selim stood firm while Oz and Mehmet ducked into the olive trees.

“Stand down,” Selim shouted. “It’s me, Selim. I’m having a smoke and checking the area. Turn that fucking light off; you’re blinding me.”

The beam died. Mehmet and Oz came out and silence hung in the air as they all stood staring at each other.

Selim broke the quiet. “Mehmet, you’re a ghost. You won’t be missed, and I do understand your need to leave. But you, Oz, you’re on the register and will be missed. Go together and they’ll hunt both of you down. Mehmet, you can go. Oz, you must come back with me.”

“No…” Oz wept weakly, his weight falling against Mehmet as his knees buckled.

Mehmet’s loyalty kicked in and his heart grew heavy. “Thanks, Selim, but I can’t go without Oz.”

“Then you must both come back.”

“But you and I are brothers, Selim,” Mehmet pleaded.

“I thought so,” he replied. “But a brother wouldn’t put me at risk.”

Mehmet’s shoulders slumped. He nodded and the three of them started back to the stockade. But there must be a way, he thought, there had to be… If only he could talk Selim round. And then it hit him. There was a way – the other ghosts. Mehmet’s sympathies had often been invoked by one. A man called Altan. He was bullied, beaten, and rumour had it the guards were raping him. If only Mehmet could persuade Selim.

“Wait, Selim. There is one way we could both go.”

Selim stopped. He looked irritated as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Well?”

“You can give Oz’s identity to one of the ghosts. When the roll call is made, the ghost you choose can say he’s Oz.”

“Yes, of course,” Selim smirked. “And one of the ghosts is sure to go along with that, for the good of his fellow man.” He shook his head and a cynical laugh grated from his throat.

“But some of them are being abused, especially the one called Altan. Offer him your protection and tell him that one day there might even be a chance of reprieve… Who would refuse such an offer? Please, Selim.”

Selim walked back and forward, and then back down towards the dirt track. Mehmet and Oz trailed a half-step behind. Selim smoothed his chin and rubbed his hand over his face. He shook his head, scraped his boots across the dust and Mehmet’s heart was in his mouth. He just couldn’t tell which way Selim’s thoughts were going. He almost stopped breathing as he waited to find out and then had to grab for air to appease his lungs.

Selim stopped, stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips, and nodded triumphantly. “Yes, it will work,” he announced. “But you must go now. Both of you – go.”

Oz ran to Selim and tried to embrace him. Selim pushed him off and walked away, but then stopped and came back.

“You’ll need this,” he said, stashing a heavy roll of lire into Mehmet’s hand. Then he turned and walked back up the hill.

Chapter 28

Icmeler, Turkey, 1967

Beyrek Ozel sat in one of the warehouses where the heroin was stored. His wife, Gizem, sat across from him. He would rather have been at the club, The Turkish Delight, with his Russian girls, but he wasn’t, so he and Gizem stared at each other over a couple of coffees that had long since grown cold. Gizem wore the expression she always had when there was a problem and Beyrek hated it; like she’d been drinking curdled milk. Sighing, he pushed away the coffee, retrieved a bottle from the stationery cupboard and poured a Raki.

“You?” he asked, tottering the bottle over an empty glass.

“No. I’ve got no more stomach for that than I had the coffee,” Gizem answered curtly.

“It might be nothing. Don’t worry,” Beyrek said, voice singing, but feeling as bitter as his wife looked.

They’d not long been told that his Russian partner, Captain Otto Mitrokhin, had sold his side of the business to another Russian: a man called Vladislav Nabokovski. Otto had struck up the partnership with Beyrek in the fifties to launder his money, and then in the sixties the business grew. Russian girls were tricked into thinking they were headed for a better life while, in reality, Beyrek groomed them for prostitution and sold them on. Otto had kept his nose out of the dealings, happy to take his cut from afar. But now Nabokovski was stepping in to take his place and he was the ‘hands-on’ type. All well and good, but if he got too close, he could stumble onto the drug trade, and Beyrek’s other Russian partners had made it clear that if the flesh traffickers found out about the drugs, they would move the business.

Gizem kept on prodding. “You’re wrong. Nabokovski could be the biggest problem you’ve had to date.”

Beyrek let his mind drift. It was because of the partnership with Otto that he’d had to kill Levent. Strange how things…

“Are you listening?” Gizem demanded.

His feathers ruffled. “Yes, of course. I’m giving it my full attention, woman.”

She started again. “Otto has forewarned you that Nabokovski is Russian mafia, so you can’t just ignore what is happening, hope it will go away–”

“Oh, for… Gizem let me think.” He swallowed the Raki in a gulp and poured another. Everything had been perfect; why had Otto had to go and spoil it?

Again, Gizem’s mouth flapped. “Leaving Russians here to oversee things can only mean trouble for trade … and we’ll probably lose the most lucrative of them.”

Beyrek sighed heavily. “Look, I know what Nabokovski thinks he’s doing, but it’s not going to happen. He won’t find out about the drug operation because I won’t let him. If you think I’m taking this lightly, Gizem, you’re wrong. We just need time to work–”

“But–”

“Enough!” he said, holding up a hand. He was tired of listening to her incessant bullying. Why couldn’t she just talk things over?

“We can’t start a war,” Gizem continued, refusing to be cowered. “If we do, you lose the trafficking business and the drugs.”

There she goes, stating the obvious. But he supposed he should let her have her say. She often came up with good ideas. “So what is the answer, my love?” he asked sarcastically.

The fire in Gizem’s eyes burnt into his and he flinched then straightened his back, smoothed his lapels between thumbs and forefingers and coughed into his chest. Mother of his children or not, she should be very careful about treating him with such contempt. People have died for less. But he knew the thoughts were just that, thoughts; he could never hurt Gizem.

“The answer isn’t totally clear yet, my love,” she said cynically. “But we have to keep him sweet and at the same time, persuade him it would be wrong to keep any of his people here.”

“Yes, but before that can happen, we have to let him leave two or three people here; we have no choice with that.”

Gizem agreed.

“Good,” Beyrek said. “I need to sort a little business out at the club.” He stood to leave.

“Make sure you take precautions,” Gizem said bitterly as his hand took hold of the door handle. “I don’t want you lying next to me with a disease oozing from you.”

He grunted and left the office.

*

Several days passed. Nabokovski was due in and Beyrek waited at the end of the runway in the Dalaman suburbs. His two cars had travelled forty kilometres over rough, winding roads from Icmeler. He was hot. He was tired. And he was far from euphoric. Beyrek knew this meeting with Nabokovski was about him learning his place in the greater scheme of things – bastard.

At last, a medium-sized aircraft came into sight, flying low over the hills. The hard lines of the plane distorted as they broke down in the shimmering heat. Beyrek stared blankly, wishing it would fall from the sky. But no such luck; it came in to land and rigid rubber tyres bounced several times on the runway, kicking off wafts of yellow cloud with each encounter. At the side of the strip, the dry grass was rustled and dust motes scattered into the air. The plane taxied and then came to a stop. Two field workers then pushed a set of steps up to the front door. An air hostess flung the door back and came down, waited to bid her passengers a pleasant onward journey.

Beyrek stood within a couple of metres of the stewardess as the first passenger alighted. Clearing the steps, the man stood behind Beyrek without having acknowledged him – uncomfortable: he was a big man with a fearsome expression. Four more men came out; three looked the same as the one behind him and Beyrek wondered if they were standard issue. The fourth was different: not overly tall, but as wide as any Beyrek had ever seen, almost monstrous in proportions; his bald head glistened as it bent forward to meet a white handkerchief, lifted to mop at the sweating dome. Nabokovski.

The Russian capo wore a brown, Italian-style suit with a darker brown chalk line running through the material. It was single-breasted with wide lapels and looked like pure wool. His white silk shirt was laced at the neck with a brown tie that was a smidgeon lighter than the suit. Everything matched perfectly down to his small feet, which were fitted with brown, patent-leather shoes that looked stylish and costly. A little respect crept into Beyrek’s mind; the man knew how to dress.

Nabokovski drew closer and Beyrek could smell perfumed skin – classy.

“You must be Beyrek Ozel,” Nabokovski said in not-very-good Turkish. “Else I want to know why he sent minion.”

“Yes, I’m Beyrek, and you must be Vladislav Nabokovski.”

“Yes. And I feel very hot here direct from Moscow. Too fucking hot. I don’t like,” he said, but he moved forward and embraced Beyrek, planting a kiss on each of his cheeks – not a pleasant experience.

Despite a stiff language barrier, they dropped surprisingly easily into conversation while crossing the runway to the limousines. Beyrek relaxed a little. As usual, the worst part of any problem is the anticipation. They got into the first of the two cars and sped off on their journey to Icmeler.

Chapter 29

Six days later, Beyrek took Nabokovski back to the airstrip and the awaiting plane. “Beyrek, been pleasure meeting. And remember, only left men with you, give you more muscle.”

Of course Beyrek believed that; how could he have managed all these years without them?

“I understand, Vladislav. They will be a welcome addition to the running of the business.”

Nabokovski embraced him, took to the steps and boarded the plane without looking back. Beyrek, on the other hand, felt compelled to watch to make sure he left. The propellers thrummed, the plane taxied onto the runway, raced along it and took off, leaving a haze of dust in its wake. With the craft in the air, Beyrek’s shoulders sagged with relief and he made his way back to the car.

He got himself comfortable in the back and ordered the driver to go. The Russian heavies Nabokovski was leaving in Turkey had come along to chaperone their master, so now Beyrek would drop them off at The Turkish Delight, let them get lost in the fleshpot. It would keep them out of mischief. As they drove, the strength of the sun magnified through the window, he tired under its warmth and thoughts of Nabokovski ran sleepily through his mind.

He was a gross man, Beyrek couldn’t imagine anyone giving him an argument on that thought, and maybe that was why the fact filled him with disgust. The girls he used while in Icmeler were locals, said he needed a change from the usual Russians, and they were much too young. Beyrek had never given a shit about who liked what in that department, it was just business, but Nabokovski turned his stomach. Watching the young girls being led to his room caused a thread of sympathy to run through him that he never knew he had.

The car jolted him to the present as it drew to a halt at the club. He got out with the Russians, went into the club and told the manager to let them have who and what they wanted. Back in the car, he ordered the driver to take him to the warehouse. Gizem had said she would wait there for him. With Nabokovski gone and the remaining Russians not appearing too bright, his feelings towards Gizem had changed yet again. And why not? She was the mother of his children after all. But, getting through the door, his spirits sunk on seeing the sour look on her face – what now?

“I’ve racked my brains, Beyrek,” she told him, “but a plan to rid us of these people will be harder than I had first imagined.”

“So, plain and simple, we’re in the shit,” he replied with venom. But then a spike of fear suddenly ran up his back as another scenario jumped to mind. He shared the thought with Gizem. “If these goons find out about the drugs, Nabokovski might think he’s been double-crossed… If that happens, we could lose more than the businesses.”

She shook her head. “Nothing is over until it’s over. We still have time on our side. And besides, we run Turkey, not the Russians.”

“Hmph, I need a Raki.”

*

It had been two days since Nabokovski flew off into the horizon and during those days, Beyrek and Gizem had sat in the warehouse batting around ideas, trying to think of ways they might get rid of the Russians – but getting nowhere. The afternoon wilted, twilight stepped up and then dusk fell. It was late. They hadn’t eaten. Time had come to wrap it up for this day.

Beyrek reached for a navy mackintosh that hung on the walnut hat stand in the corner. “Come. I’ll roll back the soft top and drive you into Marmaris for something to eat.”

No time for reply; their eldest son, Ilkin, rushed in. Every time this son unexpectedly came into Beyrek’s presence he felt his chest expand of its own accord; he was the eldest of his two offspring, a tall, young man with thick, black hair full of soft, gentle waves, athletically built and a handsome face; he … he should have knocked. After failing to find a solution for the Nabokovski situation, Beyrek felt in the right mood to fire a few shots from the hip. But before he could berate him, Ilkin beat him to the punch.

“Papa, we have trouble at The Turkish Delight,” he blurted out.

“What, what kind of trouble?” Gizem butted in and Beyrek sighed in resignation.

“Eren is in the back office with one of the Russians – err, Dmitri. They seem to have the same interest in dirty magazines and are sitting reading them together.”

Eren was Beyrek’s youngest son and he represented everything he wouldn’t have wanted in a child.

“Good God, Ilkin, you think that’s big trouble?”

“Beyrek! He’s not finished,” Gizem spoke up protectively, her face hardening. “Just let him get to what he wants to say.”

Beyrek pulled a chair out from under the desk and sat. He felt his face set into an expression of disinterest.

“The trouble,” Ilkin said, “is that they’ve got hold of opium and brown sugar and they’re both completely wasted.”

Beyrek straightened as if a broom handle had been rammed up his backside. His lips compressed purposefully. “Do you know whether Eren has said anything about the warehouses and has Dmitri spoken to the other Russians yet?”

“I don’t know about the warehouses, but the other two Russians have drugs as well. They got them from the same dealer, but they’ve gone back to the hotel with theirs.”

Beyrek jumped to his feet, but Gizem put up a hand. “Wait. Stop where you are, Beyrek, and think about what you’re about to do.”

“I’m going to pull that idiot out of the club before he tells Dmitri everything. If he does that, it will be the death of us.”

“No, no, I said think about what you’re about to do. We might be looking at the answer we want.”

Beyrek turned from the door. “Answer? How?”

“One thing at a time… Ilkin, make your way to Icmeler as fast as you can. Make sure Sergeant Kudret and his officers get to The Turkish Delight as soon as.”

Sergeant Kudret had been on Beyrek’s payroll since coming to Icmeler as a cadet many years earlier. It was through Beyrek’s connections in Istanbul that Kudret got his promotion. Over the years, Beyrek made sure the only officers who got to work for Kudret were as easily corrupted as he had been.

“Don’t hang about,” she continued. “Go now while I tell your father what we’re about here. He’ll meet you outside the club later. Go.”

Ilkin left.

*

Beyrek liked watching and to meet that need, he had a small room built into the back of The Turkish Delight, a cupboard really. The entrance was from outside and the wall between it and the office had a two-way mirror. From there Beyrek could see his pimps teaching the Russian girls how to pleasure a man.

His was the only key to the room and he’d made sure he had it with him when he left the warehouse. Now, he crept around to the back of the building and went into the cubbyhole to see what Eren and the Russian were doing.

Papers were strewn about the office, a chair lay on its back and cupboard drawers hung open like the gaping mouths of overheated dogs. Eren and Dmitri were leant over the desk. Eren’s head nodded as he fought to pull himself upright and then he steadied a cigarette lighter under a piece of cup-shaped silver paper: Beyrek’s cigarette lighter. Clearly, the men had drugs but no fire, so they’d turned the office upside down until finding the lighter. The white powder nested in the silver bowl turned to liquid and fumes dribbled over the foil. Putting the lighter aside, Eren took a cardboard tube off the desktop, pushed it up his nose and chased the dragon.

Dmitri took a switchblade from his jacket and used the cutting edge to tidy a line of dope. He pulled out a pack of Druzhba cigarettes and snapped the long cardboard tube off the end of one of them. He stuffed it into a nostril and snorted the opiate stripes. Sitting back, he brushed particles of white powder into his nose and sniffed hard. A distant look crept over his face: he’d been using a lot more than a few lines.

Having seen enough, Beyrek left. He found Sergeant Kudret out front with Ilkin. The two men waited next to a police car while three other policemen guarded the club door.

“Kudret,” Beyrek greeted. “Thanks for reacting so quickly. We have one very big fucking Russki in the back office. He could be trouble if he’s a mind to kick up. I want him arrested for drug possession. Take him to Marmaris and down to the far end of the quay near the marina. Also arrest my son, Eren. I want him to stew in jail for a couple of days. You go ahead. I’ll meet you in Marmaris. Oh, and Eren should be able to tell you who supplied the junk. Have your men pick up the dealer.”

“And if he doesn’t tell us who the dealer is?”

“Give the little bastard a kicking. He’s never been one for pain. Whatever happens, it’s important you get hold of the seller and take him to the marina.”

“Okay, will do, Mister Ozel. See you in Marmaris.”

“Ilkin, stand over here with me and stay out of the way.”

They melted into the shadows and watched.

Kudret brought Dmitri out of the club. Fortunately, it was a peaceful arrest: the Russian was huge, shoulders a bull would be proud of, a massive square head and Beyrek couldn’t even take a guess at how tall he might be. But, it hadn’t been a problem because the Russian walked out sedately between two officers and allowed Kudret to press a hand to the top of his head to ease him into the back seat of the police car. The officers climbed in next to him and the car yielded with a groan. Kudret got in the front next to the driver and they left for Marmaris.

Eren tottered drunkenly out of the club with a policeman gripping his elbow and Beyrek suppressed an exasperated sigh. The officer snapped handcuffs on Eren’s wrists and pushed him into the back seat of the second police car. The car started up and they followed Kudret’s route.

Beyrek took Ilkin into the back office to see the state of play. He shook his head despairingly then picked up the switchblade that Dmitri had left and put it in his jacket pocket.

“This lot can be cleaned up later. C’mon, Ilkin, we have unfinished business.”

A short drive brought them west of Marmaris. They left the car in the village, walked to the quayside and turned in a direction towards the marina. There was hardly a breath of wind on the ground, but high in the sky silvery, thin cirrus cloud chased across a full moon. It was only that moon and its starlit accompaniment that stopped them from being consumed by the darkness.

A little way from the arranged meeting point, Beyrek saw Sergeant Kudret, Dmitri and a young man whom he assumed was the drug dealer. Dmitri was close up to the dealer but they’d been cuffed separately. Kudret paced the quay, handgun drawn, looking nervous. In fact, he was so twitchy that when Beyrek’s heels scuffed on a short length of wooden staging, he turned his gun on him. But then he nodded and returned focus to the captives.

“Is that the dealer?” Beyrek asked.

“Yes, Eren gave him up as soon as my officer lifted a hand to him, didn’t even hit him.” Kudret sniggered and Beyrek shook his head.

He went to the Russian and said, “Dmitri, oh Dmitri, I’m truly sorry it’s had to come to this, but Nabokovski just couldn’t leave things alone. And it’s never the bosses who suffer, is it?”

Dmitri was yet to return to planet earth and the response he gave was goofy at best – unlike the dealer. The dealer reminded Beyrek of his younger son: around the same age, short, staring downward and fidgeting, looking shifty, as if getting ready to pick your pocket. Unlike Dmitri, this young man was fully aware of what was going on.

Beyrek’s hand felt white-knuckled as he gripped the switchblade he’d picked up at the club. He knew he should relax, but it had been a long time since he’d been in this sort of mix. He laid a hand on Dmitri’s shoulder and smiled up at him, but then bowed his head while shaking it. Suddenly the silent night gave way to the swish of the blade and Beyrek thrust his arm forward. In a flash, the steel had driven up to the hilt into Dmitri’s lower intestine. Beyrek took hold of the handle with both hands and pulled upward. The sharp blade ripped through Dmitri’s groin until his guts were spilling out onto Beyrek’s wrists. Dmitri gawped in horror. Beyrek was pleased to notice Ilkin watch on without emotion.

The big man’s life ebbed as his weight dropped, assisting the blade in slicing through his body. Movement stopped when flesh gave way to bone. Beyrek eased Dmitri off the dagger and with the help of Kudret and Ilkin, he lowered him to the quayside.

Beyrek’s shirt and the cuffs of his jacket were saturated and glistening with Dmitri’s blood and entrails – But what choice? To get the Russian mafia to leave his turf, extreme measures were necessary; he and Gizem had agreed on that.

Beyrek turned his attentions to the dealer and held his palms open. “I’m sure you don’t envisage this kind of end for yourself, do you?”

Water ran from the cuffs of the dealer’s trousers. He’d pissed himself. “No, please, I’ll do anything. Please let me live,” he begged, voice trembling, weeping like a baby.

“Well, let me see,” Beyrek mused. “Did you see anything here tonight?”

“No,” the dealer stammered, “nothing. I haven’t even been in this area. I swear to Allah, I’ve seen nothing.”

“Very well, release him, Sergeant Kudret.”

“But…”

“No buts, Sergeant, just release him. He isn’t going to tell anybody.”

Kudret mumbled to himself as he undid the shackles, all the time keeping hold of the dealer’s arm to stop him from running. “Mister Ozel, I really don’t think this is a good idea,” he said.

“He’s a drug dealer. Who would believe him over us?”

“I still don’t…” Kudret began, but gave up and released the young man’s arm.

“Walk away slowly,” Beyrek said. “We don’t want you drawing attention.”

The dealer nodded gratefully, bowed with his hands together at chest level and moved away slowly. Beyrek let him walk a couple of steps and then whispered to his sergeant, “Quickly, Kudret, he’s getting away.”

Kudret grinned, steadied his arm and squeezed off three booming shots. The dealer’s body lifted from the ground and flew forward before crashing to the quayside. A pool of thick, black-looking blood seeped from his mouth and his eyes stared into nothingness.

Beyrek gave Kudret a congratulatory nod and said, “The other Russians are at the hotel. They also bought drugs from this dealer. They probably already used the stuff, but I want them arrested in possession of whatever the dead dealer has on him. Make the paperwork reflect that the dealer killed Dmitri and was shot while fleeing the scene.”

Beyrek and Ilkin left Kudret stripping the contents of the dealer’s dead body. Beyrek wiped his hands down his bloodied clothing. He was furious.

“Filthy, shitty blood all over my expensive clothes. Look at that! When we get back I’ll need to shower and bathe. When I do, you see to it that these clothes are incinerated.”

But his spirits seemed to lift as they approached the car and he addressed his son again, smiling. “Ilkin… I was pleased to see tonight’s actions didn’t bother you much.”

“Didn’t bother me at all. Why should it?”

Beyrek laughed. “Good boy. Not like that stupid brother of yours.” He was covered in blood and shit, but it had almost been worth it to see Ilkin’s reactions. It was like having the power to look in a mirror of twenty years ago. But then his footfall stopped and he jerked his head as a new thought struck him. “Fuck!” he said. “I think we’ve been a bit hasty taking the dealer out.”

“Why?”

“The only person running drugs in Icmeler and Marmaris is me. If we’d kept the dealer alive, he could’ve told us where he got his hands on the shit, my shit.”

Chapter 30

The following morning, Beyrek went to the warehouse where the heroin mix was created and bagged up. He ran two depots: one for the raw intake and one to produce the finished product. When Dmitri and Eren were snorting their cocktail at the club it had already been processed, so the thief, or thieves, had to be working in this team.

The baggers sat at long, rectangular tables, masked up to protect themselves from the white powder. Heads picked up sharply as Beyrek marched through with two of the security guards. He already had their attention, so he took centre stage and shouted, “It seems there are those here who think this is a cooperative – that it’s okay to take home a share of the produce.”

Beyrek looked around his audience, saw eyes widen and eyebrows raise, but failed to see any sign of concern. No one had reacted to the words, but then his attention was drawn to an Arab chemist, Mahmoud. He stood in an open doorway to the office, looked twitchy and dropped his gaze when Beyrek focused on him.

“Mahmoud, a word,” Beyrek demanded.

Mahmoud’s head seemed to grow ever heavier, but he managed a nod and waited for Beyrek to go first before following him into the office.

“Stay out here,” Beyrek told the security men on his way in. He then sat behind the desk and told the chemist, “Sit. The processed drugs, Mahmoud, you’ve been skimming – yes?”

“No, Mister Ozel, but I do know about it. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid.”

Sounded interesting; Beyrek couldn’t wait to hear the explanation. “Well, there’s no backing away from it now. I’m all ears. Fire away.”

Mahmoud looked hesitant, but then his shoulders slumped. He sighed, clasped his hands at chest level and repeatedly bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Mister Ozel, but Eren has been taking bags of the stuff, as much as a half-kilo at a time. I was afraid to tell you because he’s your son.”

Beyrek felt his jaw drop. But then he thought about it and realised the previous day hadn’t been a one-off for Eren. He’d been detached from reality for some time now and he’d lost weight. He always complained of tiredness and if it wasn’t that, it was stomach pains. It took a lot of shit to get in that state. All the same, taking it to chase the dragon was one thing, but the little bastard had gone into business.

Beyrek slapped his head. “Stupid!” he shouted, spittle spraying out with the words.

“I’m sorry, sir. I promise I won’t let it happen again,” Mahmoud begged.

Beyrek became aware of the Arab sitting before him. “No, not you, fool. I’m talking about myself,” he said. “But you should have told me.”

He studied Mahmoud: a good chemist. And only an idiot would tell tales on the boss’s son. But if one gets away with it, they all think they can get away with it.

“Okay, Mahmoud,” said Beyrek. “I’ll let it go this time.”

Relief and gratitude overflowed onto Mahmoud’s face.

Beyrek brushed by him and left the office. “Derya,” he said to one of the guards as he closed the door, “the chemist is our man. Take care of him. Maybe a little sailing trip.”

As for Eren’s punishment, he could stew in the hellhole for a lot longer than was first intended.

*

Three weeks had passed since Dmitri was killed and the other Russians arrested, it was early morning and Beyrek stood near the end of the sandy runway at Dalaman Airport awaiting Nabokovski’s arrival. As before, the medium-sized aircraft came into sight low over the hills. And again, it’s hard lines distorted in shimmering heat that danced with the shape of the plane.

Disembarking, Nabokovski nodded to the stewardess, approached Beyrek, embraced him and kissed him on either cheek. “It good to see you, Beyrek, just pity like this. My people returned Moscow yesterday, tell me all what happen. I think from now, we leave Turkish business to Turks.”

Extreme measures are always the answer, Beyrek thought as his spirit lifted, but he retained his business-like front. “Turkey is a difficult place for foreigners at the minute, Vladislav. I was lucky to get your men out of prison. I say ‘difficult for foreigners’, but you’ll know my son was mixed up in the fiasco with Dmitri. He’s still in jail somewhere now, but I can’t find out where. The authorities have a habit of putting prisoners in the middle of nowhere and forgetting about them.

“But enough of my trouble – sorting things out for you is what’s important. It’s just a great pity we lost Dmitri the way we did. Unfortunately, that kind of thing happens anywhere. Drug dealers can be violent people.” Beyrek nodded to himself as if in sympathy. “At least we got his killer.”

“Yes, that good, and what you say true. But reason I come is because I do not dodge responsibility. I wanted tell your face. I wrong to leave people here. You to stay running business as did for Otto. I see now Otto knew what doing he was. So, as you say, pity Dmitri, but things happen. I not stay. I catch next flight back, only wanted tell you myself.”

Beyrek felt his chest fill with triumph and relief as he watched the doors close and the aircraft taxi to a take-off position. He’d done it. But for now, his usual visit to the club and warehouses could wait. He wanted to get home. He felt the need to share with Gizem.

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; there 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 skinny 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.

*

Mehmet continued with his surveillance and Yagmur’s pattern changed. She began spending more time at the police station; maybe the season for hurting people had arrived. At the end of each day he followed her home, hoping for an opening. He had chosen an alley to commit his deadly deed because so few people used it, but as if to contradict his theory, every time Yagmur went through someone tagged along behind her.

Friday came and she hadn’t been going into the station at weekends. He’d had enough. It had to be done on this day. But he was foiled again. When Yagmur hobbled out of the building, Ahmet was with her. She took her normal route and he walked by her side. Mehmet couldn’t endure another week of following this awful woman around, but… His heart lifted, thumped in his chest. He could take them both together.

He followed, hand firmly gripping the butt of the Welrod, but Ahmet stopped several streets before the chosen alleyway and looked around suspiciously before pulling a small package from a leather jerkin. A few words passed between him and Yagmur and he handed her the parcel. He rested an affectionate hand on her shoulder and then walked off. Yagmur secreted the packet in her overcoat and hurried on with her journey.

Mehmet shook his head, dismayed at what he’d intended doing. His vengeance wouldn’t be sated until he’d destroyed every one of those instrumental in putting his life where it was. If he’d killed Ahmet and Yagmur together, what information would he have to take him to the next step? Stupid! The thought dissolved and trembling took a hold of him on seeing Yagmur turn off into the chosen alley – alone. Now was the time.

He followed her in. The alley was clear. He lifted the Welrod and aimed. But his arm was almost flapping uncontrollably. If he pulled the trigger, chances were he’d hit her in the leg – or the head – assuming he hit her at all. He had to close the gap. He ran, but it was with spastic movement. His nervousness had him losing authority over his legs. The thought of calling it off came to mind. But the idea was overridden by images of the pleasure this sadistic torturer took in annihilating his teeth. Resolve lifted him and his footsteps obeyed his wishes.

He got near enough to touch her and yelled. “Yagmur!”

She turned, at first surprised, but then her eyes narrowed, her face hardened and shockwaves ran up Mehmet’s spine. His arms tightened by his sides, the gun peeping out as if also afraid. Yagmur was about to say something, a gurgling snarl got as far as her throat, but no further. Mehmet fired a shot. A dull thud. A bullet buried into her chest. Her body jerked backwards, hit the ground with arms and legs flailing.

She was on her back, slightly propped up by her hump, staring at Mehmet through cold, steely eyes. His skin crawled. She had recognised him. He could tell. But how could she possibly remember…? Then he realised she couldn’t; she merely knew he’d been one of her countless victims. Turning her over onto her front, Yagmur’s face remained half visible and she smiled that ugly, yellow smile as blood bubbled over her teeth. A demonic laugh wheezed from her choking throat and then in contempt it changed to a sizzling hiss.

Mehmet could stand no more. He grabbed her hair, turned her head face down and blew a hole through the base of her skull.

Reaching under her dead body, he took the package from inside the overcoat and left. As he walked away, emotions dissolved; he felt nothing – no remorse, nothing… Or so he thought. Halfway down the alley he started shaking and excruciating pain doubled him over. At first he dry-heaved and then it became the real thing. His arms pushed against the wall to hold his weight and his legs buckled. Dizziness took control as reality stepped in. He’d killed someone. A human being had died at his hands and now there was no going back; it couldn’t be undone.

How long he’d propped up that wall while spewing his guts he had no idea, but when someone shouted from the far end of the alley his senses sharpened. He ran, the sudden bout of illness miraculously disappearing.

His feet moved as swiftly as if he’d grown wings on his ankles. Ten minutes flat out and he stopped, hardly drawing breath. But he needed to wash off the stench of death that clung to him like sweat. He ran until physical exhaustion took hold of his muscles and forced him to stop. Without paying heed to Yuri’s training, he’d crossed the bridge into Galata, where he was born. It seemed strange that somehow it felt like a place of safety. He flopped down on the banks overlooking the Golden Horn and his chest heaved.

After resting, he left the grass in favour of the promenade wall, sat with his legs wide, pulled Yagmur’s parcel from his waistband and tore away the brown paper. A wedge of money, lots of it. Whatever problems he might endure when it came to kidnapping Ahmet, money wouldn’t be one of them.

He tucked the package away, put his hands on the wall and sat back, staring up into the framework of a starlit sky. The air had cooled and he was glad to be alive. There were times aplenty when it could have been him waiting for the body bag, but not now, and the shame of killing that had shuddered through his being had gone. He could rationalise what had happened. As with a soldier at war, he could justify the killing. His only wish was that he had something to wash the foul taste from his mouth.

Chapter 33

Jostled through the Beyazit Gate into the Grand Bazaar, Mehmet fought shoulder-to-shoulder with a packed crowd. Voices yelled out and the noise vibrated in his head as if someone had cupped a hand over his ear. His sense of smell was overcome by the spice stalls at the entrance. Sweaty bodies felt damp against his arm, his skin crawled and memories of Synopi made him giddy. He stopped at a marble drinking fountain, cradled his hands in the trough and doused his face with water.

Inside the bazaar, the crowds thinned as they went their own way down the multitude of alleyways snaking away from the main drag. Mehmet stayed on the central walkway, found a jewellers shop and came out wearing a fourteen-carat gold chain around his neck. Next door in a leather shop he bought a black, box-cut jacket and Italian shoes. At the end of the street he came to a clothes stall and walked away with dark-grey, Armani trousers that had shots of silver silk running through the material, a black silk shirt and two white cotton shirts. It was unlikely the trousers were really Armani and he very much doubted the shoes were Italian, but they looked similar to the clothes Zeki had worn when he and Yuri had followed him, so were good enough for what he had in mind.

Not wanting to re-join the main throng, he left the bazaar through a side exit and made way back to the lodgings in Yenikapi. In the room, he messed with his hair, making a fair job of shaping it the way Zeki had styled his. He shaved, but left enough stubble to mask his features. Mehmet was tall and slim like Zeki, and looked similar enough that anyone seeing him from a distance might believe it was him.

Mid-afternoon, he took a ferry to Eminonu and strolled aimlessly about the city, relaxing, trying to get a feel for current life. He’d been away for many years and since getting back, his thoughts had been too wrapped up in Yagmur to observe what was happening around him. One thing was certain: mopeds had become a part of everyday life, skittering about without anyone taking notice of them. Mehmet didn’t understand the rules of the road, but it seemed they mostly drove in the shade. Mind made up, before he did anything else, he had to buy a moped.

Easy – within an hour of purchase he was skilfully negotiating traffic in the busiest parts of town. He rode across the floating bridge into Galata and drove up and down every street and alley in the district. Almost nothing had changed and he began feeling like he’d never been away – and that he’d always ridden a moped.

Enough. He turned back south, crossed the bridge, picked up the Kennedy coast road on the west side and rode towards the port of Yenikapi.

Yuri had taught him not to group activities in one area, so renting a property on the doorstep of where he currently lived wouldn’t be a good idea. He drove on past Yenikapi until coming to neighbouring Kumkapi. The moped screamed its way along the esplanade fronting the Marmara Sea and then Mehmet saw a row of workshops. He slowed the machine. At the end of the block, one of the units was up for rent. A notice pinned to the wooden doors said interested parties should make initial contact with a Mister Barkev at an address at the other end of the units and up the stairs.

Skilful navigation was needed just to get up the enclosed stairway. There were oily rags, broken glass and empty cans set like traps every couple of steps. At the top, he knocked and waited – and waited – he knocked again.

Someone shouted, “I’m not buying anything and I’m busy.”

“The sign on the unit along the block told me to come to this address to make enquiries about rental,” Mehmet replied.

“It’s only available on a quarterly basis.”

“Yes, that’s okay. I probably want it for longer.”

The door swung open and a short, squat Armenian filled the gap, grinning like a chimpanzee. Armenians dominated this neighbourhood and an ambassador for the race he wasn’t. He wore baggy jeans and a black vest. His limbs spewed from the armholes and folded flesh rippled down to his wrists. His upper arms were covered with matted black hair and yet his hairline had withdrawn in a half-circle to the crown of his head.

He looked Mehmet up and down, and nodded. “Three months – and in advance,” he said.

“If it suits my requirements, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

His brow scrunched as he rubbed his hands. “You want to take the garage on long term, Mister … err?”

He stood close, too close. The acidic smell of spent engine oil and garlic invaded Mehmet’s nostrils. He stepped back.

“Zeki, just call me Zeki.”

“And I am Mister Barkev,” he answered, bloating out his chest and holding his head high.

Mehmet felt a ball of laughter expand in his chest and had to look down in case the emotion echoed up onto his face. Taking a small-toothed comb from his jacket, he slicked it through his hair, as he had seen Zeki do.

“Mister Barkev.” Mehmet nodded, paused a beat. “Yes, three months is no problem, possibly more if it’s suitable. Let me look at it first.”

“Of course, I’ll take you down there now.” He went indoors and came out with a bunch of keys.

“Just a minute,” Mehmet said. “Take the lease with you and if the unit is suitable, I have money with me. We can settle the contract down there.”

Faster than should have been possible for such a fat man, he was gone and back on the steps with the paperwork in his hand. He said, “I’ll sign up a lease as it should be done, but I’ll give you a separate receipt for the money. No need for the taxman to take everything.” He smiled, but then his mind visibly stumbled. “Err, you realise if I was upfront with all this tax business, the cost of the rent would probably double.”

“Yes, of course,” Mehmet said, giving him a nod and a wink.

Barkev didn’t seem to care for that and brushed him aside, pushing past to lead the way down the steps. He went ahead and Mehmet noticed the hair on his upper arms continued across his shoulders, finally filling the crescent cut-out in the back of his vest.

At the unit, Barkev opened the double wooden doors and they went in. The place was tatty and smelled a bit like Barkev, but it was long and narrow, easily big enough for two or three cars. It had a full-sized pit at the back end and a wooden workbench against the wall next to it. The bench had three and a half legs, the shortest of which was levelled up with a brick. A rope block hung over the centre of the pit.

“What about lighting?” Mehmet asked, noticing that if the doors were closed it would be as black as pitch in there – and the doors would have to be kept closed.

“Yes, up here, Zeki.”

He went back to the entrance and flipped a switch. Bare wires fed into a yellowing and cracked Bakelite dome. It visibly sparked before two oil-covered fluorescent lights on the timber ceiling flickered on. It was up to Barkev if he wanted to kill himself using the switch, but Mehmet would use a stick to turn the lighting on and off.

“All right, yes, I think we can do business,” he said, offering to shake on the deal. Barkev reached out a greasy mitt and Mehmet’s hand was swallowed in a wad of flesh and hair.

“It’s none of my business, of course,” he said, “but you don’t look like a mechanic. What will you use it for?”

“Like you say, it’s none of your business… However, the workshop will be used to do a little woodwork, my way of escaping the city. I must say before we go any further, I wouldn’t be pleased at being interrupted in any way. I want to feel this is my own little world. If I can’t have my privacy, I’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary, Zeki. I think you’ll be the perfect tenant and believe me, I’ll be the perfect landlord. Even if you were to commit a string of noisy murders here, no one would bother you. I promise you that.”

Mehmet couldn’t help but grin at the remark.

When Barkev left, he looked around and found a coiled, oily rope under the workbench. He could use that and he would also need a lump hammer, three steel eyelets and a two-metre plank of wood.

*

Mehmet secured the moped to a steel fence on Sirkeci quayside before walking to the police station and obscuring himself in a doorway on the opposite side of the street. The period he’d spent in the cells came to mind and ran its way through to the Synopi transfer when he teamed up with Oz. Because of Oz he’d become friends with Selim, and because of that he… Wait a minute. Selim. Oz had told Mehmet that Selim was once leader of the Little Dogs. Selim would have known who the strange man under the bridge with Zeki had been. If only he’d spoken to him about it before the escape he’d know the identity of the boss – but then again, he’d still be doing what he was doing now. All the same, Yuri would be disappointed; if Mehmet’s thinking had been sharper he wouldn’t be chasing shadows.

He sighed, resigned. No point in worrying about what ifs; he couldn’t do anything about it. He returned focus to the police station. Soon boredom visited, he left the doorway, walked about, crossed the street, came back again, back and forwards until he became bored with that too.

Then a man in a uniform strutted from the station. Mehmet was close enough that he could have reached out and touched him. Brazenly, he stared at the officer. It was Ahmet. His dark-blue uniform was immaculate, unlike the sagging, aging body inside, which appeared more than a little tired. Suddenly, the captain noticed the attention he was receiving and pulled his shoulders back, looking down his nose at his surroundings in pose.

Not wanting to take too much advantage of not being recognised, Mehmet returned to his doorway and studied his prey from afar. Not a pretty sight: slatted eyes buried in puckered flesh and blue lips drawn tight under a wide purple nose. The sides of his mouth hung down, his cheeks were bloated and pockmarks had gouged craters in a face full of thread veins. He was a heavily built man and had he been younger, would be a handful.

A grey Ford Mk-III Zephyr pulled up in front of the building: an unmarked car.

“Captain Ahmet,” the driver shouted.

A semi-startled Ahmet turned towards the caller and then climbed into the back. The driver pulled away and Mehmet was unable to follow; he’d left his moped at the quayside. Never mind – another day tomorrow.

After releasing the moped from the fence at the quay, he watched a boat moor up to the jetty and thought back to when Yuri had taken Nina to the police station to see Captain Iskander. He wondered what she would be doing now, if she was alive. If she was, he could only hope Yuri had found her somewhere safe to hide, away from her Turkish whoremasters.

*

With the grease washed out, the warm wind tousled Mehmet’s hair, the sun baked his face and the light of a clear blue sky lifted his spirit. He had ditched the Zeki disguise and was wearing one of his white, cotton shirts. The shirt’s tails hung out over a pair of worn Levis and scuffed white sneakers protruded from the bottom of them. Hopefully, the floppy hair and casual dress would be enough to make him look like every other young moped rider scooting about everywhere.

He’d spent a few days trailing along after Ahmet’s chauffeur. It had been unlikely the driver would be watching out for a tail, but Mehmet melted into the busy traffic and kept a reasonable distance, just in case. On this day, the driver pulled in at a police station in northern Sirkeci. Mehmet stopped nearby and observed.

The station was the closest authority to where he’d left Yagmur’s body and Mehmet wondered if Ahmet was handling the case. The bullet Mehmet had fired into the base of Yagmur’s skull was a nine-millimetre and he assumed it came from the same weapon as was used to assassinate General Volkan. Ahmet was certainly in a position to link the killings because of that, but he knew Zeki wasn’t the guilty party so wouldn’t follow that trail. Ahmet’s death, on the other hand, would probably see Captain Iskander back on the case and he would tie them together without doubt.

It was Friday and Mehmet had observed that on Fridays Ahmet tended to drive alone, going to several of the nightclubs around Eminonu and spending at least half an hour in each. Mehmet’s first thought was that Ahmet was screwing the hostesses, but that many women at his age? Unlikely. Then it clicked. He was making collections, boosting his income.

Ahmet stopped at one of the clubs and stepped out of the car. For the moment Mehmet had seen enough. If Ahmet was indeed on the Yagmur case, he wasn’t allowing it to alter his habits. He left him to it and returned to the workshop to double-check everything was ready. And to make sure Barkev hadn’t been nosing around. He’d become a bit of a nuisance of late.

Chapter 34

A week went by with Mehmet only making occasional checks on Ahmet to make sure he stuck to his routine. Now was Friday: the day the captain did his rounds solo; the day Mehmet would make his move against him. He greased his hair back, donned the leather jacket, silk shirt and Armani trousers, to bring the Zeki character back to life. If things went to plan it would be him getting the blame for what was about to happen.

After leaving the lodgings, Mehmet rode to Barkev’s unit, secured the moped at the back of the workshop and walked to the quayside to catch a water taxi.

“Sirkeci, now,” the ferryman yelled, vying for last-minute passengers that might be passing by. The boat was small, a fact Mehmet wished he’d taken into account before clumsily jumping onto the gunwale and almost spilling two of the passengers over the side. He nodded and smiled apologetically at the judgemental faces before the skipper cast off, keeping the ferry close to shore until reaching the Golden Horn, turning into the channel and tying up near the main Sirkeci ferry terminal. Mehmet stepped onto the quayside and the skipper took his arm as if he were an old lady. Mehmet smiled graciously but it was done through gritted teeth.

On dry land once again, Mehmet headed to the market and negotiated a price with a taxi driver for a half day of his time. “My name is Zeki,” he said, climbing into the front and giving the driver half the fare they’d agreed on upfront.

The cabby gave him a broad smile. “I’m Abraven,” he replied.

Like Barkev, Abraven was an Armenian, but the likeness ended there. This man was slim and well dressed, and girls would probably think of him as handsome. But more importantly to Mehmet, he was pleasant.

“I’d like to start our journey at Sirkeci Police Headquarters, Abraven. There are vacant parking spots there most of the time, so you can hole up in one of those for a while.”

“I know them, yes.”

They parked a little way along from the station where Mehmet could watch the comings and goings, and chatted about nothing in particular. Ahmet eventually stepped out onto the pavement, leant against a wall and pointed his flabby face up to the sun. The Zephyr came alongside the front of the building and pulled up. The driver got out, gave Ahmet a cursory nod and went into the station. Ahmet took the driving seat and drove off alone.

“Follow that car.”

Abraven laughed, “You want me to follow a policeman?”

The first two clubs Ahmet visited were in the same order as the previous Friday, so Mehmet had Abraven take him straight to a club called The Belly Dancer, because it was at the end of a narrow street. Abraven pulled up at the mouth of the alley and Mehmet paid him the second part of the agreed price, plus a bit more. He was still counting the money as Mehmet walked off and down the alley.

But then Abraven shouted after him, “Thanks, Zeki, see you around.”

It took Ahmet another hour before driving into the alley. He parked the car, got out belly first and went into the club without locking up. Five minutes passed and Mehmet sneaked to the rear and peered through the back window. The gear shift was fitted to the steering column and a long bench seat ran the full width at the front. He snuck in through the back door, pulled it shut behind him and stretched his body as thin as possible along the floor.

Eventually, Ahmet came out of the club and gasped with discomfort as he squeezed his rotund frame onto the front seat. He fired up the engine and jerked the car as he pushed his way into the busy traffic on the main avenue. If Ahmet kept to the routine, they would be heading in the direction Mehmet wanted.

But then self-doubt raised its ugly head. What if he’d taken on more than he could handle? The kidnapping of a policeman was about as illegal as it got. Failure here would mean a death coming much earlier than planned – his – and Ahmet’s colleagues would certainly make it a painful exit.

Just do it, he told himself, but every part of his body was tingling with fear and the colours in his vision brightened as adrenalin, or fear, raced through his veins. He got up onto his knees and with his arm shaking alarmingly, pushed the Welrod hard into the back of the bench seating. The cover bowed and came to a halt as the gun made contact low between Ahmet’s shoulder blades.

The car swerved towards the opposite lane and oncoming vehicles honked horns as the drivers stopped their vehicles.

“What…? Who?” he stuttered.

Ahmet moved forward and away from the seat, at the same time as pulling the car back into line.

“Don’t worry about who or what. You just concentrate on keeping both hands on the wheel where I can see them.”

Ahmet tried imposing his authority. “I don’t really care who you are, but you’re about to regret whatever it is you’re up to. Have you any idea who I am?”

“Yes, Ahmet, I know exactly who you are. Listen carefully. My gun is positioned to blow a hole through your heart. Even if you try something and get lucky, move to one side, say, it would still puncture a lung. There, ahead, while you’re thinking over your options, take the next right onto Ataturk Boulevard.”

Silence took command. Ahmet was clearly afraid and it made Mehmet confident; his prisoner wasn’t the heroic type.

“Tell me, Captain, are you handling the shooting of Doctor Yagmur?” he asked.

“Yagmur? Yes,” he answered, voice quivering.

“And have you tied the killing in with Volkan’s death?”

“General Volkan? No, why?” His back straightened.

“Hmm, suppose not. You’re not a detective.”

Keeping the rest of his questioning for later, Mehmet directed Ahmet towards the coast road. They drove through Yenikapi and on towards Barkev’s unit.

“Slow down, Captain,” he ordered as they approached their destination.

Ahmet eased his foot from the accelerator. Dread dominated his features and the flesh around his sockets tightened and paled. Mehmet understood the fear and warmed to it; he’d been there himself.

“Now, unbutton your holster flap and remove the pistol. Do it slowly. Lift it by your thumb and forefinger at the edge of the grip.” Mehmet pushed the cold steel of the barrel hard against the mastoid bone behind Ahmet’s ear. “And don’t think about being brave or I’ll blow you away.”

“All right, all right, just give me a second,” he said, slowly reaching down and popping the button on his holster flap.

Mehmet leaned forward, watched his every move. “Be careful, Captain, we don’t want the newspapers describing how you went out in a blaze of glory.”

Ahmet pulled a Browning HP from the holster.

“A Browning? Where’s your standard issue?” Mehmet asked, suddenly concerned that Ahmet might have a concealed weapon. He cursed himself; he should have searched the car while Ahmet was in the club.

“It’s in my apartment. This is my weapon of choice.”

“Humph, okay… Right, be very careful and pass the gun across to your left hand.”

He did as he was told. Mehmet reached over and took the pistol. They got to the lockup and Mehmet told him to turn in. Ahmet edged his way into the narrow unit, headlights illuminating the dimly lit cavern.

Nearing the pit, Mehmet said. “Stop here – quickly.”

He hit the brake too hard and the car jerked to a halt.

“Cut the ignition,” Mehmet demanded and Ahmet switched it off, the hot engine running on for several seconds.

“Give me the ignition keys and stay in the car while I shut the doors, but remember, I have the guns and there are no back doors here.” Mehmet almost got out of the car, but then noticed the radio. “Pull the jack plug from the radio and pass me the handset.”

Mehmet went to the front of the unit and had almost closed the double doors when Barkev stuck a foot between them. He bobbed his head about, trying to peer over Mehmet’s shoulder.

“You have a car in there. I’ve never seen you with a car before. Is there someone with you?” he asked, still trying to get a better look.

To counteract Barkev bobbing about, Mehmet moved from foot to foot. And then patience snapped. He kicked Barkev’s leg away from the door and pulled the doors forcefully to a close while sidling through and out onto the pavement.

“Listen, Barkev, I’m not answerable to you. I took this lease thinking I would have privacy. You haven’t quit pushing your nose into my business since I took the place on. And now it seems you want to be my partner. Or maybe you’re attracted to me in a different way? I’ve heard things about you Armenians.”

“Don’t be disgusting. I’m entitled to know what goes on in my premises. You could be causing damage for all I know, and I am Mister Barkev to you. I will have to think seriously before renewing your lease.”

Barkev was wearing an off-white shirt; the material was sweat-soaked and clung to his flabby Pecs. Mehmet curled the front of it into his fist and Barkev winced as Mehmet pulled a handful of hair with it. The material tightened and pulled the half-moon armpits forward. He pushed him away.

“You really are repulsive. And I wouldn’t renew this lease if it came free. But I have plenty of time left on the hire. So, if you don’t leave my rental right now, I won’t be responsible for my actions. You should also be aware, Mister Barkev, that I have influential friends in Eminonu. If you don’t stop pestering me, I just might have to have a word with them. And if that happens, not only will the tax people strip you of your businesses, you’ll be lucky to be allowed to stay in the country. So go, leave me alone.”

Barkev scurried away without another word, but on reaching the base of his steps he shouted, “Bastard!” and then disappeared. Mehmet could have laughed, but reality came to the fore and the hairs on his neck itched; Ahmet was alone in there.

No sign of pedestrians on the promenade, he pulled the Welrod and opened the door. If Ahmet had got out of the car and was waiting, all bets could be off. Ahmet was old, but he was bulky and… No, the worry was unfounded. Ahmet’s head was visible through the car’s back window; he’d been too frightened to move. Mehmet tucked the gun into his trousers alongside Ahmet’s Browning, shut the doors and secured them with the wooden bar.

He sidled past the car on the driver’s side, but hadn’t noticed the door off the catch, and Ahmet slammed it open against him, hammering him hard against the wall. Ahmet then pushed his way out, using his weight to hold Mehmet in place. Mehmet’s feet had lifted off the ground, breathing was difficult and when Ahmet eased the pressure, he slipped to the floor. He couldn’t fathom how, but in a flash Ahmet was out of the car and on top of him, raining blows down onto his head and upper body.

But Mehmet still had the pistols. He reached a hand to his waistband. They’d come out. They would be on the floor somewhere close by. He stretched out a hand and felt for a gun, but Ahmet must have been thinking the same thing because the offensive ended and he was staring beyond Mehmet. And by the look on his face, at least one of those guns was within easy reach.

Chapter 35

With the weapons in sight, they both lunged towards them. Being on top gave Ahmet an advantage and his fat gut rubbed over Mehmet’s face as he pulled ahead. Mehmet frantically worked his arms between their bodies, grabbed Ahmet’s belt and forced his way level. Now cheek-to-cheek, Mehmet’s hopes renewed: Ahmet’s breathing was laboured. The fight in him had dwindled.

Twisting and writhing, their bodies worked up towards standing. But then Mehmet’s eyes ran like a stream when Ahmet twisted and elbowed him in the nose. His head drew back hard and slammed into the wall. Springing forward in reaction, he unintentionally head-butted Ahmet. Blood spurted and Mehmet heard a bone crack. The sac under Ahmet’s eye exploded. The policeman seemed to have lost consciousness immediately and his mass fell. It was with relief when Mehmet pushed him to one side and hurried to the guns.

Ahmet groaned as consciousness slowly returned. He pushed himself up and lumbered around on hands and knees, stupefied. Mehmet worried that he might get a second wind, so rushed over, grabbed the scruff of his neck and dragged his stumbling body next to the pit. He pushed him flat on his face, placed a wooden plank across his shoulders and bound his wrists at either end with the oily rope he had found under the workbench earlier. Now, he threaded it through the eyelets, crisscrossing it around Ahmet’s arms, and attached it to the rope block that took the weight of his upper body. He swung him out over the pit, secured the rope to a cleat fixed to the wall and turned to watch the policeman’s body swaying languidly in suspension. Ahmet’s head hung forward and droplets of blood dribbled off his cheek like water from a leaking tap.

He stilled and Mehmet lowered him until his knees were at eye level. Ahmet shook his head and blood sprayed like rainfall. His droopy eyes opened slowly and he stared at his captor in bewilderment.

“Do you know who I am, Captain Ahmet?” Mehmet asked.

“No, no I don’t.” His answer was a drunken slur.

Sweat on his face blended with blood and fell pink from his chin. The hard man was indeed a sorry-looking sight.

“Of course you wouldn’t. Let me see, maybe if I were to mention the name Pasha, Levent Pasha.”

Ahmet’s brow furrowed. “But he is dead, you can’t…” His burbling lips stopped abruptly and his face hardened.

“Yes, at last you’re beginning to see the light. I really am surprised it took you this long. Clearly, it doesn’t take much of a brain to be a policeman.”

“Mehmet, you’re Mehmet. Please … Mehmet, I had nothing to do with your father’s death. I wasn’t even there when it happened. Please, I have a wife and children. I’m the only provider. Please.” He wept miserably and Mehmet despised him the more for it.

“I really don’t care about my father. What bothers me is what happened to my life after you murdered him.”

“But I told you, I wasn’t there.” His sobbing made the words almost incoherent.

“No, and I don’t suppose it was you who ordered the gargoyle to torture me either?”

“Please, don’t hurt me, Mehmet. I have medical problems.”

Mehmet laughed. “You’re certainly about to have. But you can make the transition easy or painful. It’s up to you. Tell me who took my father out on the boat that night and you’ll be at peace. No torture, just an easy release.”

“Yuri! It was Yuri,” he answered. His head dropped and he whimpered like a puppy left in the dark. Mehmet gave it a moment, but that was it. That was all he was going to get.

He was in no mood for debate when he took the lump hammer from the workbench and stood where Ahmet could see him – and the hammer. Ahmet’s face withered. Mehmet skewed his head and raised an eyebrow.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Ahmet kept his silence and Mehmet smashed the hammerhead forcefully into his kneecap.

Ahmet’s mouth opened and he sucked in a gasp. The pain was so severe his scream had locked in his throat and exited without noise. Mehmet reached out, grabbed at Ahmet’s trousers for balance, leaned over the pit and squeezed the damaged knee. A direct hit, but he shouldn’t have squeezed: the kneecap shattered inward under the pressure. Ahmet stopped moving. His expression froze. For a minute, Mehmet worried he might choke on the pain before telling him anything, but a sudden gulp of air and Ahmet was back to life, trembling convulsively.

“Please, Mehmet. You don’t understand.” His voice was gruff, whispering, out of breath. “I have a medical condition.” An outburst of weeping shook him and his body juddered.

“Yes, so you said and if it wasn’t true when you said it, it is now. I think it’s called a shattered kneecap. One more chance, Captain. Refuse to answer and I will destroy the other leg. Who was on the boat?”

Ahmet’s fish eyes stared pleadingly and Mehmet couldn’t lie; he felt a callous satisfaction as the policeman’s face moved from a natural blue tint to a deep purple. It seemed the interrogation was breaking his spirit as well as his bones.

Ahmet sighed deeply. “They did tell me how it was done,” he said. “They put weights on him and threw him into the Bosporus. The men who did it were brothers, Tolga and Tunc Osman.”

For the first time, Mehmet felt a deep-seated sympathy for his father, picturing his anguish as he was thrown into his watery grave. “And where would I find them now?”

“They’re club managers. Tunc is at The Belly Dancer, a club–”

“I know where it is. What about the other one?”

“Tolga, he’s at The Saladin Retreat.”

“And who do they work for?”

His words had hardly passed from lung to lips when the unit doors rattled. If it was that Barkev again, he would have to come in and join Ahmet. He shook his head, lifted a silencing finger to his lips, as he left Ahmet dangling, lifted the bar from the door and eased through so the interloper couldn’t see in. Surprise, surprise, it was Barkev, but the little man just stared, wide eyed and fearful, and then rushed away before Mehmet had chance to grab him.

He went back inside, closed the doors and brushed his hands down his jacket. Sticky. He was covered in Ahmet’s blood. Fortunately, both the jacket and silk shirt were dark, but the Armani trousers were bloodied too. They were grey and the red slime was noticeable. But no, Barkev had lost his nerve and run off before he’d had chance to see it.

Casting aside the doubt, Mehmet went back to Ahmet, confident he would get the final piece of the puzzle, but the policeman’s head had dropped. His eyes were open, inflated like balloons, almost on the verge of bursting. The blood had stopped running over his chin and in its place, bubbling saliva dribbled. His face had moved from purple to near black and Mehmet could only think he’d had a heart attack. Whether it was the hammer blow or he’d been truthful about having a medical condition, he couldn’t guess, but one thing was certain, he wasn’t about to get any more answers. He was dead.

Little point in cursing the loss. At least he’d given up two names and having followed Ahmet around, Mehmet knew where they would be.

He unhooked the rope block and eased Ahmet into the pit until his legs disappeared into the darkness. Grabbing a handful of thinning hair, he fired a nine-millimetre slug into the base of his skull. His positioning made him hold the gun at an angle and he grimaced on seeing one of Ahmet’s bulging eyes explode from its socket as the bullet exited.

Mehmet pulled Ahmet across the pit while lowering him from the rope block. He undid the restraints, pulled the body onto the floor and pushed and tugged at the dead weight until getting him into a sitting position on the Zephyr’s passenger seat.

A new worry: he still had use for the workshop, but had Barkev compromised his position? He looked at his clothes. They were a mess. He was in no state to get rid of the car and go back to Yenikapi on foot, not in broad daylight, not without being stopped. He’d always intended getting rid of the car when it was dark: dumping it on a busy street in Sirkeci, near to where he’d killed Yagmur. Right now he should leave on the moped, clean up and revisit the unit later. But was it safe to come back? He paced the floor and tried to relive Barkev’s interruption. The more he thought about it the surer he was that Barkev hadn’t had time to see anything. He’d stick to the plan.

He opened the door wide enough to get the moped out, checked up and down the boulevard, locked the unit and went back to the rented room.

Chapter 36

Mehmet got to the lodgings without having drawn unwanted attention. He drove up the lane and took care to negotiate the scatterings of rubble piled everywhere. The dilapidated doss house stood in the middle of a terrace, or should have. The debris he drove around was what was left of six or seven houses that had given way to a now-historical earthquake.

Privacy walls had collapsed inward and clothing on washing lines in yards was hung out for all to see. A small group of children rummaged through the stacked bricks, for what, who could guess, but they took no notice of Mehmet and that was all that mattered.

In the lodgings’ backyard was a wash house acting as a laundry and bathroom. He secured the moped, went in, bolted the door and placed a hand against a large water buttress. Still warm. He filled the tin bath and wallowed in the water, soaking the stains of death from his body. But lifting a hand to his face, crusted mud came away… However, it wasn’t mud. It was dried blood. Again, he wondered if Barkev had noticed, and again he dismissed the notion because Barkev had merely lost his nerve and ran off.

His clothes were bloodied and his room door couldn’t be locked, so he wouldn’t be able to leave them at the lodgings when he eventually went out. If the landlord rummaged around and found them, he’d make a report to the police. And the description he could give of Mehmet wouldn’t sound like that of Zeki. Scraping the leather jacket clean was easy, but the other stuff was useless. He had a brown paper bag he’d been given when buying food on a previous day, so, sneaking up to his room, he folded the Armani trousers and silk shirt and stuffed them into the bag. If he took them with him, he could leave the clothes at the unit. He’d abandon Ahmet’s car tonight and tomorrow he’d go to the bazaar for a new outfit.

Later, he left the lodgings wearing a white shirt, the leather jacket and casual trousers, and made his way to Kumkapi. Twilight was still rearing its head when he left, so he drove slowly through alleys and small roads to kill off the daylight. The last thing he wanted was sitting with Ahmet’s corpse next to him for too long.

By the time he neared the terraced units, the sun had set. Whether he was sleepy or just plain stupid was unclear, but he was almost upon his unit before he noticed the three blue and whites parked next to it. Barkev was with an officer who furiously jotted notes as Barkev spoke.

Mehmet reacted too quickly, jammed the brakes on, screeched the tyres and brought the moped to an abrupt halt. Barkev looked up, his eyes grew wide and he grabbed the policeman’s arm, frantically pointed Mehmet out to him. The young officer pulled free of the grip, shoved Barkev to one side and withdrew his gun. He fired, but proved to be as poor a shot as Mehmet. The bullets flew wildly off target. Seemingly aware of his limitations, he quickly returned the gun to its holster and disappeared into the unit.

Mehmet aimed his hand threateningly at Barkev and pulled an imaginary trigger before winding the accelerator fully open, spinning the moped a half circle and heading up the road he’d come from. The police cars had been pointing the wrong way, or the right way depending on the point of view. They would have to make U-turns and that would give him an extra minute or so to widen the distance.

Tyres screamed. Sirens blared. At least one of the police cars was now in hot pursuit. The moped’s throttle was open to maximum, but it wasn’t the fastest machine on the planet. The gap was already closing. Mehmet needed a plan B. The streets off the main drag were narrow and the alleys narrower. Lots of people about; would the police keep to a sensible speed? If they did, the gap wouldn’t close too quickly – and that was plan B.

After winding through alleys for some minutes, Mehmet came out onto Ataturk Boulevard. A free run would quicken his journey: he would cross the bridge and then use the backstreets to Galata. And when he got to the other side of the Golden Horn, losing the tail would be easy. But that idea was short lived. Those following must have had similar thoughts and radioed ahead. Police cars straddled the road and lights on roofs threw red and blue beams in every direction.

He wouldn’t have thought it possible to blow smoke from the tyres of a moped, but that’s what he did when skidding through ninety degrees and leaving the main street. He cut across a junction onto a smaller thoroughfare and almost knocked a man over when he stepped from the bustling sidewalk. He pressed on, screaming the life out of the little machine as he did. He twisted his head to see if he was distancing the pursuit vehicle, but it had gained ground and was manoeuvring the narrow street as if there was no one around.

He turned sharply into an alley. Unfortunately, it was still wide enough for the police car to follow and all the time it closed the gap. If they caught him, execution would be his only avenue to freedom. He’d killed a policeman, a captain no less; by the time Ahmet’s colleagues had finished with him, death would come as a gentle release. The car came within a metre of hitting the bike up the rear. An unmade footpath came into view on his left. He made an abrupt last-minute turn, spraying a dust cloud into the air. The car behind screeched to a halt, a bang, maybe a slamming door, maybe the car had hit the post at the path’s entrance. Whatever it was, only seconds seemed to pass before gunfire belted out an unattractive tune.

Mehmet turned his head and saw at least two muzzles flashing. Two guns equalled two policemen, so he’d been lucky one of them hadn’t leant out of the window and shot at him during the chase. Bullets ricocheted nearby and something chipped his leg. No time to stop and check. He sped off as fast as that little moped would go. He didn’t know the backstreets there, so was thankful for his good fortune when time and again he happened upon more dirt footpaths. The sounds of a multitude of sirens became a distant drone.

He came to a footbridge, eased the throttle, drove over slowly and saw that the fence on the other side had been breached. Evening had darkened to night and he’d switched off the lights long ago, so he thought the chances of someone having seen him get there were slim. He stood the moped up against an unbroken part of the fence and slithered down the short but steep bank. Balancing on the curve, he could see under the bridge. Much broader than he’d thought when crossing, it appeared to be a storm drain, and it was dried out: somewhere to sleep.

Back up top, he edged his way into the gulley, wheeling the moped along from the bridge, and laid it against the bank where tufts of long grass grew. It was dark, but Mehmet could see it was well enough hidden had it been daylight. He went up top to make sure he hadn’t left any tell-tale signs, and then went under the bridge and tried to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy, but after eight years in Synopi he’d had worse. A murdered policeman and a car chase that almost caught the killer – this would be too big for the police to give up on. They’d keep at it until they’d caught their man, or until the chances of success had disappeared altogether. Mehmet was glad he’d eaten before going to the unit because he figured he’d have to hang out under the bridge for the next twenty-four hours at least.

Chapter 37

Back in his room, Mehmet stared reproachfully at himself in a small, cracked mirror that hung on a nail in the wall. Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes! One after another. Either they had to come to an end or he would. And he couldn’t believe he had it in mind to cross the Ataturk Bridge. Hadn’t he listened to anything Yuri had taught him?

At least he’d had the sense to stay under the footbridge for near thirty-six hours. But he should never have been in that position in the first place. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t considered Barkev or not seen the blood on his clothing.

Still, it was done. He had to stop with the self-pity, get a grip, put the mistakes behind him and learn. He relaxed his shoulders and smiled. A catalogue of errors, true, but he had got away with it and he’d taken another enemy down in the process.

He went to the outhouse and had another bath, which meant he’d bathed more times in a couple of weeks than in all his years at Synopi. A large copper buttress sat on an equally large gas ring. Hot to the touch, he drained water into the bath and used it to tantalise the chipping from his leg: the one he’d thought might be a police bullet, the piece that turned out to be gravel.

As he soaked in the water, he considered the foreseeable future. He thought he’d hang around Yenikapi, go no further than a shop or restaurant and let the police furore die away, which it would; he knew that from his experiences with the Little Dogs.

Hmm, restaurant. His mouth watered thinking of food and thoughts of fish tugged at his empty stomach as he considered how long it had been since he’d eaten.

*

Roots cried out in pain as Mehmet dragged a fine-tooth comb through his new thickness of beard. It had been a couple of weeks since deciding to lie low and with the beard and the clothes he wore, he now looked like the working fisherman he was pretending to be. His feet were still dark from being barefoot in the prison courtyard at Synopi, so the open-toed sandals looked natural enough. He wore a blue and white, checked shirt hanging out over scruffy, baggy trousers that were drawn in by ties at the ankles. A fisherman’s flat cap was rolled up and tucked into the front of his waistband and covered the Welrod pistol. While he had kept clean over the weeks, he tried to look as if he’d done a day’s work.

But, the time had come. After taking a blue-green bus to Sirkeci, he walked along the quayside. The flame to ignite daylight wasn’t yet lit and the early hour weighed heavily, made him sluggish. He shook the notion, picked up his pace, pressed on past the Galata floating bridge, came to a junction next to the Ataturk Bridge and eventually reached the alley where he’d kidnapped Ahmet: The Belly Dancers nightclub, the club Tunc Osman managed. He would kill Tolga first, but wanted to know Tunc’s movements so he’d be ready for a quick follow-up.

Clearly, Tunc either travelled into work or he lived on the premises. Mehmet believed it was more likely he came from an outlying district as the area seemed business rather than domestic. And he was right; just before 8.30 a.m., a silver-blue metallic Fleetwood Cadillac turned into the alley.

The man Mehmet believed was Tunc Osman stepped from the limo, nodded to the driver and watched the car pull away. No money changed hands. The driver had touched the peak of a chauffeur’s cap dutifully before leaving. Seemed unlikely he’d have his own driver, so Tunc must have had an account with a car hire company. That logic was helped along by the fact that the car had a small transfer on the bottom of the driver’s door – black print against a white banner: Tour Turkey.

Mehmet hung around at the end of the alley, but Tunc didn’t seem in any hurry to go into the club, so he closed in on him to get a better look. Around fifty, he had a full head of black hair – as black as jet – that didn’t look right. He was big, a giant in fact, at least two metres tall. He’d have been taller if he’d had a neck. An ex-bodyguard, he may once have been in good shape, but not anymore. His face was bloated and he had a body to match. Strange features too: a permanent squint that kept blinking over pea-sized eyes.

He looked straight through Mehmet, sighed, took a set of keys from his jacket and used two of them to unlock the door to the club before disappearing inside. Mehmet returned to the end of the alley and waited for Tunc’s next move.

A long day, it was midnight by the time the limo pulled back into the alley. The car waited five minutes, Tunc came out, climbed into the back seat and they drove off.

The next day, Tunc arrived 8.30 a.m. and left at about one in the morning. Mehmet had only spent two days in vigil, true, but it was pattern enough. He had other things to do. He opted to keep an eye on the place from mid-evening instead of wasting whole days.

At ten the following morning, he went to a taxi rank on Sirkeci quayside. One of the drivers was leaning against his yellow Fiat, watching boats as they were pushed off or tied up to the jetty.

“You wear your heart on your sleeve, my friend, and it tells me it belongs on the water. Maybe you chose the wrong job,” Mehmet said.

The driver smiled. “What, it’s that obvious? But what can you do? I have a family to support and taxiing is where the money is.” He grinned pleasantly.

Mehmet chatted sympathetically about working on the waterway. Plain luck, but when you find a topic close to a man’s heart, he’ll gossip as if he’s known you forever.

“Changing the subject,” he said, before he forgot the point of the conversation. “Have you heard of a car-hire firm called Tour Turkey? I saw a Fleetwood Cadillac yesterday and the driver looked like an old friend of mine.”

“Yes, I know it. A small concern working out of Bakir Street off Tersane Road in Galata. They only run two or three cars … I think.”

“Tersane Road? Yes, I know it. Maybe I’ll look him up,” Mehmet said. Grateful for the information, he returned to talking about boats, let the driver spill his heart for a few minutes and then left.

Next stop, Tolga Osman. Mehmet wanted to see where he lived and how he spent his days. He took his time, strolled to the club in Demirtas and thought about the longer-term plan as he went. It would make things hard, trying to set them both up for a kill together, so he decided to hit one and make a quick follow-up before the second was even aware of the loss of his brother. To do that, he had to be confident of their movements.

The Saladin Retreat was between the Galata and Ataturk bridges and the area was very different from the place where Tunc had his club. This district was urbanised, apartments everywhere, and several floors of them were above the club. Mehmet suspected Tolga would be living here, but to find out in which apartment meant going into the club as a customer.

*

It was seven in the evening, early enough for the bar to be empty of customers. There were, however, a number of hostesses sitting around chatting. Mehmet was clearly the first customer of the day but the girls didn’t exactly rush him. Other than when he walked in they hadn’t even looked his way, but that would be because he was dressed like a poor fisherman; or he hoped that was the reason. A waiter gave one of the girls a tug and she trailed her feet as she sauntered over.

“Would you like some company and to maybe buy me a drink, or do you want to be alone?” she asked, trying to sound seductive but being dismissive at the same time.

Mehmet thought she was willing him to say, “I want to be alone.”

“If the drink isn’t expensive then yes, I’ll buy you a drink and have a talk. But remember, I’m a simple working man, so ordering something too costly would be pointless. If that’s okay, you can come and sit over here.”

He directed her to the nearest cubicle and she followed him in. Before sitting, she clicked her fingers and pointed to the booth. Every movement oozed sexual promise and Mehmet’s loins warmed to the thought of it.

At first keeping her distance, she sidled closer, smiled and said, “I thought you were going to smell of fish.”

Hardly a come-on, but her odour, her proximity, the pit of his stomach moved from warm to hot. “I told you I’m a working man, not a smelly one,” he answered, trying to keep it casual.

“Okay, but the fishermen I’ve met usually are.”

Mehmet grinned; she smiled and then snuggled in close. As always in these situations, Nina came to mind, but his needs had got the better of him. The girl wrapped her arms around one of his and rested her face on his shoulder. She sighed as she leaned her breast hard into his elbow. The barman came over with a couple of beers, set them down and left before payment was made. Mehmet watched the froth run slowly from the glasses and settle on the table.

“How’d he know not to bring champagne?” he asked playfully, spreading his free hand to highlight his clothes.

She giggled.

“I noticed a few apartments above the club when I came in. I bet the people who live there aren’t too happy when it’s party night down here?” he said.

“Every night here is party night,” she answered, “but it doesn’t affect the people upstairs. If they’re not down here working then they’re up there working.”

This time it was him who laughed. “Oh, I see. With all those apartments there must be a lot of work going on.”

The girl looked down innocently and then stared cow-eyed at him. She was beautiful in her own way, if not a bit hard-faced. Blonde, blue-eyed, pretty, a bit too much makeup, but stacked like a film star. Her pink blouse had four buttons undone and had been pulled outward. Most of the white bra she wore was on show – and there was plenty to show. A tattoo high on her left breast was of a bright red heart with greenery draped over it. Mehmet had never seen a girl with a tattoo.

“Is it my breasts that hypnotise you or the tattoo?” she laughed, expanding her chest towards him.

“Both really, or should I say all three?” he said, smiling, looking back to her face. Her perfume was sweet, sexy and intoxicating. He let his index finger draw circles around the tattoo, leaned in and rested his lips gently on hers. “Anyway, you were telling me about the rooms upstairs – they can’t all be used by the girls, can they?”

She took a sip of beer. “No, the manager uses the whole of the top floor. I can show you a room below his if you’re feeling warm towards me.”

Mehmet needed no further encouragement. “Let’s go.”

She slithered from the booth first and stood with her back to him. He watched the rear contours of her black pencil skirt wriggle as she straightened the clothing. He tried playing it cool when following upstairs, but all he wanted to do was put his hands on her butt and push to hurry her along.

The room she took him to was on the second floor from the top and one of a multitude in the corridor. She told Mehmet there was a bathroom at the end of the hall and that she wanted him to go clean up before they begun. He was too wanting for the request to put him off. Later, when the deed was done, she pulled on a flimsy housecoat and went along the hallway to clean up – or whatever it is women do after such an event.

Mehmet had been lying on the bed basking in thoughts of what had happened between them when she came back in. The musings had him realising that it had been such a long time since he’d slept with those village girls when making the crossing to Istanbul with Oz that this girl had just made a lot of money for a very short time. But she seemed in no hurry to get rid of him now, probably because it was still early.

The room was tiny. Big enough for business and maybe comfortable enough for one person to spend the night, but that was it. The girl hung the housecoat on the back of the door and took fresh underclothes from a small chest of drawers at the bottom of the bed. A pang of sympathy speared him as he watched her. A pretty girl with a figure that was all but perfect. He found it hard to believe flesh came so cheaply.

“Blue eyes and blond hair says you’re not Turkish,” he said.

“That’s right, I’m German.”

“Wow, I’ve been with a German girl. How did you end up over here?”

She laughed and began dressing quickly; suddenly she was in a hurry. “I used to work in Hamburg. They needed girls here and I speak Turkish, so here I am.”

The evening was aging and she had a living to make. Mehmet had to drop the small talk and get to what he needed before she told him he should leave.

“Is it the only way to get up here, coming through the club?”

“Why, do you want to see me when I’m not working?”

He grinned. “Who knows. What do you think?”

“I’m not sure. You are a good-looking man and gentle – for a fisherman.” She laughed. “Maybe if you ask for me next time you come to the club. And yes, there is a door at the back of the building. It has an intercom.” She smiled seductively.

He nodded. “Can I buy you a drink downstairs?” he asked; he still didn’t know what Tolga looked like.

She hesitated. “Better not. You saw the man who sent me to you; he manages the girls and he wouldn’t like it if I was making friends.”

Mehmet dressed and the girl walked him back to the bar. The place was busy. She squeezed his arm and left him for a group of men who’d come in.

*

Three nights later and Mehmet went to see the German girl. Her name was Dagmar and tonight would be the third in a row he’d seen her. The previous two, they’d gone straight to her room, but his sexual appetite was now sated. The task suddenly became pressing.

“I’m not going upstairs tonight, Dagmar,” he told her. “Too tired.”

She smiled, looked disappointed and shuffled across the bench seating.

“Whoa, where’re you going? I thought it would be nice to spend a little time and just chat.”

“I told you already,” she said, suddenly short of patience, “the man will be watching me.”

Of course Mehmet knew the rejection had nothing to do with ‘the man’, if there even was one. The fact was she could earn more elsewhere. Telling him he was good-looking and gentle had only been a hook to get a regular customer. Tonight he’d come in later and there were plenty of other buyers scattered around the room. But he wasn’t finished with her yet.

“What if I bought us a bottle of champagne?” he asked, as if desperate for her company.

The change in attitude was dramatic. In a flash she was by his side. Mehmet small-talked and each time someone came into view from the door leading upstairs he brought them up in conversation. They had almost worked their way through a second bottle of what tasted and looked like corn-coloured cola and now her attention was on a group of men chatting and laughing with some of the other hostesses. Dagmar became fidgety. A man came into the bar from the internal doorway.

She drained her glass. “That’s Tolga, the manager,” she said, nodding towards him. “I’d better make myself scarce.”

The barman handed Tolga a drink as soon as he got to the bar. He stood tall, sipping the drink while surveying his empire. Mehmet smiled ironically. Sex with Dagmar had been nice, but unnecessary. Tolga was his brother’s ‘almost’ double. Not as big, but not a whole lot smaller. His head was bald, not shaven, naturally bald, which explained Tunc’s unnatural crop of black hair: a wig. Like Tunc, Tolga’s eyes were small and too close together, but he was missing the squint.

“Ah, the big man, and he lives upstairs, you say?” Mehmet asked.

Dagmar looked cornered now, business was calling. “Yes,” she answered quickly, “spends most of the day up there. Him and that thickset man at the other end of the bar.”

Mehmet looked at the smaller man; okay, smaller, but still a real heavyweight. His head was shaven, but a dark shadow betrayed the hair wanting to push through.

Mehmet feigned a gulp and Dagmar grinned. “He’s always upstairs with Tolga … always.”

Dagmar tried working along from Mehmet, but he leaned across and poured her the last half-glass of champagne. But she wasn’t about to let that stop her. She picked it up and drank it in a gulp then shuffled from the booth. “Sorry, time for work, like I said, the boss.”

A man in a suit stood with an elbow on the bar, looking suave – or trying to. He straightened, fixed his tie as he beamed at her – cool. Dagmar stood up and raised her eyebrows to Mehmet before moving off to join her new trick. Mehmet’s smile broke into a wide grin as he watched the life renew in Dagmar’s face when getting together with the man. But he had what he wanted. He knew the brothers’ movements and what they looked like. He was ready.

Chapter 38

Mehmet left a few days between seeing Dagmar and putting his plan into action. He didn’t think for one minute that she would suspect him of the assault he was about to make on Tolga – in fact, she probably wouldn’t even remember him – but he had made enough mistakes and wanted to cover all the angles.

Another evening came and he was in the alleyway leading to the back of the club. The darkness was all consuming. He came to an unexpected corner, nearly walked into a wall, stopped, waited for his eyes to adjust and saw a dim glow – a block of nameplates, mostly girls’ names. Each name had a button next to it. He squinted, let a finger help him read his way up from the bottom and came to Osman’s tag at the top – where else? He pressed the button on the intercom. It didn’t buzz or ring; the noise shrilling under the weight of his finger lay somewhere between the two. He waited.

Eventually, the box gave out static and a voice rattled in the amplifier.

“Speak.” It was a man and although Mehmet felt sure the system had distorted his tone into a higher pitch, there was something deep and coarse about it.

Mehmet cleared his throat. “Good evening. My name is Captain Iskander. I’m a homicide detective working out of Sirkeci and I need to speak with Tolga Osman.”

“What about?” the man asked, the tone of his voice held no interest. Only two words, but Mehmet detected a lilt, an accent that wasn’t from any part of Turkey he knew of.

“The matter is delicate. Either let me in now or Mister Osman can come down to the police station tomorrow morning. It’s up to you. But be quick about it. I’m in a hurry.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Very well, come up. But there’s a problem with the lift. You’ll have to use the stairs.”

The inflection was clearer now – European. A buzzer hummed a crackled base note and the door clicked. Mehmet pushed it open, went in and found the stairs. He would need to take extra care. The so-called problem with the lift didn’t exist: he could hear thrumming within its confines. These people were being extra careful. Already they didn’t trust him and were using the stairs to put him at a disadvantage, give themselves the high ground.

The Welrod was in the back of his waistband, the Browning tucked in at the side. Uncomfortable, they stuck in his ribs and against his spine. His hands trembled and he realised fear had become prevalent. The stairway had fifty, maybe sixty steel steps and there was a large diamond grid at each floor level. The grids went around in a half circle and then the steps began again. The well was dimly lit, the painted walls, dirty brown. Mehmet believed the poor lighting would be a benefit if something was to go wrong. But he couldn’t think like that; things weren’t about to go wrong. Already disadvantaged, he took the steps slowly and kept his breathing steady, relaxed.

The stairs were steel and while it was a warm evening outside, a chill swirled in the stairwell, tightening his stance. At each floor level a musty smell was overcome by the odour of perfumed boudoirs spilling from the corridors. He got within five or six steps from the top when a man came into view: Tolga’s thickset friend.

“Captain Iskander?” he asked.

“Yes. Are you Mister Osman?”

“No, he’s inside. But I look after his interests. You say you’re Iskander, but you look a lot younger than the Iskander I know of. Let me see your ID.” Mehmet thought he sounded French, possibly German.

“Yes, of course.”

The protector had stood with his hands behind him, but now he brought them around front to reveal a handgun clenched in a large fist.

Mehmet forced a smile. “Not taking any chances, are you?”

He made no reply. During the days before coming here, Mehmet had taken Ahmet’s ID and doctored it. He got a photo of himself at a passport booth in Sirkeci railway station, cut it to size and stuck it over Ahmet’s picture before soaking the whole thing in water. Letting it dry, he scuffed it up and rubbed it in dust. The details on the warrant card had become indecipherable, the photograph wasn’t much better.

Casually, Mehmet took Ahmet’s ID from his inside pocket and held it up. The bodyguard’s brow furrowed as he squinted to inspect it.

“Why is this in such a mess?” he asked, aiming the pistol at Mehmet.

Mehmet lifted his free hand, calming. “Take it easy,” he said. “I’ve had enough trouble for one week. You can see it’s been wet. I fell in the muddy end of the Golden Horn during a chase. I’m waiting for a new card.”

The bodyguard sniggered and lowered the pistol.

“Iskander was on that case when General Volkan was killed, and if my memory serves me well, that man would be a lot older than you.”

“Yes, that’s because the man you’re talking about is my papa,” he answered.

“Oh,” he said, nodding, and eased his finger away from the trigger guard before holstering the gun. “Police a family thing, is it?”

“It would seem so,” Mehmet said and smiled.

Taking his focus from Mehmet, the man turned for the door. Mehmet seized the opportunity. He’d already had his jacket open to put the ID away, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to pull out the Welrod and point. He fired off several shots. Two slugs thudded into flesh – a third went off somewhere else. A bullet had hit high in the target’s upper arm. The other buried itself somewhere in the side of his ribs. Neither had struck anywhere near where Mehmet had aimed. The victim spun around looking bewildered, but then his eyes filled with anger. Trying to lift his pistol, his arm jerked spasmodically. The gun clattered on the grid as he dropped it and lunged at Mehmet. Instead of dodging the attack, Mehmet raced in close, squeezed off another shot, burying a bullet in the side of his head.

No groaning, no sound, the protector’s body twisted away and plummeted over the handrail, down into the open stairwell, colliding with every balustrade on the way and then coming to a halt with a dull thud on the concrete below. Looking over the banister, Mehmet winced. No room for debate; a corpse was staring back up at him. His neck had broken and his position was one of comic tragedy: the face looking skyward, the body belly down.

Mehmet turned to face the gloom beyond the slightly open door. Was Tolga aware of what had happened? Was he now waiting for Mehmet’s next move? Whatever was going on beyond that door, silence was in command on this side of it.

He crept up to the side of the doorframe, held his back to the wall and pushed at the door with his foot. As it swung open, a tirade of bullets shattered the panel. Mehmet wasn’t much of a shot, but he knew the sounds of weapons, and the shooter had an Uzi.

Nervousness had him considering running. He had time to leave. He could probably have got out before anyone had the nerve to come through the door after him, but … he didn’t. Instead, he flattened out on his belly and shoved the door fully open with his hand. Another burst of gunfire. This time the muzzle flashes lit up the space as shards of wood splintered and the door burst open the wrong way through the frame.

Do or die. Mehmet got to his knees, threw himself into the passageway and fired into the darkness until the clip had emptied. Someone groaned. No return of fire. If the shooter’s gun wasn’t jammed, he’d been hit and was in retreat. Before the enemy could regroup, Mehmet removed the pistol grip and pushed another six into the clip then crawled further into the passage.

Two doors, one on either side of the passageway, and they were both slightly ajar. He rolled across to the wall and tried to work out which one had been taken. The floor was covered in lino, the passage dark. Even covered in blood, Mehmet wouldn’t have been able to see it. He dropped, rested his cheek against the floor and stared along the covering. Tiny beads of light reflected on newly formed droplets: blood. It trailed off to the right.

Mehmet was pleased to have worked out which room was in use, but then a burst of gunfire revealed the same information. Plasterboard walls ripped and light-shards pierced gouges that had opened above his head; an old building like that shouldn’t have had plasterboard walls. No time to get back to the entrance and escape. He took what he saw as his only option and rolled towards the room where the shooter was. Mehmet thought it might come as a surprise to the enemy. It sure as hell came as one to him.

With both hands gripping the pistol butt, Mehmet put the brakes on his roll and pointed to where he guessed the shooter would be. It was Tolga. He stood alone in the centre of the room holding the Uzi in trembling hands and aiming at where Mehmet’s chest would have been had he been standing up. It seemed a lifetime passed in a single second, Mehmet looking directly into his eyes, him staring blankly back in surprise. Blood had soaked through Tolga’s shirt sleeve, explaining the trembling hands.

With a hand working the rotary bolt, Mehmet squeezed off three shots while directing the weapon at Tolga’s centre mass. And it seemed he was a better shot when pointing a weapon rather than aiming along the sights. The impact of the bullets whumped into Tolga’s chest and threw him back. He came to a halt as he hit the wall and slid to the floor. The Uzi was a metre in front of where he landed and he sat staring at it, appearing more dazed than mortally wounded.

Mehmet stood over him and pointed the Welrod at Tolga’s forehead. He couldn’t believe it. Tolga gave him a beaming smile, a nod. Was he challenging him? “Go on then, you fuck, finish what you came to do.” A challenge, yes, but the words had bubbled hopelessly from his lips.

“What, you’re not interested in why?”

“Okay, surprise me.” He struggled to keep his head upright as he weakened, but his strength of will was plain to see.

“I must admit, you’re a cool one. Something I could never say about that brother of yours,” he lied. “He squealed like a stuck pig when I killed him.”

The smile choked on Tolga’s face and he tried to muster enough strength to make an attack; he managed to lift up a little, but then fell back impotently.

“And Marlon?” he asked through a wheeze.

“What, the Frenchman who answered the door just now? Don’t worry; he’s just got himself into a bit of a twist. Anyway, getting back to why… Twenty years ago you killed my papa, and my life has been totally screwed because of it.”

“Who was your father?”

“Levent Pasha,” he said and regretted it when a self-satisfied leer came to Tolga’s face.

“And you talk to me about stuck pigs.”

Mehmet shook his head and pressed the muzzle to Tolga’s chest. His piggy eyes had hooded and his mouth dribbled like a child. He looked pathetic and Mehmet hesitated. What was happening to him? This man was a monster, no doubt, but Mehmet could only wonder if he was becoming like him?

Suddenly, Tolga whipped his arm up with impossible speed, his gigantic hand wrapped around Mehmet’s wrist and he squeezed until Mehmet thought his bones would be crushed. But somehow he pulled the trigger. The bullet struck Tolga’s shoulder and the grip relaxed.

Mehmet stood back and kicked Tolga’s leg – no response but he was still breathing. Mehmet edged around to his side, pushed him over with a foot and rolled him onto his face. The self-doubt was gone. In fact, it was with a glow of satisfaction when he fired a slug into the base of Tolga’s brain. Mehmet laid Ahmet’s Browning HP next to the body, tucked Tolga’s Uzi into his jacket and left.

At the bottom of the stairs, he turned Marlon’s head face down and shot him in the back of the skull. From what he’d seen so far the investigators hadn’t been too bright, but there was no way they wouldn’t tie these killings to the death of Ahmet and Yagmur. For sure, now people would start worrying about what Zeki was up to.

Outside in the alley, he bumped into a couple and tucked his head in so they couldn’t see his face. She giggled and he remembered her from the club. They were about to go into the building. He walked fast to the end of the alley and then broke into an all-out run.

Chapter 39

Mehmet slowed his pace on getting to Tersane Road in Galata. It was half an hour before midnight and Tunc had been leaving the club around one. The couple he passed in the alley would have raised the alarm on Tolga’s bodyguard by now so speed was of the essence. If Tunc had already been informed of the deaths, the task would be dangerous.

The Fleetwood Cadillac was parked outside the Tour Turkey office; the driver hadn’t left yet. Mehmet went in, but the driver said he had a client waiting and couldn’t stop to talk. Mehmet said he wanted to impress a girl he was meeting and if the car was going that way anyway, it would be money for nothing. Soon, they were crossing the Galata Bridge.

“If you take a left on the other side of the bridge, we can pick up my girl. She’s waiting for me at Gulhane Park,” Mehmet said.

“What? Gulhane Park at this time? I don’t think so.”

“It’s important, please. I’ll double the price.”

“Double the… Oh, what the hell. It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”

They came into Gulhane and rolled down a hill leading to Topkapi Palace, a spot where the road was tree lined enough to give full cover.

“This is it. She shouldn’t be long.”

The driver stopped and Mehmet pulled a gun on him. A look of surprise, but more surprisingly, it wasn’t accompanied by fear.

“I mean you no harm, but I need the car and a few answers,” Mehmet said. “Are you the only driver who picks Tunc up?”

“Mostly, yes. I was sick once and Hakan did the run until I got better,” he said, sounding a lot calmer than he should have.

“Hakan? Was that the other driver at the office?” Mehmet asked and got a nod. “Does Tunc know him well?”

“I wouldn’t think so; it was a long time ago.”

“Okay, out of the car and be very careful how you do it.”

Mehmet stood him against a tree, made him put his hands around the trunk and snapped Ahmet’s handcuffs onto his wrists.

“Don’t worry. I used to run with the Little Dogs and they don’t work this area. You’ll be all right,” he said and pushed a small roll of lire into the pocket of the unnervingly calm driver.

Mehmet hadn’t driven a car before, but with it being automatic he thought it would be similar to his moped. He drove about the park and everything moved smoothly as long as he didn’t jerk the accelerator or hit the brake too hard.

He drove off to the club without incident, but put too much weight on the brake when stopping in front of the club. Osman was in the doorway waiting. He shook his head and tapped on the window, gesturing for him to roll it down.

“Who’re you? You’re not dressed like a chauffeur.”

“My name is Hakan, Mister Osman. I don’t know exactly what happened, but your regular driver has had an accident and I was called in at the last minute.”

“Is he badly hurt?”

“I really don’t know, sir.”

The car rocked as Osman climbed into the back. “Okay. I suppose you know where we’re going?”

“Oh yes, definitely, sir.”

“Well, what’re you waiting for?”

Mehmet could see Tunc hadn’t heard about his brother yet and relief, or nerves, got the better of him: his foot accidentally jumped on and off the accelerator. The car kangarooed away from the pavement and Osman cursed. “Jesus, you need some fucking lessons, you idiot. I don’t want you picking me up tomorrow. Make sure another driver is available, do you hear?”

“Yes, sir, I hear. But I don’t think me picking you up tomorrow was ever going to happen anyway. Sorry, sir.”

They passed the Galata Bridge and pulled down a lane in Gulhane Park, on the opposite side from where Mehmet had left the driver.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he asked. “I thought you said you knew the way.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I was sure I was familiar with the route.”

Tunc was still cursing when Mehmet stopped the car in a lay-by surrounded by bushes. He shook his head in bewilderment and then opened the glove box. “Hold on, sir, I’ve got a city map.” He tucked his hand under the map, pulled out the Welrod, spun round and pointed it into Tunc’s face.

Tunc was a huge man. Too big. It shouldn’t have happened, but he lunged and somehow Mehmet found himself being dragged backwards over the seat by the throat, legs kicking. He tried jamming his feet under the dashboard, but Tunc’s strength pulled him away easily.

The pistol. He tried to aim the pistol, but Tunc smacked it aside with his free hand. The gun fell. Mehmet’s vision became blurry. He was losing consciousness. He had to give up the resistance and ease the pressure from his throat. When Tunc grabbed him he’d curled himself into a ball, jamming himself between the roof and the front seat, but by straightening himself out, he almost jettisoned into Tunc’s arms.

In seconds, Mehmet was on his back, Tunc pinning him down with a hand to the throat.

“Who sent you?” he demanded.

Thoughts raced through Mehmet’s mind. He needed a surprise, now. “Marlon! It was Marlon!” he lied.

The pressure eased from his throat, Tunc’s face took on a vacant expression and Mehmet tried to get his hand to his jacket pocket.

“Tolga’s Marlon?” he asked, staring off over the front seat in thought.

Mehmet got a hand inside his pocket and grasped his knife. Tunc’s mind was somewhere else as Mehmet put the weapon behind his back and freed the long blade from its confines.

Tunc pulled Mehmet to a sitting position. “The bastard, and has my brother had anything to do with this?”

“He didn’t give the order, but he knew what was going on.” Lucky guess saying Marlon; Mehmet seemed to have stumbled into a family feud.

Tunc shook his head. His grip eased a little. Mehmet brought the knife around front and thrust it up between their bodies until the blade met its target, driving through the soft flesh behind Tunc’s jaw. Tunc seemed paralysed. The knife met with resistance and Mehmet pushed with both hands.

Tunc’s paralysis probably meant Mehmet’s blade had pierced his brain, but he was alive – or breathing anyway. Mehmet retrieved the pistol, turned Tunc to face the window and shot him through the back of the head. The point of entry was a soft one and mess spattered from Tunc’s face with the bullet’s exit.

It was done. Other than the mystery man who gave out the orders, the people responsible for turning his life to shit were now dead. As for the mystery man, Yuri would know who he was.

Chapter 40

Icmeler, Turkey 1972

Beyrek Ozel read and reread the front page of the Hurriyet national newspaper. The main article carried pictures on either side of an editorial that took up the whole page above the fold: Killer Returns to Terrorise City. They’d used an old photo fit of General Volkan’s assassin and an artist’s impression based on descriptions by the latest witnesses. The pictures looked like different-aged images of the same man. Frustration drew Beyrek into reading the passage one more time. They were blaming Zeki, but Mehmet admitted to Yagmur that he’d killed Volkan.

He screwed the newspaper into a ball and threw it at the waste basket. The blood ran cold through his veins. “Fuck, fuck, fuck … fuck! Haven’t those fucking idiots worked it out? Zeki’s dead.”

Zeki, Yagmur, Ahmet, Tolga, Tunc – they were all involved with the killing of Levent, except Yagmur, but she had been Mehmet’s torturer. Mehmet! Could it somehow be Mehmet?

Gizem came in from the veranda. “Why all the noise, Beyrek? Keep it up and they’ll hear you in Istanbul.”

“On the floor next to the basket, try reading the front page.”

Ironing the newspaper out over the marble-top coffee table, Gizem read the story. “And you think … what?” she asked, eyebrows rising.

“I think Mehmet has escaped, somehow found out who killed Levent and is wreaking his revenge. That’s what I think.”

“I don’t want to call you a fool, Beyrek, but that’s what you’re acting like.”

Beyrek stared fire at her. “Oh, is that right? And what makes you so fucking smart?” he demanded.

“Because you have Selim watching over Mehmet in Synopi; he would’ve told you if he’d escaped. And to take the deliberation out of it, all you have to do is pick up the phone and call the prison.”

Beyrek was insulted she’d had the nerve to call him fool. He had built the empire he ruled, not her. But he had lost his grip on this one – what she was saying was right: he was acting like a fool. He stomped across the room, picked up the phone and flipped through a desktop rotary index. Stopping at Selim’s card, he squeezed the handset between his shoulder and face and traced a finger along the card while dialling the number.

The ringtone chirped until at last somebody picked it up.

“I want to speak to the sergeant of the watch.”

“Sergeant Akmed is walking the wall. Just a minute, I’ll get him.”

“No, no, not Akmed…” Too late; he was gone.

“This is Sergeant Akmed.”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant, but it’s Selim I want to speak with. Is he available?”

“Who is this?”

“Just tell him Beyrek needs a word.”

The phone at the other end clattered and another ten minutes passed. All the time frustration built, nipping at Beyrek’s spirit.

“Beyrek, this is Selim.”

“Jesus! At last. I was ringing to check on one of my prisoners, Mehmet Pasha.”

The phone crackled.

“Hmm, yes, what about him?”

Had Selim been slow to answer? Was he hiding something?

“Have you still got him?”

“Yes, of course. You know I have, otherwise I would’ve called. What’s the problem? Do you want me to bring him to the phone?”

The tension drained. “No, of course not. That would be stupid. No, it’s nothing, Selim, no problem – something’s happened to put me on a wrong footing. But if Mehmet’s with you then I’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Just forget I called.”

Without another word Beyrek put the phone back on the cradle.

“You’re right, Gizem, I was being a fool … but if not Mehmet then who?”

“Well, if you’re convinced this is about Levent then there’s only one person left who knew. My guess would be he’s involved.”

Beyrek brushed a hand the wrong way against the stubble on his chin. “Hmm, Yuri doesn’t fit the newspaper description, but he could’ve enlisted someone’s help. I can’t make out what’s going on. The truth is the whole thing might have nothing to do with Levent – after all, Yagmur and Marlon Le Clerc had nothing to do with the killing. It all made sense before I called Selim, but now I just don’t know… I’ll get Ilkin to put the feelers out for Yuri and see what he’s up to these days.”

Gizem nodded. “One thing’s for certain: you’ll be looking for new managers at the clubs,” she said and went back to the veranda.

Chapter 41

Yenikapi, Istanbul

A Russian soldier, on guard at the main door of the embassy, stood ramrod straight, legs apart and hands dutifully behind his back. As Mehmet approached, the guard held his gaze firmly above and away from Mehmet’s shoulder, but he was clearly aware of his every move.

“I’m working for General Michel Petrichova and I need to come in,” Mehmet said in Russian.

The soldier rested a hand on his button-down holster and replied without emotion. “Put your arms straight out from your sides and turn around.”

Mehmet followed the order and the guard patted, squeezed and ran his hands along the length of his arms, down his sides, up his back and over his shoulders until he’d worked his way to the front. He squatted and checked legs, crotch and butt. Mehmet squirmed uncomfortably under the close scrutiny.

“This way,” the guard said, tone firm, expression granite.

Following him through into the foyer, he was ordered to sit. The guard made a call and two more guards came in and stood on either side of Mehmet. No one spoke.

After close to an hour, an officer came into the hall. Mehmet stood, but the officer bade him sit and sat next to him. “I am Captain Fedorov, the duty officer. My apologies for keeping you waiting. It took a while to get patched through to General Petrichova’s office in the Kremlin. It helped that your name was on a list here.”

“List?”

“Yes, a list containing names of those who should be given urgent priority. Anyway, the general will be here in the next few days, until then you will have the freedom of the embassy, but Petrichova doesn’t want you leaving the building.”

“Okay yes, sounds good.”

*

He had no idea what orders Captain Fedorov had been given, but for the days following, Mehmet was given the respect of being … important. Early morning on the third day he was milling about in the garden behind the embassy. The whitewashed walls were high and a soldier guarded an open gate at the end of a short, winding footpath. Maybe he was there to stop him going out; he had felt like walking down to the quayside on the previous day and had been turned back at the main door.

A voice from behind made him jump. “It’s good to see you, Mehmet.”

Mehmet spun on his heels. “General Petrichova, you startled me. When did you get in?”

He went to the general with his hand out, but it was brushed aside as Petrichova took him in a clinch and kissed him on either cheek.

“Late last evening,” he told him. “I must say, we thought you were dead, but when Yuri’s paedophiles were found face down in the Bosporus, we reconsidered. Yuri made use of his contacts, followed up on countless Chinese whispers, but as you will be aware none of them led to you. Our hopes of your survival faded with time. I left your name on a list here in the hope that one day you might come in. And here you are. I think a debriefing would be in order, don’t you?”

They strolled around the garden as Mehmet outlined what had happened. He finished with, “And since getting here I’ve been treated as if I was important.”

“That’s because you are. After Yuri trained you, you became part of a crack covert unit. Although you are without rank, you’re on a sergeant’s pay.”

“A sergeant’s pay? For how long? Where is it?”

Petrichova raised an eyebrow. “How long? Oh, certainly since your first task, and where? Well, you’ve received some of it already. It was your money Yuri left in the cellar strongbox at the Ottoman house. But forget about that for now. Your turning up fits in perfectly with an operation we are about to mount.”

“But I have unfinished business of my own, General.”

“I’m sure you have and you will be able to complete it at some point, but you’re a soldier under my command and this assignment comes first.”

Disappointment weighed heavily in Mehmet’s gut. Of course, he always knew why Yuri had trained him, but he’d never been a soldier in the true sense of the word and being ordered not to do what he had in mind… Against his own wishes, he said, “Very well, General. What is it I have to do?”

“In good time. We have a meeting. Come.”

Mehmet followed Petrichova up the winding staircase. Halfway along the landing on the second level, the general opened a door into a large room. A huge conference table took centre stage and had seating for around twenty people. A woman sat alone halfway along its length and looked lost in its enormity.

She fixed a gaze on Mehmet and her dark blue eyes pierced his soul: cold, no friendship, no emotion. Having thought that, it didn’t stop her beauty radiating and setting his loins afire. She had blond hair pulled back severely from the face of an angel and was a few years older than him, but… but what a peach. She wasn’t in uniform – dressed more like an office worker – but her authoritative manner made it clear she wasn’t there to take notes. Mehmet’s eyes were drawn to her breasts, full, her white blouse pushed out taut by them. Suddenly aware he was staring he lifted his gaze and caught sight of a haunted sadness in her eyes. His thoughts shifted guiltily to Nina and he cursed the genes he’d inherited from his father.

“Anna,” the general greeted, “this is the young man I told you about.”

Anna’s face opened into a smile and Mehmet became captivated once more.

“Then you must be Mehmet,” she said, standing, floating towards him so gracefully she didn’t appear to have taken a step. She took his hand in hers. Her voice was rich, sexy – he wanted to pull her to him.

“Hello, yes, I am,” he answered, keeping hold of her hand.

The general interrupted, “I believe you already know one of our other guests.”

Mehmet looked to the opposite side of the table. His legs wobbled. “Yuri,” he stammered.

Already, Yuri was on his feet and moving around the table as if in attack. Mehmet tried to get out of the way, but Yuri lunged, picked him off his feet and all but squeezed the life out of him.

Heavily dropping him, he bellowed out his enormous laugh while Mehmet rubbed at his throbbing shoulder. Yuri would be in his early fifties by now, but it was only through knowledge of him that Mehmet could possibly have known that. True, his fair hair had greyed at the temples and crow’s feet had crept outward from the corners of his eyes, but he looked as young and fit as he ever had. And his muscles seemed even bigger than Mehmet remembered.

“You look well, Yuri.”

Yuri cleared his throat and Mehmet detected uncharacteristic emotion. “And you’ve grown well, my boy, or should I say, my man?”

Yuri’s cheeks suddenly became damp; he was crying. Mehmet knew he’d been like a son to him and him a father in return, but to see him in tears… The moment of superiority died when Mehmet tried voicing his pleasure at the reunion. His throat choked and he wanted to turn his back, hide his feelings, but before he could he was up off his feet again with Yuri hugging him.

The general gave them a minute and then said, “So, after everything that’s happened to you – escaping prison and the killing of, what, five people? – do you believe anyone is actually looking for you personally or are they chasing shadows?”

“When I was in prison I didn’t exist, so I couldn’t ‘go missing’. And since Zeki kidnapped me when I was a boy I’ve spent my life in the wind. I have no identification, no homeland, nothing. So as far as the police are concerned with the killings, they’ll be happy believing Zeki is the guilty party.”

“What of mistakes? Do we need to make follow ups?”

“No, no mistakes, General. I planted evidence to incriminate Zeki, but none of it was in error.”

“Explain.”

“The guns: the bullets from the Welrod we used to kill Volkan set Zeki up as the main suspect. I left that gun on the floor in the back of Osman’s car. I also gave up Ahmet’s gun at a murder scene because it was taken by a man fitting Zeki’s description. I used other people while following victims and told them my name was Zeki.”

Petrichova nodded. “Okay, so we’re happy with your position.” He gave his attention to Anna. “Formally then, Anna is Captain Anna Kord and is from one of our elite task forces.” Mehmet smiled. “No introductions necessary for Yuri, but that man hiding over there on the other side of the table is Leo Rabinovich.”

Leo got to his feet and approached with an outstretched hand. He was smaller than Anna and she was no giant. His dark-grey, pinstriped suit shone greasy with age. His frame was slight, bordering on skeletal and a last strand of wispy auburn hair perched like an old bird’s nest over a hollow face. Sacs of flesh were puckered under dark, lazy eyes that had a hunted look. The skin covering his face was oversized, crumpling his features and a small moustache sat neatly over a thin top lip. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he had an attractiveness that was somehow enhanced by an air of vulnerability. Mehmet took his hand and smiled.

Petrichova proceeded. “Right, you all know each other. Sit.”

Everyone returned to their seats and Mehmet sat with Yuri.

“With regard to the mission, I want you and Yuri to act in a supporting role. When Anna finishes her part of the job, I want you and Yuri to deliver what she gets and then return for follow-up orders.”

Mehmet knew from Yuri never to question orders. And anyway, it would be pointless asking for details at this stage. The general had been sufficiently obscure to make it clear he wasn’t ready to share.

General Petrichova continued, “Leo works in the passport office in Leningrad. He will create a Russian persona for Mehmet and give him a new identity. It’s unlikely, but the way you look now you could still be mistaken for the newspaper photo fit of Zeki. I–”

“Before you make any changes to me, General, I have to go back to the room where I’ve been living. If I leave without taking my belongings, the landlord might become suspicious. If that happens and somehow the authorities tie me to the killings, people there would give a very different description to the ones that are currently being distributed. Better I bring the lodging to a clean end.”

Yuri smiled with satisfaction. “You’ve learned well, Mehmet.”

The general had no such compliment to make and sounded short of patience when he said, “Okay, do what you have to do and then return as quickly as you can. Yuri, you go with him.”

Chapter 42

Mehmet packed a small holdall and paid the landlord his dues while Yuri waited for him on the quayside. The general expected them to return with haste so the Russians in the embassy could mess around with Mehmet’s appearance, but Yuri had other ideas.

“An hour won’t change the shape of the world,” he said. “The general can wait.” He pulled a mischievous face, a laugh rumbled from his belly and he clamped a hand to the back of Mehmet’s neck. “You couldn’t guess how much I’ve missed you, Mehmet, and worried about you,” he said. “Eight long years without hearing a thing.”

Mehmet sighed. “I couldn’t allow myself to feel the same way about you or Nina I’m afraid. If I learned anything when I was under the jetty with the Little Dogs, it was to think about yourself and not let anything else matter. I thought I was going to die in the police station and Synopi wasn’t that much more hopeful, so as far as I could see I had no future.”

Mehmet had been comfortable enough with Yuri’s hand on his neck, but it suddenly tightened. “Ah, that’s why you weren’t quick to ask about Nina; you’ve cast her from your thoughts.”

He squirmed from Yuri’s grip. “I don’t know what I feel about her to be truthful. She seemed so perfect for me when we were at the Ottoman, but I’ve been with many women since escaping Synopi. I…” He deserted an explanation he couldn’t properly give. “What did happen with you and her that night?”

“Well, Nina proved herself to be a loyal comrade for one thing. She could have fled, but chose to stand with me. When you stormed out, she gave you enough space to cool down before going out to look for you. She was gone and back in moments warning me that the police were all over the place. If she hadn’t seen them, if she hadn’t come back, they would’ve surprised and killed me for certain.”

Yuri put his hand on Mehmet’s shoulder.

“She took the Welrod and me the Uzi. I’ve no idea where she learned to shoot, but because she could use the pistol, she saved me a second time when a policeman crept up on me. She dropped him with a headshot. Something I’m sure you couldn’t have done.”

He laughed. Mehmet didn’t.

“From what you’ve told me, you must know where she is and if she’s safe,” Mehmet said.

“Yes I do, and yes she’s safe. Why? Have the feelings for her returned and now you need to rush over and see her?”

The question unnerved him. He was at a loss. “What? I don’t know, Yuri. My head is mixed up. As I said, I’ve been with women since meeting Nina and I wouldn’t want to treat her the way my father did my mother. I don’t…”

Yuri grabbed his neck again and pushed him playfully. “We have plenty of work ahead of us before you could see her anyway, so don’t go rushing into decisions. Your freedom is still new to you. Let it sink in. Your true feelings will surface soon enough.”

The conversation drifted and they walked the long way around the quayside towards Sirkeci. Mehmet couldn’t understand why it should be important, but Yuri seemed desperate that he should meet Pinar Yeter, his reporter lover.

Yuri broke the silence. “I don’t know whether you noticed,” he said, “but the article in the Hurriyet newspaper reporting on the deaths was written by Pinar. She’s covered all the killings, from Volkan through to the Osmans, and always made sure the slant was towards Zeki being the killer.”

“Does that mean she’s a love of convenience?” Mehmet asked, instantly regretting it because Yuri had so obviously told him about her with pride.

“No!” he said, looking hurt. “Not a moment of it. They say there’s a lid for every pot and that’s pretty much how I see me and Pinar. Together, we are a complete item.”

“I’m sorry, Yuri. I didn’t mean the words to come out the way they did.”

He smiled and Mehmet quickly changed the subject.

“Anna seems very serious. Are all Russian women so severe?”

Yuri chuckled. “Some are, yes, but Anna has reason to be sombre. She’s over here to finish up an overlap operation from Moscow. It’s been very difficult for her.”

“Is that why her eyes are so sad?”

“Yes, her partner on the operation is her lover. The task didn’t go exactly to plan and right now he’s lying in a coma in the hospital wing of an abandoned gulag in Northern Russia, Siberia to be exact.”

The disappointment Mehmet felt hearing that she had a man had him cursing his genes once more. He shook the thought. “Will he make it?”

“Who knows? He’s been in the coma for a month. The medics have their doubts… Anna is officially called Puchinsky, but she took his second name to confirm their love – another pot with a lid.”

His words made Mehmet think of Nina and sadness spiked in his chest.

“She just wants this job finished so she can get back to Russia and keep vigil by his bedside,” Yuri said. “But you know the general. He has no time for personal relationships and believes this assignment is best suited to a woman – and in the field she’s the best of all women.”

“What is the task?” Mehmet asked.

“He’ll tell us that when we get back.”

“You know one reason I came into the embassy early was to find the main man responsible for my father’s death. Will you tell me who he is?”

“Yes, but not now. I don’t want you getting distracted. Be patient, Mehmet, you will find out soon enough.”

They walked in silence, comfortable in the quiet of each other’s company. Horns and klaxons blew out over the Bosporus and the usual chants called the faithful to prayer. Getting to Topkapi Palace and on into Gulhane Park, a couple of police officers were scanning the area, probably hoping a missed clue to the Osman killing might jump out at them. A nervous tingle brushed a path up Mehmet’s spine and he tucked his head into his shoulders, stared at the ground as he walked by.

They hurried past and Mehmet thought over the conversation he’d had about Nina as they continued to Sirkeci.

*

“I’ve been living with Pinar for a few years, but when we heard Ahmet had been killed I moved out in case it was tied in with the night of your arrest,” Yuri told Mehmet as they approached the building where she lived.

“So you knew Ahmet had made the arrest?”

“Yes, I found out that much.”

“So where are you staying now?” Mehmet asked, knowing the boat had been burnt out at the same time as the Ottoman house.

“Ah, wait till you see her, Mehmet. I have a Turkish gulet. Twenty-four-metres long with two Man-Engines, it’s a sailing boat that can punch through tides and headwinds and barely drop a couple of knots from her top speed. And the hull has been strengthened to make her ocean going.”

“What will she do?”

“She holds steady at around 10 knots.”

Mehmet had lived with Yuri since he was twelve years old and life on the water had enriched his life. Listening to the descriptions, he couldn’t wait to board the vessel.

By the time they got to Pinar’s front door, Yuri had told Mehmet all there could possibly be to tell about his wonderful boat, but taking out a key, his excitement seemed to move elsewhere. They went into a private hall without knocking and a woman rushed out of a room looking worried, holding a small revolver. On seeing Yuri, her face lit up. The thrill of it seeming to get the better of her, a scream shrilled, she put the pistol on the hall table and threw herself at him, jumping up and wrapping her legs around his waist. Yuri kissed her long and passionately, and feeling like a spare part, Mehmet took a step back towards the door.

“Whoa, put me down, Pinar. We have a guest.”

She slid catlike from his body, straightened her clothing and peered at Mehmet from behind Yuri’s massive biceps.

“This is Mehmet,” he said.

Mehmet put out a hand, but she brushed it aside, moved in close, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him tightly against her. He sunk into voluptuous curves and was embarrassed to feel the pit of his stomach twinge.

“At last we meet,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you, it’s like you’re one of my own. But I can see why Yuri has kept you hidden: you such a handsome young man and him such a jealous one. He said you were tall and strong, and you clearly are, but he never mentioned how good-looking you were.”

Mehmet didn’t know where to put his face, but did realise it was time to pull his lower body away from hers.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough of embarrassing the boy,” Yuri said, appearing to enjoy every moment.

Pinar stood Mehmet back to give him the once over. He took the time to do the same of her. Pretty, dark, mysterious and even though she wouldn’t see forty again, she was more than attractive. Fleshy, but on her it wasn’t a fault.

Mehmet looked at Yuri and smiled. Pinar pulled Mehmet to her again and his face began burning. This was beginning to get too intimate.

Yuri laughed at the clear discomfort. “Don’t worry, Mehmet, she’s a very demonstrative lady. This, I must say, has its benefits.”

Mehmet was still appreciating what he meant when Yuri laughed one of his belly laughs. Pinar dislodged herself and punched him in the arm.

“Ouch… We can’t stay long, Pinar. We have a job to do and the risk to you isn’t over. I came because I couldn’t wait for you to meet Mehmet. But I also have to ask if you’re willing to increase your articles about the hunt for Zeki. Invent a source that’s seen him in and around Unkapani. Try to keep it on the front page. If you do that, the people who know Zeki is dead will think the killer is still in Istanbul. That gives us the chance to go and do what has to be done.”

Mehmet stayed with Pinar and Yuri for maybe half an hour and then decided to disappear. Let them say their goodbyes in private.

After forever, Yuri came out onto the street looking like the cat that had got the cream and they began the return along the curving coast road back to the embassy. Mehmet considered: Yuri had told Pinar to make it look like Zeki was seen in Istanbul. That meant he knew the task was somewhere other than in the city.

“I thought you didn’t know what the task was about?” he said.

Yuri sniggered, nodding appreciatively at Mehmet. “I don’t, I just know it isn’t in Istanbul. Be patient, Mehmet. We’ll find out soon enough.”

Chapter 43

“Have you heard of Beyrek Ozel?” the general asked, directing the question to Mehmet.

He and Yuri had returned to the embassy earlier and the staff there had played with his appearance. Sitting at the conference table now with the people he had met earlier, he was feeling uncomfortable, or at least unusual, with his new appearance. His head had been shaven back and sides, and there wasn’t much more than that left on top. He was given a blue and white striped shirt with epaulettes and blue army trousers that had a darker blue seam down the leg. And, he was told to wear the clothes until asked to do otherwise. With his face clean shaven for the first time since he could remember, he definitely looked the Russian soldier rather than Turkish gang member, but the ‘newness’ of it felt odd.

“I’ve heard the name, yes. In fact, it was you I heard it from. Back when you outlined the task for killing Volkan.” Mehmet wasn’t sure if it was obvious to the others but his voice had trembled with an irrational nervousness.

“You have an excellent memory. Good, in that case you know Beyrek is a gangster, and that’s all you know. Yuri, on the other hand, knows him quite well.”

“What, from one of his lists?” Mehmet asked.

“No, Beyrek was a man we’ve worked around since losing contact with you. Probably the most successful criminal in the city and he’s also spread his wings to other parts of the country. Currently, he’s on the receiving end of a flesh trafficking trade in Icmeler. He lives there permanently because life is sweeter for him there.” The general coughed. “His operations in Istanbul are still in full flow, however. He uses his trusted captains to take care of them for him.”

“Is your interest because of the flesh trade? Are the women coming out of the Soviet Union?” he guessed.

“Well judged, Mehmet, yes. Which is the reason Anna is here: to make a trade with Beyrek. We won’t go into the whys and wherefores of the man now. All you need to know is that he has two girls in his care, Russian Jewesses, Hannah and Becca.”

“And they’re important?” Yuri asked.

“They’re an obligation. Their father, Jacob Bernstein” – he opened a hand towards Leo – “and Leo here were instrumental in playing out an operation in Moscow recently. I’ll not go into it, but Jacob is an accountant. His daughters were kidnapped and used to manipulate him, but he still came through for us. So maybe I was wrong to say obligation; they’re more than that. These girls are under the protection of the Soviet State and Jacob was loyal to it. It is imperative we live up to our responsibilities.”

General Petrichova cleared his throat again.

“We arrested an army officer who worked for Otto Mitrokhin, the man who ran the trafficking from Moscow. Mitrokhin is no longer Beyrek’s partner in crime, he’s dead, but Beyrek doesn’t know that and will believe he is still powerful enough that he wouldn’t want to upset him. The officer in custody knows Beyrek personally and after a little gentle persuasion, he telephoned him with a demand for the return of the girls. We agreed to pay a price but made sure Beyrek was aware that Mitrokhin would be very unhappy if the deal didn’t go through.”

Petrichova got up and walked to the window, clasped his hands behind him, arched his back and raised himself onto the balls of his feet.

“The bottom line is this: he’s expecting a visit from Anna in the next week or so. If you’re wondering why Anna, she is making the exchange because Beyrek knows Yuri, and Mehmet being Turkish wouldn’t work, so… Never mind that; Anna will pay the agreed sum and bring the girls to you. She’ll then be out of the loop and will return to Russia. She has pressing matters to attend to.”

He returned to the table, sat and drummed his fingers on the polished surface.

“Leo has done his work here and will return to Moscow tomorrow to complete it. First light, Yuri, Mehmet and Anna take the gulet to Turgutkoy on the western side of the peninsular from Marmaris. There, Anna will travel alone to Icmeler. Yuri will wait with Mehmet at the dockside until she brings Hannah and Becca to them. Anna goes her own way overland while you two bring Hannah and Becca back to Istanbul.”

“And that’s the job?” Mehmet asked, incredulous at the impotency of his part in the mission.

“Yes, for now. But you and Yuri will have a lot more to do once that part of the task is complete.”

“Have you made the arrangements for transport when Anna gets to Turgutkoy?” Yuri asked.

“Yes, there’ll be a vehicle waiting for her.”

Mehmet wasn’t appeased by Petrichova’s words; he had a Herculean, life-changing task ahead of him and he’d been sidetracked to become a chauffeur.

*

Icmeler, Turkey

Beyrek Ozel was furious.

“I just don’t believe Mitrokhin. Suddenly, he wants the Bernstein girls back and I have to hand them over like an underling who was only holding them for him. I should tell him to go fuck himself.”

“You were just holding them for him, Papa. They were never part of the deal. But if you don’t want to give them back, why don’t you just tell him?” said Ilkin. “He has nothing to do with the business anymore and you’re the one with the power here.”

“Don’t think I wouldn’t, but if we were to start a war it could kill the drug trade. I know he doesn’t know anything about it, but Mitrokhin was the reason we got the franchise from the Russians in the first place. No, we have to let the women go. Mitrokhin is sending one of his bitches over to get them and she’ll be here later today.”

Just before noon, Beyrek and Ilkin drove from their mansion in Icmeler. Beyrek was sweatier than usual, the drive to The Turkish Delight was dusty and the grime seemed to cling to him like shit. He was in a foul mood, made all the worse because he was losing two of his favourite girls.

Inside the club, he thought he might make use of them one last time, but the unusual humidity put him off. He had them play around with each other for a while, but even that did nothing to get him going. Giving up, he sat swilling a Raki around the bottom of a glass.

Early afternoon, a blue Ford Transit pulled up outside the club and a shortish, blond woman in her early thirties stepped out of the vehicle. She put one hand on her waist, wiped her brow with the back of the other and brushed her long hair to one side. Beyrek got a little lift on seeing her looking as grubby from her journey as he felt. But that changed nothing; he was still seething. Now looking at this little thing with an expression that would turn milk brought more anger. All the same, he’d made the agreement and she was only a courier. He stepped out from the main entrance before she had chance to approach.

He said, “I think I’m expecting you, but confirm your name and why you’re here before we go any further.”

“If you’re Beyrek Ozel then you’ll have been told to expect Anna and that is the only name you were given.”

Beyrek nodded.

“My reason for being here is to pick up two Russian Jewesses, Hannah and Becca. And you better have them ready for me. The last thing I want is to stay in this hellhole any longer than I have to.”

Beyrek snickered. This girl had spunk and through the grime, he could see she was one hell of a looker. His thoughts ran ahead of him. He stared at her full breasts and heat moved into his loins where there had been nothing for the two girls earlier.

“Are you saying I can’t convince you to stay over tonight, maybe cement international relations?” he said.

The look he got would have taken the heat out of chilli peppers. “I’m not one of your fucking whores,” she snarled. “Just bring me the girls.”

He reached behind for his gun, but the drug franchise came to mind and, biting his lip, he brought the hand back out front. His drooling mouth rearranged itself and then his lips twitched and curled into a vicious sneer.

“Today, you’re one lucky bitch, but hold your tongue or that luck might run out.” Shoving his anger to one side, he pushed the door open and shouted, “Bring the girls out.”

They came out, hands on hips, looking coy, expressions full of innocence, but at the same time pushing their small breasts out provocatively. He’d taught them well. Beyrek felt another pang of disappointment at losing them.

The girls looked at the woman waiting for them and dropped their gaze in unison. But Mitrokhin’s woman ignored them, took a briefcase from the van and laid it at his feet.

“You want to count it?” she asked.

Sarcastic bitch; if she belonged to him, he would break her the hard way. He placed his hands on the backs of the Bernstein girls and eased them towards the woman, as if ushering shy children forward.

“I don’t think that will be necessary. Otto wouldn’t short change me. And if you have, well, I’ll be straight in touch with Otto and I’m not sure he likes women so much. But I’m sure he’d enjoy teaching you a lesson or two. Thinking about it, maybe I’ll tell him you took some anyway, just for the fun of it.”

The Anna woman hadn’t looked fazed by the jibe and her answer came as more than a surprise to Beyrek. “Yes, and if you do, I’ll be back. And if I have to do that, I promise you here and now, I’ll cut your balls off, push them in your mouth and sew it shut… And don’t think I wouldn’t.”

He felt his face boil in anger, but nervousness entrenched him. He believed her. He pushed the girls a bit harder. “You belong to her now,” he said and went back into the club.

Ilkin had stayed inside and was watching Beyrek’s entrance expectantly.

“If all the Russian girls were like that one,” Beyrek said, “I don’t think business would be doing so well.”

*

Mehmet watched dust form a cloud and engulf the Transit van as it raced down the hillside and pulled up next to Turgutkoy dockside. Anna got out, a bit scruffy from a sticky journey, but still looking like Miss World. She opened the back doors of the van and held out a hand, helped two girls balance as they stumbled out. They looked like frightened rabbits and clung to one another nervously.

Mehmet approached, hoping he could put Hannah and Becca at ease, but their response was to put hands on hips and thrust their upper bodies out towards him.

“No, no, you don’t understand,” he said in Russian, not feeling pleased at the way his body reacted to the provocation. “We’re not here to make use of you. You are free. We’re taking you to Russia, back to your father.”

The taller of the two said, “Why? So he can sell us to someone else?”

“You really don’t understand,” Mehmet said, thinking of Yagmur’s manipulation concerning Nina. “Your father never sold you. He thought you were being taken to Italy where you would have a better chance in life.”

Almost in unison, both girls heaved a breath, the face of the younger crumpling into tears, the elder biting into her bottom lip, refusing to show emotion.

Yuri came over. “We’ll sort the explanations out later. Right now, you need to hurry. If Beyrek Ozel had second thoughts and made checks elsewhere in Moscow, Anna may have someone on her tail. Come, get on the boat.” He helped Hannah and Becca from the quayside onto the gulet, stowed them below deck and then came back to the dockside.

“That’s your job done, Anna,” he said. “I hope everything goes as well for you back in Russia.”

She smiled and kissed him on either cheek. Mehmet was disappointed to only get the smile. She went to the van and climbed in. “Good luck with the rest of the assignment,” she shouted.

Turning the ignition key, the big diesel spun into life and she waved one last time before leaving. Mehmet and Yuri watched clouds of sandy grit kick up from the unmade road as she gunned the van up the hill and out of sight.

Mehmet asked Yuri, “What does she mean ‘good luck’? How could anything go wrong with what we’re doing here?”

“Like the general said, getting the girls away from Beyrek is the first part. The real task begins when Hannah and Becca have been made safe.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about the mission.”

“Look, let’s get the girls onto the merchant ship in Istanbul and then I’ll tell you everything I know, everything.”

Chapter 44

Leaving the forested hillsides of Turgutkoy behind, they sailed through the stillness of turquoise waters, cleared sight of land and stumbled into deep sea swells.

“You wouldn’t normally sail this far out in such unsettled seas. You must have genuine fears of Beyrek checking out Anna’s story,” Mehmet said.

“No, I don’t think he’d do that, else he’d have done it before Anna got there. But I like to go with the safe options. We’ll stay deep until we round Bozcaada Island, then we’ll go back to hugging the mainland.”

Eventually, they came abreast of Canakkale and sailed closer to shore where the waters were more settled. They navigated the Dardanelles, the strait between the Aegean and Marmara Seas, and sailed past Gallipoli before setting a direct course for the island of Marmara Adasi where they would pick up the main shipping lanes into the Bosporus Strait.

The general had given them a rendezvous point in Sariyer, a port at the northern end of the strait near the Black Sea. It was there they found the Russian merchant ship that would take the girls back to their homeland.

Passing the responsibility of the young women over to the merchantman, they manoeuvred the gulet from the dockside. Mehmet looked back and saw the girls out on the main deck waving goodbye.

“Sweet girls, sad what happened… I think that was a job worth doing,” Yuri said, from behind the helm.

“I can’t believe their reactions: no tears, no hysterics; in fact, no emotions,” Mehmet said.

“If only things were that simple. I’d bet money that as soon as they get back with their father they’ll fall apart at the seams.”

“Well, it’s over for us and now we move onto yet another task before my grudge can be dealt with,” Mehmet said, feeling cheated.

“That’s the life you signed up for, but don’t worry, my young friend, I think you’ll find this new task and your grudge are one and the same thing.”

Yuri was stood at the helm while Mehmet had a foot up on the aft bench encircling the inner bulwark. His focus had been moving from the girls on the ship to the wake dissolving from aft of the gulet, but Yuri’s words turned him with a start, surprised. “The same thing? How so?” he asked.

“Beyrek Ozel was the one who gave the order to have your father killed,” Yuri told him, going for nonchalant, but clearly uncomfortable.

Mehmet listened, struck silent as numbness worked its way into his flesh.

“Your papa grieved for your mother like no other I’ve seen. He couldn’t forgive himself for the way she died. But while he had been guilty of doing some stupid things in his life, he wasn’t responsible for what happened to her. I think most of his torment was because it made him realise he’d been a bad husband and father and it was too late to do anything about it.”

“Why did Beyrek kill him?” Mehmet asked, sad thinking of his mother, unmoved thinking of his father.

“Your mother was a beautiful woman and both Levent and Beyrek fell in love with her. I think when she died Beyrek took his grief out on Levent.”

Yuri cleared his throat.

“Levent promised himself your life wouldn’t be wasted like his had been. He knew Beyrek’s safe was bursting with money and made a plan to rob the apartment while Beyrek was away on business. Levent – sorry, your father – was aware of the dangers, but he wanted to make up for his shortcomings.” Yuri held out open palms. “Beyrek caught him and your father paid the ultimate price.”

Mehmet felt a burning, watery pressure behind his eyes – Beyrek: he was the one responsible for turning his life to shit.

Yuri went on. “On the boat, your father asked me to take care of you, but I was being held at gunpoint and wasn’t allowed to answer. I did give him my assurance with a nod. At least he died believing you would be safe.”

Mehmet’s brow furrowed. “Then why wasn’t I?”

“I tried. When I eventually got rid of Beyrek and his henchmen I went out looking for you, but Zeki had been sent ahead. By the time I got to Galata he’d taken you… I couldn’t believe it when years later I fished you out of the Bosporus. It was as if some god had plucked you up from that gang and given me another chance to keep my word.”

“Oh … just a minute, so it was Beyrek that Zeki worked for?”

“Yes.”

“Then I have seen him before. He would’ve been the one Senturk and I saw next to the Galata Bridge on the night we followed Zeki. Not only is he responsible for killing my father, he killed Senturk as well… But why didn’t you tell me any of this earlier?”

“And what would you have done? You were a dogged child. If I’d told you, you would have been off seeking revenge. You’d have been killed and, of course, I couldn’t let that happen.”

“But it seems okay for me to go after him now that the general wants it done?” Mehmet said.

“Ouch! Now is okay because you have the might of the Soviet forces behind you.”

Mehmet fell silent, overwhelmed. Suddenly he wanted to be alone, think things through. Without a word, he began making his way towards the fore of the vessel.

“Mehmet,” Yuri called.

But Mehmet held up a halting hand and continued his way to the prow of the vessel, Yuri’s words reverberating around his brain. He stood up front watching the bow break the still waters until he became desensitised to what Yuri had told him and accepted things for what they were. Beyrek had been responsible for the murder of his father and for the life Mehmet was subsequently subjected to. Now he had a picture of him in mind he could see Beyrek for what he was: a man, nothing more than a man.

“Are you all right, Mehmet?” Yuri asked, coming up the deck behind him.

Mehmet’s head spun in surprise. “What? Oh yes. Don’t worry, Yuri, what you’ve told me has given me strength and now I know what has to be done. You told me that the next step and my grudge were the same thing; what exactly is the task?”

“Our first priority is to get the current batch of Russian girls away from Icmeler and to a place of safety. If we succeed, we return to raze the club to the ground, destroy those who run it. Will you have a problem doing things as General Petrichova has ordered?”

The sun radiated warmth onto Mehmet’s back and it was with calmness when he answered. “Don’t worry, Yuri, I must do this job the way you describe it and not just because the general wants it that way. The Bernstein girls must have gone through hell with Beyrek Ozel. How could I do anything to jeopardise the girls still under his control? No, I will follow your orders.”

“Good. Our first stop is the Russian Embassy in Yenikapi.”

“I think before that you should get back to the helm,” Mehmet laughed, “or you will need another new boat.”

Yuri looked to where Mehmet was pointing before rushing back, taking the helm and steering away from the oncoming ferry.

*

Russian Embassy, Yenikapi

“If you think the task is too big for two people, say so now,” the general said after outlining his orders. “I have agents in Ankara that could meet you in Turgutkoy.”

“No, General. I think too many Russians on the scene could be more of a problem than a help. The details you’ve given are more or less in line with what I already knew, so I think we’ll be better off with just the two of us,” Yuri said. “I’ve put together a list of what we need.” He handed the general a sheet of paper.

General Petrichova summoned an aide. “See to it that the embassy staff gather these items and put them in the foyer.”

Mehmet thought it an odd list, but they didn’t seem to have any trouble filling the order and soon they were carrying the items down to the boat. It wasn’t long after that that they set sail.

“I haven’t even seen half of these weapons before, Yuri. It’ll take me the full trip to become familiar with their use.”

Yuri laughed. “Mehmet, if we had a month of Sundays I don’t think you’d be able to shoot straight. But we’ll see what we can do.”

Mehmet pulled a face and began sorting through the arms cache: two of each of Uzi sub-machineguns, Dragunov SVD sniper rifles, Makarov handguns and Welrod silent pistols. At least Mehmet could fire them if nothing else and the field glasses were obvious, but as for the other stuff… As he learned along the way: hand grenades, smoke grenades, a couple of Stinger air pens, firearm simulators, a garrotte, Chinese Crackers and C4 explosive with detonators.

Mehmet was puzzled. “Are you expecting me to do something with this lot?” he asked.

“No, I’ll be using most of it. But you should understand the principles.”

And Yuri taught him as much as he could in the time they had. The grenades and other bits were no big deal, but by the time they approached the peninsular leading to Turgutkoy, Mehmet had practised shooting and it was still the same – hopeless.

Silence ruled until Yuri said, “Wealthy Turkish families pay a lot of money to come here from the cities on holiday, but you, you are seeing it all free.”

“Yes, thank you, Yuri, but with Beyrek’s club within two hours of here, getting excited about the scenery is stretching the imagination a little.”

But Yuri was right; the coastline was as beautiful as any Mehmet had seen. The sun shone on a cobalt-blue sea and bare cliffs watched over the gulet as it entered the Turgutkoy inlet. Hills off the starboard bow were covered in dense, green forest and seemed to radiate a relaxing calmness.

Approaching shore, there were a multitude of docking choices and Mehmet was at the helm when Yuri shouted from the fore while pointing. “We use the same floating pontoon that we took when we brought Anna in; the one near to that red Transit van.”

Three dark-skinned men with jet-black, greasy hair leant against the side of the van. Mehmet looked at them with suspicion. “We didn’t have a welcome party when we brought Anna here,” he said.

“No, but they’re the same people that served us then.”

“They don’t look Turkish.”

“But they are. Well, sort of. They’re Kurds who escaped to this place from one of the many Turkish conflicts. They’ve settled in the surrounding hills.”

They docked the gulet and the Kurds helped them load the bags of weapons into the Transit. Yuri settled the debt and the men left wearing big smiles.

“Let’s eat; it’s midday and we have a long afternoon ahead before we get another chance,” said Yuri.

A fish restaurant nestled in a pine-clad hillside gave the backdrop for the meal and Mehmet thought that if Beyrek’s club was in a similar setting, it would be easier to remain unobserved.

“I want us to spend today on reconnaissance,” Yuri said, chewing messily at a fish kebab. “We need to have a look at the club and get a feel for the local terrain. It’s a couple of kilometres back from the sea on the outskirts of Icmeler. Anna said it’s surrounded by forested hills, same as here, but more mountainous. The ordinance map shows that roads wind around the hills where the club stands. We’ll take the van as close to the top of the hill facing the club as possible. We find a hiding place for the arms and have a good look at our target. Later, probably tomorrow, one of us has to go into the club and test out the Russian girls.”

“Test out?”

Yuri let his body deflate and he sighed. “No, don’t get excited. You don’t actually get to touch the girls.”

Mehmet left the conversation where it was, but he couldn’t help wondering what sort of man Yuri thought he had turned into. Maybe his father?

After the meal and refreshments, they jumped into the Transit and crossed the peninsular along narrow, unmade roads, Yuri driving. To the north of Icmeler, they drove up the mountain-like hill on the blind side of the club. Yuri stopped the van when they came to a passing place forged out of a granite face.

“This will do,” he said, pulling the van near the rock-face and shutting down the engine.

They scrambled to the summit with the bags slung over their backs and Yuri looked for somewhere to hide the weapons.

“Here,” he said, nominating a thick clump of pine trees hovering near a steep drop above the club. “At some point in recent history there’s been a landslide, maybe an earthquake. Whatever it was, it’s left us with a clear view through the fissure to the bottom.”

Yuri removed the contents of all but one bag and put them under and in the shade of the trees.

“It will be difficult making a quick getaway with the girls, never mind humping this lot back down the hill.”

“Don’t worry; we leave everything here bar the handguns.”

Mehmet was suddenly distracted and swatted at a small cloud of mosquitoes before lying belly down next to Yuri. Simultaneously, they lifted binoculars to their eyes and glassed the valley below. The spot Yuri had chosen was in dappled shade, so they could use the equipment without catching a glint from the sun. Once in place, the mozzies returned, having found a large sunbeam that had squeezed through the branches and their legions swarmed a metre overhead.

The Turkish Delight, Beyrek’s club, was the only building in the gulley, so if a firefight kicked off, the chances of the alarm being raised were slim. Yuri reached for one of the Dragunov SVDs and scoped the ravine. The gun’s sights doubled as an illuminated range finder and Yuri used them to gauge distances.

“The club is about seven hundred metres away. If we have to make a stand from the mountaintop for any reason, these sniper rifles can kill with ease and still have a few hundred metres of raw power to spare – one reason we’re using Dragunovs.”

Mehmet picked up the rifle, rested his face against the cheek pad and scoped the area to keep up with what was going on. But Yuri took the rifle from him, laid it next to his on the ground and passed him a pair of binoculars.

“Here, you need a wider view. Take in everything you can about the club and the surrounding area. Watch and absorb for ten minutes, then we’ll go back to the gulet to eat and make drawings of what we’ve seen.”

After making mental notes, they returned to Turgutkoy and ate at the same restaurant, because it was the only one there. Back on the gulet, Yuri set out an artist’s pad on the navigation table.

“Right,” he said, “start with anything that comes to mind.”

Mehmet closed his eyes. “It was like a Spanish hacienda. White stucco walls. The main building had a red-tiled hip roof and was two storeys high. The main entrance had an open storm porch with a similar red-tiled roof and timber posts holding it up.” He stopped and opened his eyes to see the progress.

“Good,” Yuri said. “All window frames on the main block had steel bars, bowed outward so the windows can be opened, but no one can get in or out. There were no fire escapes at the front of the building, so, if there are no stairs out back, any people trapped upstairs will remain trapped. There was a courtyard at the rear with single-storey rooms forming a rectangle, probably where they hold the girls.

“I want you to go in there tomorrow and play at being a Russian sailor from Marmaris marina. If there is nothing in the club that might upset our plan, we go ahead.”

Mehmet scrunched his brow. “But playing a Russian sailor would mean there’d have to be Russian yachts in Marmaris marina. What if they know there are none?”

“Ah, but there is a very large Russian yacht in the marina, so never mind that. Let’s get back to the drawing.”

Mehmet closed his eyes again. “The single-storey buildings have pitched and tiled roofs.”

Yuri took over. “The terrain around the building is clear of ground cover for two hundred metres,” he said, finishing the drawing.

He passed it over and Mehmet nodded. “Yes, this is pretty much how I remember it.”

“Good, the rest of today is your own, but you should get as much rest as you can; tomorrow, you’ll need to be alert. But first, I’ll run the razor around your head to keep the look they gave you at the embassy.”

Mehmet winced.

Chapter 45

The following morning, Mehmet and Yuri went to the mountaintop, lay under the cover of the clump of trees and glassed the ravine below.

“Look, since we were here yesterday, there’s a truck parked up outside the club,” said Mehmet.

“A bus,” Yuri replied. “Probably the latest consignment of girls.”

Four people, three men and a woman, came out of the club and walked the perimeter.

Yuri said, “The gang, and they’re clearly Eastern Bloc. I expect they’re the ones who delivered the girls.”

“Do we still go in?” asked Mehmet, voice giving way to fear.

Yuri smiled and nodded. “Yes, Mehmet. Don’t worry, it’s natural enough to be afraid. You have to learn to live with your fear and do it anyway.” He laughed, lifted a hand and let it shake. “We know as much as we’re going to from watching at this distance. The guards have gone back inside. We’ll give them time to settle and then put the plan into action.”

But before the guards had chance to do that, another bus full of people showed up.

“That’s Beyrek,” Yuri said, as Beyrek stepped from the bus and waited at the entrance porch. He watched the others climb from the bus and gave instruction as they took along what looked like photographic equipment.

“What’s that about?” Mehmet asked.

“Anybody’s guess,” Yuri said.

Mehmet glared at Beyrek, feeling full of hatred. He felt an overwhelming urge to pick up a Dragunov and blow his head off, but considering the girls in the club, he bit his lip and left the thought where it was, in his head. All the same, the daydream ran its course, over and over again. He’d finished blowing the top of Beyrek’s skull away for the umpteenth time and was restarting the fantasy when Beyrek came out of the club – this time with a much larger crowd than had gone in with him.

“That didn’t take long,” Mehmet said, thinking maybe five minutes had passed.

To his surprise, Yuri told him. “It was easily an hour.”

The group got on the bus, took the photographic equipment with them and left.

“Good,” said Yuri. “A lot more leaving than what came; that means there’s only the barman down there.”

“It’s not like you to jump to conclusions,” Mehmet said.

“I know, but it isn’t as if they’re expecting visitors. No, the barman will have been left in charge. Okay, Mehmet, go for it. We’re ready. But don’t take chances. If something isn’t right, walk away.”

Yuri would follow with the explosives, climbing down the mountainside through the fissure. Mehmet had to appear to have come along the road from Icmeler, so he scrambled down the hill at a slant and came off at a bend on the mountain road further along. He dusted himself down and walked along to the hacienda. The intense heat of the sun had sent a swarm of flies to harbour under the storm porch. Swatting his hand in front of him, Mehmet ducked his head and moved swiftly past and inside. With hands on hips, he stopped, scanned the area and tried to give off an air of superiority.

A stench of sweat had mixed with cheap perfume, and the smoky atmosphere constricted his throat. One side of the room comprised a stained, wooden dance floor with four tables around it. The other half contained a cluster of tables, one of which was occupied by two men drinking and appearing enthralled with each other’s company. The men were Russians and Mehmet was surprised to see his entrance did nothing to disturb their fixation on one another.

The ashtray they shared was full of stubbed-out, cardboard-tubed cigarettes and the men’s nicotine fingers clung on to burning dog-ends. Smoke clouds mushroomed overhead and drifted to where Mehmet stood, inflaming his nostrils and stinging his eyes as well as his throat – Druzhba cigarettes, Yuri’s addiction. The men being Russian meant they were part of the gang. Yuri had been wrong; they hadn’t all gone with Beyrek.

“You having a drink or are you going to start pirouetting?” the barman asked sarcastically.

Mehmet cleared his throat. “Err… no Turkish well very speak,” he answered, deliberating over every word. “Give vodka.”

The two at the table turned their heads as he made his order. They gave him the once-over and returned to what he was now convinced was mutual admiration.

“And a nice Turkish girl?” the barman grinned.

“Niet, no. Not girl now, maybe later,” he said, painstakingly slowing his words.

The Russians stood up, flicked ash on the dance floor, nodded to the barman and left. An engine fired up and a car drove off.

“What, you Russians aren’t very friendly with each other.” He nodded towards the door. “You are all from that yacht in the marina, aren’t you?”

“Dah, but we no speak. I not Russian,” he said, looking to the door through which the men had left and making a spitting gesture. “I Chechen.”

So, the men were from the Russian yacht; Yuri had been right about the gang leaving after all.

Grinning, the bartender raised his eyes skyward, all-knowing. “Right,” he said, moving his interest to polishing glasses.

Mehmet made way to a table and swilled the drink around his glass. There was time to kill; Yuri had to get down the mountainside with the bag they’d left packed. Occasionally, he wet his lips with the vodka but didn’t swallow any: he hated the stuff.

A couple of Turkish girls sauntered in from the open courtyard and stood at the bar, posturing. Their voices rose and they began pulling at each other’s blouses, pretending to argue, pushing one other, shoving, hands brushing breasts, heads thrown back and hair shaking – just about anything that might draw Mehmet’s attention. Much as he wanted to take them up on what looked a very promising offer, he showed no interest and they eventually drifted back to wherever it was they’d come.

“You don’t seem to like girls and you’re not exactly a big drinker. Why come to a place like this?” the bartender said derisively, studying Mehmet suspiciously.

“Not big drinker, no, but maybe want girl now.”

“What do you mean, you want a girl now? They’ve just been and gone, and you didn’t seem very interested,” said the barman.

“Because want Russian girl, treat like shit – told you, I Chechen, not like Russians.” He spat when saying the words.

“There are no Russian girls here.”

“Not true, marina friend tell me. You Russians have. No worry, I pay plenty.”

He considered Mehmet for a moment. “Well, there might be one, but you pay me the money and keep your mouth shut about it. Do you hear?”

“Dah, dah, just woman bring.”

The bartender clicked his tongue and disappeared into the courtyard. Mehmet sat alone for ten minutes and began to feel twitchy, but the barman came back with a girl. About eighteen, she looked nervous, a peasant, definitely not a whore. Her corn-coloured hair struck Mehmet as probably being long, but it was braided and wrapped. Her blue eyes were large and wide apart, gaping fearfully. The dress she wore wasn’t hers: too tight, probably why he’d taken so long to get back with her. The clothing made her figure look full and her skin was pale. If she was destined for Istanbul, the Turks would come in droves for their turn.

“She’s still untried,” the bartender said in Turkish, “so you’ll get your money’s worth. She only speaks Russian but you shouldn’t have too much trouble with that.”

Mehmet grinned. “Not matter anyway. No need words.”

“One thing: if the girl is damaged in any way when you’re finished, I will damage you. Nobody’s supposed to be using them.” He towered menacingly over Mehmet as he gave the warning.

“Not worry. Nothing show.”

The barman sneered and pushed the girl to Mehmet, but then smiled and nodded on taking a roll of lire in exchange.

“Use the room in the corner at the other end of the courtyard. The door has a number ten painted top centre,” he said, pointing.

Mehmet took the girl’s arm and marched her through the double-arched doorway into a courtyard. She whimpered. Five girls sat at open-air tables. They fidgeted as Mehmet passed and looked at his girl sympathetically – they were Russians too. Shingle crunched underfoot and his face burned from their scrutiny.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to harm you,” he whispered in Russian to the girl, but pushed her along as he said it. “We need to talk.”

There were six doors up one side of the quadrangle and the same on the other, another eight along the rear and looking back to the main building, two on either side of a large archway – twenty-four rooms. No fire escape at the rear of the main building, so no exit from upstairs other than the stairway in the bar.

He guided the girl through the door with the number ten painted top centre. “Sit on the bed,” he told her. “What’s your name? Quickly.”

She stiffened. “Natasha.”

“Okay, Natasha, I don’t know what you’re aware of here and I have no idea what these people have in mind for you,” he lied. “But it’s my job to get you out. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“Yes,” she sobbed. “And I do know what they’re doing. They’re going to use us as prostitutes and then sell us on to the highest bidder.”

Mehmet waited a moment to let her tears subside, but she had nothing to add.

“Are the girls in the courtyard part of your group?” he asked.

“Yes, some were already here. There were six of us collected together in a Moscow district, at a club called The Red Lite in Balashikha. We were all excited. We believed we were going to be trained as ballet dancers. But we found out their real plans when we crossed the Black Sea.”

Mehmet sighed. How many girls had slipped this net? The ones here now had a chance if the task was successful, but those who’d come before…

He let ten, fifteen minutes pass and told Natasha the plan while they waited.

“I suppose we’ve been here time enough for what was intended,” he said at last and smiled to himself, remembering his swift performance with Dagmar at the club in Istanbul. “I’m leaving now. When the other girls come back, tell them what we’re doing and to stay calm. And don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” He only wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

He crossed the courtyard and the bartender came towards him, shooed the five girls into number ten and followed them in. Mehmet assumed it was to check Natasha’s condition. He went back to an empty bar.

“You want more vodka?” the barman asked on his return.

“Dah, vodka.” He grinned and chuckled. “And I buy you drink. Russian girl good.” He feigned spitting on the floor because he’d said Russian.

“Thanks,” he said and poured a Raki.

The main entrance door creaked and Mehmet spun his head. Yuri had climbed down the mountainside and was now walking towards the bar. He made no acknowledgements as he positioned himself along from where Mehmet stood. The barman was looking down as Yuri approached and without forewarning, pulled a pistol from under the counter and aimed it at Yuri’s face. Mehmet felt his eyebrows reach for the sky.

“Yuri, it’s good to see you, especially as you’re worth such a lot of money. Beyrek has the word out on you.”

Yuri looked surprised. “Umut, hello. I didn’t know you’d left Istanbul.”

He might have looked surprised but he didn’t sound overly troubled, unlike Mehmet; ‘shit’ was the only word his thoughts could conjure up. He couldn’t believe it; the barman knew Yuri. His thoughts then turned to the Stinger air pen they’d brought from Istanbul. It had a concealed dart-like missile, but doubled as a fountain pen. Yuri had told Mehmet to bring one with him. If he could calmly take it from his trouser pocket now, maybe he could distract Umut. His hand shook as he reached for the pen and then, still trembling, he slid a beer mat across the counter and began writing.

Umut turned the gun on him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

Mehmet shrugged, showed him the Stinger. “Pen, want write,” he replied, going for a deep voice, but hearing a high-pitched crackle in its place.

Umut skewed his head slightly to focus on the pen and then returned his attention to Yuri.

“Fuck!” Mehmet shouted. “Look!” Holding the pen in shaking hands, he pointed it towards Umut. When Umut gave him his attention, Mehmet twisted the knurled front ring a half-turn and released the dart from under the loading of a heavy spring. The missile flew and proved Mehmet was as bad a shot with a pen as he was with a gun. Instead of hitting his eye where he had aimed, he merely pierced his ear. Umut yelled and followed his natural instinct to lift a hand to the injury. It was enough to give Yuri an opening.

Yuri had a garrote concealed under the collar of his denim shirt: a thin wire with wooden pegs at either end. In an instant, he’d leant his massive frame across the bar, whipped the wire over Umut’s head and brought it down around his neck. Criss-crossing his arms and yanking outward, the steel cable sliced through Umut’s jugular. An arterial spray spewed from his neck, dusting the optics on the back wall.

The blood flow lessened and Yuri released the tension. Umut stepped away, life diminishing. Then his head dropped forward and he fell, his huge bulk thudding heavily, shaking the wooden floorboards, sending glasses and bottles crashing and clattering all around him.

“Good job there isn’t anyone upstairs,” Mehmet said, the inner trembling subsiding.

“Okay, get the girls,” Yuri told him.

“Why didn’t we just do all this when we came for Hannah and Becca?”

“Because this task is to bring Beyrek’s operation to an end. Becca and Hannah were a debt the general wanted to be certain of paying.”

Mehmet went to the courtyard, started with Natasha’s room and hurried from door to door, ordering girls out, separating the Soviets from the others. In all, thirty-five girls, fifteen Russians and the rest… The rest looked like they came from all corners of the globe.

Mehmet gave his attention to the non-Russians and said, “You must leave. Go wherever you want, but don’t show your faces around here again. Your lives are in danger.”

The girls collected their belongings and left through the main building. Time was limited; they had to hurry. Mehmet got the girls into the bar while Yuri brought in the C4 from somewhere out front and raced about, fixing it to the buildings strategic points.

“We’ll use their bus to get to the van, but we have to hurry.”

They regrouped the girls on the dance floor and prepared them for an orderly exit. But suddenly, some lunatic came charging down the stairs. He had a handgun with a wooden shoulder stock tucked in against his body and began firing wildly. All of the henchmen hadn’t left with Beyrek. Yuri had got it wrong.

Chapter 46

Yuri was wiring the detonators when the onslaught began and before Mehmet had chance to react, the crazy man had fired three indiscriminate shots. A girl screamed and the flesh on her upper arm tore open. She fell.

No time to help. The gunman bounced around, face drooping lazily and eyes without life. Mehmet had seen enough of it in Synopi to know he was drugged up to the eyeballs. He staggered across the void and pointed the gun directly at Mehmet, but froze. For some reason he’d forgotten about pulling the trigger.

Before common sense had chance to prevail, Mehmet withdrew the Welrod, chambered a bullet and fired; he then reset the rotary bolt and fired again. He aimed at the man’s chest, but hit him in the abdomen with both shots. Clutching at the wounds, the gun fell from the gunman’s grip and clattered to the floor. He looked from Mehmet to his stomach, eyes aghast, and then frantically tried plugging the holes with his fingers. Thick blood ran slowly through clasped hands like molten lava drifting down a hillside.

Mehmet didn’t get pleasure from seeing the man suffer, so he fired at his chest again, but missed and tore a chunk from his bicep. Swivelling with the impact, the wounded man ignored the new wound and clung to his stomach, groaning in agony. Mind panicking at causing such pain, Mehmet was relieved when Yuri pushed him roughly to one side and blasted a hole in the crazy’s forehead. He then gave Mehmet a cryptic look and shook his head.

Mehmet turned his attention to the stairway. “There could be more,” he said.

“No, he wasn’t a Russian. We’ve just killed one of Beyrek’s sons. Still, the shots could have been heard from a distance. We have to get going, and we have to do it now! Help get the wounded girl onto the bus.”

Mehmet and Natasha carried the girl while shepherding the others in front of them. Sitting her in a front seat, they examined her arm. Blood ran freely from the wound.

“It hasn’t hit the bone,” Mehmet said, “so her life shouldn’t be at risk.” He wasn’t sure if that even meant anything, but he could see that shock had crept in: her teeth chattered, her body shook and she had turned deathly white. Natasha was back in peasant garb after their earlier meeting. Now, she tore the sleeve from her dress, bound the injured girl’s wound and offered up a bottle of brandy she’d snatched on the way out from the bar. Natasha was managing better than he could, so he went back into the club to help Yuri finish the wiring.

“The gun that idiot had,” Yuri said, pulling the weapon from under the dead man. “A Mauser C-96; it’s a classic.” The flap at the end of the shoulder stock fell open in his hand. Spare ammunition fell out and danced as it bounced on the floor. “Stupid,” he cursed and bent over to pick it up. A boom resounded from the stairwell and a red line of blood striped the back of his denim shirt. Yuri had been shot!

“Shit!” Mehmet shouted. “There are more of them.” He already had a bullet chambered in the Welrod. The stairwell was dark. He had no target when pointing the weapon and firing, but a groan escaped from the darkness and bodies could be heard scattering away noisily. Somehow, he’d made a hit.

Yuri had dropped belly-down onto the dance floor and faced Mehmet. “That was lucky,” he said, but there was no smile in his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” Mehmet asked.

“Only my pride and a bit of skin. I’m okay,” he said and fired into the dark hollow above the stairway. “Here, this handgun is more powerful than the Welrod. Keep me covered,” he said, handing the weapon over.

“What about the girls?”

“Don’t worry about them; they’re safe enough on the bus, just keep the stairway busy.”

Mehmet shot high into the stairwell as Yuri ran through the main door and outside. Return fire was staggered. Seconds later, Yuri rushed back in at a crouch. He dived behind the bar, called Mehmet over and handed him one of the two Uzi’s he’d brought with him. They both set the guns to auto and sprayed the stairwell with lead. Shards splintered from wood and plaster from the ceiling.

“Being very careful not to hit me,” Yuri said, “I want you to keep shooting where you’re already shooting – and keep it high.”

Mehmet did as he was told and Yuri ran as close to the stairs as he could safely get without being shot – by Mehmet. He threw a canister into the darkness and plumes of green smoke erupted from it. The enemy’s weapons responded. Yuri unclipped two hand grenades and threw them into the void. Mehmet stopped firing and ducked for cover and Yuri wasn’t far behind him. The grenades blew – a pause – and the staircase lost its fight to stay upright, creaked and crashed to the ground floor.

“Right, that should stop them, or at least slow them down. Get out and start the engine. I’ll keep them busy,” said Yuri.

Mehmet ignited the engine and came back to the storm porch. “Ready!” he yelled.

Yuri emptied the Uzi into the ceiling, rolled a smoke canister to the fallen staircase and ran.

“Let’s go,” he said, pulling Mehmet along with him.

Mehmet asked, “What about the explosives? The gang will find them.”

“They’ll be too busy thinking of ways to take us out and get the girls back to worry about the club.”

They climbed aboard the bus, Yuri pushed the gearshift into first and pulled away.

“Go and keep watch through the back window, Mehmet.”

When they approached the first bend at the foot of the mountain, Mehmet saw three men and a woman: the same people who had checked the perimeter earlier; one of the men was limping. On sight, they began firing at the bus. Bullets thudded against the robust metal at the back, but the distance was too great for the weapons to cause damage. The gang seemed to realise they weren’t going to stop them and turned their attention to the gorge in the mountainside. A little pointing and what appeared panicked discussion, and they put the weapons down, took out handguns and scrambled up and over the fallen rocks of the fissure. The bus turned the first bend and began the journey up the mountain.

“I don’t know how they’ve figured out which way we’re headed, but they’ve started climbing up the cleft in the hillside,” Mehmet told Yuri.

“It took me nearly a half-hour to get down. We have plenty of time. It’s only a four-minute drive to the van and another two minutes to the summit from there. We’ll be ready and waiting for them.”

“But what made them choose to make the climb?”

“If we were headed north to the mainland, they would have no chance of catching us. The only hope they have is if we’re going round the mountain and to the other side of the peninsular. Their decision was a good one. They’ve had military training. We were always taught to make the most of a half-chance rather than walk away with no chance at all.”

Mehmet sat back and thought about what Yuri had told him earlier; the crazed man was one of Beyrek’s sons. He smiled. Without realising it, he’d delivered his biggest blow against his enemy to date.

The mountain road occasionally levelled out, but in the main it was steep and made the truck labour. Yuri dropped into lower gears until he could go no further down. Pine-clad ridges swelled from the mountainside and obscured the sky. From the side window, distant views of hills unfolded as bumped ridges, like a multitude of knuckles.

They got to the van, in more like ten minutes than four, and moved the girls across from the bus. Mehmet told them to sit tight, but what else could they do, packed in like sardines the way they were? They all seemed afraid, except for Natasha. She appeared to have come to terms with the situation and had taken control. She sat with an arm around the injured girl while calming the others.

“Is she all right?” Mehmet asked and got a nod in response.

Yuri moved the bus back to block the road and then he and Mehmet clambered up to the summit, dropped onto their bellies and scoped the progress of the gang through the sights of the Dragunovs. The foe negotiated rocks like soldiers on manoeuvre.

“Look,” Yuri said, “the woman is leading the field and she’s predictable. Watch the way she bobs her head and checks the surroundings.”

He told Mehmet to leave the rifle and gather up the small-arms simulators and Chinese Crackers (fireworks).

“When I open fire, I want you to get down into the fissure and wait.”

Yuri took a decent-sized rock, positioned it in front of where he lay, rested the rifle’s barrel on it and pressed his eye to the scope. Mehmet raised himself to a squat in readiness as Yuri squeezed the trigger and the Dragunov spat out its venom. The woman had raised her head as Yuri said she would and the bullet lifted her skullcap, a plume of blood cresting away with the bone.

The men with her ducked into cover, Mehmet took it as a cue and scurried down the side of the fissure until he was within fifty metres of where they were hidden.

Determination renewed, the men restarted their ascent, pushed the woman aside and scaled the rock-fall. If he’d had a rifle, and if he could shoot, Mehmet could probably have hit one from where he sat. But he didn’t have a rifle and, well… He brushed the thought aside. As they closed the gap, he took two Chinese Crackers and lit the fuses using the attached striker boards. Tentatively, he tossed them to the other side of the gap. The blue touch paper burnt and the crackers exploded at short intervals.

There were ten separate noise units in each cracker and the men spun towards the cacophony, firing a few shots in response. Mehmet had no idea what Yuri could see from up top, but it became apparent when the Dragunov sang and a bullet whumped into one of the men. Another turned his attention back to the mountaintop, but hadn’t taken proper cover and was thrown in the air when a bullet walloped into his chest.

The last man standing made a run for it and two more shots echoed out. As a slug exploded his shoulder, he spun and the other bullet smacked into the side of his head. The body tumbled over broken granite and came to rest on a clump of rocks like a rag doll.

As Mehmet climbed back up the gorge, an explosion rang out from beyond the turning where they’d started their ascent up the mountain. Dust rose and petered out.

“What was that?” he asked breathlessly on reaching Yuri.

“The Kurds from Turgutkoy… They’ve blown the link to the Asparan Road, the main trunk road into mainland Mugla. The idea is to confuse Beyrek’s people when they arrive, make them think we’ve headed north.”

Yuri got back on his belly and balanced the rifle on the rock.

“What are you shooting at now?” Mehmet asked.

“The explosives. What else?” he said, shaking his head.

“Oh.” He’d forgotten about that. “So you target one of the explosives?”

“I’ve centred the wiring in a box on top of the porch. It has a spring-loaded device. When I knock the rock from the top of it, the spring will be released and the explosive will be detonated. The delay is set in milliseconds, so we won’t need to hang around long to see it blow.”

Mehmet picked up the field glasses and focused so he could clearly see the box and the rock nesting on it. The muzzle flashed in the shadows of the pine, but the rock was merely chipped and barely moved.

“Shit, should have used a smaller rock,” Yuri exclaimed, his aim hovering before settling for another shot. He fired again and this time struck centre mass and pulverised the rock. The spring sprung and a series of explosions reverberated in a glorious display. Rows of rooms fell like dominoes. One after another, segments blew until they all merged into a single explosion and a dust plume rose above the debris.

But then a final, gigantic blast rocked the ground as far as the top of the mountain. When the dust finally settled, they could see the results: what once was a club was now a crater.

“That was a far bigger explosion than it should have been, Mehmet. Maybe Beyrek is into arms dealing on top of everything else. The biggest of the bangs came from underground. There must have been a cellar filled with something very volatile.”

They tossed the Dragunovs down the slope and returned to the vehicles. Yuri said the bus would be easily moved by Beyrek, so thought to send it off the road, hopefully causing a distraction. He wedged a stone on the accelerator pedal, spun the engine into life and put it into reverse. He jumped out as it moved, but the truck veered to the wrong side of the road and stalled, running into the granite wall. He got back in and started it up. After going through the same routine, the truck left the intended side of the road and tumbled through young pine trees, stopping halfway down when running into bigger woods.

“Time is of the essence,” Yuri said and took the wheel. “We need to get back to the gulet and away. It won’t take Beyrek’s people long to realise the destruction of the road going north was a ruse. The bus will hold their interest, but not for long. Move!”

Tyres kicked stones against the underside of the van as Yuri went straight into second gear and floored the accelerator. Fifteen girls cramped into a small Transit van didn’t equate to comfortable conditions. One of them, with what was beginning to look like a serious injury, was a worry. She had bled heavily and was as white as death. Her almost unconscious body nestled against Natasha and while the other girls were physically unscathed, they were distressed enough to cause panic should anything go wrong.

“What do you think, Natasha?” asked Mehmet, leaning over to where the girls sat in the front passenger seats.

“Something needs to be done to stop the bleeding or she might die, but she’s out of it now because she drank so much of the brandy.”

Mehmet was totally out of his depth. “What’s her name?” was all he could think of saying.

“Olga,” Natasha replied.

In the meantime, Yuri threw them about without concern as he sped, plummeting down the hill back to Turgutkoy. Natasha kept both arms firmly wrapped around Olga.

Chapter 47

Beyrek sat upstairs on the open veranda of his mansion-like home staring between the islands and beyond to Marmaris. He was at a loss as to how this could have happened. Out of the blue, an attack on the club and he’d lost his youngest son – and much more beside. How? Who? Well, he had ideas, but… Gizem broke his concentration when she came in from the lounge and sat on the wicker chair next to him, the sour look on her face reflecting how he felt himself.

“And how many millions has this cost us?” she asked.

How could she be like that with her youngest dead? Beyrek was hard headed enough, he knew, but a response like that… Not enough of him left to bury and all she could think about was the money. What a bitch, but now her attitude had him thinking about the money. He had to admit that eight million lire worth of explosive was a hell of a lot to lose. Semtex had been stashed in the cellar waiting to make payment for the next shipment of heroin. Now they would have to ask the Russians for more and it would be down to him and Gizem to take the financial burden… And the Russian girls had been taken. Shit, the Russian girls; they alone were worth a fortune.

A cool tingle traced a line up his spine as he thought over the possible consequences. There was a lot more than money at stake here; he could lose the drugs trade – and the trafficking. The Russians didn’t suffer fools gladly and they might think that’s what he’d been – a fool. Why? Because he’d left his son in charge and with Nabokovski knowing that Eren was an addict…

Money, she asks now; how much money? He shook his head gravely.

“Well, do you want to share?”

He sighed. “About eight million and you know it will be us who has to pay for a new batch of Semtex, don’t you?”

“Why do you think I’m looking so bitter? You don’t think I’m fretting over that fucked-up son of ours, do you? He was finished with me when he started getting out of his head on heroin. Once a man is hooked on that stuff, he might as well be dead.” She stopped, pondered. “Eight million, you say?” And now her grief became palpable.

“That’s what I said.”

“How has this happened? Somebody should have heard the fracas. The club isn’t that far away.”

“After the rumblings we’ve been hearing lately, people would have thought it was the beginning of another earthquake,” he said, thinking back to the ground vibrating under his feet when the club exploded. He’d felt it two kilometres away. “An earthquake would have been easier to deal with.”

Gizem sat bolt upright. “What’s done is done. Let’s think. We can’t do anything about the businesses or the money for now. We need to focus our attention on who did it and why. Talk me through what happened.”

Beyrek let out an exasperated breath, was about to protest, but what she was saying made sense enough. “We got to the club and I sent a few men ahead to scout the area. Serkhan, one of my ex-military men, said the attackers had blown the link to the Asparan Road. But he also reckoned they were laying a false trail. Don’t ask me how he figured that out. One of the others found four of our people dead halfway up a crevice on the hillside opposite the club. They had been killed with Russian sniper rifles, Dragunovs. Serkhan determined it was a professional hit, probably military.”

“Have we…?”

“Yes, but wait. You said you wanted to go though the details, so let me finish.”

Her lips set in a straight line, but she sat back and allowed Beyrek to continue.

“My people went over the ridge and found the bus the girls are delivered in. It was halfway down the mountain on the other side, another delaying tactic. The only good news is that there was a lot of blood in it.”

“You think it’s theirs?”

“Who else could it be from? Anyway, the bus proved without doubt they didn’t go north. That left the coast on the other side of the peninsular. They could be sailing away now or holed up locally, waiting for things to die down.

“There are Kurd bandits in that area. I sent Serkhan with a few men to see whether they had anything to do with it. I told him to promise money and amnesty. Believe me, for money those people would sell their souls.

“One of the local whores came to us from the club and she got a good look at two of the bombers. She didn’t know how many others were in on it, but she gave good descriptions of the two she saw.”

Impatience strained Gizem’s face. “Yes and…?”

“Well, she started with a young man and I didn’t make a connection at first. But the more she talked, the more the description of the Istanbul killer began to fit.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? I still have a newspaper cutting in my wallet. I showed it to her and told her to imagine the man with his hair styled as in the photo fit.”

Gizem’s eyebrows lifted quizzically.

“‘I couldn’t swear, Mister Ozel,’ she told me, ‘but it’s very like him. No, no, the more I look at it, the surer I am it is him. Yes, definitely, it was him,’” Beyrek said.

Gizem looked frustrated. “God, none of this makes sense.”

“I’m not finished. When she gave a description of the other man, you’ll never guess whose ugly head reared up – Yuri. I couldn’t have given a better description of him myself.”

Gizem nodded and gave a pained smile. “You’ve done well, Beyrek.”

He continued. “It was good to bring my thoughts to the surface. I think I’ve just realised what’s going on. Yuri is working with an unknown Russian or Russians and they’re trying to move in on the flesh business. I don’t think they could’ve known about the drug trade or they wouldn’t have blown up the Semtex: they would’ve seen it as another business opportunity. I think they killed Ahmet and the others in Istanbul to draw us away from their real intentions.”

“I don’t see how… Okay, yes, I suppose that could be right. So they’ve stolen the peasants to give themselves a stake and destroyed the club to show us up as vulnerable. And Yuri is Russian. He might even know our suppliers. If he were to set up a club somewhere on the Aegean coast, he would be in a position to make a takeover bid to the people in Moscow.”

“Yes, you’re right. We have to turn our partners against Yuri and his people before he has a chance to make his play. The Russian girls in Istanbul waiting to be sold; we’ll bring a couple back, have them tortured and mutilated, send photographs to Nabokovski in Moscow and persuade him Yuri was responsible. Money is what makes Nabokovski tick. The loss of trade will be enough to set him against Yuri.”

“That sounds good, but what about the drug franchise?”

“It pains me to say it, Gizem, but we’re going to have to take the hit on that one. Unless you can come up with something.”

She made no answer and he went into the lounge shaking his head.

Chapter 48

Clearing the headland, Yuri reset the course, tethered the helm and dangled Mehmet over the bow of the boat. The sun was hot on his back, and white horses galloped proudly over the Aegean Sea. The craft drove into the oncoming swells and his body tingled and glowed as the water dusted him with a cooling spray. After tearing the label from the hull, Yuri pulled him back up.

“Strictly Business – a fitting name,” Mehmet said, rolling up the label.

They had stuck a false name over the yacht’s original title – Turkish Girl.

“A false trail was necessary. Beyrek’s people won’t get the better of the Kurds – they’re hardened soldiers. But maybe he could sway them by putting money on the table. Still, the name deception won’t help if the boat is boarded, so let’s hope we don’t pick up interest along the way. Take the helm while I change this shirt.”

Yuri took the blooded shirt off before disappearing into the saloon. He’d been right about the madman’s bullet; the graze from it had barely broken the skin. Left alone, Mehmet played the rescue over in his mind and was startled when Yuri came back. His hair was jet black. He had also changed into a pair of black swim shorts. Mehmet was trying to think of a send-up, but before he could, Yuri handed him black boot polish.

“And put these on,” he said, pushing a pair of yellow bathing shorts at him.

He’d brought the two girls with the darkest skin up top with him – maybe because they were the most voluptuous. And they were certainly that.

“Put these swimsuits on. I want you to stay out on the main deck and sunbathe,” Yuri demanded, holding out white bikinis. Both girls shied away as if he were trying to set them on fire.

“No,” one of them answered. “I can’t wear something like that.”

Yuri’s lips blew out like inflated tyres. “Okay, you’d prefer to die or be sold into a life of prostitution than show a little flesh now. Your choice.” He turned to go below.

“Wait,” the same girl said. “I’m sorry, you’re right. Give me a swimsuit.”

He handed the little scraps of cloth over. “I’m sorry too, but it’s important we should look like we’re sailing for pleasure.”

The girls went to change and Mehmet asked Yuri, “Why did you tell the Kurds we were on a heading for Jablah in Lebanon?”

“For the same reason I faked the name on the boat: misdirection.”

The girls came back up and Mehmet had to admit, they filled the bikinis beautifully. The letch on his face must have told his story because Yuri gave him a withering glare.

“Sorry,” he said.

“What’s your name?” Yuri asked of the girl who’d stood up for herself earlier.

“Alyona,” she answered.

“Come, Alyona, I want to show you how to hold a course.”

He took both girls to the helm, moved Mehmet aside and taught them a little basic handling.

“That’s good, just keep her on that heading,” he said and went below with Mehmet. On the fore side of the palatial saloon, they went down into the long passageway leading to the sleeping quarters and knocked on the door where the injured girl was resting. Natasha opened it a fraction.

“I need to speak with you, but not in front of Olga,” Yuri said.

She came out into the passage, closed the door and leant against it.

“How is she?” he asked.

“She’s lost a lot of blood and needs attention. But there’s something else, something different. She cries when she hears you in the passageway. She’s terrified of men. I know when we were being held in that room she was taken out by our captors. It’s more or less after her return that she’s acted so strangely. I asked her about it, but she dismissed it as nothing. But now, I think the whole thing has become too much for her.”

Mehmet had no idea what Yuri was thinking at hearing the words, but the men getting off the bus with the cameras was first thing that came to his mind. They’d abused her and filmed the act. The strange thing was Natasha had no idea, so he could only think the other girls hadn’t been touched yet and were being kept virginal to meet a higher price.

“I noticed you’ve changed her dress. Did you see anything unusual about her condition?” Mehmet asked.

Natasha gave him a surprised, quizzical reaction. “Why yes, she has a lot of bruising. What makes you ask that?”

He coughed. He didn’t want to tell Natasha what he was thinking. “Oh, nothing really. I wonder… Maybe the gang beat her for some reason.”

Yuri cut in. “Okay, let’s go and see her. Frightened or not, we have to make some kind of repair, albeit temporary,” he said, the previous piece of conversation seeming lost on him.

Natasha went into the cabin first. It wasn’t a large room. The gulet was designed for commercial use and there were six passenger cabins and two more for crew. Natasha was sharing the biggest of the cabins with Olga.

Mehmet followed her in with Yuri close behind. Olga lay propped up on the double bunk. She was as white as the cotton castles of Pamukkale, but even distressed and injured it was clear that she would easily be the most beautiful girl in the group. She looked up startled and her formerly sleepy eyes widened in terror. Natasha rushed to her, wrapped her in her arms and consoled her.

“Get me the medical box and bring a glass of water,” Yuri told Mehmet as he edged past.

Mehmet got the box and Yuri took out a jar, spooned white powder into the glass, handed it to Natasha and pushed Mehmet out into the corridor with him. Mehmet looked back and saw Natasha holding the drink to Olga’s lips, encouraging her to drink. A minute passed and Olga was sleeping like a baby.

“I had to drug her,” Yuri said, coming back in. “If she bleeds much more, she could slip into a coma.”

He rummaged in the box, took out scissors, safety pins, gauze, cotton pads, iodine and tape and laid them out neatly on the table next to the bed.

“Shit,” he said, “no catgut or needles. This isn’t going to be pretty.”

He poured tincture of iodine over the cutting edge of the scissors, letting the spill go into a bowl, and trimmed the girl’s dress from elbow to neckline. Gingerly, he pulled the material away from the bits of blood that were trying, but failing, to congeal and folded it down and over her chest. Using swabs and more iodine, he set to work cleaning the area around the wound. Olga remained unconscious, but moaned deliriously.

The arm was purple with bruising as far down as her wrist, and it was badly swollen. The bullet had torn a channel through the muscle a fraction below the shoulder joint.

“These’ll do the trick,” Yuri said, finding tweezers and using them to pick the remaining particles of cotton dress from the wound.

Finishing, he cleaned the area with iodine, poured some into the bowl, and dropped several safety pins into it.

“Mehmet, pinch the wound,” he commanded.

While Mehmet nipped the flesh, Yuri pinned the two sides of the wound together. They did the same all the way along the lesion until it was completely sealed.

“Not much of a fix, but it will have to do until we get back to Istanbul. The bleeding has stopped and I don’t think she has lost as much blood as we first thought.”

He finished up with more iodine, dabbed her arm dry, sprinkled antibiotic powder over the safety-pin stitches and wrapped her arm with cotton pads and gauze. He used the leftover pins to fasten her dress back up over her shoulder.

“There, she shouldn’t get any painful knocks with that lot on.”

As if on cue, the girl came back to life, mumbling incoherently.

“Almost as good as new,” Yuri said and rested a giant hand against her cheek, but she pulled back and cried out pitifully.

Yuri nodded to Natasha and left the cabin. Mehmet followed him out, closing the door as he left.

“Nothing else we can do there. Let’s see how my new crew are managing,” Yuri said.

They cleared the passageway and were about to climb the steps out of the saloon when the helmswoman shouted, “Yuri, you should get up here now.”

“Get out of sight,” Yuri shouted to the girls scattered around the area and rushed up onto the deck.

A helicopter hovered close by, moving ever nearer. The blades whipped and whumped, unsettling the stillness, and Mehmet had to wonder how they hadn’t heard its approach.

“Ignore them. Go,” Yuri told the girls. “Soak up some sun… Take the helm, Mehmet.”

Mehmet moved to the helm, keeping under the shadow of the Bimini cover. He picked up the polish and rubbed it onto the shaven parts of his head. Yuri joined the girls and Mehmet slipped the shorts on.

The helicopter neared, inching as close as it could safely get. The blue skies darkened and Mehmet felt as though his eardrums were being pulled out, as the whumming of the blades seemed to draw up the air from around him.

The side door of the helicopter was open and two men sat on the floor, legs dangling over the side. Another two stood behind them, each held a sub-machine gun across his body and stared down without greeting, without question. They just hovered, watching. The sound of the machine’s blades throbbed and Mehmet peeped through the rigging. The pilot was up front, chatting incessantly into a microphone that looped down from earphones and made a horizontal line across his mouth.

Yuri returned aft with the girls and tried to look indignant. He shouted to Alyona above the noise. “Wave your arms at them.”

The girls waved and the faces of the men softened slightly. One wrote something and Mehmet thought he was going to throw down a message, but he returned the notepad to his breast pocket. It wasn’t about the girls. He would be taking the name of the boat so he could check out its credentials. Or maybe just keep it for reference: there were hundreds if not thousands of gulets like this one in these waters. They would want to keep track of what they were doing.

“Wave for them to join us,” Yuri told Alyona.

“But what if they do?” she asked.

“And how would they do that from a helicopter?” Yuri replied, probably with fingers crossed. They could easily drop a line and rappel down.

The girls jumped up and down, breasts jiggling. Mehmet turned his attention to the helicopter; this was no time for the kind of thoughts he was having.

Yuri shouted at the girls while waving his arms in the air and then put his hands on his hips, stretching them back out to the helicopter crew in question. “What do you want?” he yelled.

The men in the chopper laughed uproariously while making obscene gestures to the girls. But a man in a uniform came into sight and spoke through a cupped hand to the notebook man. The man listened, nodded and then banged his rifle stock on the floor. The chopper made a quarter-turn and flew off in the opposite direction to the course of the yacht.

“They’ll be looking for boats on a heading for Jablah. They only checked us out because … because we were there,” Yuri said, looking pleased with himself.

“But they’ve taken the boat’s name. They’ll radio ahead and make a check on ownership against the registry,” Mehmet said.

“Yes, I think they did that before they left. But Turkish Girl is registered legally in the name of an Istanbul businessman. Even if Beyrek were to guess I’m involved from the descriptions he’ll have got from his prostitutes, there isn’t any paperwork to tie my name to this boat. He’ll have no reason to suspect.”

“But if they follow up with a check on Strictly Business and find that name was false, they might come back.”

“No, that one’s legally registered as well. I mean, what’s the point of me having all those city officials under my control if I never make use of them? Don’t worry, they’ll forget about this boat and continue their search for Strictly Business.”

Yuri gave his attention to Alyona. “You don’t have to stay in those bikinis if you’re uncomfortable. They won’t be back… And thank you, what you did could well have saved us all.”

They held their arms across their bosoms, arched their bodies forward and scurried below as if they’d just been released from cages.

*

The gulet followed the same course to Istanbul as when taking Hannah and Becca to the awaiting merchant ship. But now, before reaching the Bosporus strait, they made way to Yenikapi.

“It’s the middle of the night. We’ll have to moor up and hang onto the girls until someone at the embassy can come and meet us,” said Mehmet.

“I radioed ahead to the embassy when you nodded off some hours ago. I’ve arranged for someone to be waiting on our arrival,” Yuri told him.

The gulet made its approach and Mehmet saw a Russian diplomatic car, large, black and gleaming, waiting at the quayside. An embassy guard jumped out on seeing them and came to assist. Mehmet threw him a rope from midships. He caught it and pulled it taut around a bollard, shortening its length as the boat manoeuvred closer.

The driver in the limo got out, stretched, took a last drag of a cigarette and stubbed it under a dark brogue as he watched the proceedings.

One by one, the girls stepped up onto the gunwale, the embassy guard helping them ashore. Olga took a step up but then cowered back as the guard reached out a hand. Natasha then got up onto the jetty and helped her off the boat. As they walked to the limo, Olga leaned heavily against Natasha and still looked like she might break down at a moment’s notice.

Mehmet began unloading the other girls, but watched Natasha take Olga to the awaiting car. A woman, probably a nurse, was sitting in the back. Gingerly, she helped Olga in next to her and checked the bandaging after she’d sat her down. The nurse beckoned Natasha into the car, the driver took the front seat, doors swished shut and the limo pulled silently away. The other girls watched from the quayside, looking lost and abandoned, but the embassy guard who had helped Mehmet tie up was quick to pacify, leading them off to a mini-coach parked in a side street. Not long after that, they were gone too.

“That bit went smoothly enough,” Yuri said, weighing up the area as they returned to the gulet. “And not a witness in sight.”

“Good, I need to get my head down. I’m done.”

*

Later that morning, they went to the Yenikapi Embassy and found the general waiting for them in an office nearly as big as the building’s main conference room. Everything in there, other than the deep-pile carpet, was either glossy polished woodwork or buttoned, blue, leather-bound furniture. They’d barely sat when a tray of tea and small cakes was brought in. A young man poured three cups of coffee, not tea, gazed around sternly and left – Russians.

“Right, can you tell me whether the girls were damaged in any way?” General Petrichova began, throwing the question to both men. Yuri shrugged his shoulders and made a half-turn towards Mehmet.

“Ahem, yes, well,” Mehmet said, “when I coaxed the barman into letting me make use of a Russian girl, he told me they were still untouched, so I can’t be sure. But Olga, the girl who was shot, well, she cried too much, was terrified of men and came away covered in bruises. We had watched Beyrek’s people go into the club with photographic equipment earlier that day. I believe she was abused.”

“Yuri?” asked the general.

Yuri’s head moved from side to side, pondering, but then he nodded in agreement.

The general’s face became solemn. “I’ll have some female staff follow it up,” he said. “Okay, the task; the fire in the bellies of Soviet officialdom will be quenched after what you’ve done here. As you will appreciate, I’ve had to manipulate my report to Moscow with regard to who rescued the girls – because I want to keep you low profile. You’ll have to be satisfied with a commendation from me.”

Mehmet could have laughed seeing Yuri stick his chest out.

“During the time you were working in Icmeler, we’ve managed to halt the procreation of girls in the Soviet Union. The success behind that operation was Jez Kord, Anna’s man.” The general coughed, uncomfortable for some reason. “He had an unfortunate finale to his quest, but if he lives you might well be working with him in future… Okay, the business at hand: the flesh pedalling, as much as we know about it to date, has been brought to an end.”

But? Mehmet sensed a ‘but’ and was about to protest about his own quest and the promise of help. However, the general continued with him having said nothing.

“Of course, Mehmet, you still have Beyrek to deal with and as luck has it, something has cropped up that might make him Soviet business again. While you were in Icmeler, an agent in Marmaris was shadowing his movements. I know I said our interest was sated, but that was for the sake of officialdom. The agent has determined there are two more nightclubs in Icmeler. And guess what? They’re not being used as nightclubs.”

“And that’s of Soviet interest because…?” Yuri asked.

“There could be more Russian girls there. The agent found out that one of the clubs is known as The Sugar Depot and the other The Refinery.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe that’s how they term the processing of the girls. The agent is still there – Alik Ishild; he’s Russian but speaks fluent Turkish. You’ll be working alongside him. This time I want you to finish Beyrek and his operations once and for all.”

General Petrichova turned to Mehmet. “Taking your lack of shooting skills into account, I have something more to your liking for you.”

He handed him a throwing knife. Mehmet levelled it on his finger, perfectly balanced. “Thanks, Michel,” he said to the general. He was good with any sort of blade, but with this knife he would be accurate as far as it could be thrown.

“Oh, a couple more things; Anna Kord is currently making her way to Dalaman Airport. She’ll meet you in Marmaris Marina. Second, we’ve arranged for you to take possession of a cabin cruiser. It’ll be faster.”

Mehmet flipped the knife, caught it by the blade and imagined throwing it and spearing Beyrek. He felt lightheaded, not quite able to believe his time had come. He would at last have his vengeance. The excitement was too much. He needed a toilet, and quickly.

Chapter 49

Mehmet and Yuri found General Petrichova’s eleven-metre, fly bridge motor cruiser, Great White, at the jetty. They had spent a lot of the day at the meeting with him at the embassy, but when they arrived at the boat they decided that there was enough time to make a start on the journey to Icmeler. Mehmet was delighted; he didn’t trust that he would sleep, not when facing the chance of putting an end to the man singularly responsible for the pollution of his life.

As they travelled, pronged lightning flashed and danced on the horizon. The air thickened and the clouds dropped, blanketing the sea in an eerie silence. A storm blew up and it took several days for it to run its course; that meant several days extra on top of what should have been a two or three day journey because they were driven into a safe bay on the coast of Canakkale for shelter. Even when the calm returned, the skies continued to look unpredictable.

As they approached the mainland along from Icmeler, bare rock faces shared space with pine-clad hills. At the base of cliffs, the waters reflected clear in a turquoise sea. The small cruiser hugged the coast until entering the inlet where they bypassed Icmeler in favour of Marmaris and moored up in the marina there. By now, a blue hue filled the sky and the sun spread its warmth.

Mehmet went up on the fly bridge, got comfortable under the protective hood and hooked his feet onto the ship’s wheel, lazily enjoyed the warm sea breeze as it drifted by. Eyes half-open, he watched the comings and goings of marina life, but then the clouds came back with a vengeance. The gentle wind cooled and he rousted himself; he was about to move inside until he saw the woman come through the main entrance.

She glided down onto the pontoon, every movement making her look like sex on legs. She wore a knee-length, black pencil skirt that hugged hips and thighs greedily and a close-fit, yellow blouse with capped sleeves revealing bared brown arms appearing firm and muscular. She was so slim he thought he could probably have wrapped a hand around her waist, but she was also voluptuous.

His stomach lurched. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. And he wasn’t the only one. As she whispered by, sailors seemed to find reasons to leave their boats and step off onto the pontoon to watch her transit. One of them spoke as she went by. She shook her head and laughed. Her blue-black hair rippled, the long tresses flaring out with the movement. She’d been too far away to make out facial features, but the closer she came, the prettier she got. She looked up, smiled and waved. Mehmet waved back. It was Anna; he was suddenly consumed with embarrassment.

“It’s good to see you, Mehmet,” she shouted up to him. “I see by that tan of yours you’ve been making the most of your sea time.”

“Yes,” he replied into his chest. “I didn’t recognise you. You had blond hair when I saw you last.”

She changed to speaking Russian. “Oh, right, I thought you were looking at me rather oddly.” Damn. “I coloured my hair because too many Turkish men stare at blondes.” She had to be kidding; as if that would make a difference.

She climbed aboard and went into the lower level. Mehmet heard her greet Yuri. He wondered if her comment about Turkish men staring at her had been double-edged. He felt his toes curl, but pulled on his T-shirt, gritted his teeth and went down from the fly bridge.

The bridge deck below was open-planned: it had a helm with a galley to the side and a comfortable-size seating space and eating area to the rear of them. Anna stood next to the sofa that ran half the length of the port bulk head. She turned from looking out of the side window when Mehmet went in.

“Hello, Mehmet. Feeling better now?” she asked, her serious expression turning to a grin. Was she laughing at him? He cleared his throat without answering.

She smoothed back her hair and Mehmet sighed, wondered if everything this woman did had sexual connotations.

Yuri came from the galley and sat near to where Anna stood. “Do you know Alik Ishild?” she asked of him.

“Only from the general mentioning his name,” he answered.

Anna raised her eyebrows. “Oh, I thought with him being stationed in Turkey, you might have… Never mind. I spoke with him after getting in from Dalaman, but this is the first operation I’ve been on with him. The general tells me he’s a good man.”

The kettle whistled. “Would you, please, Mehmet?” Yuri asked.

“Sure.” Mehmet went into the galley and began making coffee.

“Here he is now,” Anna said, pointing back up the pontoon.

“Make it four coffees,” Yuri said.

Mehmet was putting the tray of drinks on the table just as Alik got to the boat. Being a Russian agent, Mehmet thought he would have been tall, well made, but he was actually pocket-sized.

“Alik,” Anna beckoned, after sliding a window across.

He lifted his gaze and smiled. Like the natural Anna, he was blond, so much so that he could easily be Scandinavian. Mehmet caught a glance from his clear blue eyes and thought they could probably be frightening if the circumstances were different: piercing, murderously unfriendly. That aside, he had handsome features, if not a little delicate.

The unsettled weather had turned warm again, sticky even, but Alik wore a black suit with a dark-grey line running through it. His shirt was buttoned up to the neck and he’d sealed it with a black tie. If he was happy dressed like that, fine, but Mehmet felt that he would have been sweating like a horse had it been him.

No room for small talk, Alik came aboard, took a mouthful of coffee and went straight to business.

“Beyrek Ozel’s house is on the top edge of the cliff on the right-hand side of the cove … over there,” he said. “You see the two-storey house, between the dip in the island, high above?”

“I see it,” Mehmet said, in tune with Anna and Yuri.

“The mansion sits within walled grounds. The walls are only a metre and a half high, but the scrubland around the property has been cleared, so those within can see anything approaching. The plot is square and each wall is about two hundred metres in length. While they should have total vision of the surrounding area from the house, they’ve limited themselves by covering one half of the grounds in olive trees and the rest with oranges. There are guards in the grounds and at the gate. If we can get inside peacefully, it’ll be easier to take them on their own turf. The perimeter walls are possibly alarmed, so, as I said, we need to go in invited.”

“I know the general told us the two clubs were the main target here, but after talking it over with Alik, we thought it best to cut off the head first,” Anna said. “We also think with this cloud cover it might be more prudent to go for it tonight. Any problems with that?”

Alik nodded knowingly. Mehmet looked at Yuri. “No problems,” they said in unison.

*

The taxi reversed into Beyrek’s driveway, crunching on the gravel. Anna got out and the driver clunked into forward shift, floored the accelerator and pulled away at speed. She brushed her skirt straight and looked at her watch – nine o’clock, probably as dark as it would get tonight. As she climbed from the cab, a guard left his shelter to check her out. “Fucking taxis,” he muttered and shook his head as if his hair were full of dust.

Iron gates stood a short distance back from the road and spanned the four-metre-wide drive. A small sentry box was behind them and to the side. The emerging guard wore a tight, black T-shirt that accentuated his bulging biceps, and his close-fit, blue jeans stretched out against bulky thighs. Holding a sub-machinegun across his body, he pulled his stomach in and stuck his chest out, bracing himself in pose. Anna noted the gun was an Uzi. He had folded the hinged metallic shoulder stock forward and held it as a pistol. Watching from under the defused white lighting fitted high above the gates, he moved the barrel so it rested on his forearm, nodded his head and asked, “What do you want?” His facial muscles twitched around a wide, scored nose. “If you’re looking for work at the club, you’ll have to go there and apply at the door… Sorry.” Sarcasm personified.

“No need to be. I’m here to see Beyrek. He’s a friend of mine. So, assuming your hamster cage has a phone, I suggest you take your little dick over there and tell him the Russian woman, Anna, is here.”

His face contorted and he held his arm out straight, pointing the gun at her. But it wasn’t long before he folded and did as she had said; he moved to his cubby-hole, picked up a phone and pushed a single button. Half a minute passed and then he exhaled a heavy breath; he was running out of patience.

“Oh, you’re still here then. There’s a woman at the gate, seems to think Mister Ozel would want to see her… Appointment? No, I don’t think so, but she says she knows him…”

Silence hung in the air, Anna heard a whispered drone and then the goon answered.

“Yes, Mister Ozel, as I said to Mahmud, there’s a woman here says she knows you… Her name is Anna.”

“Tell him I picked up the two Russian girls for Otto,” she said.

He looked over, venom in his eyes. “…You heard that? Oh … okay, yes, sir.”

He put the phone on the hook and his face surprised Anna; the misery had gone and a wide grin had stepped into its place. He pulled the gate open half a metre.

“Come through. Stand there.” He gestured her a little way in and made her stop when he was able to close the gate. Stashing the gun in the sentry box, he came to stand before Anna. “Mister Ozel said I should make a thorough search. Put your arms out straight and spread your legs.” He looked at her tight skirt and chuckled. “As far as they’ll spread.”

Anna decided to change approach. “Make sure you’re gentle,” she whispered.

“After what you said?” he snarled and ran his hands roughly along the length of her bare arms, patted her down to her buttocks, squeezed. Taking half a step back, he frisked her from waist to shoulders, but then going behind her, he pressed against her and caressed her breasts.

“Ooo, you’re not such a little dick after all,” she mewed.

He laughed and without answering, squatted and smoothed his hands up the backs of her legs and buttocks. “Come on, you can get your legs further open than that.”

He applied pressure on her inner knees and Anna eased her legs further apart. His large, sweaty palms disgusted her as he fumbled at her thighs, hands stopping at the top of her legs, knuckles brushing the crease in her panties.

“Hmm, warm,” he said.

“And getting warmer. Better stop there; I’ve got business with Beyrek. But I’ll be back.”

He laughed. “Okay, straight down the drive to the main doors. Hurry, I tend to get a bit rough when women keep me waiting.”

“You can be as rough as you want,” she said, voice full of promise. “That’s how I like it.”

Still laughing, he went back to the guardhouse.

Anna trembled with distaste as she strolled up the drive, but veered her thoughts to her part in this task. What she had to do was straightforward enough: hold Beyrek’s interest, feed him a story and sit it out until the cavalry arrived. She was there as a distraction and nothing more.

A couple of guards wandered the groves while another one waited outside the doors of the main house: another overgrown gorilla. Anna stopped. The guard walked around her, looked her up and down and smirked lecherously. He then nodded and pushed the double doors open. As she walked into the huge atrium, the main light glared and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. A chandelier hung deep and wide and looked as if it would take a small power station to keep it fuelled. The hall was split by a marble staircase that looked broad enough to drive a car up and Beyrek had taken centre stage on the steps, holding his head high, posturing like Rudolph Valentino.

He drew deeply on a cigarette. “Anna, I would like to say how nice it is to see you again, but my memory tells me it wasn’t such a pleasant experience the first time.” He blew the inhaled smoke at the ceiling.

“Things change, Mister Ozel. I need to discuss some of those changes with you. Give me five minutes of your time. If you don’t think we can be of mutual benefit, I’ll be on my way and there’ll be nothing lost.”

He deliberated… “Five minutes it is then, and for that time you can call me Beyrek.” He smiled welcomingly. “Come upstairs. The house was built with the living rooms on the upper level to give us a better view of the inlet.”

Anna had tied her hair in a chignon before leaving the marina. Now, she fiddled with the large bow in it while weighing up the situation. Upstairs living was unforeseen. The atrium was too bright. The unit would have to navigate around a house they were unfamiliar with. And now she wasn’t sure if there were guards in the house as well as the grounds. If the others were left wanting, it could be the death of them.

Chapter 50

Anna slid a hand along the banister and her heels clipped the marble steps as she hurried up the stairway after Beyrek. He had disappeared into a room and she had no idea how many more there might be before getting to where he was going. But the first entrance he had gone through led to the main lounge and he had already made himself comfortable by the time she got in. She looked around and appraised her surroundings: a white, cuddler love seat, gold-leaf chaise longue, white-top, marble coffee table surrounded by a camel-back sofa with matching club chairs, paintings galore, clearly expensive furnishings, so why did it look so tacky?

The outer wall was almost entirely glass and as much as she could make out under the kerosene lamps, the balcony was furnished as a typical Mediterranean coastal mansion. Anna walked over to look out, but her breath caught when a woman on the veranda rose from a wicker sofa. She appeared to notice Anna’s disquiet and her mouth turned up slightly.

The woman slid the glass panel and came in. Dressed from head to foot in black, the glare she gave Anna matched the mood of the clothing, dark. She lifted a Fatima cigarette to her lips and drew on it, caving her cheeks inward. The smoke wafted across her face and her eyes slatted. She blew a straight blue line upward and the room filled with the smell of roasted tobacco: not unpleasant.

The smoke cleared, her eyes grew wider and her hard, unforgiving expression changed. She smiled pleasantly and shook Anna’s hand; it felt thin, cold and unwelcoming.

“Hello, Anna, I’m Gizem, Beyrek’s wife. I’ve not long made iced tea. Perhaps you’ll join us?”

“I’ve only got five minutes, but I’m sure I can drink cold tea before being asked to leave.”

Gizem simpered, nodded appreciatively.

Anna thought of her as attractive, around fifty, but unlike a lot of Turkish women of that age, she hadn’t yet gone to seed. Her eyes caught Anna’s attention; they looked as cold as shards of ice. How she might fit into this picture was difficult to determine.

Gizem motioned a hand towards one of the club chairs. A nod and Anna sat across from where Beyrek had parked himself. She messed with the bow in her hair and made sure she looked bothered as she tried straightening it. Gizem poured tea for them all and placed two cups on the coffee table between Anna and Beyrek.

He sipped at his while staring at Anna over the top of the cup. “I fail to see how we can be of mutual benefit, but I’ve agreed to give you five minutes, so try me,” he said, replacing the cup gently on the table.

“I came to warn you. You must move your girls from The Turkish Delight. Your whole operation is in danger.”

“What, and that’s it? Hmph, then I’m sorry, there are no benefits. The club has already been destroyed… Was there anything else before you go?”

Anna made herself squirm. “Clearly, I didn’t know that, but I wouldn’t mind betting it was a man called Yuri Aleksii who was responsible.”

Beyrek looked taken aback. “How could you know that? Unless you are involved with him?”

She relaxed her shoulders and smiled. “Not at all; he works for Russian Intelligence. They’re eliminating everything to do with the trafficking, right across the Soviet Union. Otto Mitrokhin has been assassinated on the steps of KGB headquarters and your latest connection, Nabokovski, was killed along with his bodyguards in a hotel room in Moscow. None of this has yet been made official. Soviet forces have blanketed the route used for the transfer of the girls. The trafficking is dead.”

Beyrek’s face turned ashen and he looked to Gizem.

Gizem asked, “If it isn’t official, how can it be you know so much about it, Anna?”

Beyrek wasn’t quick enough to think up the question. Gizem was a major cog in the overall scheme of things here.

“Because Otto was my business partner and we both worked in security forces. I wasn’t a minion as you seemed to think; we worked together. That’s why he asked me to pick up the Bernstein girls in the first place. It is also why I was short-tempered. I hadn’t wanted to do it. But they were important to our business in Russia so it had to be done by someone we could both trust. He was being watched, so that left me.”

Gizem’s expression changed to one of satisfaction, but Beyrek was still to be convinced.

“What you say is all very interesting, but I still don’t see how any of it will keep my wallet healthy. In fact, the contrary seems to be true,” he said.

“Like I told you, Beyrek, Otto was my partner. The trafficking deal in Russia had already been sold on, but we kept our other operations going. We operate all over Africa and the Middle East, in fact, all over the world. With Otto dead, I need new connections, a trusted base outside of Russia, and you’ve already proved you’re that. You see, I have to get out of the Soviet Union. They’ve put the pieces together and are already looking for me.”

“What kind of trades in Africa?” Gizem asked.

“In Africa – diamonds,” Anna replied.

“Diamonds… Okay,” Gizem said, pondering. “Beyrek, there are possibilities here. Anna, would you like more iced tea?”

Gizem had taken the bait. All Anna had to do now was keep them occupied until the others turned up.

*

The taxi Anna had used to go to Beyrek’s flashed around the base of the bluff and thundered on in the direction of Icmeler village, the driver clearly a man on a mission. Mehmet was in the front of a small Fiat next to Alik, and Yuri sat in the back. They had parked in a lay-by waiting for the cab. Now, after letting it get out of sight, they pulled out and drove up the winding road towards the cliff top.

“I don’t see why Anna had to go ahead. Surely she’s putting herself in unnecessary danger,” Mehmet said.

“It’s entirely necessary. I was unable to determine the security inside the house,” Alik replied. “If they spot us when we take the grounds, they might be able to lock down and wait for backup. With Anna inside, she can keep their interest away from the windows and she might be in a position to prevent them shutting up shop.”

Reaching the summit, Alik pulled into Ozel’s driveway, sideways to the gate. Yuri had crouched down on the floor in the back while Mehmet sat running his fingers through the long blond wig Alik had given him. A girl again – Russians!

Alik got out of the car and faced a guard who stood at the gate as if he were some sort of titan. Dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, he was of similar build to Yuri. He carried an Uzi, but the stock was folded and he held it as a handgun when pointing it into Alik’s face.

“Stop where you are,” he demanded, halting Alik a metre from the gate. “What’s your business here?”

“Yes, ehm, hava der meeting Kemal Ataturk,” he said, breaking his speech into poor Turkish.

Even from the passenger seat, Mehmet could see the guard scrunching his brow. “Kemal Ataturk…? Are you trying to fuck me over?”

“No. You no do understand.” Alik took a step closer. “Doing of the business with Turkish saleman… err, Kemal Ataturk. He sell me half of property you stand in. He tell me and wife come tonight, sign deal.” He made a half-turn and Mehmet played with his hair when Alik pointed at him.

Snot spat from the guard’s nose as he burst out laughing. “It’s not just your body that’s small, is it?” he said. “That brain of yours isn’t far behind. Did you pay your salesman anything up front?”

“Yah, half money…”

The answer sent the sentry into convulsions. He threw his head back in amusement, but before he could spit more insults, Alik whipped a Makarov silent pistol from his waistband and shot him under the chin – a muffled burst and blood flowered like a mushroom from the guard’s neck. His body lurched as his hands clawed upwards, and Alik shot him in the face.

Mehmet ripped off the wig, climbed from the car and pivoted the front seat forward to make room for Yuri to get out. Alik had already climbed over the gate and gone into a small hut. The gate opened electronically and Mehmet slipped silently into the grounds with Yuri, the gates closing behind them. Yuri dragged the body behind the sentry box, took up the Uzi and stood in the guard’s stead. Alik then tugged Mehmet’s sleeve and they dissolved into the darkness of the olive grove, Alik warning him to stay close so they wouldn’t end up shooting each other. They edged forward, crept low and moved in half-circles to make certain there were no guards in their wake. Alik had been watching this place for some time before they arrived and had told Mehmet that there were definitely only four guards – including the one on the gate, which meant three to find.

In the darkness, Mehmet was following a metre behind Alik when he saw a halting hand. Alik came back and pointed. Mehmet strained his eyes. Nothing. But then a red glow lit up a hand and the bottom half of a man’s face, which soon dimmed and the vision melted back into the darkness. Quietly, Alik indicated they should get down on their bellies, lie still and wait as voices rumbled on the other side of the compound. The smoking man responded by taking a last drag on his smoke before stubbing it out on a tree trunk. He was on the move. Red embers showered, some burning out before hitting the ground.

Had the man moved off? Mehmet wondered, but Alik made no such deliberation. He’d made a calculated assessment and reacted quickly. Three silenced shots flashed from the muzzle of his Makarov.

A groan, a thud and Mehmet followed Alik on hands and knees. They reached the part of the grove where the man had stood and Mehmet was amazed. The guard was lying face up, staring to where he could see the sky – if he hadn’t been dead. Three holes centre chest. Shots in the dark and Alik had made a perfect hit with each.

Staying still for several more minutes in case the other guards were alerted, they listened. Voices kicked off but there was no alarm in them and the sounds were coming from more or less the same place as earlier. Alik moved off again. Mehmet followed.

There were no signs of the sky clearing, but the visibility in the grove suddenly improved. They were at the rear half of the property, in the orange grove. The smell of orange was strong and Mehmet knew from his time in Synopi that they were ripe for picking. He let the odour clean his nostrils and for a second, relived memories of the relative safety of the prison: even the worst times have positives. They stopped a few metres from the house and saw two men leant up against the side wall.

Alik’s whisper sounded near non-existent when he said, “I’m told you’re not much of a shooter, but we have to take them both at once for the sake of silence. If we get to that tree” – he pointed – “will you be accurate with your knife?”

Mehmet weighed it up. The guards wouldn’t be able to see him. If he could throw the dagger with full force… Yes, in that case he could be accurate at twice the distance. He nodded.

“Good. Go for the one on the left. When we’re in position, I’ll let you know I’m ready and then I’ll follow your lead. Okay?”

Mehmet nodded again.

He crawled to the tree and stood straight. Alik stayed on his knees and pulled Mehmet’s trouser leg to let him know he was ready. Mehmet took his knife from the sheath, wiped the blade on his trousers and then did the same with the palm of his hand. It was sweaty. He was nervous he might miss.

As quietly as possible, he took a deep breath and then, without further ado, threw the knife as forcefully as accuracy would allow. The knife was in the air and hadn’t quite reached the target when Alik fired his pistol twice. Bullets thudded into his man’s neck and chest and before Mehmet’s target could register the assault, the blade had sunk up to the hilt in his throat. Both men hit the ground together.

That should have been the guards accounted for, but Alik wasn’t satisfied with the assumption. “We have to be sure,” he said. “Let us confirm that the guards are dead first and then we’ll purge the area back to the gates.”

Mehmet retrieved his knife and they canvassed the grounds as far back as the boundary where Yuri marched back and forward at the gate.

Alik reached the juncture at the same time. “It was clear my side,” Mehmet said.

Alik nodded in agreement and then said to Yuri, “The grounds are clear.”

“Then let’s do it,” Yuri answered. “Fan out, and make another check of the grounds back to the house.”

For a moment, Mehmet couldn’t understand the overkill, but then realised he had been using the same self-preservation tactics since he’d been a boy.

They opened the main door into the house and entered the hall. The light was blinding and as meticulous as Alik might have been about procedure, it was he who knocked into a small table. A vase crashed to the floor.

Chapter 51

A smash echoed from the downstairs hall.

“What the…?” Beyrek called, getting to his feet.

Anna moved forward in the club chair and lifted both hands to the bow in her hair.

“Beyrek, sit down,” Gizem scolded.

He sat without question.

She turned to Anna. “Since The Turkish Delight was lost, my husband gets jittery all too easily, don’t you, Beyrek? Our son, Ilkin, is downstairs in the office. He’s always banging about with something.”

She had spoken to Beyrek like a chastising mother. And his brow had furrowed a bit like a chastised son. Anna shook her head slightly; the most powerful gangster in Istanbul?

She had held them with stories of scams in the Middle East and told them of the diamond smuggling operations on the West African coast. The cases were real enough; she just failed to mention that her job had been to bring the operations to a close. But now more than an hour had gone by since Gizem first welcomed her with the iced tea and she had begun wondering just how much more she could dredge up from the past. Maybe she wouldn’t have to for much longer; the ‘banging about’, as Gizem had put it, hadn’t been Ilkin. That much she knew.

But Ilkin being in the house did pose a new problem; he hadn’t been included in the calculation. Anna was there to distract; she wasn’t sanctioned to act without provocation. But now she was thinking she should be stepping up to the situation. She got halfway to her feet, about to make a move, but then Yuri, Mehmet and Alik burst into the room toting guns. She sat back.

“Keep your hands out in front of you where I can see them!” Alik shouted.

Alik’s gun was pointed at Gizem, Yuri’s at Ozel and Mehmet’s at Anna.

“That goes for you, too,” Mehmet said and gave her a little wink.

Anna pulled a worried face and placed her hands neatly on her knees.

*

“On your feet,” Yuri shouted. “Beyrek, remove your pistol with your thumb and forefinger and drop it to the floor.”

Beyrek complied and was surprised when Yuri said the same to Gizem. How did he know she was armed? But after taking her gun, he shouted the same thing at Anna and when she said she didn’t have a weapon he took her word for it. Gizem had slipped up. She should have said the same.

Beyrek weighed up the three men. One was a tiny little thing, blond hair, cold eyes, overdressed; he had never seen him before.

Yuri, on the other hand, he had known for many years. True, he hadn’t known he was a Russian spy until Anna had told him, but he felt a bit more at ease in his presence than the others’. He knew Yuri had been shit-scared the night Levent was dealt with. He felt Yuri could be beaten.

The third man was clean shaven with thick, wavy hair, rumpled as if he’d just taken a hat off. He was tall and lean but his face looked baby smooth and his good looks were a bit girlish. Of course, all Turks didn’t have those attributes, but there was something about the man suggesting that’s what he was – a Turk. In fact, he looked like how he remembered Mehmet, but that wasn’t possible. Mehmet was still in Synopi Prison. He had checked with Selim.

“Is there anyone else in this house?” Yuri asked.

The question struck Beyrek as odd. Well, maybe the question wasn’t so odd, but why had he directed it at Anna?

“No, there are only the people in this room,” she answered and Beyrek felt a moment of calm.

Anna could have betrayed Ilkin, but she had said nothing. However, her loyalty became academic when Ilkin burst into the room with an Uzi slung down by his side, pointing it up into the faces of the captors.

“Ilkin … thank goodness,” Beyrek exclaimed. His son veered his eyes while training the gun on Anna. “Not her; she’s with us.”

Ilkin nodded and said to the others, “Okay, drop your weapons and take a step back.”

Gizem picked up her gun while Yuri’s people dropped theirs, and was suddenly irritated. “Anna, stop playing with your hair like a child and move their guns out of reach,” she said with more than a hint of impatience.

Anna dropped her hands as instructed, but she’d pulled a short throwing knife from under the bow and threw it with force. Beyrek was picking up his gun, but his mind went into slow motion as he watched the blade fly through the air and sink deep into Gizem’s chest. Gizem’s mouth opened in silent scream, she dropped the gun, clutched at the knife’s handle and staggered against the wall. Her eyes opened wide. She gagged and what looked like clots of thick blood spit consumptively from her mouth. Fear absorbed her face as the blood gurgled freely, saturating her dress. She slid down the wall and the light of life dimmed in her eyes.

All the while, Ilkin had stared blankly at his mother, mouth framed into an ‘o’, unaware that the one who looked like a Turk had also slipped out a knife and thrown it in his direction. The blade found the gap between his lips and disappeared up to the hilt in his mouth. Ilkin’s body jumped spasmodically like a marionette in the hands of a child. He fell to his knees and slumped forward with his face in his hands, looking like a Muslim at prayer.

Anger was Beyrek’s first reaction. He whipped up his Browning pistol, but too late; the little man fired a shot and a silenced round puffed from the chamber of his gun. The bullet thudded into Beyrek and excruciating pain seared through his shoulder. A crescent of blood haloed from the wound. He was about to die.

He had to get out.

At first he intended shooting Yuri, but the injury had spun him sideways. He fired off two shots that boomed out like thunder. Another silenced shot, but Beyrek had no time to investigate where that one went; it hadn't hit him and that was all that mattered for now. He raced for the door, remaining bent over to make himself a smaller target and saw where his two shots had gone; the little man was crumpled against the glass wall, blood seeping from his lips.

Beyrek had to step over Gizem; his poor, sweet Gizem. She was dead. Her hands were clutched at the small dagger sticking from her chest, but it was the hole blown through her ribcage that had separated her from life: the silenced shot after he was hit. But he had to carry on, he had to get away.

Shards of wood splintered from the frame as he ducked through the door. The throbbing pain in his shoulder slowed him. He couldn’t go on. But he had to. He had to escape. He raced downstairs and out through the main door, shuddering with grief. Gizem hadn’t been the only one. They’d killed Ilkin, his firstborn.

He suppressed the sobbing as he ran in amongst the orange trees. Just short of the wall, he dropped to his belly, elbows digging into the ground. It was wet and the smell of urine rose to fill his nostrils. Those fucking guards had been using his orange grove to piss in. When he got his hands… Stupid, they were dead. And now wasn’t the time to think of the squalor or of ruining his expensive suit. He had to get free of this fix.

His chest heaved breathlessly. He tried controlling it, calming his body, relaxing his mind and allowing himself to be absorbed into the darkness. But his hand ached: too tight a grip on the Browning. Fear welled up again, but he couldn’t let it take control; he had to calm himself, if he lost it now…

The double doors to the house opened and closed. Shadows flickered and his heart flickered with them.

And then the courtyard lit up as the doors were flung wide open. Yuri and Anna began scurrying back and forward along the drive. The lighting at the main gates was on and Beyrek could see they were carrying the stuff from his office and loading it into a small car there. Finally, they made a trip without returning. Car doors slammed. He didn’t hear the engine start, but it must have because he saw the car roll away.

Forever drifted by. No one had moved in the house and Yuri and Anna hadn’t returned from the car – they were gone. He considered: in the house earlier he fired two shots. He definitely hit the little man. He must have killed the Turk as well. He rose to an elbow and then used the tree to pull himself to his knees. Pain seared in his shoulder, but he forced himself not to think about it: it wasn’t as if he hadn’t endured pain when working his way from the gutter.

Time passed. He’d made it. He pulled in a sharp breath, filled his lungs with the fresh night air and, still fearful, rose to his feet.

*

Mehmet crouched in the grove, unmoving. The sweet smell of oranges was strong alongside the evening dew and his mind tiptoed through his past; from childhood through to Synopi, all the time, Beyrek’s dominance shaping his life. He knew he had to be extra careful here. He couldn’t afford to do anything rash on this his final assault.

Quiet time drifted by.

A noise, a heavy sigh – and coming from close by. His eyes tried to push the darkness to one side as he stared keenly into the grove. And then the dice rolled in his favour. The clouds opened. A glint, he saw a glint; for a moment the moon had reflected on Beyrek’s handgun.

Mehmet had already chambered a round. Now he had to give his all to the target. For once in his life he needed to shoot straight. With absolutely stillness, he steadied the gun with both hands.

Another noise. He’d moved again.

The glint showed itself once more and in the same place. Mehmet pulled the trigger twice.

A thud. Beyrek had fallen. Mehmet crept stealthily forward. His enemy could still be dangerous. But as he closed the gap it became clear he wouldn’t be responding. He lay next to an orange tree, his chest wheezing and him looking incapable of movement. He was down.

Mehmet edged forward. Beyrek turned his head towards him. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Who else? I am Mehmet, son of your friend, Levent Pasha. I only tell you because I want you to know how life’s mistakes can come back to haunt you. Albeit, you can’t learn from it; this is your final lesson.”

Mehmet stood and straddled Beyrek with the intention of finishing the job, but Beyrek twisted his body and lunged upward, stabbed Mehmet in the upper thigh. Mehmet dropped the gun, as he jumped back in surprise. Several steps back, he came to a stop against a tree and let it take his weight, took a breather, tried to work out his next move, tried to work out where Beyrek got the energy from to make the assault. Mehmet had hit him twice in the right side of his chest. His lung had to have been punctured. Didn’t matter how, it happened, take your time here, he told himself, don’t panic. But Beyrek got to his feet and rushed at him. Mehmet reached for his knife, pushed off from the tree, wrapped his arms around Beyrek and plunged the blade into Beyrek’s kidney area. Beyrek gasped and fell back.

“You can’t kill me, please,” he said, staring up pleadingly.

Mehmet couldn’t comprehend how this man could expect him to show mercy. Sincere, or another trick? Who cares, he wasn’t about to be caught out again. He stamped on Beyrek’s wrist until he let go the grip on his knife, and then turned him face down, straddled his feet on either side of him. He pulled his blade from Beyrek’s side and plunged the dagger deep between his shoulder blades. Beyrek groaned as his flesh submitted to the blade Mehmet forced between his shoulders, not stopping until it had buried up to the hilt. Mehmet walked away, left the corpse to rot in the sweet-smelling gloom of the night, but then he had to break into a running limp. Yuri’s incendiary bombs had begun exploding. He watched over his shoulder as he ran. The boom of the charges rang out, huge flames licked from windows and the ground shuddered. Yuri held the gate as Mehmet hurried towards him and through. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Anna as the final blast went up and the force washed past them. The explosion flared once more and the building was obliterated.

The Fiat was parked against the wall, beyond the gate. Alik was on the back seat and wasn’t looking good, but he was alive. All the same, they would have to move fast. Anna climbed in with him to act as nurse.

“We’ll have to leave the clubs for now, get Alik back to Istanbul,” Yuri said as Mehmet climbed into the front.

He let his head flop against the headrest. Along with his breath, he felt like he was exhaling a lifetime of pent-up emotion. His nemesis was dead; the man who was born a dog, died a dog. Mehmet felt his heart might burst.

It was over.

Chapter 52

Yenikapi, Istanbul 1972

Mehmet sat with Yuri, thinking about the latter part of the operation. The leg wound Beyrek had inflicted on him was superficial and the journey back to Istanbul was without incident. Russian vehicles had raced to the jetty to pick Alik up and sirens screamed their way to the city’s main embassy where he could receive the best medical attention. The news awaiting Anna’s arrival had her making hasty farewells and leaving straight for the airport for a flight to Northern Russia to be by her man’s side.

The general broke into the thoughts, almost stormed into the room and sat opposite him and Yuri. Fidgeting into a more comfortable position, he coughed to make it clear he was ready to speak. As usual, Yuri sat up straight as if a poker had been shoved up his back and, as usual, Mehmet wanted to laugh.

“Everything that could have been done for Alik was done,” the general began. “But he didn’t make it. He died around midnight last night.”

No one spoke for a minute and Mehmet gave mind to his own personal lament throughout the silence. He hadn’t disliked Alik in any way, but he had thought of him as a cold sort of man. Nevertheless, he’d been a good comrade and a fundamental part in Mehmet having his revenge. It was sadness that dominated his emotions.

The general coughed again. “My intelligence officers here have gone through Beyrek’s files. This is by no means a complaint, but the man was overconfident. He kept meticulous records of his dealings and it seems not destroying the clubs could be a benefit.”

“How so?” Yuri asked, sitting even higher and wider in his seat.

“If you remember I told you one of the clubs was called The Sugar Depot and the other The Refinery.”

“And the files told you what that meant,” Mehmet said.

The general drummed his fingers hungrily on the desk. “Yes, and it was obvious when you think about it. They’re receiving and processing plants for heroin. Shipments of drugs delivered to Marmaris are being paid for with explosives – explosives from Russia. I don’t know what they’re used for, this is one place the files are a bit vague, but it’s not unreasonable to assume they’re facilitating terror attacks. We’ve determined when the next drug shipment is due, so you destroying the head of the operation will be nothing more than a hiccup to them. I would wager that someone has already stepped into the position.”

“So quickly?” Mehmet asked.

“Yes, it seems a shipment of Semtex is being stored in Icmeler right now. The files indicate exchange for the drugs has been arranged, so I would expect everything to regroup in a hurry.”

A rush of excitement in Mehmet was followed by a surge of fear. His stomach knotted.

The general continued. “We have a month plus a little bit more, so you have time to take care of any personal matters you might have here in the city. Still, I want the pair of you ready for action. The campaign continues. I’ll be coming here at short notice to discuss strategy, at least until we have a plan firmly in place, so make sure to contact the embassy daily to see if you’re needed… Now, unless you have more business, we’re finished.”

Mehmet and Yuri shook their heads. The general stood. Yuri and Mehmet did the same and the general hugged them both in turn, gave them a wide-eyed expression, and turned and hurried off as if he was needed elsewhere.

The corridors seemed extra stuffy to Mehmet as he walked through them with Yuri. His mind raced. He was in turmoil. The general could make as many plans as he liked, but could Mehmet allow himself to continue being a part of it all? Beyrek was dead and his life was in a different place because of it. Should he be thinking of a new beginning? If he stayed with the general’s unit then nothing would have changed. And now his vengeance was sated should he be looking for a different path in life?

Passing through the entrance of the embassy, they were greeted by a warm sun. Mehmet opened the top buttons of his shirt as he and Yuri walked along the coastal road towards Sirkeci.

“I suppose you’re off to see Pinar,” Mehmet said, at the same time realising he had no immediate plans – or future ones. In fact, he began feeling a little lost and empty. His life was without purpose.

Yuri laughed. “Yes and the reunions we have after an absence are…” He laughed again. “What about you? You know you don’t have to go along with what the general is asking. You’re on the payroll, but it isn’t really official; you can walk away whenever you want. And why not? All the things that you feel messed up your life have been dealt with. You could make a new start.”

Exactly, Mehmet thought, but if he were to walk away, what would he do? He had military skills and he knew how to rob people. Stealing was off the agenda and where other than with the general would his military prowess be of any use? He raised his eyebrows, a little puzzled by it all, but then a thrill suddenly filled the void in his vacant emotions.

“You know where Nina is, don’t you?”

“Yes, she’s not so far from Pinar’s place. I can take you there right now if you want.”

“Take me,” he said.

Thinking of Yuri going off to see Pinar had caused a sudden wanting in him and his stomach had lurched thinking of Nina. He’d never made love to her and its promise took a hold on his mind – and other places. He wanted her. But what of his intentions? Was it love or lust? A rush of guilt flattened the idea. Like Yuri said; he could start again, but even if she was still interested in him, could he really settle to a normal life with her, with anyone?

He had to seriously ask himself: was this love he felt for Nina? Something inside him wanted a normal life and he supposed he wanted it to be with her. But there was another part of him that didn’t feel ready to settle.

The rationalising took a dive as the fire in his belly grew. He would see Nina. But he wouldn’t make his decision about working for the general; there was no pressure there for the moment: the choice was his.

THE END

The Man in the Blue Fez

A Birth of an Assassin novel

Rik Stone

© 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: 9781783018437

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Northern Russia, January 1973

Noon, the sun had begun its descent towards the western horizon and the promise of warmth was sinking with it. Gold and pink rays glancing off mountaintops spread as one over the frozen lake below. Midway up a mountain slope overlooking the lake and not too far from where the Urals trailed off into the wasteland, Pavel Rostislav lay in wait. A light wind whispered across the incline, bringing cold that found a way through his winter gear and set him shivering. He snuggled into the hollow cut from the compacted snow as far as he dared, but knew there could be no respite. He had to hold his vigil.

With teeth gritted, he raised the standard issue field glasses to his eyes and scoped the fishing hole in the ice lake while trying to ignore the freezing barbs that spiked at his bones. Time pressed on and he took a moment of it to glance at the thermometer on the backpack by his side, shuddering to see the temperature had dropped to minus fifty. Mist clouds would be visible to an enemy, so he expelled his breath against the chinstrap on his snowsuit, but then small ice crystals bunched up there and he exhaled in exasperation, irritation nipping at his spirit.

The sun dropped below the peaks and the ice lake turned bluish grey while the sky on the eastern horizon reflected mauve tiers on snow-knuckled mountains. Snow flurries lifted from drifts nearby and snaked down into the basin, dancing like ashes blown from a dead fire. Pavel’s goggles took the color down a notch further and his heart sank. All he wanted now was to get this thing done and return to camp. However, just as he began feeling that his blood might turn to an icy sludge or his body may be only moments away from paralysis, a blur on the landscape took human shape and his spirits lifted. Shrouded in a heavy arctic snowsuit, the man moved slowly yet gracefully towards the fishing pole sticking up from the ice. The garment he wore should have been brilliant white, but it had turned a dull bluish grey – same as everything else. He wore traditional Siberian snowshoes – same as Pavel’s – large teardrop-shaped hardwood frames with rawhide lacing crisscrossed into a strong latticework. Not a big man and because of that, and his deftness, he hardly left a print as the meter-long constructs dabbed and glided gently over the snow. Any imprints he might have made were swiftly covered as clouds of blue flakes curled around his ankles and stole all signs of his presence.

After clearing newly formed ice from the fishing hole, he pulled on the cord attached to the pole and hauled in his catch. Four fish, equally spaced along the line, flapped on the ice. He cut the smallest free and cast it back into the water. Pavel felt that old excitement bubble up and adrenalin ran hot around his gut. His patience had endured long enough. It was time to end the task. His gloves fumbled as he unzipped the leather sleeve and took out the Dragunov sniper rifle within. The deep scar next to his left eye itched as it always did when the thrill of the chase got the better of him. He ran a finger along the crevice to ease the irritation and then tucked the hollow stock of the gun into the softer flesh under his shoulder. Resting his face on the gun’s cheek pad, he slipped his gloved finger inside the Arctic trigger guard, scoped the target through the range finder and smiled. This was all so easy. Almost too easy; for a rifle like the Dragunov, six hundred meters was an effortless distance. The crosshair settled on an elbow and he slowly panned the weapon until his aim was centered where the man’s temple would be.

“Bang, you’re dead,” he whispered, and gently squeezed the trigger.

Chapter 1

Northern Russia, December 1972

His wife’s disturbed moaning dragged Jez Kord away from packing his kit and he smiled sympathetically. Anna had been asleep for several hours and while he knew she would never admit it, her nerves were jangled before going out on the mission. They were in the married quarters of a Gulag that was once part of Stalin’s death camp infrastructure. In the Siberian plains, yet less than a thousand meters from where the last of the Ural Mountains trailed off, the forgotten compound lay two hundred kilometers north and east of the city of Vorkuta in the Komi District. Because of its distance from civilization it was ideally situated for him and the other eighty or so military personnel to live and train together.

He’d been at the camp for three months, although, he hadn’t been aware of the first two. He’d spent them in a coma as a result of his previous task, and up to that point had been known as Jez Kornfeld. Fit enough now to tag along with Anna on her Turkish mission, he was sure, but General Michel Petrichova had other ideas. “It’s too soon,” he told him. “You would be detrimental to the operation. Go out into the cold long enough to prove yourself robust, return in good shape and I will consider reestablishing you as an active agent.”

Jez sighed, the unit was no longer part of the mainstream military, and should its existence become known to the Kremlin’s main assembly it would be viewed subversive, those within considered traitors. On that basis, he was no longer under anyone’s control; he could go where he wanted, when he wanted. No one could stop him … but that wasn’t really true. He had tied his lot in with the general and his orders were to go out in the Arctic waste and prove himself, so that would be what he would do.

Finishing with his kit, he was about to gently snuggle up next to Anna and catch a few hours’ shuteye before leaving, but a groan was followed by a single snore that snapped her head up off the pillow as if she’d been slapped. “Uh, oh, must have been dreaming,” she said, sitting up, rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes. “You all packed?”

“Yes, time for a couple of hours head down and I’ll be off.” He slipped out of his trousers and got under the heavy woolen blankets. She lay back beside him and he wrapped an arm around her; she felt like she’d been toasted over the fire. “Hmm,” he said, “maybe we could cuddle up a bit first?”

She laughed, took his face between her hands and kissed him passionately; she tasted of sleep and his excitement hastened.

*

As Anna prepared what she needed for her mission in Turkey, Jez said, “Might as well get going,” hoisted up the backpack, hooked the snow paddles to it, and shouldered his canvas-sleeved rifle.

Anna stopped what she was doing and kissed him. “I love you,” she said.

“Me too. Be careful in Turkey,” he answered, worried for her, but at the same time annoyed he couldn’t feel the firm contours of her body through his thick, padded gloves. “Can’t hang around in here or I’ll lose the benefit of this clothing … With luck I’ll catch you up after this is done.”

She smiled and shook her head. “One thing at a time,” she said and gently steered him out into the cold.

As he headed for the mountains his mind chewed over what Anna had to do. He had no idea when she would leave. The later the better, he thought. Maybe he could still go with her.

It was still early morning and the whiteness around him was stark, the day yet to rouse color. His mind turned to the task at hand; he hadn’t been told how long to stay out, but if he returned too soon he would fail. He would have to play it by ear.

He trudged on for several hours over the flat wasteland, still only noon but daylight was moving towards twilight. The going was tough, but he stayed on his feet for another couple of hours. Now, barely halfway up the first mountain slope, fatigue rushed him; he had to rest up. Giving in to it, he dug a small cave, settled into the icy confines, polar-bear style, and thought things over. He had to admit, Michel had been right and the training in the compound hadn’t been enough to get him back to the kind of fitness required for combat. So, to the task; he had enough rations to get to higher ground. He would dig in near one of the frozen mountain lakes, live off fish and keep a low profile. And he couldn’t allow thoughts of Anna to sidetrack him; she could look after herself. He had to remain positive; a large part of surviving survival training was keeping the spirits high.

He took a torch lantern and map from his kitbag’s side pocket, steadied the light, and ran a finger over the chart’s contours, looking for a safe haven. The finger stopped at an abandoned goldmine. The mine overlooked a lake confined high up between several mountain peaks and, like the Gulag, it was far from civilization. If he billeted there, he could build fires without drawing attention, and fish from the lake. He would use the mine as a base and the mountain slopes and harsh conditions as his training ground. Tomorrow he would increase the effort, begin the new day with a new mindset. But before he could sleep he needed to follow procedure: sweating dampens clothing, the body cools, the core temperature drops, and before you know it hyperthermia steps up. He checked armpits and other crevices. Dry, but he wiped his neck snood in those places anyway. After cleaning as best he could, he loosened and bagged out his clothing, nestled into an open sleeping bag and fell into an exhausted sleep.

*

The sun hadn’t yet risen when Jez left the security of his mini cave. The snow on the slopes lay thick and his paddles dragged too much of the stuff along with him. With the rifle slung over his shoulder and the weight of a bulging backpack, progress was painfully slow. But that was why he was out here. He plodded on for several more hours and memories kicked in. He realized he was making life difficult for himself, that he should be easing the footwear up and down the slopes, not digging in to hold balance. Thoughts of how it should be done flooded back and he glissaded, slid down the inclines into the hollows of the mountain ravines, spread his weight as he walked and tread lightly to keep atop the snowfall; the pace picked up.

Several days of whiteout brought him to the goldmine and he crept towards it like a soldier at war, stopping twenty paces from the entrance and scanning the area for a presence – clear. The day had aged over the final leg, a waxing moon had risen halfway up from the horizon, and green and gold curtains billowed, shimmering over the night sky as the atmospheric gases of Aurora Borealis cast their magic. Bitter cold nipped after he had dropped his face guard to gaze around in awe of the beauty that surrounded him. Snow suddenly fell like autumnal leaves reluctant to reach the ground, but it would get heavier. He should go in.

Slipping out of the snow paddles, he hoisted them over his shoulder, hooked them onto the backpack, and took the last couple of steps to the entrance, crunching the crisp snow underfoot as he went. Inside, hoarfrost decorated the roof and walls with crystallized ice. While the tracks up to the entrance of the cave wouldn’t be a problem, the snowfall would soon enough cover them, the ice sculpts were another matter; he shouldn’t disturb them. He edged in, made sure not to touch the walls or scrape his boots on the floor. As he got deeper inside, the main tunnel narrowed and split off into many smaller shafts. The cold draft from the main entrance was dragged off along one of them, so he found a suitable spot to one side of it and bedded down to a good night’s sleep, but the freezing temperatures burnt inside his nostrils and shooting pains through his eyes woke him early. He cleaned up, packed the half packet of dried food he hadn’t eaten and crept slowly back towards the entrance. Feeling refreshed and ready for the day ahead, he met with a surprise; someone had shared the cave with him. A tiny piece of ice had been brushed from the wall and crushed underfoot. He considered; this was survival training so he should act as if in hostile territory. And that thought had him sighing; the cover of the cave was blown. If he were to play the game properly then he couldn’t stay there another night and that would make life that much harder.

He made his way down to the lakeside. Vapors that had risen during the previous summer had wet the trees through and now they stood as solid ice. Jez used his wire saw to weaken the two large, straight branches on a larch and finished the job by using his weight to snap them off. He stripped away the offshoots, whittled the ends to a point, took them to the center of the lake and used one to break through the thick layers of ice to create an open fishing hole. He drove the other into the lake’s crust and anchored a fishing line to it, then baited several hooks from his dried rations and dropped the weighted line into the hole. Being out in the open might have drawn the mysterious cave dweller to him, but to worry over such possibilities wasn’t realistic. The interloper would have been a hunter from one of the distant towns that had happened upon the place. It was common knowledge that Siberian huntsmen stayed out for days on end and travelled great distances to find prey. He gathered his belongings, worked his way around the mountain, dug out a new cave, and then began the training routines he’d planned on the way here. Hours passed, sweat poured down his face and his inner clothing stuck to his body. Still only noon, but the sun had taken a step back and left a grey-blue sky blending with the terrain; it would snow again before this day was out. For now he would return to the dugout, come back sun-up and, hopefully, pull in the fish.

Careless, he overslept, and to add to his woes he’d been so tired the previous afternoon he’d fell asleep before loosening his clothing. Annoyed with himself, he pushed the snow from the entrance of the dugout; he had to take a snow bath and then get the moisture from his clothing. All well and good, but another morning had gone before they were dry enough that he could leave the snow hole. The sun was slipping away and it was with irritation that he came back around the slopes towards the fishing hole.

The snow glistened silver and gold on the gradient, but by the time he got to the bottom and was standing by the ice lake, the golden orb had dipped behind the mountain. Colder air took command and in a snap, everything became shrouded in bluish grey. A light wind blew up, snowflakes lifted from the mountaintops, hugged the slopes, snaked down onto the lake, and swirled across the open expanse. The view brought memories of walking through the city of Minsk with Anna on his arm. There, autumn leaves rather than snow had danced on the sidewalks like mischievous Elves. The thought warmed him and he held onto it as he crossed the ice like a wisp.

At the hole, he dropped the rifle and backpack, and used a pole to hack into a new covering of ice that had formed overnight. Eventually freeing the line, he pulled in three decent-size fish alongside a tiny little thing. Still alive, it flapped despairingly on the ice. Jez cut it free and cast it back into the depths. But as he bent over to gather the rest of the fish up, something whizzed through the air. His heart banged within the confines of his chest when the swish was followed by cracking recoil. He was under attack!

He scurried over to the weapon still in its canvas sleeve, but another bullet sizzled into the ice next to the gun and another crack resounded. Jez reasoned the sound difference meant it was at least five hundred meters away. With that sort of accuracy, if the shooter had wanted him dead, he would be dead. He eased his hand from the canvas sleeve, stood up, and raised his arms in surrender.

Chapter 2

A quiet time passed before a figure emerged from midway up the mountainside. His snowshoes stomped deep into the white drifts as he slowly worked his way down the slope, keeping his rifle balanced in the crook of his arm and aimed at Jez’s center mass. He was a soldier for sure. More, he had to be part of a special unit. His face became clearer as he neared or at least his frost-encrusted eyebrows. He had clearly been waiting unmoving on that mountain for some time. A sniper. His snowsuit was military, same as Jez’s. In a demonstration of confidence, stupidity, or just plain arrogance, the man pulled the chin bar away from the bottom half of his face and let the gun point to the ground. But then he sniggered and said, “You were okay for the first ten days or so. And then you let your resolve slip. I’d left tell-tale signs for you in the cave, so setting up the fishing hole was casual to say the least. You’re fit no doubt, I had trouble keeping up with you, but as far as your thinking in enemy territory goes … you have a way to go yet.”

Dragging words from a dazed mind, Jez mumbled. “Who–?”

“Pavel,” he replied through a grin.

“Pavel? You seem to have me at more than one disadvantage.”

Pavel laughed, but the movement made the ice particles on his face rattle. He seemed suddenly aware of the cold and pulled up the chin bar. “Don’t worry, we’re on the same side,” he mumbled through the cover. “You don’t know me because I was returning from a task as you left. Unfortunately, having the most Arctic experience in the team made me the obvious choice to track you.”

The skin around Pavel’s eyes crinkled, but Jez wasn’t amused, not after his clumsy handling of the situation. “They didn’t need to send you. A conscript could’ve probably taken me down.”

Pavel snorted. “No, your skills were flooding back with each hour that passed. You just failed to respect that you were supposed to be in hostile territory. Maybe too desperate to go to Turkey.” He laughed again before turning and heading for the slope. “I’ve got to get my stuff,” he said. “You collect up the fish and we’ll go to the goldmine. My mouth has salivated for two days thinking about that catch.”

Jez heard laughter rumbling as Pavel walked away, dabbing his snowshoes gently on the white-top as he went, no easy task for such a big man.

*

Illumination flared from the candles and golden shadows licked over the iced walls. Pavel warmed his hands by wrapping them around a tin cup filled with lukewarm coffee while Jez turned a fish over the meager flames. Unable to collect much kindling in the dimming light, his flint fire starter had failed and he had to use Pavel’s. But even then, the fire they ended up with was barely fierce enough to simmer the combi-tin full of water. The yellow flames were quick to weaken and only a scattering of pathetic red embers remained; it was clear the fish was as cooked as it was going to be.

Pavel sighed. “This is barely warmed through. It’s still raw.”

“I’ve had worse,” Jez replied, fighting to scrape the cold meat from the bones.

“Yes, me too, but I spent an extra day in the wilderness on the promise of this. And we should have gutted it first.”

After making the best of the meal, Jez blew out the candles and sat quietly until the embers collapsed. Last chance flames licked out from the ashes, shadows grew long and flickered on the walls then blended back into the darkness. “I have to clean up and then it’s head down for me,” he said, involuntarily shuddering at the thought of the upcoming ice bath.

*

They spent the following day looking for kindling and, come evening, were able to cook the fish thoroughly. Pavel was a much happier man because of it. Heat from the fire increased and the iced walls sweated. “Hmm, now this was worth the wait,” he said through a mouthful of fish. Oil from the catch left an undisturbed, shiny circle around his mouth and a piece of scale stuck to the hair under his nose.

Jez felt a smile fill his chest and wondered if Pavel had ever been introduced to any kind of etiquette. “How long have you been in the army?” he asked.

“Forever,” Pavel answered. “Or that’s what it feels like. My previous life was spent in an orphanage run by NKVD; the army was the obvious next step, mainly because I’ve been a Soviet activist for as long as I can remember – same as the others in the homes.”

“What, everyone?” Jez asked. This was one part of Russian life that Jez knew nothing of and he was surprised by the statement.

“Of course, yes, a lot of the orphans were there because, according to Stalin, their parents had been ‘enemies of the people’. The older kids who had more idea of what had really gone on became even more loyal to the state than the rest of us, to deflect suspicion from themselves in case the authorities thought they followed in their parent’s footsteps.”

“Were you the son of one of these so-called enemies of the State?”

“Who knows? I have no idea how I got there. The first institution I have recollection of was in Saratov. Before that I have no memories – not of parents … or anything much.”

“Then why did you become one of the activists?”

“At first you go along with it like everyone else and then you genuinely become absorbed. The internal affairs people were forever drumming it into us. They believed we would be more rigid, indoctrinated into the good of the State, because we didn’t have any loyalty towards parents to get in the way.”

Jez felt his chest wrench. His mamma and poppa had been kind and giving – the perfect Jewish family unit. But he had sneaked away from his hillside home to join up when he was only fifteen and never returned. “Hmm, I suppose,” he said, guiltily.

Pavel said, “Anyway, enough of that, it’s more than ten days since you set out from the Gulag and it will take almost that to get back. I think that should satisfy the medics.” He somehow continued chewing while shoveling fish meat into his face. “We’ll start back first light.”

“Satisfy the medics? But I thought you said I hadn’t met the requirement.”

“You only had a problem with attitude. If you think I’d let you down because you were sloppy at the fishing hole – well, you need to know me better.”

Jez sat silently in thought until Pavel blew out the candles and said, “Lights out, heads down.”

They left the mineshaft first light, gently padded around the lake, and went further down the mountain to the next tier. The sun was up, but it looked cold and silvery above the gleaming spine of a frozen river that snaked around the base of the mountains to the east. Maybe it was because he was no longer alone, but Jez’s spirits had lifted. He played silly games with Pavel, racing to see who could get to a nominated point first. He hadn’t so quickly befriended anyone since his first tour of duty when he met Viktor Sharansky. But Viktor was dead, murdered by Captain Otto Mitrokhin, the man Jez assassinated on the steps of Lubyanka.

Noon came on the ninth day out from the cave; the sun aged prematurely, the mountain shadows deepened, and they stopped to eat the last of the fish from the fishing hole. The layers of snow were crisp and when Pavel dropped his great weight heavily into it, it squeaked under the burden of his butt. Jez laughed raucously as he squatted a little more gingerly. In a long suffering manner, Pavel shook his head and turned his attention to studying a map. “Child!” he said, and then twisted his body to point out a plateau between the two peaks directly behind him. “That ridge, when we get to the other side of it, the camp is just beyond.”

Jez popped a piece of fish into his mouth and brushed his hands together to highlight that they were out of fresh food. “Let’s get going. If we get back early then with a bit of luck I could be on a plane to Turkey before tomorrow’s out.”

They packed up and moved out, soon to be climbing the last upward slope. “Another five minutes and we’ll be looking over the ridge and down onto the plain, and the Gulag. But don’t get too excited; it’s a steep descent on the other side of the mountain and it will take time,” Pavel said.

But excitement is exactly what Jez did feel; he would soon be with Anna again. They’d met at basic training when he was fifteen years old. She’d been sixteen and quick to point out what a difference in maturity a year could make. Smiling into his chin bar, exhilaration picked up his step. If he could get back early, there would be no reason he couldn’t immediately continue the onward journey, go with Anna, or catch up if she had already left. But then his insides jarred as Pavel pulled his arm and yelled, “Face down!”

Jez had heard nothing, but knew he should follow the order without question. He hurled himself forward, submerged into a soft snow bank. The snowsuits were white, the canvas rifle sleeves were white and the backpacks were white. Their hoods were up and the snow was deep. The sky had darkened such that even if anyone was looking at them from close up, they would be invisible.

Several seconds went by and Jez slowly lifted his head to catch a breath; the earlier stillness had split to the whum-whum whumping of distant helicopters chopping into the atmosphere.

“Answer seriously, Pavel, are we on maneuvers or have we got a problem here? I mean, surely this is the normal way for anyone to travel to and from the Gulag.”

“Listen, there’re at least three choppers coming up from the south. I was amongst the first people to arrive at the camp and I’ve never known more than one aircraft at any one time, and none have approached from that direction.”

The whumming grew ever closer and Pavel had been right. Turning his head slightly to one side to get a better view without revealing the position, Jez saw six helicopter gunships on a heading in a direct line with the ridge. He went back to staring at the snow beneath him. “Are they after us?” he asked. “You’re sure this isn’t another part of the training?”

“I wish it was. No, definitely not. As far as I’m aware, we don’t have Mil Mi-twenty-four gunships at our disposal. I haven’t a clue what’s going on. But if they are the enemy, how did they find the camp?”

The choppers passed low overhead and a thin top layer of powdered snow blew up a storm around them. The machines came in so low that Jez could see the canons, loaded, and if he wasn’t mistaken, with S-8 rockets. The big ones. Lifting his head at the same time as Pavel, he watched as the craft disappeared over the ridge.

“Come on!” Pavel said. “I don’t see how we can help, but those at the camp are in trouble.”

The sky appeared clear but Jez couldn’t see a single star to stud the twilight above. The noise from a firefight suddenly kicked up and fear took a grip of his heart. Anna! Discarding the backpack, Jez clambered, pulled at the snow with his hands to help his progress but moved slowly because the snowshoes got in the way. At the summit, he rose to his feet and saw a thirty-meter flat cap in front of him: the ridge. The sun had long since dropped from sight on the distant plain and should’ve left a midnight blue sky in its wake, but the land was undimmed and brightness dazzled his eyes. Rockets flared from gun tubes and the whole complex had erupted into a death-dealing inferno. One of the gunships was loaded with napalm bombs. They fizzed from the tubes, hit the ground, and a series of fireballs enveloped the site.

From what Jez could see, minimal fire was returned.

His allies, and his beautiful Anna, had been caught flat-footed. The assault ended and the choppers milled around what could best be described as total devastation. Jez focused his binoculars on the ship carrying the napalm bombs and watched as it made a few victory bows to its fellow assailants, tilting to about forty-five degrees before returning to the horizontal.

The helicopter was still on a downward bow when a ground missile fired from out of the inferno. The shell faltered, wavered through the air like a quasi-dud firework, and then struck the napalm ship under the rotor from where the engine exhausts exited. In a flash, the craft went into convulsion, hurtled downward, and smashed into the ground, disappearing in a ball of flames with combusted juices spewing away indiscriminately. But the minor victory was short lived. The remaining crafts homed in on where the rocket launcher had fired and hit it with everything left at their disposal. Somehow, a figure on the ground survived long enough to emerge from a foxhole at the edge of the stockade. The outline of a pathetic human form stumbled and zigzagged through the flames.

Jez felt a sourness blossom in his chest that spread deeply into his groin. Smoke billowed from the soldier’s clothing. He stood no chance. And no quarter was given. Several lines of smoking tracer bullets ripped into the snow until hitting the runner and tearing his body apart. No possibility of life remained. Jez wiped at tears, already freezing to his cheeks. He turned away. For the second time in his life he had lost Anna. Pavel was also suffering. His shoulders had slumped, his head dropped, and he wept.

Jez forced himself to look beyond personal pain. From previous experience he knew he had to get moving, forget about sorrow, survive. He pulled at Pavel’s shoulder. “Come, my friend, we’ll return tomorrow and see what can be done, but don’t hold out hope for survivors.” He took one last look at the devastation before leaving. The choppers landed and six to eight troopers jumped from each. They held sub-machine guns poised and ready as they roamed the parts of the site that had already cooled. He recognized the almost indistinguishable snowsuits and his heart sunk further: the men were part of a Spetsnaz unit. His old regiment.

Chapter 3

Jez gathered his belongings on the way down the slope as the two men raced back to where the choppers had first passed overhead. It would take the enemy as much as ten or twelve hours to get to where they were from the Gulag, so they would be safe for the meantime. They stopped and dug out a cave from the soft snow, snuggled in, and Pavel said, “After the sweeping success the raiders had down there, I’d be surprised if they were to spread the search for survivors. They should be gone by morning.”

That was it. Conversation died and evening passed silently with Jez lamenting the possible loss of Anna. But then he chided himself. She’ll be in Turkey, he told himself. The thought of her being at the camp on his return had only ever been a vain hope. It was the loss of his other comrades he should have been mourning, not wallowing in self-sympathy about someone who got out.

The long night was miserable, but for the living, morning always makes its inevitable appearance, and Jez went quietly about his dressing routine.

“They’ll be gone,” Pavel said when they were ready to leave, “but we approach commando style, just in case.”

He didn’t need to tell Jez that, he wasn’t that rusty, but if it took Pavel’s mind off what had happened … what difference?

“We should take everything with us,” he continued. “We need a plan and it will be easier to start the journey to … wherever, straight from the Gulag.”

Jez was puzzled. “You don’t actually believe there could be survivors, do you?”

“No, they were caught unawares and paid the price. But there are the fallout shelters. Even the Spetsnaz unit would have trouble finding them. So, who knows?”

“Underground rooms?”

Pavel looked at him in surprise. “You didn’t know? Yes, so even if no one made it, we can salvage food and weaponry.”

Jez nodded. “Let’s go.”

In full kit, the part of the mountainside they’d virtually ran up yesterday seemed steeper and they found themselves slipping back on drifts and starting small avalanches. At the top, they removed their snowshoes and crossed the ridge, then dropped to their bellies and elbowed their way over the last few meters. Jez was surprised to see the enemy below hadn’t yet left – or at least there was a new set of people down there. “There’s been a change of personnel,” he said.

The rocket ships had gone but in their place was a helicopter troop-carrier, four eight-wheeled armored personnel carriers (BTR-60s), two Gaz-69 four-wheel drives (jeep class), and a snow plough they’d used to forge their way through the winter terrain.

“To have arrived so soon, the ground vehicles must have begun the journey long before the strike on the compound had taken place,” Pavel said.

A couple of civilians had set up tripods and a woman wearing a fur hat, but otherwise inadequately dressed for the conditions, was thrusting a microphone forward, braving the cold to look good while interviewing a four-star general. The two with the tripods were cameramen. One wore a jacket with a Pravda newspaper emblem; he took photographs. The other filmed the woman and the general. Soviet national television.

“This doesn’t make sense. They’re acting as if the aggression against the camp warrants merit,” Jez said.

Pavel shook his head negatively. “Whatever the reason for the attack, the general, Irishka, is taking a bow for its demolition.”

“You know him?” Jez asked.

He shrugged. “That his name is Irishka is all I know.”

Jez watched Irishka lift an open-palmed hand and gesture towards an approaching soldier. The reporter halted the interview and both cameras panned round to the direction he had indicated.

Pavel lowered his binoculars. “I don’t believe it! The fucking bitch!”

“What? Who is she?”

The soldier was a lieutenant. As she marched purposefully towards Irishka and the media people, a wisp of dark hair fell from under her ushanka rabbit skin hat. She wore a heavy, blue-grey trench coat that hung low, covering most of her black leather boots. She stopped on reaching Irishka and brought a patent leather glove to her temple in salutation. The general returned the salute, put her at ease and said something. A cheesy grin enveloped her features. When the crinkles ironed out, Jez had to admit, she had the face of an angel.

“Her name is Sasha Rolaninski. I was told General Petrichova had brought her out to the Gulag a day or so before you left on maneuvers. As far as I know, she was supposed to return to Moscow with him … I suppose we’ve been lucky; the general hadn’t selected her personally so she hadn’t been fully vetted and wasn’t introduced around the camp. She wouldn’t be aware of us being in the field.”

Jez felt his throat cramp and, naively, he couldn’t imagine how someone with such angelic features could be so treacherous … until he thought of Anna. He dismissed the thinking. Anna had never been a traitor to her own. Anger raised in him. Less than eight hundred meters from where he lay, he knew he could take her out with a single shot. And he ached to do it! But his mind’s eye pictured General Petrichova saying, “Look what you’ve done. You’ve got yourself and Pavel killed. How are you going to put things right now?” He hadn’t cleared the impressions from his mind when Pavel removed his shoulder strap and began unzipping the canvas sleeve holding his rifle.

“What’re you doing?” Jez asked, a spasm of panic engulfing his body. “If we hit them, we’ll be killed and the unit will be finished. We must determine how this has come about. There’ll be another time to take care of her.”

“Fuck another time. I know you outrank me, Jez, but I will happily die knowing that bitch has died alongside me.”

Jez had no idea he’d outranked Pavel, but it wasn’t important right now; there would be no reasoning with him. Sighing, Jez brought his Dragunov in front of him and unzipped the bag. “Well at least let’s try and be organized. We both hit the woman and then we take out the pilots. Irishka is an unknown, so we leave him unharmed. Okay?”

“Sounds right,” he answered, already laying his face against the cheek pad on the stock of his rifle and adjusting the sights. “I’m set. I’ll wait for you to shoot and then we fire at will.”

Fidgeting for position, at last Jez scoped Rolaninski through the sights. At around seven fifty meters, he had to be steady. He was out of practice and it had to be a good shot. Pavel was already focused for the attack so Jez let the crosswire wander until it centered on Rolaninski’s face. He squeezed off a shot. The crack of his rifle had barely resounded when Pavel let go a shot of his own. For a moment, he kept the scope on Rolaninski, watched as his strike split the middle of her right eyebrow. Her head jerked back and the ushanka went with it. But already Pavel’s bullet had whacked high into her center forehead. Her dark hair crested and a red bloom flowered over it. The impact lifted her from her feet and she hit the ground with arms and legs spread, as if she were about to make a snow angel. Everything went freeze-frame. Those in Jez’s field of vision began moving in slow motion. He was back in the zone.

“My pilot’s on the right,” Pavel said, and pulled the trigger before waiting for an answer. The airman he shot was yet to react, but Jez’s target had already turned and was clambering into the helicopter. Jez fired, hitting the pilot in the lower spine.

Suddenly, the scene regained speed. People scurried about, unsure of where the attack was coming from.

“Aim at the general’s bodyguards to slow the regrouping,” Jez told Pavel.

A few shots were fired, but it was only moments before the enemy were firing back, bullets hissing and sizzling nearby.

“Enough!” he said. “They’ve homed in on our positions and they too have long-distance rifles. Let’s go!”

They raced across the ridge, slipped into their snowshoes, bagged the rifles on the move, and then gracefully danced down the steep slope. At the bottom, Jez tread lightly to maintain a steady pace. “They need the snow plough to make a path around the base of the mountains if they want to follow in vehicles,” he yelled, taking control, “so we’ll be well away before they’re organized. The foot soldiers are a different matter. Most of the Spetsnaz troops seemed to have left with the gunships. As I see it, there are probably six bodyguards left able to come after us. They will come directly up the mountain, but that will take them hours.”

Pavel agreed. “Don’t forget the regulars. There was a full unit, they won’t move as fast as the lead team, but they can still pull a trigger,” he said. “The goldmine. If we can get to the goldmine we have a chance. Too many tunnels there for them to take efficient action.”

This time Jez agreed.

Chapter 4

They moved in silent mode, Jez concentrating on the task ahead. Noon came and daylight faded, but they pushed on for another eight hours into darkness, until at last they reached one of the snow caves Jez had dug out before meeting up with Pavel. It was with reluctance he said, “This isn’t far enough, is it?”

Pavel heaved a sigh. “Probably not. With Irishka’s personal guard on our heels it would be stupid to take anything for granted.”

Wearily, Jez forged on, following the small signs left on the way back to the Gulag, until coming to one of the shelters they had built together.

“The guard will have stopped to rest by now – to conserve energy. I think we should do the same.”

Jez nodded and settled, agreeing with Pavel that three hours should be their limit. But the time passed too quickly and after allowing a few additional minutes for sustenance and then securing their latticed snowshoes to their boots, they were off again. As they ploughed on through the thick snow, a helicopter circled several times while shining their lights on them.

“They’re not shooting. They want us alive for interrogation; probably hoping if there are any others left we will tell them where they are,” Jez said. “There’s no point in hiding; the pilots will have already reported several of our waypoints. It wouldn’t take Einstein to make a linear charting and determine our heading, so they’ll know we’re going to the mine and will be waiting for us. We’ll rest up at the next snow hole and see if we can come up with something radical.”

At the targeted hole, Jez nested in and the hollow was quick to warm. He said, “The way I see it, we have to double back, try and get behind the trackers.”

Pavel sighed with mock exaggeration. “And here was me thinking I was about to get my head down.” His eyebrows came together. “Okay, the only way we can be certain of not bumping into the enemy is if we return on the other side of this run of mountains. There are no ravines, so we’ll have to go straight up and over the top. They won’t be that far behind, so we have to travel in darkness. That means going now.”

Jez nodded. “You’re right, but the temperature wasn’t far off minus sixty-five when we came in here. The snow was getting heavier, which will lift the temperature, but it will make it hard going. You’re the expert. Can we do it?”

Pavel twitched, wrinkled his face, opened his fingers and closed them into fists then looked at Jez, and grinned. “I was wiggling my toes, too. Everything works; no signs of frostbite yet. And we’ve made way in heavy weather this far. I think we can give it a go.”

The plan had pros and cons. The cons: it was blowing a blizzard, which, coupled with below-freezing temperatures, made the journey that much more arduous. The pros: it was blowing a blizzard and only a fool would venture out in such weather. Jez smiled. At least they’d be safe from their pursuers and the conditions would cover their trail.

At the base of the climb, Jez removed his snowshoes, strapped them to his backpack and began his ascent up the sheer rock face. As he climbed, the sky cleared and the temperature dropped further, but it wasn’t as bad as he thought it might be – until the heavy cumulus returned. The air warmed a degree or two and thunder rumbled. Forked lightening scorched the underbelly of the clouds and wind chanted a chorus of frenzied screams as it dropped over the high depression and down through the narrow gorges of the rock face. Pavel pushed ahead and Jez followed feeling humbled by the enormity of nature. The thunder stopped, but the snowfall returned.

Pavel took a breather on a wide ledge. Jez caught up and flopped next to him. “Would it be safe to make a hollow and rest until this flurry relaxes?” he asked.

His comrade laughed. “Nope, forget it. If we stop every time a little snow falls we’ll never get anywhere. Come on.”

Jez’s dented spirits lifted on getting to the top and as he passed through a gorge between the mountains knuckles, he warmed to having Pavel by his side. A bit gung-ho in his attitude to life, but he could be counted on, no argument. On the other side of the mountain he got another buzz on seeing a slope as opposed to the sheer face they had just climbed.

Pavel echoed his thoughts. “Excellent, get the snowshoes back on. We glissade.”

Even though the powdered surface made the going slow, it was still faster than the climb up. From the base of the incline, they put in another couple of kilometers over the flat land before Jez stopped. “I have to eat,” he said, and began burrowing into the snow for shelter before taking his rations from his kitbag. “The food supply doesn’t look good. What about you?”

“Same. We should slow down, conserve energy. No sounds of helicopters and I would bet we’ve slipped the trackers; they’ll be heading for the goldmine.”

*

The journey continued, sleeping by day and traveling by night. When they reached the ridge overlooking the Gulag, the sky cleared to a plethora of twinkling stars and the snow glistened in response. As Jez scoped the devastation, a sudden rush of lightheadedness hit him. A new fear came; he was chilled to the bone and his core temperature was dropping. He told Pavel, “I think lack of food is beginning to affect me. Not much we can do about that, but I need a good night’s sleep in a warm place.”

“Good, it’s affecting you, too. I thought I was going soft. Hopefully we can get everything we need from the Gulag. The main bunker is about fifty meters beyond the camp. Fingers crossed it hasn’t been found.”

Jez strapped his snowshoes to the backpack and clambered his way down the rocky mountain slope. Three hours later, and fatigued, he replaced the footwear and followed Pavel across the wasteland to where he assumed the bunker would be. Pavel removed his paddles and crawled forward. Jez remained several paces behind while his partner stopped and raised an arm. Jez took the Dragunov from its sheath. Pavel went on another couple of meters and held position. He loosened his chin bar and pulled the hood back. The wind blew an icy chill over the flat ground, snow whipped up, matted into the almost non-existent hair on Pavel’s head and Jez wondered how his comrade’s ears hadn’t broken off from the cold. He pulled the hood back up, looked behind him, and ran a finger under his chin as if he were cutting his throat. There were people down there. He crept back. “They’ve found the bunker. I’m guessing from what I could hear there are two of them clattering about and shouting; they could be drinking. Go to the centre of the compound and fire off a round. Hopefully, that will bring them out. Oh, when you start shooting, don’t hit me.”

Jez tried pulling a face at him, but his teeth chattered instead. Pavel moved off, but then stopped to fiddle with something in his snowsuit. He gave Jez the thumbs up and then burrowed under the snow. Jez raised himself to a crouched position and crept to the centre of the Gulag. He would need cover in case there were more than two soldiers there and a firefight broke out, so he dug into the snow, scooping at the soft top until his hand struck firm ground. But it had shape. He wiped the snow with the side of his glove and scampered back in horror on seeing a piece of uniform on the charred remains of Michel’s second-in-command. The surprise had him skittering away like a spooked animal, but he stopped himself and waited for the unexpected shock to subside. He sighed at his reaction and dug in where he was. Hidden, he fired a shot in the air. A minute passed and he fired another then watched as the bunker door cranked open slowly. It was heavy with snow so must’ve had some kind of pulley system. Negative vibes moved off and he became absorbed by the men lifting the trapdoor and the light emitting from within. They were regulars; no way would Spetsnaz be that careless.

A soldier stepped from the bunker, pistol ready, crouching nervously while scanning the area. He hadn’t even bothered to put on a trench coat. He had to be drunk. Pavel, with the elegance of a fairy elephant, sprung from under the snow, pulled his man to the ground and wrestled with him. A shot fired as they tumbled away from the opening and within seconds, another soldier rose up from the cavity. He fumbled with gloveless fingers and waved a Mosin-Nagant rifle about as he tried to get a shot off at Pavel. But it was Jez that fired. Blood spurted from the soldier’s throat and he fell back, legs kicking. It turned out Pavel hadn’t been wrestling; he’d already dealt with the first soldier and had used him as a shield. Now, he shoved the body away.

Jez felt a pang of sympathy. The soldier he had shot lay shaking in the snow. He was a regular, a comrade obeying orders. His attendance was his only crime. Jez watched as he twitched, but there was nothing he could do for him other than what he did. Frightened eyes stared skyward as Jez slipped the cold steel blade of his dagger between the man’s ribs and into his heart. There was no satisfaction for Jez, but at least the man was out of his misery. Pavel had no such misgivings; he had used a snare wire to garrote and sever his man’s carotid artery. His neck still seeped blood onto the moonlit snow, thick and gummy. It was immediately apparent that there were no more soldiers in the bunker and Pavel was quite cheery as he buried the bodies under the white-top. “Let’s see what goodies we have,” he said gleefully on finishing the job.

“Did you notice the bodies of the Gulag personnel had been bagged and taken away?” Except for the man Jez unearthed, but he didn’t mention that. “I can’t bear to think that Anna might be amongst them.”

“Get a grip, Jez. Anna wasn’t amongst them, and neither were you. Be glad.” Pavel searched through the lockers lining the walls. “Good: blankets, food packets, hand grenades, first aid kits, and knives.” He took a swig from a flask. “And vodka.” The lockers furthest from where Pavel had begun his rummaging were narrower, taller. He opened one. “Ah, these could be lifesavers,” he said, pulling out a fresh, clean uniform. He tried it up against himself. “Too small. You try it,” he said, handing the uniform to Jez.

“Too big,” he replied, casting it aside. Same story for the second and third, but the fourth uniform was a fit for Jez.

“We’ll have to separate at some point, so at least one of us can travel as a soldier. That uniform belongs to Moscow Ground Forces, not Siberian, so you’ll need a story in case you’re stopped in Vorkuta,” Pavel said. “We’ll spend a night here and make our way back to the goldmine. With luck we’ll pass our trackers on the opposite side of the mountain after they’ve realized what happened.”

Jez said nothing; he was in no frame of mind to tell him who was in charge.

Chapter 5

Jez battened down the hatch after using a length of fishing line to rig up a hand grenade outside the bunker and then running the wire through the hasp and fixing it to the woodwork. Should their trackers arrive unexpectedly and force the door more than a couple of centimeters wide, the explosion would give him enough warning to prepare a defense. He took blankets from the bottom of a locker next to where the uniforms hung. Pavel was already bedded down by the time he wrapped up tight and nodded off.

It was Pavel who woke first. He gave Jez a start when he nudged him and said, “We didn’t have any of this up at the goldmine. You should have some … dried smoked beef. You need to keep your strength up. Warmth and rest isn’t enough – eat … eat.” He spoke through a food-filled mouth and Jez noticed him running a finger up and down the deep scar next to his eye.

“God, you sound like my mamma. I will eat, just give me a minute.” He coughed then said, “How did killing those two up top affect you? I feel a bit … well, I’m not used to taking down my own.”

“Please, Lieutenant, you think those two would have had any sentiment about killing you?”

The words were tough, but Jez noticed Pavel was agitated, whatever he might say; he had been rubbing at that deep scar of his ever since Jez had opened his eyes. “The scar next to your eye acts like a weather vane. You can’t stop rubbing it when you’re disturbed.”

“I am not disturbed. I–”

“How did you get it anyway?” Jez interrupted in a calming manner.

Pavel raised his eyebrows and his shoulders relaxed. “I was attached to a squad that caught field duty in Algeria. We were assigned to instruct a Foreign Legion detachment on certain aspects of guerrilla warfare. A Chechen was one of those in the French ranks and it was me he chose to hate. From the forty-plus Russians in the unit, he had to choose me.

“I was having a drink in the only bar in the fort when he came in. Initially, he went to the opposite side of the room with a couple of European legionnaires. Instead of joining in with whatever it was they were doing, he just sat staring at me – as if he’d just scraped me off his boot. Two, possibly three drinks later, he came and stood alone near to where I sat. Funny, I’d seen him doing all the Muslim stuff, you know, on his hands and knees praying, but it hadn’t stopped him popping the alcohol.

“Anyway, he slurped his drink and then turned full face to me and said, ‘I’ve been trying to work out what you are in order to make some sort of excuse for you, but there’s no getting away from it; even for a Russian you’re just one, big, ugly bastard.’ I looked at him and … Well, what could I do?”

“You fought with him?” Jez asked.

“No, I just sipped my vodka and told him that wasn’t what his sister said when I fucked her.”

Jez laughed.

“Before I had a chance to react, he’d pulled a bayonet and smacked me – here.” Pavel fingered the crevice again.

“And he was arrested? But how–?”

“No, he was buried. When I fell to the floor, the stool went crashing over with me. It smashed. I grabbed the first thing I could lay my hands on, which happened to be a splintered wooden leg. I was partially blinded by blood and could barely see him coming at me. More from gut reaction than anger, I swung the leg in my fisted hand. As it turned out, the splintered end of the wood went through his eye.”

“Ooo!” Jez said playfully. “Well, I must say, Pavel, I think you’re very handsome.”

Both men laughed.

“They arrested me for murder to save face with the frogs. I’d served under Petrichova way back when he was a colonel. In fact, it was he who had chosen me as a Spetsnaz candidate when I was fifteen.”

The same as had happened to me, Jez thought.

“Anyway, he trusted me and didn’t think it was a just decision. He faked an escape bid and I was killed in the attempt. And here I am.” He smiled and his face crinkled like dry parchment.

*

Later, they dug one of the dead soldiers from under the white-top. Rigor mortis had set in and the corpse had stiffened with arms open. In freezing temperatures, he could stay like that forever. And in Siberia there was every chance that would be the case. As Jez moved him, blood on the soldier’s tunic crumbled into tiny shards of crystallized plasma. What a waste; the soldier had been a good-looking man at some point, but now his eyes were bloated and veiled in what looked like icing sugar over embryonic membrane. Death isn’t kind at the best of times and it certainly wasn’t doing him any favors now. Jez pulled and pushed at the corpse to get it into the bunker, but the arms were spread too wide. “I don’t like doing this, but if I’m going to get him down there I’ll have to break the limbs.”

Pavel shrugged as if to say, nobody said it would be easy.

Eventually, he got his man onto the bunk and propped him up into a sitting position before covering him with blankets. “Phew! Thanks, Pavel, you were very close to being helpful there.”

Pavel grinned.

Jez ignored him and readied to leave, but then considered. “Hmm, we’ll rewire the grenades. Our trackers will be slowed that much more.”

Pavel watched the ridge while Jez set the grenades. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, slipping into his snow paddles and securing them.

“We should take a southerly route heading for Vorkuta, and if that’s obvious to us then it’ll be obvious to them. So there’s every chance someone will be waiting for us there,” Pavel said.

“Sounds right. But if we’re to get to Moscow in a hurry, what other choice? We can only hope that Michel had left the Gulag after us. If he didn’t, we’re on our own.”

“I’ve been thinking along the same lines. When I came out after you, he hadn’t left yet.”

“Well, it’s something we have to find out.”

A filtered, orange sky glowed gently in the heavens, the sun a half-risen sphere. The food packets from the bunker would be enough to get to Vorkuta. But if it wasn’t safe there and they couldn’t jump a train, the journey would turn into a trek that would last at least six weeks. If it came to that, Pavel was expert in Arctic endurance and Jez had had his share of the conditions. They would adopt primitive survival techniques and live off the land.

Chapter 6

The Converted Gulag, January 1972

Jez Kord had left for the mountains with Pavel Rostislav hot on his heels, Michel had gone over details of the Turkish task with Anna Kord before she left, and now he was about to return to Moscow. But then second thoughts crept in … “I’ve already been here a couple of weeks since Jez left and my less covert duties are calling back in the capital, but my curiosity of how he is faring in the wild is … I’ll stay a little longer,” he told Captain Konev, his second-in-command.

Michel felt particularly proud of his protégé, one of his specially picked boy soldiers who had proven unyielding and skillful. In fact, probably the best combatant he’d had under his command. But pride of thought punctured when a picture of Lieutenant Sasha Rolaninski came to mind. Confident wasn’t what he felt about her. Up to this point, Michel had always had a hand in ghosting his chosen soldiers away from the mainstream – but not this one. Her visit came about on Captain Gorbi’s recommendation: Gorbi had been his personal aide since Anna had moved to the camp permanently and Michel had never been given reason other than to trust him implicitly. He accepted his word without hesitation. However, he had begun having reservations about Rolaninski. No sooner had she arrived, she began asking questions. “Exactly what is the fortification here at the Gulag?” was the first thing out of her mouth. Why? And showing her around the compound she had wanted to see the early warning system. She more or less asked for an itinerary of the arsenal, and wanted to know about possible weaknesses, as well as showing what Michel thought an unnatural keenness to get hold of the true identities of those at the compound. He didn’t like her. There was something … untrustworthy. Of course, it was possible she was just overenthusiastic, trying to demonstrate that she could make a difference. But whatever she was up to, he wanted her out of harm’s way until he could speak with Gorbi, hopefully resolve his misgivings.

A few days ago, he put Rolaninski on his helicopter to Vorkuta where she would get an onward flight to Leningrad and meet up with Leo, the man who would give her a new identity. It would keep her from prying until he could make a few checks. If all went as it should, he would speak with Gorbi, his worries would be satisfied and she’d be back at the camp in a week or so. When the helicopter returned to the Gulag, Michel had been relieved to see her gone. But his anxiety grew. He spoke to Konev about it.

“There’s something about Rolaninski that is playing with my belief system. Probably nothing, but it won’t leave me alone. I have to get back to Moscow to talk with my aide.”

“Well, you’re not exactly needed here at the minute,” Konev said. “And you should put your concerns to bed if you’re so worried.”

“I will. On a positive note, I must admit I did get something from her.”

“You did?”

“Yes, the early warning system is flawed. Unlikely, but if security was breached and for some cockeyed reason warplanes attacked, they could come up between the peaks and over the ridge without detection.”

“Hmm, sledge hammer and nut springs to mind,” Konev said, looking thoughtful.

“Maybe, but I’m going to have detectors installed beyond the far end of the ridge. Better to overdo things than be ill-prepared. But before we get to that, I have to check out Rolaninski.”

*

The black Volga GAZ 21 picked Michel up at Kubinka and the drive to Moscow was impeded somewhat by shimmering water and the odd cornrow of slush, but other than that the trunk roads were clear and the car cruised freely from the military airport. Nonetheless, the signs of the earlier bad weather were still evident; snow was piled at each side of the blacktop and stood almost as deep as on the Siberian plain he had left. Michel sat in the back seat, eyes darting back and forth, paranoia entrenching his mind. Calm, he needed to calm himself, but the worries escalated as a new thought struck home: the car had been waiting for him at the airport as expected, but Gorbi hadn’t accompanied it. Michel tried to dismiss the cold dread that filled him. There would be a rational explanation. Why wouldn’t there be? But asking his driver of Gorbi’s whereabouts revealed nothing and he couldn’t shrug the feeling. Something was wrong.

The sedan pulled into Dzerzhinski Square, made a half-circle around the statue of ‘Iron Felix’ and pulled up outside the expansive, yellow and gray KGB building. The soldier who chauffeured him in hurried around the vehicle to open the back door. A quick salutation and Michel hurried on by, passed through the large entrance forum, rushed upstairs and along the corridor towards Gorbi’s office. As he passed the desk of the aide who worked for Gorbi, the sergeant was up on his feet and hurrying to catch up.

“He’s not in his office, General Petrichova,” he said, trying to slow Michel’s advance.

Michel stopped mid-track, glared.

The sergeant continued. “A few days ago, Lieutenant Rolaninski rushed in here with similar urgency to what you’re showing now. The captain cleared his office and left with her. He didn’t tell me what he was doing and hasn’t been back since. Is there something wrong, sir?”

Michel’s face blanched. To join his team, officially Rolaninski had been listed as dead. Why would she come to Lubyanka and blow her cover? “Rolaninski? I thought Rolaninski was dead?”

“Well, she looked healthy enough to me, General.”

Michel ignored the attempt at humor, stormed into Gorbi’s office as if the sergeant might have been hallucinating and stared at various pieces of pillaged furniture. Suddenly, he thought of Leo. Rolaninski was meeting him in Leningrad for new ID; Leo was in danger! He had to warn him before it was too late.

“Sergeant, you’ll have to act as my aide until a commissioned officer is appointed to the position.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, chest expanding, looking as if he’d just been promoted.

“Get me a line to KGB headquarters in Leningrad, as quickly as possible.”

He gave the sergeant the extension of one of his trusted operatives there, Ania Borislava. She held a position from where she could keep him informed of KGB activity in the city. Even as a security commander, many issues bypassed Michel, issues sometimes used to his detriment. But this time he needed her to find Leo and get him away from the city.

The patch was made and he told her, “You’ll find him at the building of passport and visa control. You’ll have to hurry.”

“I’ll leave immediately, General.”

*

The phone rang and Michel snatched it from the cradle. “Yes!” he barked.

“General, it’s Ania on a safe phone. Leo was at work – unharmed. He said he went to the rendezvous point and waited for over an hour. No one showed, so he left to wait until he was contacted.”

“Good, but he’s still in a vulnerable position. I want him gone from Leningrad.”

“Already done, sir. I took him to his apartment so he could pick up his belongings and his invalid mother, and then onto the safe house in Ostrov.”

“Well done, Ania. I’ll be in contact soon.” He returned the phone to the cradle and leaned back. Leo’s safety was only a crumb at a feast, but the relief was immense. At least one of his threads would be safe until the waters settled.

He called for his temporary aide.

“Do you know anything about my access rights to the Intersputnik satellite?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve sent communications for Captain Gorbi a couple of times.”

“Hmm, he shouldn’t have given you that sort of information … but that seems rather incongruous now.” He pulled a drawer in his desk. “Use this address to make contact with one of my field agents. If he answers, tell him I’ll be in touch later. This is most important. Let me know straight away what’s happening.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, taking the slip of paper, hurrying from the office.

*

“After a couple of hours without response I contacted the administrator. He told me the terminal was down.”

Michel sighed heavily. The terminal was down. The way things were looking, the Gulag would be down, too. His spirits plummeted. “Thank you, Sergeant, that will be all.”

That night, Michel catnapped in his office. Frustration dominating, he spent most of the time pacing back and forth to the window overlooking Dzerzhinski Square. Early the following morning his new aide came in with a copy of the Pravda newspaper.

“I think you should read this, General,” he said, handing him the rag and standing back and to attention.

Michel looked at two photographs stationed on either side of the front page article. The picture on the left, and top side of the fold, was of General Irishka. He stood, hands behind his back and upright, his square, dour face stern as he stuck his chest out proudly. The caption under the photo read: General Grigory Irishka, a main political force in the Kremlin’s assembly and once again, hero of our Soviet State.

Hero of our Soviet State? No, there was no way he was that.

Up to the point where Jez assassinated Captain Otto Mitrokhin, Michel had Irishka in the frame as being Mitrokhin’s partner, possibly his boss. For years Mitrokhin had wandered the Soviet world and beyond, at will, setting up illegal operations wherever he went, and it was almost certain Irishka had been the force behind the dealings. Mitrokhin had sold one of his projects to Russian Mafia: a flesh trafficking trade that terminated at a club in Icmeler, Turkey. There was also a drug business operating from neighboring clubs and Michel was certain Irishka was puppeteer for both scams. But proof was elusive, the fundamental reason for Anna Kord going to Turkey.

Beneath the fold and to the right of the article was a picture of Rolaninski. She stood in the same stance as Irishka, but was unable to keep a tasteless grin from her face as she stared open-eyed and smugly skyward. Although grainy, Michel would have sworn the picture had caught a shot of Captain Gorbi in the background. He was standing at an angle to the camera with three other Spetsnaz officers. The caption under the image of Rolaninski read: Soviet Heroine of the Minute. Michel shook his head miserably before turning his attention to the editorial and reading the story. Horror gripped his heart and filled him with revulsion.

Chechen Terrorist Activity Thwarted

A secret operation has been carried out under the command of General Grigory Irishka to halt a series of planned assaults by Chechen terrorists. Some time ago, a raid took place on an apartment in Leninsky Prospekt in the Gorky Park region where details of planned terror attacks were found. If successful the crimes would have caused death, destruction, and mayhem throughout Moscow’s city centre.

The Chechen group was uncovered by Lieutenant Sasha Rolaninski (pictured) who repeatedly put her life at risk for the benefit of her fellow Soviets. Single handedly, she infiltrated the Chechen cell: a disused Gulag in Siberia, two hundred kilometers northeast of the city of Vorkuta. Rolaninski visited the site and, convincing them of her disillusionment with Russian rule, gave the subversives a pledge of commitment to their cause. The camp had been created to train rebels and manufacture explosives, and with nearly one hundred combatants at the compound we can only guess at what damage they might have done had they remained undiscovered.

Even in victory, we must lament those lost on the journey. A gunship with its pilot and six military personnel went down in the battle. General Irishka told us that the highest posthumous military honor permitted will be presented to families of the bereaved.

The general also told us that this was yet another indicator to warn us against complacency. If the Soviet Union, along with its communist ideals, is to endure then we must be vigilant and dominant with our beliefs at all times …

Michel couldn’t read anymore. “Bullshit!” he exclaimed, with venom that had him spluttering and spitting.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant confirmed, flinching his eyes from spray as the tossed news sheet skidded off the top of the desk towards him.

“Oh … yes, that will be all, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The sergeant left and Michel cradled his face in his hands before rubbing the palms viciously into his eyes. Times like these he wished he had married. He felt desperate for a soft, compassionate shoulder, someone with whom he could strip away the protective armor that hid his emotions. Laying his large hands palm-down on the red leather inset in the highly polished, dark-oak desk, he drummed his fingers frantically as thoughts of Irishka invaded his mind. Irishka would’ve known that by sidetracking the official path and inventing a Chechen terror campaign he could seek and destroy without backlash. Michel also knew that if Irishka had just seized the compound and arrested those inside, he would have been able to somehow justify the existence of the camp. At worst, the assembly would have ordered it disbanded. No, Irishka knew exactly what he was doing and now the unit had been destroyed and Michel’s elitist division was finished. If they were lucky maybe Jez and Pavel had survived, but he doubted that. They would have returned and perished with the others. No, it was over; his dreams of righting the wrongs within the Union had been crushed.

Chapter 7

Even in the depths of despair there’s always something to hang in there for. For Michel it came in the shape of another Pravda newspaper report. After a sleepless forty-eight hours, the sheet was delivered to his desk by his temporary aide.

“I think you need to read this, sir,” the sergeant said, laying the folded rag on the desk and again standing back and to attention, awaiting further instruction.

Miserably, Michel pulled the paper across the desk and, turning it the right way round, unfolded it. The same photograph of Rolaninski took pride of place, top center of the front page. Only this time the picture was half as big again as in the previous edition. And there was no doubt now, grain or no grain; it was Gorbi in the background of the shot. The caption below her smarmy grin read: Soviet Heroine Cut off in Her Prime. Michel’s interest received a spark. He read on.

Chechen Terrorists Assassinate Soviet Champion

Even success carries its pain. Following the press release regarding our victory over Chechen rebels, a formal ceremony took place in which Lieutenant Rolaninski was awarded the Medal for Gallantry. Unfortunately, during the honor service, surviving Chechen rebels opened fire from the mountains and the lieutenant was killed as a consequence.

Two men are currently being pursued across the Ural Mountains, on a heading towards Vorkuta …

Michel put the paper down. “Well,” he said, a tingling sensation coursing over his skin. “There’s a thing.”

“Yes, sir, there’s a thing.”

Again, Michel had forgotten about the aide being there. He lifted his face from the paper to see an amused twinkle in the sergeant’s eye. The sergeant had been vetted and considered loyal, but then so had Gorbi. Trust was no longer an easy commodity to embrace.

“Er, yes, thank you, Sergeant, that will be all.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, bringing his heels together and slightly bowing his head before retreating.

Michel read the report again and smiled. His phantom force had just swelled by two. Now, he had Jez and Pavel here in Russia and Anna, Yuri, and Mehmet in Turkey, even there they’d lost Alik Ishild on the previous mission. He didn’t want his confidence misplaced for a second time, but it wouldn’t matter who was following them. With Pavel’s Arctic experience and Jez’s combat skills, he was sure they’d be home and dry. For the first time in days he let his body relax as he leaned back into the padded, red leather chair. But then he became fidgety and got up to walk over to the window. The large oak, bound clock on the wall chimed and caught his attention. Time restarted in his mind and he realized how long it had been since he had left the office. Through the glass pane, the morning sky looked particularly bleak. Snowflakes fell lightly. Citizens in the square below scurried about their business to get their errands done quickly so they could return to the comfort of their homes. His mind’s eye veiled the vision and thoughts drifted over the latest events. Of course, the whole episode was sickening, but he was a soldier. Battles were lost but ground could always be regained while an army still had its liberty. And small as it was, Michel still had his army.

Speculation halted. A knock at the door was followed by the presence of his sergeant. “General Irishka is here to speak with you, sir.”

Michel turned from the window and stiffened sharply as if under surprise attack. “Uh, yes, right, give me a second before you show him in.” Either his neck grew or his collar shrunk. Whichever, he was forced to shove his fingers around the inside of the suddenly tighter band to make more space. This visit would be awkward. But it was just another way of fighting and after so many years in the assembly, for this type of hostility he should be practiced enough. He forced his shoulders back and let determination take control.

Irishka pushed his way in before the sergeant had time to go get him. The general was medium height with a square-framed body and a square-framed head on top of it. He stomped across the office as if it were Michel who was the visitor, unbuttoned the five brass buttons on his shinel wool winter coat and, treating the sergeant like a servant, slung both coat and ushanka hat into his arms. The sergeant hung the clothing on the oak stand in the corner and turned for guidance from General Petrichova.

“That will be all, Sergeant.”

The sergeant clicked his heels and left.

After brushing his short, graying, brown hair flat back with the palm of his hand, Irishka made greeting like an old friend. “Michel, it’s so good to see you again. It’s been too long. What is it now – eight years?”

“Since speaking to each other, yes, Grigory, it must be that at least.”

Michel came to the front of the desk, embraced Irishka and planted a kiss on either cheek. Reintroduction over, Irishka took a hip flask from his uniform jacket pocket and stomped it down on the desk.

“I never come asking for any more than a glass to put it in,” he said, and let a rasping chuckle grate from his throat.

Michel took two glasses from a silver tray that snuggled neatly in a space between rows of military listings on the back wall and set them down on either side of the desk. He picked up the flask to do the honors and was surprised to see a badge with a shield: a red star, a hammer and sickle, and the broad sword sticking out proudly between them, signifying KGB. Pouring the vodka, he placed a glass down on the desk in front of Irishka and handed him the flask, but then pulled it back. “This must be old. It’s been a hell of a long time since you were KGB.”

“Yes, a favorite duty of mine … and my return wouldn’t be impossible conjecture.”

Arrogant little bastard; on top of everything else he wanted his job.

“Your mentioning KGB brings me to the reason I’m here. You probably heard about my little escapade with the Chechen rebels?”

Michel steadied himself. This would be uncomfortable. “Yes, and it should have been my operation. Nevertheless, my congratulations are in order.” He shook Irishka’s hand firmly while patting his shoulder. “Well done, Grigory.”

“Thank you, Michel, but it was a little unfortunate that two of the scum got away.”

“Quite,” he replied calmly, but felt his lip quiver as he said it.

“Well, I just wanted you to know that I don’t leave things unfinished. While I’ve come to apologize for stepping into your area of responsibility, I’ve also come to warn you that I will not be letting this go. These men have killed one of my best people and believe me they will die for it. So, I may well be treading on your toes at some point in the future. I mean in terms of areas of responsibility, of course.”

The undertone was crystal clear to Michel. “Of course, I understand perfectly, Grigory. I’ll make sure I’m prepared,” he replied, a new gritted determination embracing his soul.

An excruciating fifteen and then twenty minutes went by with Michel agonizingly passing pleasantries. And then Irishka left. But the pain didn’t go with him. Michel fumed. Who did that little fuck think he was? Nothing more than a criminal, for heaven’s sake. No, he was worse. He had manipulated the power bestowed upon him to create evil and was now flaunting it in his face while throwing down the gauntlet. ‘Keep away from my business – or else.’ The little shit.

Getting up from the plush, studded, leather chair he returned to the window, mind racing. He would target Irishka directly and carry out the operation himself. First he would halt Anna from progressing with her activity. There was another job he wanted her to do first.

Chapter 8

Dalaman, Turkey, January 1973

Anna arrived at the airport with flaxen locks hanging loose over her shoulders. Her skin was pale, her dark blue eyes without makeup. Enough, she hoped, to look different to her previous visit when she assisted Yuri Aleksii and Mehmet Pasha in destroying Beyrek Ozel’s drug cartel. The Ozel family had operated their businesses from the outskirts of Icmeler and since their eradication General Petrichova had come to believe they’d been under the ultimate control of General Irishka. For that operation, Anna’s hair had been jet black and pulled back into a ponytail, her eyes darkened by colored contact lenses and her skin stained tan. She had dressed to kill – in more ways than one. Her part in the job had been to attract and distract the head of the family – Beyrek Ozel. Those cartel members were history now, so couldn’t point the finger, but there were those who might remember her.

Exiting the plane’s cabin and stepping out onto the gangway, heat struck her like a physical blow. According to the pilot, the ground temperature was only around twenty degrees. But Siberia had been so far below freezing the contrast was stark. She descended into the sun’s glare, smiled sweetly at the stewardess who wished her a pleasant onward journey and began walking over the sandy runway. The heat was stifling, so she stopped midway between aircraft and terminal building and put her small luggage bag on the ground. Undoing the top two buttons of her blouse, she floated it and fanned her upper body. The luggage from the plane was being unloaded as a tanker lorry pulled up to refuel. The air was thick. Anna took a bottle of water from her bag and drank greedily. By now the other passengers had left the runway. She had stood too long. A dark green jeep with four surly looking soldiers slowed on approaching her, but they seemed happy she wasn’t up to anything and sped on towards the end of the landing strip.

After clearing customs, Anna went in search of her contact. She had been told it would be the same driver who’d taken her to the coast on her previous visit. Outside the departure building, which happened to also be the arrivals area, separated only by a rickety fence, she recognized the short, overweight figure of Batur Hasim. He stood about a hundred paces down, on the opposite side of the cracked, uneven blacktop. Batur was on the payroll of an informant working for Russian intelligence. Or, to be more accurate, he was a driver who worked for a man that Yuri Aleksii had in his pocket. One of Yuri’s jobs in Turkey was to collect officials and businessmen who transgressed. They were subsequently blackmailed into getting information, but they could also be used for smaller tasks, like Batur here.

Her contact stood proudly next to a shiny, black Anadol Devrim sedan, appearing blissfully unaware of what was going on under the shine; the rot that had worked its way into the sills or the pieces of rubber threshed from the tires. It was a wreck, but he stood with his elbow, which looked uncomfortably high, on the roof while holding the stance of a movie star. Anna cringed. Instinctively, she hadn’t liked him when they first met. She hadn’t trusted him then and felt no more inclined to do so now. Dropping his arm, he put his hands in his pockets and thrust his hips forward as if he were about to urinate. She shook her head in dismay while raising her eyebrows, and moved towards him.

“Ah, Miss Anna, it’s so nice to see you again. But you look different. Are you alright? You appear to be overheating? Is it cold in Russia?” He stepped up and pushed a sweaty hand into hers.

She pushed out her bottom lip and exhaled a breath up and over her face. “Cold … yes, I suppose that’s one description.”

He stood too close and she was reminded of the body odor she had found so distasteful the last time she was here.

“Can I get your luggage?” he asked.

“No, this is all I have. I don’t intend staying too long,” she lied. Because of her distrust, she would have him drop her in Icmeler, from where she would walk along the coastal path to the marina and meet Yuri and Mehmet.

Batur shrugged and went to the car. “Will you sit in the front with me?” he asked hopefully. “It will be cooler.”

True, it would be more comfortable in the front, but the thought of being next to him made her shiver. “No, I’m fine in the back.”

Miserably, he held the door open. She got in and made herself as comfortable as was possible on the sunken back seat of the old banger and settled for the forty kilometers or so of rough, winding road to Icmeler. As the car pulled off, she checked through the back window to make sure no one followed, but the only thing she saw trailing them was a deep blue cloud of smoke from the car’s exhaust. She smiled and leaned back, luxuriated in thoughts of Jez. How would he be coping in the Siberian waste? As good an operative as he was, she was glad he hadn’t come along. She wanted him by her side, of course, but it had been clear he hadn’t yet returned to physical or mental strength, whatever he might have thought. Compared to the soldier he had been, his mind had dulled through lack of fieldwork.

She warmed as thoughts drifted to their parting. That alone was worth the wrench of separation and one area in which he had made a full recovery. The fiery passion of their goodbyes had been draining. So much so, she could live on the memory for some time to come. The smile that was already fixed on her face changed to a broad grin. Then guilt heaved in her chest, remembering how she’d pretended to be shot when walking by his side towards Minsk railway station. Because of it, he became wanted for her murder as well as the flesh trafficking operation Otto Mitrokhin had been running. And then what did she do? She deserted him – left him to it. He was on the run with no way of proving his innocence. Michel had convinced her that putting Jez’s back against the wall, stripping him of everything he held dear, was the only way to bring the problem to a satisfactory conclusion. When Jez came out of the coma and was told of the ruse, he had agreed it was the right thing to do – but that only made her feel worse.

“Ahead,” Batur said, softly cutting into her thoughts.

Anna leaned forward to look over Batur’s shoulder – a blue and white car with the word ‘Polis’ written on the side stood fender to boot with a black sedan. A police sergeant and a uniformed officer stood with two rather square men who were similar in shape but of considerably different heights. They stood with their backs to Anna. They both wore black suits, maybe detectives. But whatever they were and whatever was happening couldn’t be of interest to her. A fleeting thought made her question why Batur had even bothered to mention their presence. She was still making a mental assessment when the sergeant stepped out onto the road and waved them down. Her stomach knotted and apprehension filled her. The blockade was only a couple of kilometers from where Yuri and Mehmet had blown up one of Ozel’s nightclubs.

“Keep going,” Anna said, but Batur pulled the car over behind the blue and white, and got out.

“Out of the car, please, miss,” the sergeant demanded of Anna.

“Would you like to explain what this is about first?”

His face hardened. “No, I fucking wouldn’t. Get out of the car or we will have to come in and drag you out.”

The tone was vicious. Normally she’d take a stand, but – she got out.

“I’m Sergeant Kudret. This is one of my officers,” he said, pointing to the other uniform. “This is an official blockade, and that is all you need to know. So, what is your name and why are you visiting Turkey?”

How did he know she didn’t live here? Worriedly, Anna took her passport from the small bag clipped to her waist and handed it to Kudret.

“That’s who I am, but I don’t have to tell you anything about why I’m here.”

“Oh, you don’t?”

“No, I don’t. I’m working out of the Russian Embassy and travel under diplomatic status.”

Kudret laughed. “I see, very well.” He turned to the driver. “Batur, you’re finished here … On your way.”

He nodded and jumped into the car as quickly as his rather ungainly little legs would take him. Anna watched the vehicle pull away and silently cursed the little man, no longer wondering how Kudret knew who she was. She was taken by surprise again when Kudret threw a punch that glanced off her cheek. The sting burned and she felt slightly disoriented. Her natural instincts told her to fight back and when the uniform with Kudret stepped forward to take a hold on her, she moved in a half-step towards him and made a straight-fingered assault. The strike was high and two of her long fingernails tore into his left eye. The officer dropped to his knees, screaming and clutching at his face. His earsplitting wail blocked out all sound, so she failed to hear whoever it was that crept up behind her and covered her nose and mouth with a cloth. Chloroform! She struggled to breathe. She didn’t have the strength to release herself, so she relaxed. When the assailant took the weight of her body, she lashed out with hands and feet. Kudret was standing in front of her and had to arch his body to dodge a kick. But whoever it was holding her was unnaturally strong – it had to be the bigger of the two suits – and her kicking eventually slowed, the resolve in her mind turning to chaos as she drifted. Her arms fell limply by her sides as if a puppeteer had cut the strings and then a veil of darkness clouded her brain.

Chapter 9

Anna’s eyelids flickered as she tried focusing through dulled vision. Where was she? Her mouth was parched, her head pounding, colors swirled and shapes danced, but she couldn’t draw meaning from it. Then the truth hit her and she wished she could crawl back to wherever her mind had just come from. Her arms were stretched out in crucifixion and her body suspended above the ground. The white, fitted blouse she had worn so neatly was ripped open to the waist and smeared with blood. Her bra hung down by her sides, cut through the centre. Hurt throbbed and shock came on seeing her breasts. The mounds of flesh had been fitted with steel bands that were tightened close to her chest.

Self pity jarred her spirit.

“Hgnn,” she whimpered, as she stared at blue veins protruding from purple flesh. Her nipples stood out like mauve spikes and a trickle of blood had spilled from under the steel bands and dried to her ribcage. She attempted to straighten a leg and stretched just enough that her toes touched the floor, but for that her shoulder joints paid the toll. “Hgnn,” she cried. And then pain and anxiety jumped her mind to awareness, and sanity returned. Get a grip … Anger, let anger have its head … Let the training take command.

There had been occasions in her career when she had been subjected to horrendous conditions – by her own people. All part of the training. Think of those times. Worse than this: in training they had put a sack over her head, walked her about all day to disorient her mind, weaken her spirit, no food, minimal water. They had spun her around until she was dizzy, kicked and punched her. And how often had they used barbiturates to depress her system, to break her in order to strengthen her resolve? She’d become hardened to it all. Bastards as they might be, these people were amateurs next to her trainers. So they want to break her? Okay, let them try, she’d been there before. She lifted her head. The room was dimmed, but she was above ground level; a boarded window allowed shafts of spiraling sunlight to squeeze through the slits. Tiny flying bugs held in sunbeams appeared to be trying to break free from an invisible force field.

How long had she hung there? There was no way of telling, but it had to have been some hours. The cast from the sun was low and fired crimson laser beams: evening or early morning, it depended on which direction the room was facing. That’s it, continue to rationalize; her arms were strapped to a wooden yoke and her body dangled above the floor, but that knowledge wouldn’t give her the strength to pull herself up and break free. Face it, she told herself, for the meantime you’re helpless.

The sound of voices spilled over from outside. The door handle was depressed. The talking continued and the door pushed fully open. False light rushed in to fill the room.

“Ah, Anna, at last you’re awake. I thought I heard you crying.”

Anna flinched and hatred filled her soul. Sergeant Kudret.

“Borislav, she’s awake!” he shouted.

The smaller of the two suits from the roadblock came in and then the bigger man followed. The expression on the big man’s face made him look a little slow-witted. Anna decided that, if she should somehow get free, even with his bulk, he would be the easiest to take down and could be left until last.

“Good,” the smaller man said. “I haven’t much time. You may have already guessed when the sergeant shouted; I am Borislav.” He grinned. “Right, Anna, enough with the introductions. Of course it will be clear to you why you were taken down, but you must be wondering what it is we want that we keep you alive.”

The accent, the name Borislav, he was speaking Turkish, but he was Russian. Anna tried to speak but as her jaw opened her tongue clacked as it dryly released itself from the roof of her mouth.

“Give her water, Anton,” Borislav said in Russian. “She can’t tell us anything if she can’t talk.”

The big suit, Anton, brought a glass of water and surprised Anna when he smiled gently and gingerly offered it up to her lips. It was warm and tasted stale, but she sipped greedily before demanding her rights.

“I’m on a diplomatic mission here in Turkey and you have no right holding me,” she said.

“Tsk! We don’t have time for cat and mouse, Anna. I’m returning to Russia soon and need to get this sorted, so please … just answer the questions properly.”

“I demand diplomatic imm–”

Kudret punched her in the stomach. Anna blew hard, winded by the unexpected assault. Before she could catch her breath, he’d taken a nipple between thumb and index finger and twisted it cruelly. Hurt pulsated, but she steeled herself. Taking her mind to a different plain, she looked past Kudret and stared defiantly into Borislav’s eyes.

“I really don’t have the time for this,” he sighed.

She winced under Kudret’s pressure, but refused to make a sound.

“Tell me three things,” Borislav said, “and I will release you from your torment.”

The diplomatic immunity angle wasn’t working, so she made to concede. She would fall back on lying. “What is it you think I can tell you?” she stuttered resignedly.

“First, you should know that your colleagues in the Siberian Gulag have been terminated. We know General Petrichova is behind them, but we need their real identities to complete the loop.”

The news felled her. That meant Jez would be dead, too. In the passing of a moment, the inner cavities of her heart were overcome by a dark coldness. She gulped, felt she might gag. But then automatic survival dropped a curtain in her mind, separated emotion from reality. Think of the training. Her resolve regained strength. She didn’t know how, but they knew about the Gulag. That, however, didn’t mean anything else they were saying was true. Weaken a prisoner with meaningful lies. Tell them anything that might destroy their inner core. And that’s what he was doing now; he was lying. Defiance filled her.

Borislav seemed to read her thoughts and shook his head. “Second, I need to know the identities of the two men out in the Urals. They’re dead also, but it cleans things up for you to tell me.”

That was a mistake. The words came as music to her ears. Jez and Pavel were alive. She had no doubt. If the camp really was attacked and the two men hadn’t yet returned, there was no way anybody would get the better of Pavel’s Arctic experience.

Again, Borislav seemed to read her mind and hurried past the question to make his third demand. “Finally, who have you come to meet in Icmeler and why?”

Kudret let go of her nipple and she sighed with relief, clamped her mouth closed, and let her head drop. As far as she was concerned this little chat was over. Now she knew what he wanted, she would take some time to think of a plausible story. Stop listening and ignore any pain they might inflict. Think of a tale. Repeat it in your head as a mantra. Believe it. Borislav gently slapped Kudret’s upper arm and they disappeared behind her. Kudret came back, grinning close up into her face. She had come up with half a tale to tell them so she allowed a moment to listen.

“Warm up the crystals, Anton,” Kudret said. The smell of petrol was followed by the wheel of a cigarette lighter scratching the flint. “There, that shouldn’t take long.” He moved his face close to hers. “Anna, you will eventually answer Borislav’s questions, so you could save yourself from some of the pain. The man you hurt at the road block, he was my partner and has been my best friend for as long as I can remember.”

Anna raised her eyebrows, tilted her head, and widened her eyes as if to say, ‘That’s life.’

“It’s okay you are flippant now because soon you will be my best friend. You’re perfectly stacked for my tastes and when I’m finished with you, you will be begging for me to fuck you. And it will all begin after you’ve given the answers to Borislav’s questions.” He licked her cheek before looking beyond her and over to the Russians. “Is that stuff ready yet?”

“Yes, just about.”

“Your comrades are preparing me a potion. A potion that makes a woman love a man no matter what she might think of him – Heroin. As soon as Anton has finished dissolving it into the silver paper you’ll have your first taste, and not long after that you’ll be mine.”

At first shocked because she knew she couldn’t fight such a drug, she realized that it would take more than a few hours for him to get her into a state of compliance and Borislav said he was in a hurry. She had to believe it was another trick, that they were trying to weaken her spirit before using whatever chemical they did have.

Kudret disappeared behind her. Hands came around her body and cupped her breasts. “Nice,” he said. Releasing the hold, he swept his hands down her sides, over her hips, stopping at the hem of her skirt. His hand ran up the inside of her thigh, but was halted when Anton said, “The liquid’s ready.”

Kudret eased her skirt up as far as the tight material allowed and reached out a hand to take the syringe from Anton, then changed his mind. “Just a minute,” he said, and left the room. He came back in with a small table. “Don’t want to spill any. Put it on there,” he said, standing the table next to where Anna hung.

Anton placed the cup-shaped silver paper on a saucer and put it on the table. Anna stared nervously, absorbing the situation. They had just made another mistake. The fluid was clear, same as heroin, but there was just too much of the stuff. If they injected that into her it would surely kill her, and they didn’t want that to happen yet. Also, it didn’t look hot. The vapors should have been rising, otherwise how would addicts chase the dragon? No, it wasn’t heroin. Her guess was Sodium Amatol. They were trying to frighten her by telling her it was heroin to help the truth drug take quicker effect.

Kudret put a hand on her upper thigh to steady her. The hyperemic needle pierced her flesh and she felt the fluid force its way into her thigh muscle – not vein – not heroin. Her face involuntarily distorted and the objects before her deformed, as if she were looking at them through thick, clear jelly.

A voice gurgled. “Give it a minute.”

This was definitely not heroin as Kudret had threatened. Truth drugs had been practiced on her before. She knew the feel, the affect. She went with the flow, let her head drop and her face relax. She allowed the sedation to take its affect without fighting it. Her mind became confused, but she clung on. She was a trained soldier. She knew how to overcome. She knew how to keep control.

Kudret fired his lighter up close to her face. The smell of petrol rose. A spark burnt her cheek as he pushed up her head and pulled at her eyelid, moving the flame across her eye. “She’s ready,” he said.

Borislav came forward and spoke softly. “Why are you here in Turkey, Anna? What is your mission?”

Keep control. Stay in command. “I’m meeting a man in Icmeler,” she said, almost dribbling the words from her lips. “My boss is interested in taking over the drug business there.” Keep believing the story is true.

Borislav seemed to get excited. “Are you telling me General Petrichova is just trying to get in on the action?”

She hadn’t thought of that. Add something. “Yes. We tried discussing it with Ozel but it all went wrong.”

“Okay, that’s possible. What man are you meeting here?”

“We don’t know the name of the main man. All I know is I’m to meet a man called Aydin Ata. He will take me to his boss.”

“Aydin Ata,” Kudret scowled. “Never heard of him.”

But he is real, she told herself.

“The drug doesn’t lie,” Borislav answered.

The questions kept coming and Anna maintained control. Everything she told them was an attempt to mislead, but eventually she became tired, too tired. So much so, she worried she would reveal the truth. She decided to black out and let her head fall forward – but it didn’t stop her listening in.

Borislav said, “She’s lost consciousness, but it doesn’t matter now; we’ve got as much as she knows. Kudret, we need to move. We’re cutting things too fine. The drug shipment arrives tomorrow and the payment hasn’t shown up from Moscow.”

This revelation is important. Concentrate and make sure you remember, Anna told herself.

“Right,” Borislav continued, “Anton will stay here with you. He can watch her while you contend with the drug shipment. I’ll take the road to Istanbul and see what’s slowing up the truck with the Semtex.”

Without further consideration to Anna, they left. She hung uncomfortably on the yoke and repeated what she had heard about the drug shipment and Semtex in her mind. Over and over, so she wouldn’t forget. The pain was a constant, but it didn’t stop the effect of the barbiturate sending her into a deep sleep.

Chapter 10

Marmaris Marina, Turkey

Yuri Aleksii switched both ignition keys at the same time and, almost in unison, the twin diesels roared into life. He was worried; Anna should have been there by now and his gut, which felt like it was having a butterfly convention, was telling him something had gone wrong. If the feeling had substance then he had to move off from the marina. He looked back from the flybridge of his eleven-meter motor cruiser, Great White, and watched the small blooms of blue smoke dissipate from the rear of the vessel. Mehmet Pasha, his fellow agent and surrogate son, stood on the hammerhead at the end of the pontoon awaiting further instruction. Yuri had been the saving grace in Mehmet’s earlier life and as a result an unbreakable bond had forged between them. He knew him so well; Mehmet was an excellent agent, but he liked the women too much. He’d met and fallen in love with a girl called Nina, but the flipside to that was if he saw a pretty girl he had to have her – traits of his father.

Yuri let the engines warm for a couple of minutes before shouting, “Cast off, Mehmet!”

Mehmet shed ropes fore and aft, jumped on the boat and held a line amidships. Yuri worked in tandem with him as Mehmet slipped the final rope from the pontoon’s cleat and the boat eased gently from its berth. He stored the lines and fenders in deck lockers and came up to join Yuri on the flybridge.

“Don’t you think we’re overreacting, Yuri?”

Yuri turned, scrunched his brow. “Anna is two hours late. It might mean nothing. But if something has happened, we can’t be compromised. To give her a chance, we’ll travel along the coast to Icmeler. If she has been held up and is on her way, she’ll take the coastal path and we’ll see her. If she still doesn’t show, she’s on her own.”

The boat hugged the coastline as far along as Icmeler and still there was no sign of Anna. In truth, she wasn’t the sort of agent who needed worrying about, but he couldn’t help himself. Almost without thinking, he took a hold on a belaying pin, spun the helm hard, and swung the vessel through a half circle.

“Thanks for the warning!” Mehmet shouted, detaching himself from the bulwark he’d nearly flown over. “And what are you doing? I thought you said it wouldn’t be safe at the marina.”

“Can you imagine Anna leaving us to fend for ourselves if she thought we were in trouble?”

Mehmet went on the offensive. “Of course not,” he said. “It wasn’t me suggested we leave. But you were right. If we’re picked up we can’t be of help to anyone. We should carry on down the coast and think out a more rational plan.”

Yuri relaxed and his lips puffed out as he exhaled. “We’re not going back to the marina. We’ll take a temporary mooring at the hotel jetty halfway back along the coast. I want us to have a word with Adam Mannesh.”

“The Istanbul businessman who’s driver was supposed to pick Anna up at the airport?”

“Yes, he’s in Marmaris. He’s based in Istanbul, so I can only put him being here down to good fortune.”

*

Yuri moored up at the jetty of the Akasya Hotel. The main building was about fifty meters back from the sea and as the two men walked through the private gardens towards the reception, a security guard stopped them. Within five minutes of Yuri explaining they were there to see Adam Mannesh, he was knocking on the door of a private penthouse apartment.

A few things bothered Yuri about Adam. He had never looked into his import-export agency, but he seemed to have power along these coastal areas as well as in Istanbul. It didn’t quite add up.

A bodyguard opened the door.

“Hello, Hassan, tell Adam I’m here to speak with him,” Yuri demanded.

Hassan hadn’t had the chance to answer when Adam brushed past him with a silent grace that belied a man of such bulk. “Yuri, Yuri, come in! It’s good to see you,” he said.

Always polite, Yuri greeted Adam with the same enthusiasm he was given. He’d had him in tow for several months because of a relationship he had unearthed between him and a young man. No big deal, but it didn’t send out the right messages for Adam’s businesses – whatever they might be. For the sake of silence, Adam was happy to do Yuri the occasional favor, but only as long as it didn’t mix with his dealings. He wasn’t that much of a pushover.

Yuri looked Adam over. Some might say he was obese. If he was then it was his height that helped him carry off a slimmer appearance. Always immaculate and no different now. He wore a powder blue suit with a white shirt, blue lace tie and, as always, a pale blue fez with a darker blue tassel perched neatly atop. Why he wore the hat was a mystery. As far as Yuri knew, Adam had neither religious belief nor military background.

“Adam, I have a problem,” Yuri began. “You sent a man to pick up a friend of mine at Dalaman Airport. I still have no friend.”

Adam screwed his thick, black moustache between thumb and forefinger and looked puzzled. “But Batur told one of my managers he’d picked your young lady up and dropped her on the coast in Icmeler.”

“Not likely,” Yuri said, cocking his head, raising his eyebrows.

Adam turned to Hassan, a permanent fixture by his side. “Hassan, get Batur Hasim, quick as you can. Take him to the seed barn in the country.”

Hassan disappeared without reply.

Opening his palm towards the door, Adam beckoned Yuri and Mehmet out in front of him and said, “I have a car downstairs. Shall we go and wait for them? I think you’ll like my seed barn; it’s … tranquil.”

*

Eight, maybe ten kilometers of winding roads and steep inclines, and the car finally approached an open area surrounded by hills. The front of the seed barn stood twenty meters from the base of a steep, rocky hillside and for the life of him Yuri couldn’t see anything special about the building. Adam seemed to think it was something, but to him it seemed more dilapidated than most in the area. Mainly built from corrugated tin, the dark brown panels were rusted and the shabby corners had rolled away leaving jagged metal jutting out dangerously.

The car pulled up in front of large double doors, one of which housed a small integral access. Getting up close revealed a different story to Yuri. There were no windows at ground level and those in the upper level were heavily shuttered. The chutes normally used for filling lorries and trailers with grain were dummies and it could be seen that the whole outside had been fortified.

Yuri went in via the mini entrance and whatever Adam used the barn for became a bigger mystery. The only thing he could be sure of was that it wasn’t for seed. The gigantic open area was marked out with bays, like a huge garage. A large mezzanine floor midway along the building could have been offices, but climbing the steps exposed many rooms. Of those he could see into, there were beds and what looked like en suite bathrooms. Following Adam to the end of a long corridor, they passed several kitchens. Everything he saw was large and expensively fitted out and Yuri began realizing that he hadn’t done his homework on Adam properly. But why was Adam trusting him with this revelation? Already being blackmailed, he must’ve realized he was opening another door. This was too weird to take for granted. However, he needed help. For now he’d keep a low profile and find out about Mister Mannesh another time.

Adam appeared to read his thoughts. He smiled and said, “This may look a little clandestine to you, Yuri. But I can assure you I have nothing to hide – or I wouldn’t have brought you here. It’s simply somewhere to hold business meetings and enjoy special parties,” he winked. “And it gives me a little privacy when I need to escape the pressures of life.”

Yuri nodded. Adam bade them sit. Yuri plumped down on a luxurious sofa that ran the full length of the back wall. It nestled behind an oversized table that had at least twenty wooden carver chairs pushed up to it. Adam took a bottle from a liquor dispenser, poured vodka and handed it to Yuri.

“And you, Mehmet, what would you like?”

“Have you orange juice?”

“Religious?”

“No.”

Adam smiled and got the juice. An hour or so later, the double doors automatically creaked open and a car drove into the barn. Yuri hadn’t been in the mood for drinking and left the glass untouched. He got up and hurried along the corridor. At the top of the steps, he saw Hassan getting out of the vehicle and then opening the back door. He dragged a little man out by the scruff of the neck and frog-marched him towards the stairway.

Adam greeted the captive as if he were an old friend. “Ah, Batur, you’ve arrived,” he said, smiling. “So nice of you to come along.”

Batur’s brow sweated. “Mister Mannesh,” he said. “I don’t understand. I’m just a driver. Why would you bring me here like this?”

Adam frowned in a way that made Yuri grin inwardly; he looked like a Chinese Shar Pei with a moustache. “Just a driver, maybe, but it seems you’re a driver who has gone into business for himself. Don’t mess me around, Batur. What have you done with the young lady you picked up at the airport?”

For a moment Yuri thought the look of surprise on Batur’s face genuine, but then his paled features filled with fear. He looked down guiltily and then up sheepishly.

“But … I told my manager when I got back. I dropped her on the seafront at Icmeler like she asked me to.”

After pushing a finger under his fez to scratch, Adam shook his head, took a bone-handled knife from inside his jacket, and flicked a blade from its grip. “Batur, I know what you told the manager. What I’m asking for is the truth. Now don’t try my patience … One chance.”

“Mister Mannesh, I don’t know …”

Before Batur had finished pleading his case, and almost with the speed and accuracy Yuri thought only Mehmet possessed, Adam had whipped the blade up into Batur’s nose and pulled the cutting edge back, slicing through Batur’s left nostril. Such a big man and now the only sign that Adam had moved was a slight undulation of flesh around his girth. Batur’s blood ran freely as he brought his hands to his face and screamed in agony. Adam wiped the blade clean on Batur’s shirt and smiled jovially.

“Right, while I’m still in a reasonable mood,” he said calmly, “tell me what you’ve done with the young lady, Batur.”

“Mister Mannesh, I–”

“One chance,” Mannesh repeated.

Batur cupped the flow of blood from his face, cried, and then folded. “Sergeant Kudret, he–”

Adam gently interrupted. “Batur, if you continue muttering through those closed hands of yours, I won’t hear you. And to me that will sound like another refusal to give me a straight answer.”

Batur straightened sharply, kept a grip on his nose, and lifted his hands from his mouth enough to be heard. “Sergeant Kudret! He took Miss Anna. I don’t know how he found out about her coming to Turkey, but he knew. I didn’t want to follow his orders, I swear, but I know he takes girls to his place and does cruel things. I have driven them there sometimes myself. He said if I didn’t do as I was told he would take my daughters and defile my wife.”

Adam laughed and his body wobbled. “Please, please …” he said, sniggering again. “Batur, not only do you have no daughters, you don’t have a wife.”

Batur’s hands held onto his nose and his eyes popped open as big as saucers.

Adam said, “Enough of that. Where did Kudret take her?”

“We were stopped at a roadblock near the old Ozel club, the one that was blown up. I don’t know where they took her after that.”

Adam laughed joyfully. “Oh, Batur, I didn’t know you were such fun. And I was wrong. You don’t think I’m stupid. The fact is, it is you who is stupid. You’ve just told me you took girls to wherever Kudret made use of them. Let me say this again … one chance.”

Slowly, but precisely, Batur revealed all.

Adam told Hassan to drive Yuri and Mehmet out into the country where Batur said Sergeant Kudret owned a smallholding.

“What will become of Batur?” Yuri asked before leaving.

“Well, that isn’t a question I want to answer directly. But the man has scorned me. He’s shown me the greatest disrespect by making me appear unworthy in front of my friends. What would you expect?”

Batur held onto his nose with both hands, but his fingers had moved up to cover his eyes as well. He sobbed miserably and his body shuddered. Yuri turned away. It wasn’t his business.

*

Hassan said, “Mister Mannesh told me to wait here on the hillside, and told me not to get involved. Mister Mannesh also said this squares everything and you shouldn’t ask any more of him. He said for me to stay until sundown to give you time to get her out. At sundown I leave.”

And that was where Yuri and Mehmet left him.

Mister Mannesh had had a lot to say, Yuri thought while crouching down as he and Mehmet crossed an open piece of ground. He had agreed to the terms, knowing he would never have got the chance to save Anna without him. Still, when there was more free time he would find out what Adam was using the seed barn for. If he was dabbling in the wrong games, there would be no telling what he might be able to get from him that could be of use in the future.

The grounds around the old farmhouse had been left to run wild. The yet rooted tumbleweed, which made it something other than tumbleweed, gave good cover and they were able to crawl across the divide easily without being seen. Getting to within a few meters of the single story building, he saw rusted corrugated bins lined up along the back wall and a large, heavy looking man in a black suit sitting on the sanded rocky ground next to them. His back was against the wall and he hadn’t long lit a cigarette. Yuri recognized the smell that drifted over: Drozhba. It had a long cardboard tube fitted to act as a filter. He hadn’t long given up smoking himself and it was the Drozhbas did the trick. They were so strong they almost burnt his throat out. This man had to be Russian. No one else would smoke that shit.

Yuri used hand signals to tell Mehmet to stay put and then crawled to the front of the building. He worked his way around to the front, stood with his back against the wall, and then quietly shuffled to the entrance. Gently, he levered the door handle down – open. He edged through the door, into and down an entrance hall. All the rooms appeared to come off this same corridor. Only one door was closed. Yuri hoped that would be where Anna was being held. He didn’t yet want to make a noise, so he carried on to the end of the passageway. He took a cosh-like bludgeon from his waistband, crooked his arm in readiness, then kicked the backdoor as hard as he could; it flung open, crashed against the wall, and was so rotten it shattered like matchwood.

The man in the suit fell away from the wall with a start, rolled over onto his back, and lay rocking like an upended turtle. Yuri let him sway back into position and smacked him in the temple with the cosh, and then raced back along the passageway to the closed door, locked, but the structure was weak and even the frame came away when he shouldered it. The relief of seeing Anna soon changed to anger. Her eyes met his and she sighed deeply, blowing air hard through her nose and mouth.

“I thought you’d never get here,” she said, voice dribbling like a burbling drunk.

“Excuse me! How was I to know you were in a hurry?” he said and forced a laugh.

When he unscrewed the butterfly nuts holding the steel bands to Anna’s breasts, the liberation sent muscle spasms shuddering through her body. Mehmet came in behind him and then politely turned away. Even through her torment, Yuri saw her eyes crinkle in a smile.

“That’s my boy, never takes advantage of a woman unless he’s the one who put her at a disadvantage in the first place,” he said and buttoned up her blouse before shouting, “All clear, Mehmet! You can cut her loose now.”

Mehmet came back in with a knife in his hand, but there was no need to use it. The knots loosened easily and he was able to unwind the rope from the wooden yoke. Finally, she fell into Yuri’s arms.

“Here, little one,” he said, “I’ll carry you to the car.”

“No, I can manage,” she said defiantly, but releasing his grip she stumbled with her first footfall. Yuri scooped her from her feet and carried her out.

The man in the suit had come round and sat dazed against a corrugated bin.

“Here, take Anna,” Yuri said, dropping her into Mehmet’s arms. “I’ll take the big lump. We need him to tell us what we’re up against.”

The man in the suit was still in a stupor, so Yuri had no trouble pushing him on ahead. Hassan had been leaning against the car, smoking, but stood away on seeing them come up the hill. He stubbed his cigarette underfoot, pulled in through his nose, spat phlegm, and then opened the rear door.

“Do you need medical attention?” Yuri asked Anna as Mehmet dropped her to her feet and helped her onto the back seat.

“No,” she said. “Everything aches and I was more than a little worried when I looked down at myself back there, but I’m okay … I must admit, Yuri, I thought only Jez could make my heart skip a beat, but when you came through that door it started doing somersaults.”

Yuri knew women found him attractive, of that there was no doubt, but now in his mid-fifties he knew he wouldn’t have stood a chance with Anna even if Jez wasn’t around. But he responded as anyone who knew him would have expected and laughed.

“Yes,” he said conceitedly. “I tend to have that effect on women. But are you sure you don’t need a medic?”

“I think I’ll survive, Yuri. I’ve been through worse.”

And he knew she had.

Chapter 11

The Komi District, Northern Russia

Mother Nature had hit Jez with everything she had to offer, including minus ninety wind chills from a purga, the brutal north wind that blows up from the Polar Regions. And for that, he and Pavel had to dig in for two full days and wait for it to pass. Eventually moving on, they followed the snaking path of the largest tributary of the Pechora: the Usa River. While the weather and the terrain had been grueling, it held the gunships at bay; if the search for them was still live, it hadn’t crossed swords with them on the journey. Now facing the flat lands of the Tundra, Jez stared blankly over the vast wasteland.

“Don’t just stand gawping,” Pavel said. “We haven’t conquered the badlands yet. C’mon, let’s press on.”

Jez had never dealt with this part of Siberia. The Tundra was flatland and looked easy to cross. But nothing is easy in Siberia and it came with its own set of troubles: five-meter snowdrifts; winds howling across the open spaces from the north and encrusting them with snow; even when the winds receded, the harrowing passage through the depression of a blue-grey desert persisted. They came across the occasional hungry polar bear, but a shot in the air took care of that threat.

“Dodging the bears is one thing,” Pavel said, having just scared one off, “but when the permafrost melts, there’s no escaping the pools of water left in its wake. Swarms of mosquitoes everywhere and believe me, there’s no getting away from those things. If you’re not wearing a mosquito head net, they’ll suck you dry in a couple of hours.”

Jez strode out in silence, willing the never-ending trek to come to an end, and then he saw the colliery tower they’d been looking for and his spirits lifted. At last, the coalmine on the outskirts of Vorkuta City. It had been the site of yet another Gulag, but it was gone by now and the mining workers from nearby had spread their habitation out over the old forced labor camp to form a new, independent society. They approached the town, past a pit heap, and then took a shortcut over a cemetery that was peppered with a host of wooden crosses.

“Most of these graves belong to German prisoners from the Great War,” Pavel told Jez. “They must have been good men because they say you can’t keep a good man down. When the ice melts in July, the land heaves and up they come, coffins and all.”

Frosted face or not, Jez burst out laughing.

There were no streets, just an indiscriminate scattering of shacks. Jez knew the population was mixed; some had moved up from warmer climes to follow the work while others were ex-convicts. As he passed through what looked like a ghost town, eyes seemed to bore into him and the hairs on his neck stood on end. Whatever might be said about this place, it could never be accused of being friendly, but concern soon faded; the people here would be too busy worrying about the vagaries of their own existence to worry about a couple of strangers passing through. On the opposite side of the mining community, the outline of the main city came into view and it looked like a tidal wave of snow had hit it.

“Bury the snowshoes here and leave a marker in case we have to make a run for it later,” Jez said.

The tenement blocks lining the sidewalks were crusted in ice and vehicles at the roadside stood in a silent queue, unable to move. Overhead cables looked battle weary to the hoarfrost and the residents would suffer in a big way should they surrender to it. As they negotiated the unwelcoming streets, Jez almost bumped into one of several Frontier Service Officers who had hurried out from an alley. The officer stopped and stared hard at the rifle sleeve slung over Jez’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Jez said, undoing enough of the snowsuit to show his uniform. The soldier nodded and hurried on with his colleagues.

Pavel said, “You have the uniform, Jez. I think it’ll be safer if I wait outside town. Go for the train tickets and then come get me here.” He pulled out his topographic map and pointed out a location on the main road outside the city where they should meet up.

Jez stripped out of his snowsuit then handed that and his rifle to Pavel, and left him to walk up the main street towards where he hoped the railway station would be. After a short walk, his suspicions were confirmed, and he tentatively entered an empty ticket office. The hall was small and, although draughty, a shade warmer than the walk through the streets without the snowsuit. There were three ticket kiosks, one manned. Two three-seat-benches stood frosted against one wall while a people’s poster, with hammer and sickle dominating, took center stage on the one opposite.

But then someone behind him spoke. A deep, graveled voice. “That uniform, it’s designated to Moscow ground forces. What are you doing here?”

Jez froze. Impossible! The voice. He knew it. When Captain Otto Mitrokhin, the officer he assassinated on the steps of KGB headquarters, had framed him for murder, Jez had been interrogated and tortured by members of Smersh: the 79th unit absorbed into the KGB after the Second World War. One of those men had a deep, graveled voice and Jez had only heard such tones that one time in his life. This had to be the same man. Be calm. He turned and faced his nemesis. Be confident and when all else fails, bluff.

“And who is it wanting to know? Your name, please,” Jez demanded.

Gravel stood with the quietly spoken partner that had helped him with the interrogation back then. Both wore trilby hats; both wore ankle-length, black trench coats; both wore wire-rimmed spectacles with pebbled lenses; both were the same height, and both were stocky build. The quiet man whispered a laugh at Jez’s words and the gravel man spun on him with a freeze-out glare. The quiet man looked away but held the smile.

“If I thought you were being intentionally insubordinate I’d …” he said to Jez, but then stopped as if recognizing a hopeless situation. “I am Sergeant Afanasiy working out of Moscow KGB.” He flipped his identification. “I’ll ask you again. What are you doing here in that uniform?”

Jez gulped. “Yes, Sergeant, sorry, Sergeant. I’m Corporal Kord. As you said, I’m attached to a division of Moscow ground forces. We were trailing fugitives when my unit was attacked … I’m not sure exactly, but it was somewhere near the northern end of the Ural Mountains. They ambushed us and I think I was the only one to escape. I have little Arctic experience, so I think I was plain lucky to get this far. I took a room in town yesterday when I arrived. I left my Arctic gear there.”

“What are you doing here at the railway station?”

“I uhm, what … oh, yes. I’m buying a ticket so I can return to Moscow and rejoin my company, Sergeant.”

“You say your unit has been slaughtered. Shouldn’t you be trying to contact your company commander and let him know what has happened?”

Shit! Play dumb.

“I tried. I couldn’t find a telephone.”

The sergeant shook his head, dismayed. “You grunts … There are Frontier Service Officers all over the place. You could’ve used their communication system.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I didn’t think of that. I’ll go there now.” Jez made to leave.

“Just a minute, you say you were one of those chasing the Chechen rebels?” Afanasiy said, nodding. “Let me see your papers,” he demanded, stretching out an open palm.

“What? Chechen rebels … oh, er, yes, Sergeant, it was the rebels who ambushed us.” At least he now knew how the security forces had justified the attack on the Gulag. Jez gave him the ID he had been given before starting maneuvers and fortunately it didn’t give rank.

The quiet man pulled the card from Afanasiy’s hand and whispered, “This ID isn’t standard issue for Moscow ground forces.”

“No, sir, I’ve been selected for special duties so I wasn’t pigeonholed.”

It was paying off, Pavel insisting he thought out a story before getting here.

“An idiot like you? Hmm, I don’t know. But I do know there’s something very familiar about you,” the quiet man said, so softly that Jez had to let it sink in slowly, and when he understood, panic constricted his throat.

“Maybe you’ve seen me in Moscow, sir. I’ve had duty in Lubyanka. You could have seen me there.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think so.”

The quiet man continued to study the ID card and looked to Jez as he did.

“Of course, yes, that’s it,” he said to Afanasiy. “He’s the double of Lieutenant Kornfeld. Face, build, everything.”

Shit, how could he have worked that out? It was so long ago. But wait, no, it had only been a matter of months. The coma had made a bigger time gap in his mind. Jez was heading for trouble. He tucked his thumbs into his holster belt and positioned his right hand so he could easily pull his throwing knife. This was the last thing he wanted, but at least he could make a stand before either of them could draw pistols.

The quiet man remained thoughtful and then his face opened. “No, you can’t be Kornfeld. He was killed. But you should do something with that face of yours – grow a beard or something,” he laughed. “Someone who didn’t know might shoot first and then ask questions. Believe me, you’re a dead ringer.” Another whispered laugh crept from his throat.

Afanasiy took his turn to look thoughtful. “Okay, you’re misplaced. Can you drive?”

“Yes, Sergeant, I can.”

“Good! Forget your commander for the meantime. We’re on our way out to the Gulag where the Chechens had their headquarters. But we couldn’t find a driver who knew how to get there and were about to return to Moscow. If you’re familiar with the place you can drive.”

“But–”

“No buts. Grab those cases and follow me.”

Further argument would be futile, Jez thought. He picked up the bags and followed the Smersh men from the station.

Chapter 12

Sergeant Afanasiy pointed to the only car in the street that wasn’t covered in snow. “That one,” he said and without another word, went shoulder to shoulder with his partner and steamed ahead. Jez smiled as he followed what looked like a pair of bookends. The car, a yellow Moskvitch 412, was parked halfway along the street, which explained why Jez hadn’t heard them pull up at the station. Afanasiy turned and handed him the keys, and like a dutiful corporal, Jez opened the back doors for the Smersh men, flipped up the long lid over the trunk, and put the bags in. He then stood back and shook his head. Whoever issued this beaten-up old taxi had been having a laugh; even with its snow chains, Jez wouldn’t trust it to get across Moscow in summer let alone anywhere in these extreme conditions. He looked at the two men, grinned, and then switched his attention forward, started the engine and selected first gear. The chains at first slipped, but even taking a grip on the compacted ice, the vehicle struggled to pull away.

“It isn’t any of my business I know, sir. But what are Smersh investigators doing out in this wilderness?” Momentarily, Jez took his eyes from the road. The car went off centre and the wheels bumped against a snow pile.

“Keep your attention on the road, fool,” the quiet man hissed like a striking snake. “And you’re right, it isn’t any of your business … Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

“Of course, sir. I found my way here from the Gulag,” he answered a little flippantly. Before the whisperer had chance to pick up on it, Jez went on. “Over there, Sergeant, the watch tower. It’s Labor Camp nine to ten.”

“Humph!”

They drove through the wide streets until coming to the wasteland that lay between the city and the old Gulag. Afanasiy seemed unable to let go of Jez’s earlier question and his deep, guttural voice rasped, “We’re going out because of information received that there might’ve been military involvement at the Gulag. Someone on the in–”

“Silence!” the whisperer cut in. “Sergeant Afanasiy, this is not open to discussion. And, Corporal, concentrate on what you’re doing and do it quietly.”

Jez leaned back and, staring into the rearview mirror, watched Afanasiy posturing at his partner’s reprimand.

Snow ploughs had cleared the main roads from the city through to the mining complex, but no further, and when the car meandered around a sharp bend it was forced to draw up in front of a three-meter snow pack blocking the road. The silhouette of the coal tower loomed dark and gloomy over the virginal white surrounds. It would now be clear to the Smersh men that the only way of continuing was by foot.

“What’s this?” the whisperer blustered.

“It’s the reason I protested back at the station, Sergeant. There are no passable roads out of the city. Even if you were following a snow plough you would have trouble. This one only gives access to the mining works. But you wouldn’t let me tell you.”

“Idiot! I will have you flogged for this,” Afanasiy said. “Turn round. Take us back to the station at once.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” he said.

Jez moved forward a quarter-circle before slamming the gear stick towards reverse without declutching. The gearbox made a grinding noise as the cogs refused to mesh and the revving engine screamed.

“What now?” Afanasiy asked, the words grinding thick from his throat.

“I don’t know, Sergeant. It doesn’t seem to have a reverse gear.”

“Get out and make sure the tires aren’t just slipping on the ice,” the whisperer ordered.

“Yes, sir,” he said then got out and went to the front of the car.

The whisperer wound down the window. “What are you doing at the front, you fool? The traction is made at the back.”

Jez put a hand to his hip and scratched his head with the other. Then he pointed a finger in the air and, with a nod, indicated to the door next to the whisperer. Both men instinctively turned to the open window and found themselves staring into the barrel of a Dragunov SVD rifle.

“The way I have this aimed,” Pavel told them, “I reckon a single shot would explode both of your heads.”

The Smersh men visibly gulped while raising hands to their heads, and Pavel smiled appreciatively at them.

Jez said, “Out!” to his new captives. “And keep your hands on your heads where I can see them.” The men shuffled from the car and before going any further, Jez removed their spectacles. He frisked the little men, took their weapons, IDs, money, and then he grabbed the whisperer by the collar and pushed him hard against the car. “Right, what military involvement were you investigating?”

The quiet man regained his composure and answered softly. “My colleague was babbling. There is no indication of military involvement. We are here to collect information about the Chechen rebels and nothing more.”

Jez stood back, withdrew his knife, and then sunk his knee into the whisperer’s groin. The little man doubled over, puffed out air, and clutched at his stomach. Before he could regain his posture, Jez cut the lobe from his ear, held the small piece of flesh up in front of Afanasiy’s face and offered him an option. “Not original, but it was all I could think of at short notice. Thing is, we have plenty of time for me to come up with a more creative approach … Oh, and don’t worry about your friend suffering anymore. He is clearly stubborn. You? I’m not so sure, so I’ll give you a chance. Answer my questions and the pair of you just might walk away from this. Refuse, and I will slowly cut little pieces off you … and I don’t need to tell you about the effects of torture.”

Afanasiy’s gravel voice went up several octaves. “We are acting outside of our normal line of command,” he said. “A high-ranking officer in the Kremlin called us into his office and told us of his fears that one of the generals might be connected to the rebel Gulag.”

“Afanasiy,” the whisperer growled softly while clinging to his ear.

Afanasiy responded to his name, but not for long. He shook his head sympathetically to his colleague, but then turned back to Jez. “When giving us the task he said it must be kept covert and that all the information we collect goes directly back to him.”

“And what is the name of the general under suspicion?”

Again Afanasiy looked to his partner. “I’m thinking of your safety as much as mine,” he told him and came back to Jez. “An informer had told him it was General Petrichova, but there wasn’t enough hard evidence against him to make a report to the assembly.”

There was every possibility there might be something incriminating at the camp. Jez gave Pavel widened eyes. He turned back to Afanasiy and pressed the side of the blade against his cheek. “And which high-ranking officer gave you the task?”

Afanasiy faltered, but when Jez pressed the knife harder, he hurriedly said, “Irishka, it was General Irishka.”

“Irishka! Shit, Pavel, we’ve let a chance slip,” he said and pondered. “Nothing much we can do about that now … So, what to do with these two? They are of no more use to us and I don’t like the idea of leaving them alive; they could be a nuisance later on.”

Pavel ignored the question and ordered the men, “Strip to your underclothes.”

“No!” the quiet man protested.

But then Pavel shoved his rifle high into his gut. The protest ended, but he still stood defiant. Afanasiy intervened. “We’ll do it,” he said and began undressing.

Jez wasn’t happy. “We can’t leave them alive.”

“Remember your training,” Pavel answered. “Don’t let personal feelings stand in the way. It’s twenty below out here. By the time these two get back to the city, if they can find their way without glasses, all they’ll be good for is a hot bath. The people in the city are hard. Without identification, do you think they will believe these little mites could be Smersh?”

Jez felt no happier on hearing Pavel, but seeing the men get down to their undergarments he couldn’t but laugh: vest and underpants, an exact match. “What’s this? Your momma dressed you both the same before you came out?” he asked as he collected up the outer garments and threw them into the back of the car.

The prisoners stood knees together and hands protecting their crotches from the cold. Jez sat in the driver’s seat and turned the car back towards the city. Pavel had remained with his rifle trained on the prisoners. “Come on, get in!” Jez yelled. “We can still catch that train to Moscow.”

The car got round the first corner and Pavel said, “Crazy! They can still get back to the city and have the train stopped down the line.”

Jez smiled. “Yes, I know. That’s why we’re going to Leningrad. My only worry is leaving them alive.”

Chapter 13

The Akasya Hotel, Marmaris, Turkey

“If Adam hadn’t set us up with Batur, Anna wouldn’t have gotten into this mess. I need to speak with him again,” Yuri told Hassan.

And he answered, saying, “Seeing as you think it necessary to involve us, tell Adam I’m taking the Russian prisoner to the seed barn and that I’ll wait for him there.”

Yuri was surprised to hear him make the decision and wondered if he was a little more than a bodyguard: another thing he’d have to look into when the time came.

They went through the hotel and as Anna was still wobbly, they took the lift up to Adam’s penthouse apartment. Adam looked shocked on opening the door.

“God, what have they done to you?” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder, stroking it over to the center of her back and ushering her in and through the passageway. Yuri wanted to squirm. Passing the stairway, they went into a huge lounge. Adam led Anna to a sofa that overlooked the balcony, the hotel gardens, and on to the sea.

Turning his attention to Yuri, he said, “You’re dragging me into this against my will, but here I am, so tell me what happened.”

A feeling of manipulation hit Yuri. It seemed almost staged the way Adam was reluctantly coming onboard. But he had contacts and would be useful. “Give Adam a rundown of events, Anna.”

She looked exhausted after finishing her account and immediately excused herself to the bathroom. An hour later, she re-emerged with a towel wrapped turban-style around her hair and her figure had been shrouded by an oversized smock. Her features were tight, her skin pale, but she breezed in trying to appear normal. “I found the caftan in the bathroom. I hope you don’t mind …”

“Not at all,” Adam said. “How are you now you’ve freshened up, Anna?” His words purred from his throat.

“I’m good,” she replied. “And thank you for your hospitality.” Taking the towel from her head, she turned to Yuri. “We have business to sort out.”

“No, you can’t go out like that. Wait, I have a set of clothes somewhere that will be a better fit.” He grinned. “And before you go rushing off we must have a word with the Russian prisoner,” Adam said, “er, whatever his name is.”

“Anton,” Yuri replied.

“Ah right, Anton. Before you carry on with anything else, we must speak to Anton.”

*

Adam held the door open for Anna, climbed into the driving seat, and said, “I’d usually use one of the drivers, but I think after Batur’s betrayal it would be prudent to keep the loop as tight as possible.”

No one spoke. Yuri appeared deep in thought, brow furrowed.

On arrival at the barn, the car pulled up in an unnecessary cloud of dust and they went inside. Anna already knew Mehmet was a good agent, but was impressed by his ability to blend into the background. She had almost forgotten he was with them; a definite plus should you need unexpected backup. The Russian, Anton, had been tied to a chair that stood in the middle of the many car bays.

“My, he’s a big boy,” Adam chuckled.

Big or not, Anna thought, Anton looked more lumbering than tough. On first glance it was a touch ridiculous the way his whole face quivered. Like a frightened child, his eyes were wide and darting about.

Adam took a knife from his jacket and flicked a blade from the handle. “Anton,” he began, “we have some talking to do. And as you’ll find out, this is how I do it best.” Mercilessly, he pressed the point of the blade into Anton’s cheek, causing a trickle of blood to seep from the impression it made.

“Stop it, Mannesh,” Anna ordered, pulling his arm away and pushing her small frame between the men. “I appreciate the part you played in my rescue, but we are capable of interrogating our own prisoners.”

Yuri straightened. Adam was clearly affronted, but he suddenly deflated, stepped back, and gave her an oily smile. “Of course, my dear,” he said. “This is your show. Please, forgive me.”

She gave him an accepting nod, but sensed a hostility that put her on a back foot. There was something about Adam she couldn’t quite fathom. He seemed to read her mind and tugged on Hassan’s sleeve.

“Come, my friend, we’ll wait in the conference lounge.”

Anna watched the two men walk to the steps and then turned her attention to the captive. Her breasts throbbed, the pressure of her bra and blouse rubbing painfully against her nipples. She hunched her back and drew her shoulders forward in an effort to get relief. It didn’t work. Anton, she thought, were you the one who tightened the steel rings? She suppressed a rush of anger.

“Anton,” she said, softly. “You must realize I have a job to do. If you answer my questions truthfully you come back to Russia with us. Refuse and I’ll be forced to hand you over to those two.” She nodded towards the stairs where Adam and Hassan had gone. She then dabbed at a spot of blood on Anton’s face with a handkerchief and his timid reaction had her thinking there was something not quite right about him. “Let’s begin with you. What is your part in this deal? How did you get mixed up in it?”

“I used to work as a doorman at a few of the clubs around Moscow, because I’m big, not because I’m a bully. Borislav came to one of them and offered me a job as a bodyguard. That was nearly a year ago now. I liked it. He gave me lots of money.”

“You knew of the drug trade and the Semtex shipment. I know. I heard you talking with Borislav,” Anna told him. “And you had been happy to be party to kidnap and torture.”

He nodded, his head lowered, and he cried. “I don’t really know what Semtex is, but you are right; I knew about that and the drugs. I have no excuse. Borislav told me what to do and I was eager to please him.”

He blubbed and mucous ran over his lips and down his chin. In training she was taught to fold, whimper, and snivel. In fact, do anything to mislead an enemy, do anything to get out of an undesirable situation. But if Anton was pretending, he was the best she’d seen. She looked skyward, shook her head. Yuri shrugged, probably thinking the same thing.

Anna decided there was something missing with Anton, that he might be a bit backward. She would try treating him as a child. She rubbed his shoulder soothingly and said, “I think I understand, Anton. Tell me about Borislav.”

He responded to her touch like a cat arching its back when stroked.

“He’s a military man. The army I think. But I don’t know what he does or anything. Every couple of months we come here and he oversees the business and then we go home. He’s not very big, so it’s my job to make sure no one bothers him.”

“Where is his home?”

“I don’t know. I know the way back to Moscow by myself, so we separate when we get to Rostov.”

For a moment Anna felt duped and exhaled in exasperation. “But he’s gone back without you now.”

“No, he just went to meet the truck. We usually go together, but I had to watch over you.”

She’d forgotten that. Now his words helped her remember what Borislav had said when he left Anton in charge. “Okay, that means he’ll be on his way to the coast at Icmeler?”

“Yes, he’ll be there by now. And he’ll be wondering where I am.”

He surely would and he would also be wondering where she was.

*

Hassan and Adam watched from the top step of the mezzanine floor.

“Looks like the Russians have finished their interrogation,” Adam grunted. “And they’ve handled fat boy as if he were a little puppy dog. The only bloodspots I can see are those I made.”

Hassan laughed. He could tell Adam was pissed off at not being allowed to torture the captive. It wasn’t a sex thing, him cutting people with his knife, but it wasn’t far from it. “I’ll see if they want me to drive them back to the hotel so they can pick up their boat.”

“Okay, I suppose they’ll take the big boy with them.” He shook his head negatively and stormed off towards the conference room.

Hassan went downstairs. “Are you ready to get back?” he asked Yuri.

Yuri looked at Anna, and she nodded. “Yes, no need to hang around any longer.” She turned to Hassan. “We’ll be taking the prisoner with us.”

“Of course,” he snickered.

He dropped them at the hotel and returned to the barn. It hadn’t been much of an interrogation, he thought on the drive back, but they seemed to get what they wanted from the big man. He pulled up on the sandy road outside the barn and thought of the career he had shared with Adam to date. Life had begun in the backstreets of Istanbul for them, on the European side of the Bosporus. They both grew up fatherless in Sirkeci, neither of them knowing or caring who the men might be. Hassan’s mother once blurted out that he and Adam shared the same father and he had gone straight to Adam and told him about it.

“I think it will work better if no one in the neighborhood finds out about this,” Adam had said. “We are a team, but remain stronger as individuals.”

The path to success hadn’t been a clear run. Crime lord Beyrek Ozel had been a stronger business rival and they were forced to move their nefarious trades to Ankara … but now, now Ozel was dead. After his death became public, they made a move against the Istanbul mob and won to become the main criminal activity both there and in the capital. And now the Adriatic coast was the target, which was why Adam was getting involved with the Russians.

Hassan took the iron steps two at a time and made his way to the conference room. He went to the drinks cabinet and pulled a bottle of Raki. “You?” he asked Adam.

“Not now,” Adam said, rubbed a finger under his fez to scratch, and moved his large frame from a wooden chair at the conference table. He flopped onto the sumptuous sofa against the back wall and continued, “I’ve been wondering how many of our people to bring over from Ankara.”

Hassan swilled his drink around the bottom of the glass before slugging it back in one. He made no attempt to answer the question; Adam always insisted on making those decisions himself. Hassan breathed out heavily, slammed the empty glass on the table and poured another.

Adam said, “Maybe I will have that drink.”

Hassan got a glass, filled a third of it with Raki, and handed it to his brother before sitting in the chair Adam had just vacated.

Adam sipped his drink and said, “Let’s make a list of those we need and get them here … and some women. We can have our meeting and enjoy ourselves at the same time.”

Hassan swallowed his Raki in a gulp and poured a third. He grinned. “And we have plenty of time for that. We’ll let the Russians clean out the rat’s nest in Icmeler and then we’ll clean them out.”

*

Anna thought of Jez and her heart grew heavy. She needed to speak with General Petrichova, find out if he knew anything about what had happened. Her only hope was that her husband had somehow slipped the net. She also had to talk with the general about Borislav and Sergeant Kudret; somehow they had known they were under threat. Thoughts wandered, until Hassan pulled up in front of the hotel. He let them out and drove off.

Walking around the hotel and going through the gardens, they got down to the jetty and boarded Great White.

“Lock Anton in the aft cabin,” Anna told Yuri.

They cast off and motored out into deeper water, but it wasn’t far enough.

“Radio reception is rubbish here because of the cliffs,” Yuri said. “We’ll go further out.” He put the engines through their paces for ten minutes then he and Mehmet dropped anchors fore and aft. Yuri took Anna below to the navigation table and began tuning the radio. “That’s better, we have a reasonable reception.”

The link man at the Yenikapi Embassy annex in Istanbul eventually patched Yuri through to Moscow, and General Petrichova. He passed the headset to Anna and went up top. After speaking with the general, she joined Yuri and Mehmet on the flybridge, with a smile on her face.

“Does that smile mean Jez and Pavel are safe?” Yuri said.

“Yes, I told you they had left the Gulag to go on maneuver … It looks like they were still out when the attack took place.” Her brightness dimmed. “But for the others it couldn’t have been worse.”

Yuri’s face grimaced. “But how could that have happened?”

Anna sighed. “Michel’s aide was a mole. He had known of the Gulag, but not where it was, so he persuaded him to accept a new candidate, a woman. She betrayed the position to General Irishka.”

Mehmet interjected, “What about us and the operation in Icmeler?”

“The plan has changed,” she told him. “He wants us to let the Semtex shipment go through. You and me are to follow Borislav, see where the trail leads. Yuri, he wants you to take Anton to the embassy annex in Yenikapi and then return to Icmeler and wait for us there. I’ll drive to Istanbul with Mehmet. Borislav knows me, so once there Mehmet will follow him on the ground. I’ll stay one step ahead until we reach Soviet soil and then I’ll take over.”

Mehmet looked puzzled. “But I don’t have a visa for the Soviet Union. I’ll be arrested.”

“No, you’ll just be sent back. Don’t worry; I’ll be taking care of that.”

“What will happen to Anton?” Mehmet asked.

“I think Michel will go easy on him. Anton isn’t in charge of his faculties. From Michel’s response, my guess is he will be doing a bit of regular army service. Anton did say he always does as he’s told. Seems the perfect solution.”

Chapter 14

Vorkuta, Northern Russia

Jez parked the car in the street near the railway station and made his way to the entrance, but felt woozy as he walked. Maybe hunger, maybe tiredness, or maybe he was just feeling terminally weary. Pavel had gone ahead and was waiting in the ticket office. Inside, Jez nodded and Pavel used Sergeant Afanasiy’s ID to identify himself when buying tickets to Moscow. Luckily, the ticket officer only glanced at the credentials. As they left the hall, Jez felt his mood pick up on seeing Pavel bump into anything and everything, because he was wearing a pair of the Smersh men’s pebble glasses. He laughed.

“Yes, funny,” Pavel said, “but I had to have something about me that looked like Afanasiy’s photograph.”

Jez veered the conversation. He could see Pavel was getting wound up. “I think the idea of letting the Moscow train go and taking the Leningrad train later has turned sour.”

Pavel considered. “Yes, waiting around town for two days could be dangerous. Although, we could watch for its approach from out of town and slip back here without being seen.”

“No, you allowed the Smersh men to live, so the whole area will be on red alert. The Moscow train is in the station and has a full head of steam. We wait, make sure it pulls away unhindered and then go to the colliery; we still have options there.”

They took the same road out of town that they’d just driven in on and about halfway across the waste ground they saw their Smersh friends. Jez looked at Pavel and grinned. “The little men haven’t got far,” he said.

“They’ve turned blue,” Pavel laughed.

With arms wrapped firmly around shoulders, Afanasiy and friend stared down at their feet and stumbled along looking miserable. Jez tucked himself into a gap in the wall of snow next to Pavel and let the men pass without being seen. “In this cold, that ear has got to be hurting,” Jez said when Afanasiy turned the corner out of sight.

They followed a set of railway tracks, stepping it out on the sleepers. At the colliery, a coal train with maybe thirty loaded wagons stood with the engine up front and building a head of steam. They waited and watched. Safety valves blew and a whistle sang out.

“Come on. I don’t know its destination, but that is the way we go,” Jez said, as they hurried to the limits of the security fencing. “The last carriage is a guards wagon; if we can get on that, we’ll be away.”

“A guards wagon usually means a guard,” Pavel said.

“Don’t worry, you have ID.”

The steam engine puffed under load and for a minute looked like it might not move. But then, slowly, wheels turned in unison, steel screeched as metal tires ground on steel tracks, and wagons moved off at different speeds, pushing and bumping at the neighbor ahead. The train was on its way. The guards wagon came alongside and Jez pulled Pavel’s sleeve before lunging towards the three steps hanging from the back.

Easily making headway towards the ladder, Jez was relieved, until a soldier made an appearance. The young regular took a moment to take in what was going on and then snuggled the stock of his rifle into his shoulder and shouted, “Halt or I shoot!”

Pavel had run behind Jez with Afanasiy’s ID card tucked into the palm of his hand. Now he held it up. “KGB!” he shouted. “We need a ride.”

Jez raced harder and reached out a hand. The soldier put his weapon aside and helped pull him aboard.

“Thank you, soldier. You’re a lifesaver,” he said.

Pavel had marked time waiting for Jez and without help, climbed the steps onto the platform. “Still not back to full fitness, Jez,” he beamed as he went into the boxcar, hardly drawing breath.

“Hmm!”

The guard asked their business and Jez told him as much as would be generally known about the assault on the Gulag. They ate and established themselves with a little friendly banter and then settled in for the long haul.

Chapter 15

Marmaris, Turkey

“Come, Anton, back into the aft cabin where you can’t get up to anything,” Yuri said, guiding the bodyguard from the saloon.

“Yes, sir, you don’t need worry about me. You won’t even know I’m in there.” He looked to Anna. She smiled, nodded, and patted his back as he went into the cabin. Yuri locked the door and went to the lower helm and ignited the engines. Anna climbed the steps to the flybridge and began her vigil of the shoreline while Great White eased away from the pontoon’s hammerhead. Mehmet stowed ropes and fenders, and joined her.

“Anton might be slow,” she said, “but his information was spot on. Over there, Borislav is overseeing those men carrying small bales. That will be the Semtex going onto the boat and the heroin coming off.”

She watched until they had finished with the loads. The men then secured the truck’s tailgate, drew the tarpaulin flaps together, nodded to Borislav, jumped into the cab, and drove off. Borislav stood and watched the truck leave the quayside.

“The truck will drop off its load at the clubs before going back to Russia. Tell Yuri to turn around so we can make sure they stick to their routine, Mehmet.”

But Yuri had already started the maneuver before Mehmet had got to his feet. “I think Yuri knows what he should be doing,” he said, plopping comfortably back.

A Hasidic Jewish man came into view on the deck of the gulet; or at least, he was dressed like a Hasidic Jew. He stepped onto the quay and started speaking with Borislav; most of the conversation was carried out with his hands, until finally, he used them to pat Borislav on the shoulder. Borislav nodded agreeably and then climbed into the driving seat of a black saloon and drove off in the opposite direction to that of the truck. The Hasid boarded the gulet.

Since Yuri had turned the boat, Anna and Mehmet had pretended to be working on deck. Now, Anna looked directly at the Jewish man. Midsize, rotund, and in this heat, overdressed, his long ringlets hung from under a black fedora hat and framed the sides of a full face before disappearing into a huge, unkempt-looking beard. A long black frock coat hung open and was pushed away from his body by overindulgence.

“He’s a difficult one to put an age on,” she said. “The way he dresses makes him look old, but I’m not so sure.”

“What I can see of his hair, it’s thick and black … not so old.”

Anna felt baffled. “I wish Jez was here; he’s Jewish and could maybe better rationalize things. But for me, the Hasid is an uncomfortable fit in this setup.” She shrugged and then pulled at the short sleeve of Mehmet’s T-shirt. “We should get going.”

She went down into the saloon and nodded to Yuri. He smiled and veered Great White slowly towards a water taxi tied to a buoy in the middle of the inlet. Anna leaned over the side of the boat.

“I need a ride ashore,” she shouted to the boatman.

“The reason I am eating out here is so no one can bother me,” he responded, as he pushed Baklava into his face. “Leave me alone.”

“I’ll pay double,” she called.

He put the food aside and fired up the boat’s diesel engine in an instant. Pulling closer alongside, Anna jumped aboard and Mehmet followed. The little boat rocked furiously under the displacement and the boatman cursed under his breath, but then smiled sweetly and steered the boat across the bay. The Hasidic had started his engine and jumped onto the jetty to release ropes from cleats. He climbed back onboard, picked up a boathook and pushed away from the quayside. He was the only crew and quick to return to the helm to take control of the moving vessel. The gullet got underway and passed the water taxi as it went. Breakers rocked the little water taxi and the Hasid waved apologetically before sailing on and out of the inlet into the open sea. Yuri followed in the gulet’s wake.

“Well,” Anna said, shaking her head.

Mehmet raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I’ve lived in Istanbul for a big part of my life and seen all sorts of religious men doing things out of the ordinary. But I must admit I’ve never seen a Hasid at the helm of a gullet.”

The water taxi bumped to a stop against the jetty. Yuri had arranged with Adam for a car to be left on the wharf and it was there as expected. Unfortunately, so was Sergeant Kudret. He walked around the vehicle giving it the once over.

Mehmet said, “Adam has supplied too nice a car and Kudret is window shopping; hope he doesn’t notice the keys in the ignition.”

Anna went into an alley opposite and watched until Kudret got bored. When he did, he pointed his face skyward, linked hands behind his back, and strolled off full of his own importance. A wave of revulsion coursed through her. “Arrogant bastard,” she said as Mehmet came over to join her. “His time will come … never mind that; we have to pick up on Borislav’s trail.”

Mehmet said, “I think you should drive. I keep bumping into things when I’m at the wheel.”

Anna laughed. “Yes and your shooting isn’t that much better.”

She knew Mehmet was quite aware of how lousy a shot he was, but he still screwed his face into a sarcastic wince. “Very funny.”

She smiled serenely. “Okay, Anton said Borislav would leave his car near the railway station northwest of Icmeler and take the train to Istanbul, so that’s our first stop.”

Borislav’s car was at the station where Anton said it would be, so they bought tickets to Istanbul and sneaked onto the platform. Borislav stood overlooking the track, swiveling his head nervously. They kept out of sight for an hour or so until the train pulled in: three carriages; Borislav chose the one at the front.

“Come on,” Anna said. “We’ll take the rear car.”

Chapter 16

Moscow, Russia

Michel had vowed to unearth Irishka’s corruption himself and God knows he had tried, but for days he had fingered his way through his files … nothing. He knew the man was crooked, but every piece of paperwork he had looked at suggested otherwise. And, with Michel being directorate responsible for security, there weren’t files anywhere that he hadn’t access to – no matter the subject of investigation. Even the damned General Secretary of the Committee: the Soviet leader himself.

He threw yet another folder onto the pile next to the desk. His fingers moved frantically, drummed on the desk’s red leather inset. Every document in the Lubyanka building and Kremlin with Irishka’s name on it had been retrieved and checked. But he wasn’t going to get away with the murders at the Gulag; Michel would nail him if it was the last thing he did. The vein on his temple throbbed until his attention was seized by his temporary aide, knocking and entering.

“I have Sergeants Afanasiy and Anchova to see you, sir.”

“Sergeants? Why do sergeants want to see me? Do they have an appointment?”

“No appointment, sir, and they didn’t give reason why they should want to see you. But they’re from the Smersh division of KGB, so I thought–”

This wasn’t a good day and a couple of snoops from Smersh wouldn’t help. He sighed while interrupting his aide. “Very well. Send them in.”

The aide left the office and two short, rather squat men entered. Michel sat back and stared at them. Suddenly his mood lifted, or at least was diverted from the woes of his task. There was something quite amusing about these two. Dressed the same from head to foot, they even wore identical pebble glasses. They had round faces with stern expressions, almost theatrical. However, one had a heavily bandaged ear, so they weren’t exactly alike. Suddenly the drudgery and defeat of the previous days fell away and laughter forced up from his stomach, but he managed to hold it to a smile.

“What can I do for you, Sergeant …?”

“Anchova, sir,” one answered in a whisper. “We’re in the middle of an investigation and thought it might be appropriate to talk with you about one of its aspects.”

“Oh,” Michel said, the mirth fading. “And what aspect would that be?”

“We’ve just returned from Vorkuta. We were tasked to look into this Chechen rebel situation.”

Michel felt his eyebrows push upward and furrow his brow. “And you need to talk to me about that?”

“Yes, sir. While we were there we were overpowered by two men. We believe they were the same men who escaped the Gulag.”

“And you think I can clarify that situation?” Did these idiots have any idea who they were talking to? Still, it was slightly worrying; maybe they knew something that could be detrimental to him.

“I hope so, General. Last year, we were tasked with interrogating a man about flesh trafficking and murder. He was a Spetsnaz lieutenant temporarily working with Osnaz, a Lieutenant Kornfeld.”

Michel involuntarily sat forward, surprised. They did know something!

“The thing is, General, we feel sure one of the men who captured us in Vorkuta was Kornfeld. Everything about him looked the same. But Kornfeld was pronounced dead last year after being brought down by KGB guards.”

“The suspense is killing me, Sergeant. Where is this going?” … And what do you know?

“Well, sir,” Anchova said, his whisper suddenly faltering as if just realizing where this was going. “Er, well, because the files say you had Kornfeld under your wing at one time. It was you who was there with the medics and you who verified his death.”

Sheer relief swamped Michel, nothing to worry about there. “Oh, right, now I’m with you. But first let me ask you a question … Do you know who you work for?”

The sergeants looked at each other. “Of course, yes, General,” Anchova replied. “We are under the command of Captain Bukosky.”

“No, no, I mean do you know who heads your department?”

They shuffled and the one who hadn’t yet spoken pinked to a healthy glow. He put a hand on his partner’s forearm and, taking command of the situation, answered from the deeper end of the vocal scale, his thick, graveled words coming out slow and precise. “You do, General Petrichova, we know, but we need to find out–”

“Stop right there, soldier, before you dig a hole so deep you’ll burrow all the way to Siberia.”

The sergeants took a step back and pulled themselves further to attention, the former stern faces veiled in nervousness.

Michel’s voice rumbled from deep inside. “Just to assist you with a little training you seem to have missed along the way, let me tell you something. You don’t come barging into the office of an officer to which your low rank does not even permit you to speak. If you do have business with such an officer, you take it up with your line commander and he or she will deem whether it’s necessary to take further action. If that action is deemed necessary then they would take it to their line commander and so on until an acceptable level of rank has been reached for someone to talk with the person in question – in this case, me.”

Michel stood from his chair, walked around the desk, and towered over the men, giving them the most menacing face he could muster. “You do not, without any foundation other than you saw a man who looked like somebody from your past, come into your supreme commander’s office and accuse him of some sort of cover up. Am I getting through to you?” His words bellowed and both little men looked like they were trapped in a wind tunnel.

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Afanasiy answered, proving he could speak soprano if he wanted to.

But then the possibility that their line commander might be another of Irishka’s people dawned on Michel. “I presume Captain Bukosky gave you this task?”

They shuffled around in unison. “No, General, he didn’t.”

Michel laughed and showed them an amazed face. “No! What do you mean, no? Are you telling me you decided to take this duty upon yourselves?”

“No, sir, we were taken to one side by a high-ranking officer in the Kremlin. He gave us the duty. And he ordered us to keep it covert no matter what happened.”

The light came on. He had his answer but wanted to hear one of them say it. “Covert? So this means you’re refusing to tell the directorate of the Federal Security Services, the commander you work for, who this officer is?”

The Smersh sergeants immediately capitulated and gave Michel the outline of what General Irishka’s orders had been. Michel came close to feeling sympathy for the little men, their backs had been well and truly pinned against the wall, but he had no intention of showing them any weakness. He sat down.

“I don’t believe any of the questions you came in with justify an answer from me. I’m going to put this episode down to you being misled by someone who has no authority within our security system and even less right to give you duties. But for that very reason, you should’ve known better. You should have taken it to your line commander.” He was quiet for a moment and then told them, “I want you to go to Captain Bukosky now and tell him about our discussion, including what you’ve told me about Irishka. My aide will follow up to make sure the right corrective actions have been taken. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Anchova said, and the little men looked like their world had just been dismantled.

“Before you go, tell me, what happened to your ear?”

“The one who looked like Kornfeld, sir, he sliced a piece of it off with a knife.”

“Nasty.” Michel nodded. “That will be all.” They turned and left.

The door closed and Michel sat back in his red, leather-bound chair. He put both hands out onto the desktop and laughed as he drummed his fingers gently. His intuition that Jez and Pavel were spared had just been endorsed. He turned to the pile of folders on the floor next to the desk and decided to start again.

Chapter 17

Perm District, Russia

“You’ve looked after us well, Comrade,” Jez said to the young carriage guard as they warmed their hands over the stove. “And you’ve shared your meager rations. If I can be of help to you, just ask.”

“Well, if you have any sway that will get me out of this godforsaken wilderness and back to Moscow …” The boy laughed, but Jez gave serious thought to the request. If Michel was still alive, he would listen. “I’ll see what I can do. Give me your full name and unit details.”

The boy eagerly scribbled out the information, but his embarrassment for having asked was clear. He handed the piece of paper to Jez and made an excuse of having to check something out with the engine driver. Pavel just smiled and raised his eyebrows as the young soldier left the carriage and began climbing over the wagons.

“We’ve covered a fair bit of ground and won’t be far from Perm City,” he said.

“Yes, and that’s where we’ll pick up the Trans-Siberian Express, but we can’t ride in on this train. If our little investigators are smart enough they will have worked out that this route was one of our options.”

Pavel rubbed fingers through his ever-thickening beard. “Right, let’s think of a story for the guard. It should be a tale that might wrong-foot our pursuers if our young friend is later questioned. To make sense of it, we should jump the boxcar before getting to the city.”

They sat quietly until the guard returned. He had obviously been discussing his pending transfer with the engine driver and couldn’t keep the smile from his face. He began singing the ‘Song of the Volga Boatmen’ under his breath as he stoked the wood-burning stove, put a kettle of water on the top plate, and threw a spoonful of coffee into each of three tin mugs.

Jez looked at Pavel and they grinned.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, I know,” Jez said to the boy, “but we have information suggesting Chechen rebels have a cell in Berezniki.” Berezniki was the second largest city in the Perm province and lay about one hundred kilometers north of Perm City.

The soldier beamed. “That’s lucky. The wagon train goes there from Perm. In fact, most of the coal we have is fuel for the factories there.”

“Yes, no doubt, but we’ll be jumping off even before we reach Perm. The Chechens on the run from the Gulag are on their way to Berezniki. And a cell is believed to be operating in Perm. If that is right, they will be watching the depot where this train stops. The Chechens in Perm know us from previous investigations, so we don’t want to be seen in the district, otherwise they’ll know we’re onto them. We need to choose the right place to get off, so, in case we have to make a quick departure, I will thank you once more for your hospitality. Oh, and I will speak with my contacts about a transfer.” Jez embraced the guard.

Pavel patted the young soldier’s shoulder. “Take care, Comrade. I hope things turn out well for you.”

The guard was quick to slurp back his coffee and leave for the front of the train again. Quiet time passed, the rolling stock slowed, and Pavel went out and leaned over the rail. “The train is rounding a bend and the track disappears into an old birch forest. This will be a good place to jump,” he said and nudged Jez, who had followed him out.

Pavel threw his backpack and rifle off the train, jumped off after it, and hit terra firma running. Jez, on the other hand, jumped off after his belongings, but his leading leg buckled as his foot twisted on a sleeper. He stumbled forward and his heart banged out against the inner walls of his chest; if he fractured a leg or ankle, the task would be over. Adding to his woes, the virgin snow gave way under his feet, he crashed down the embankment, and jolted to a stop as he smashed into a birch. Snow was released from branches and he found himself almost buried in the stuff.

“Are you alright?” Pavel asked with concern as he sidled down to where Jez floundered.

A little dazed, Jez stared blankly, but then he got up, stamped, and put his legs into various positions before pushing fingers into his ribs. “I don’t think I’ve broken anything,” he replied, bending his head one way and another to make sure his neck was intact, before dropping back onto the snow for a breather.

“You stay there,” Pavel said, his face suddenly brightening after Jez had told him he was okay. “Get a second wind. I’ll collect the backpacks and rifles.”

He scrambled to the top of the bank as the train disappeared from sight and, even above the clicking noise of the rolling stock, Jez heard a roar of laughter.

On his return, Pavel had refocused and said, “We take whatever’s valuable from our stuff and hide the rest in the forest. It’s time to start looking like civilians. We have plenty of money from the Gulag so we’ll buy clothing and then it’s on to lodgings for a bath and a shave.” He rubbed his fingers into his beard and tucked his head into his loosened clothing. “Definitely a bath first; I stink to high heaven.”

*

They met up at a designated street corner after shopping separately.

“So how do I look?” a clean-shaven Pavel asked, giving a little pirouette.

“Hmm, yes, lovely,” Jez replied sarcastically while looking at himself and grimacing at the peasant outfit he’d bought.

Pavel set off ahead for the railway station, laughing. And to rub salt in the wound, he turned and ran his thumbs under the lapels of the dark brown suit he wore under a woolen overcoat. In response, Jez pulled at the peak of his cap and began trudging behind at a respectful distance.

Jez had worked with internal security, Osnaz, and on entering the station hall it was plain to see that the safety measures were stringent, much more so than would be normally expected. He pulled his cap down over his brow and wound his neck in – too far!

“You!” a voice rasped.

Jez froze. He didn’t recognize the man’s uniform, but he was probably railway network security.

“Why are you trying to hide yourself?” he asked, gripping Jez’s jacket at the shoulder and pulling him towards the exit.

Pavel had gone on ahead after buying a ticket. He rushed over and stopped the official in his tracks. “What do you think you’re doing, idiot?” he bellowed.

“What …?”

Pavel flipped his Smersh ID open and before the official could study it too closely, returned it to the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“This is my partner,” he said of Jez. “And we were on covert duty until you come blundering over. I believe in vigilance, but your response was nothing short of stupid. What? It makes you feel good to bully peasants?”

Jez was surprised to hear the way Pavel hollered his words. He had attracted the attention of most in the hall.

“That’s it then, Comrade,” he bellowed as he turned to Jez. “It’s over; we have to go on.”

“But, sir,” the official grumbled. “What did I do?”

“If you’ve heard anything about the latest dust up from the Chechens, you shouldn’t need to ask. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was why there’s more security here than usual.”

“Uhm, yes, sir, we–”

“Enough! You’ve fucked my operation here. We can no longer go unnoticed in the crowd. Go! I don’t even want to look at you.”

The man slinked away and tried to dissolve into a small group of people that milled around a Pravda newsstand at the back of the platform. Jez waited silently by Pavel’s side and in a little less than two hours, the Trans-Siberian Express pulled into the station. The blue engine dominated with its presence, the red star above the buffers at the front endorsing its credentials. It stopped, people got off, mostly military personnel, and Jez got on to the welcome of a very serious-looking, uniformed girl. Welcome? She checked his ticket and let him pass without a word or change of expression. He walked the corridor past the sleeping quarters and took a seat next to a window in the passenger part of the carriage. Pavel came along, sat next to him, and stretched out his legs.

“Now all we need do is make ourselves comfortable for the next six hundred kilometers or so to Moscow.”

Chapter 18

Moscow, Russia

“First, we need to find out if General Petrichova is still alive,” Pavel said, walking through the Arbat District with Jez by his side.

The snow had been cleared from the main walkway and was piled high to one side. Large paving slabs beneath their feet glistened and Jez beamed with delight as Pavel slipped. He grabbed him to stop him from falling and sniggered. “And I never saw a sign of you faltering in the Arctic.”

Pavel smiled condescendingly and then said, “I know Michel doesn’t sleep in any of the city barracks. I don’t suppose you know where he lives?”

“Don’t worry about that. I have a code that will bring him to the river. Keep your fingers crossed, first that he’s alive and second that he remembers the code, oh, and third that the telephone number I have branded into my brain is still the one he uses. I’ll call him at his office after we’ve eaten and we’ll make our way to Lubyanka, follow him when he leaves the building.”

They turned right down Gogolevsky Boulevard and, before reaching the Moskva River, came to a small shop. Inside, they waited in line. There was no shortage of food, but with only one girl on the counter using an abacus to calculate costs, the queue had grown out of all proportion, not untypical but the morning was gone by the time they got to eat.

“Red cabbage salad and black bread, not my favorite,” Pavel moaned.

“Think yourself lucky. It wasn’t so many years ago the people were melting down furniture glue to make soup.”

“I know, but that doesn’t help me like red cabbage salad and black bread any the better for it.”

After they had eaten, Jez found a public phone not too far from Dzerzhinski Square. The receiver was now in his hand, but all he could do was look at it. So much depended on this call and should the general be dead they would be cut adrift without direction. A heavy sigh and he began selecting the digits, tensions increasing with each number. The final swish returned the dial to the home position and the tone chirped … and chirped. His ever-deepening fears were suddenly realized when a voice answered: “Sergeant Filat.”

Too low a rank to be Michel’s aide. But he had to continue with the charade; maybe he had changed his number. “Is Petty Officer Makarov there?” he asked.

“Petty Officer Makarov? What are you talk–?”

“Who is this?” Someone else had taken over the telephone. Jez felt a buzz. It was Michel – alive.

“If I’m speaking to Makarov, I need to know if you’re still down by the river.”

“I’ll ask you once more: who is this?”

Jez replaced the receiver. “He’ll be out soon,” he told Pavel.

They hung around Dzerzhinski Square, keeping an eye on the main entrance.

“There he is now,” Jez said, seeing the huge frame of Michel leaving the KGB building wearing a heavy greatcoat and ushanka rabbit skin hat. He crossed the square and turned right towards the Kremlin.

Pavel made to move, but Jez placed a hand on his forearm. “Give him a minute, make sure no one follows.”

The general left the square and a lieutenant hurried from the KGB building on the same heading. Pavel nodded, approving, and Jez said, “You track the lieutenant. I’ll go ahead to the river. If he’s following the general, sidetrack him. I’ll be with Michel in the State Department Store in Kitai-gorod, near Red Square. Look for us on the upper tier under the glass roof.” The GUM (department store) was the alternative meeting place arranged should there be a chance of anyone following.

Jez took the long way down to the riverside. He had run most of the way and got there before the general. A clump of weeds grew at the edge of the path. Jez pulled it out, configured it into the shape of a tail, hung it from a shrub where he knew the general would wait, and disappeared into the shadows. Moments later, Michel walked to the shrub, pulled the tail from the branch, and walked away, scrunching the grass between his hands and throwing it towards the river. The lieutenant followed about ten seconds later. Jez watched as Pavel came towards him from the opposite direction. The lieutenant tried to walk around him, but Pavel got in the way whichever way he went. He was still playing footsie with him as Jez left and hurried on ahead.

It wasn’t long after, that Jez stood shoulder to shoulder with Michel as they leaned on a guardrail watching the shoppers queue patiently on the level below.

“I like this goom,” Michel said of the GUM. “There are always so many people. Just for a while, you can lose your identity. I sometimes come here just to clear my head, become one of the mass of citizens wandering around in anonymity. I found it comforting after our people at the Gulag were massacred.”

Jez became pensive. “The Gulag, yes … What of Anna?” he asked.

“She had already left.”

Relief saturated his body. “Thank God … I understand how you felt about the others, Michel. I felt the same thinking you and Anna might have been amongst them.”

A not very convincing chuckle sighed from Michel’s throat.

From nowhere Pavel came up behind Michel, put his arms around him and squeezed. “And who do we have here?” he said, mumbling close into the general’s ear.

Jez wanted to laugh and squirm at the same time. Michel was clearly flustered and Jez knew he wasn’t capable of mixing fun with his work, if indeed he was capable of fun at any time. He stood to one side and kept quiet.

“Ahem, yes, hello, Pavel. I’m glad to see you made it,” Michel said.

Pavel beamed at the general then joined them at the guardrail as Jez told Michel everything that had happened since first leaving the Gulag, including what the Smersh sergeants had said about Irishka.

“Yes, I’ve met the little Smersh men. They tried to interrogate me about your death. Oh, the one with the bandaged ear speaks very highly of you,” he said and Pavel guffawed.

“Has Anna’s task changed after what happened?”

“A little. She and Mehmet Pasha are trailing one of our traitors now – a military man called Borislav. At the moment, his first name and the fact he’s military is all we know of him. About an hour ago, Mehmet boarded the same cargo passenger ferry from Istanbul as Borislav had taken. Anna took a flight directly to Odessa, the boat’s final destination. She’ll wait there until we’re ready to take the next step.”

Jez nudged Michel, stood back a little, and pointed down to the lower trading level. The lieutenant who’d followed the general from Lubyanka had somehow ended up in the store and was scurrying about, frantically looking into the faces of passersby. Why he did that wasn’t clear; Michel was the only one around who was in uniform and he was twice the size of any of those in the crowd below.

Michel managed a smile. “He’s tenacious to have found this place, I’ll give him that.”

“What do you want us to do now, Michel?” Jez asked.

The general nodded. “I want the pair of you in Odessa. Meet Anna; she knows what I want and will share with you when you get there.” He told them where Anna would be staying, and leaned forward to look down to the lower trading level again. “I’d better let the lieutenant know where I am so he can follow me back. First job at the office will be to sweep the place for bugs – again. Goodness only knows who is monitoring my movements this time. There are probably twenty from the assembly who keep a close watch on what I do, and that’s apart from Irishka.”

“Before you go, General,” Jez said, taking a piece of paper from his pocket. “A young soldier was a lifesaver for us when we crossed to the Perm province. I think he probably upset someone in Moscow and was transferred out. He’s certainly a live wire and could easily rub a man up the wrong way. But he’s a good man and deserves a chance. I told him I knew someone who might be able to help.”

Michel held out his hand. “I’ll look into it.” He gave Pavel a light push before patting Jez on the back and leaving.

Jez watched him walk down to the ground floor and grinned when he saw him ‘accidentally’ bump into the lieutenant. Michel apologized and left the GUM with the lieutenant close behind. He turned away from the balustrade and considered the journey to Odessa. Sudden excitement shivered through him – Anna; he would soon be with Anna.

Chapter 19

Odessa, Ukraine

Jez concealed himself near the entrance of the Morskoy Hotel after sending Pavel ahead. He watched him speak to the receptionist and then take a seat. Only moments had passed when Anna rushed down, looked beyond Pavel, and let her eyes worriedly search the foyer. Jez felt warmth spread in his chest; how could someone so beautiful love him? But then a sudden pang of guilt made him realize she might have thought him dead. He dropped the charade and hurried in through the entrance. When she saw him, her shoulders visibly relaxed, but then she pretended otherwise, ignored him and smiled at Pavel, who stood and kissed her on either cheek. Jez put his arms out in greeting, but she placed her hands to his chest, leaned forward and pecked his cheek.

“Oh, you clearly missed me then?” he said gloomily, while Pavel shuffled on the spot.

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Yes, I missed you,” she said icily, “but I didn’t appreciate your childish prank.”

“No, I was playing with you. I didn’t think about what I was doing until I saw your face. Sorry,” he said, giving her his best little boy face.

She melted, laughed, and began dragging him towards the stairwell. “Quickly,” she said, “we have an hour before the ferry is due in. Let’s not waste it. Oh, I’ll have to think of you how you used to look; you’re not up to much right now.” She laughed again and Jez accepted the backlash he deserved.

“I’ll just hang around here then, shall I?” Pavel said, but then turned his attention to the girl on reception. “Or maybe she would like to talk with me.”

The girl must have heard. She looked up and grinned. Pavel was over there without another word.

Later, Jez let the thoughts replay gleefully in his mind. An hour she’d offered; five minutes would have done the trick. But now the SS Udaloy was approaching. The ferry grew from a speck on the horizon to full size, froth beating up on top of the water as propellers shunted the vessel back and forth, until cruising alongside the concrete wharf. Jez stood with his fingers entwined through the diamond mesh as he watched the crew tie ropes to capstans and then push a gangway up to the hull ready for passenger disembarkation. However, before passengers could consider getting off, custom officers had to board and go through their regular security routine.

Jez let his thoughts slip back to Anna. While he was happy to take full advantage of their reunion, he had shuddered when seeing her bared breasts. “What happened, Anna? You’ve been tortured.”

“Torture is a bit strong. It was the result of a skirmish, that’s all.”

Her answer had been dismissive and he knew not to pursue the line of questioning. She was, after all, her own woman. Nevertheless, the yellow and purple bruising had just made the task personal.

He pulled his oversized trench coat tight, and pushed Afanasiy’s pebble glasses up onto his brow so he could better see what was going on. Nothing much. But then, further along the quay, auxiliary generators roared into life and the steel cargo hatches of the neighboring ship began drawing back. Metal screamed against metal and the hatch doors banged together as they hit fully open. The noise brought the customs officers from the ferry and they began making their way down the gangway. Jez gave a rushed glimpse of Afanasiy’s identity card to the guards at the dock gates and entered. He nodded as he passed the customs officers and made his way to the gangway. Onboard, he wheedled his way through corridors stinking of diesel oil, until coming out on the top deck.

The passengers stamped feet and walked in circles to fend off the cold while waiting for permission to go ashore. Jez looked over the top of his glasses and his wandering eyes stopped at a young Turk who fit the description Anna had given him: Mehmet. Younger than Jez, it irked him to note that he was indeed tall, slender, dark, and good looking; Anna had drooled the description to him.

Mehmet grinned and Jez returned the acknowledgement, pleased to see the young Turk’s teeth were less than perfect, but then felt guilty for letting his jealousy take control. Mehmet began snapping photographs. His main focus was on one passenger in particular, a short stocky man around forty: Borislav. Borislav rushed over to Mehmet and objected vehemently while trying to relieve him of the camera. Mehmet held on, repeating humble apologies to Borislav as he fended him off.

Jez crossed the deck. “What’s going on here?” he commanded, feeling his eyes meeting in the middle as he struggled to get focus through the pebble glasses.

“This man is taking photographs. It is illegal to take photographs in dock areas and I want to know why he’s doing it.” Then Borislav checked himself and spoke with aggression to Jez. “But who the fuck do you think you are to question me?”

“I don’t think about who I might be,” Jez replied calmly. “I know.” He displayed Sergeant Afanasiy’s ID. “I am Sergeant Afanasiy and I work out of the Smersh unit attached to KGB in Moscow. So, Comrade Belligerent, before I ask him why he’s taking pictures of you, we can start with you telling me who you are.”

Borislav gulped. “I am also a sergeant. I work–”

“Papers,” Jez demanded.

Flustered, Borislav reddened, his whole face furrowed, and his shoulders slouched. He sighed deeply and then took identification from the front pocket of his overcoat and handed it to Jez.

“Borislav Georgy, and yes, as you say, you are a sergeant. Tell me, Sergeant, why are you travelling from Istanbul?”

Borislav’s flustering returned. “I haven’t been to Istanbul. I work in the military industrial complex of Tula, for the Tula Cartridge Plant in Ulitsa Marata. I’ve been to the Crimea to quantify the requirements of an army training camp there.”

The ship had indeed stopped in the Crimea before making way to Odessa, but Borislav hadn’t boarded there, Jez knew. However, the paperwork suggested he had. But Borislav worked in Tula and was only a sergeant; he didn’t have the authority to sanction such movements.

“Then you should have more papers,” Jez said, holding his hand out once more.

The redness in Borislav’s face darkened. He thrust a hand inside his overcoat and took a document from his inside pocket. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” Jez said as he studied the paperwork from under the glasses. He folded the document and handed that and the ID back to the sergeant. “Very well, Sergeant Georgy, everything is in order. I apologize for the intrusion.” Bowing his head, Jez took a breath and turned to Mehmet. “And you, why are you taking pictures of this gentleman?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I wasn’t taking photographs of him. I was taking shots of everything so I can show my family when I get back to Istanbul.”

“Clearly you’re Turkish, but that’s no excuse for being stupid. Taking photographs anywhere in the Soviet Union without prior permission is strictly prohibited. You should know that. Let me see your papers, quickly.”

Mehmet cowered as he handed Jez his identification. Jez thumbed the pages. “Visa, I see no visa. Where’s your visa?”

“I have none. I wasn’t getting off the ship. I–”

“Enough!” Jez yelled. Mehmet made a silent protest as Jez pulled the camera from his hand and put it in his pocket.

“Excuse me, Sergeant Afanasiy,” Borislav said to Jez, “but I need to catch a train to Tula and it’s important I leave now. Can I go? You seem to have everything under control here.”

Jez gave him a preoccupied look. “What? Yes, no … yes, you can proceed.”

“What about the film in that camera,” he asked.

Jez took an identical camera out of his pocket to that which he had confiscated from Mehmet and pulled the roll of film from it. He tore at the leader until the film was fully out of its casing. “Is that alright?” he replied.

Borislav nodded and smiled gratefully. Jez held the camera out towards Mehmet. Mehmet reached to take it back, but Jez let it slip from his hand and fall over the side and into the sea. “Oops,” he said, turning to Borislav and giving him a mischievous grin and a wink. Borislav laughed with appreciation and left.

Out of sight, Jez turned to Mehmet. “Well done, my young friend. Now we have a photograph, a full name, and his place of work. It’s doubtful Pavel will lose him, but if he does, he should be easy enough to pick up again.”

“I assume you are Jez,” Mehmet said. “I have heard a lot about you.”

“I am, and Anna has told me much of you. I look forward to us working together in Turkey,” he said.

“Are you and Anna sailing back there now?”

“No. Another colleague, Pavel, he is following Borislav as we speak, so I wait here with Anna until we can travel together. For the moment, I’m not sure even Michel knows our next move. Speaking of your return journey, have you made arrangements? The captain will think it a bit odd you going straight back. With the ID of a Smersh officer, I can straighten him out if you wish.”

“It’ll be alright. Anna told me to tell him that I was meeting a Soviet official and when business was done I would return to Istanbul. If you look to the fore, you’ll see the skipper staring towards us. Just your standing there gives credibility to my story.”

Jez smiled and nodded. “Until later then,” he said and hurried off. He needed to get details of what he’d learned of Borislav to Pavel before the train left.

*

Pavel watched from the entrance of Odessa Railway Station as Jez approached. He went inside to check that Borislav was still comfortable in the café before showing himself again and waving Jez over. Jez gave him the camera containing the photos of Borislav and told Pavel what he’d learned of the sergeant while on the ferry.

“The way the orders currently stand, Pavel, I’ll be waiting at the Morskoy Hotel for your return.”

“Just make sure you’re not worn out by the time I get back,” he laughed.

“Funny,” Jez replied, grinning sheepishly.

Jez slipped away and Borislav surfaced from the café. Pavel stood in line behind him in the ticket office. What Jez had told him suggested the sergeant would go to Tula, but instead he purchased a first class ticket to Moscow and then moved off towards the platform.

“Give me a first class cabin on train thirty-six to Moscow,” Pavel requested of the attendant.

“Sorry, the gentleman in front of you bought the last one,” he said.

“Oh, okay, give me a second class ticket.”

“All second class tickets are sold out, too. The tickets go quickly because it’s a fast train.”

Pavel sighed in exasperation. “Is there anything left on the thirty-six train?”

“I’m sorry, but the availability on the train is not my fault.”

Pavel tried to relax what was clearly an angry expression on his face. “No, of course it isn’t, Comrade. Anything will do.”

The attendant let his focus roam through a couple of paper forms. “Hmm, yes we have one third class bed. It’s the last side berth and it’s located in the passageway. Or you could go fourth class and travel without a berth.”

Pavel smiled. “I’ll take a third class ticket,” he said, pulling his wallet and counting out the notes.

Borislav was on the platform, hands behind his back, raising himself to his tiptoes before dropping back onto his heels. He was still rocking back and forth when the train came in.

Twenty-six hours after pulling out of Odessa, the coaches terminated at Moscow’s Riga Railway Station and Pavel made sure to be amongst the first off. Out on the platform he stretched up, out, and back; it had been an uncomfortable ride. Borislav came from one of the front coaches and walked past Pavel with his head in the air and a spring in his step: first class. Pavel followed him to the Metro and onto a train to Prospekt Marksa. From there, he took a short stroll southwest and then east towards the Kremlin where he met up with a captain at the Kremlin walls and disappeared into the arsenal.

Pavel stood in a doorway and waited. Not the best spot for surveillance, the Kremlin had a multitude of exits, but it wasn’t long before Borislav came back out of the same door. He crossed the Kremlin grounds, exited into Red Square, and went along one of the boulevards parallel with the Moscow River. When he got to the Hotel Rossiya, he checked in. Pavel returned to the arsenal to see if he could find out who the captain was and then went on up to Dzerzhinski Square and into Lubyanka. Using Afanasiy’s ID, he got into the building easy enough, but Michel’s expression was not welcoming when he got to his office.

“You shouldn’t have come here like this,” he said, furiously. “Apart from anything else, my aide hasn’t been fully vetted. He alone could be the end of us. This just isn’t good enough. You should have used the same method as Jez – met me by the river or at the goom– but no, not you, you’re too tough to play silly games.”

Pavel tried his cheeky, boyish grin, but Michel wasn’t having any of it. He turned away, shaking his head in resignation, and said, “So, what have you got?”

Pavel gave him his report.

The general said, “So he met with a Captain Ferapont before going into the arsenal. Okay, I’ll take a closer look at him. I want you to make sure Borislav returns to Tula and when you’re satisfied he’s back into his legal routine, return to Odessa. Wait there with Jez and Anna until further notice.”

“What about the drug exchange in Turkey?” Pavel asked.

Michel’s voice softened. “I don’t know where I’m going to need you. Until I’ve investigated your information I want to leave the drugs and explosives alone. I don’t want the Soviet side of the deal going to ground, and it’s those people that I’m concerned about. The drugs aren’t my business and I don’t want any more of my people getting hurt because of them. Having said that, I do believe if the military control here can be brought to an end, the drug providers would look elsewhere for a conduit.”

Pavel nodded. “Okay then, I’ll wait with Jez and Anna in Odessa until further orders.”

Pavel left the office with Michel following a safe distance behind until he was out of KGB headquarters. He winced on thinking of the Smersh sergeants. Michel had been right; apart from those little men knowing him, who else might? He should never have barged into the building unannounced.

Chapter 20

The Seed Barn, Icmeler

Adam Mannesh and Hassan watched the gleaming black limos drive into the barn and park in the bays opposite the mezzanine floor. Five stepped from one car and four from each of the others. The drivers moved off to wait outside the barn as the doors began automatically closing. Those left in the barn formed a group in the centre of the vast, uncluttered area and Adam bellowed like a banana republic dictator, “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Come, we have plans to make.” But before a step was taken, a police car roared into the barn at speed, squeezing between the doors while there was still room to do so. Several people reached hands to inside pockets, but then the policemen climbed from the car and smiles replaced the formerly concrete expressions. They chuckled and shouted greetings to the officers before turning to approach the stairway. Adam smiled, shook hands, patted backs, and squeezed arms as his crew herded past him and into the conference room. When the last of the group was seated, Adam sat at the head of the table and Hassan hovered behind him. A waiter and waitress offered refreshments and canapés to the new guests. Hassan took water because he liked a clear head when doing business; plus, he and Adam believed it made him look like the hired help.

“Get me a cold lager,” Adam told the waitress and several of the group echoed the request.

The atmosphere relaxed and most lit up cigarettes. Clouds of sweet-smelling smoke from roasted tobacco rose and hovered overhead. Adam slurped from his glass, tilted a nod, and Hassan went to the windows and pulled cords on extractor fans.

“Right,” he said, cuffing froth from his moustache then twirling each end of the thick, matted hair between thumb and forefinger. “If you’re settled, we’ll go straight to business. I have many people, but I’ve chosen this particular group for your individual skills.”

When he looked at those around him he knew an unknowing eye would never believe they were probably the most effective assassins in Ankara. In the most they were tall and gangly or short and wiry. Except maybe one of the women, Helga; she appeared more of a freak than a gangster. Her short, bottle-blonde hair had a touch of the ridiculous, the way it hovered over a dark skin bordering on being black. She wore a man’s suit of box-cut design. The short jacket squared her heavy build further and she looked like a muscle-bound doorman. He twirled his moustache and sniggered when thinking that hers was almost as heavy as his. She wasn’t much use with firearms, but some of her other attributes put her way above the rest. A final slug at his glass killed off the lager and he brought his mind back to business.

“We are about to take command of a drug empire operating out of Icmeler. I had an informant who’s given me detailed information of the dealings and there is big money to be made. All we will have to do is oversee a business that almost looks after itself. Then why bring in such a crew? you ask. Because first we have to overcome the current traders.”

He would eventually tell them of the Russian authorities and how they are trying to bring the trade to an end, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to bring too many problems to the table at the same time. He’d give Yuri a mention, but leave out the others.

“Corrupt Russian military are supplying explosives in exchange for drugs from the east. They will be our new partners. I don’t know what happens to the explosive, but the heroin is processed and shipped west. The operation is simple and will be easy to run once the opposition has been dealt with.”

“Sounds like we get the payload. What do the Russians get out of it?” Ata Abbas asked.

Ata was one of the strangest members of the crew; almost two meters tall, but as thin as a pipe cleaner, he looked like he’d snap in half if the wind blew the wrong way. Not a pretty man either. A shining bald head and huge glaring eyes gaped from above a long, slim nose heralding from a sunken face with a stumped chin. Apparently, he got his sexual thrills from cutting slices of flesh from his victims. He loved his knife and Adam had to admit, it was the fastest blade he had witnessed in action – including his own.

Adam answered openly. “Money and control will be theirs. They get the biggest end of the wedge … But, believe me, even after their payday, there is more than enough for us.” He shifted his oversized rump in the seat and coughed. “I know some of you have done the occasional job in Istanbul. Because of that you may have had dealings with a man called Yuri Aleksii.”

There were even more mumblings than Adam had anticipated and they weren’t extolling Yuri’s virtues.

“I agree,” he said. “But we need him for the initial takeover. When the time is right, however … Well, let us just say, I know his weaknesses.”

A few questions bounced back and forward, but generally everyone was happy to be onboard.

“My resources have had our friends here transferred in from Ankara,” Adam continued, opening a hand towards the three policemen who had driven into the barn as if they were some sort of daredevils. “I know they’ve helped each of you out on more than one occasion. On that basis, I suppose there’s no need for introduction, but I don’t want them caught in the crossfire, so I want you to commit their faces to memory – Sergeant Amoun.”

Amoun stood so that everyone could see him. And there was plenty to see. His shoulders were wide and he tapered to a narrow waist, solid meat and muscle, like a champion bull. He’d been a Turkish oil wrestler in his time and the strength needed for that was clearly still with him. His short hair was flattened out with grease and his face carried a blue beard that wouldn’t be discolored by an attack from any razor. Unforgiving years had forged a scowl into his face.

People nodded acceptingly and Adam said, “Thank you, Sergeant, and now we have Officer Savas.”

Savas struggled from his chair. He must’ve been around a hundred and fifty kilos – and he wasn’t a tall man. His large, round face appeared lubricated and he was forever patting sweat from it. Because of the sweating, his hair was matted in spikes onto his forehead. He steadied himself and blew heavily from the effort of getting up. Slow to get out of a chair, but according to Amoun, Savas could overturn him and pin him to the floor in the speed of a breath.

A few people sniggered and Adam capitalized on it. “Thank you, Savas, you can take the weight off your feet.” When the group laughed loudly, Adam switched allegiance. “That’s enough!” he yelled with venom. “Right, last but not least we have Officer Nazar.”

Nazar stood and bowed around the table, stopping to give a withering grin to those who’d been first to laugh at his friend Savas. He was medium height, slender, and his skin was the color of olive oil from the virgin press. A good-looking man, he kept himself pristine and held himself with pride. Even now his head was cocked back as he smoothed a finger along his Errol Flynn moustache while arching slightly and resting his free hand on his left-slung holster.

“Yes, thank you, Savas. I’m sure no one will forget you.” Again, everyone laughed. “Good, we’re all one happy family, so let’s celebrate. Hassan, tell the waiters to keep the drinks coming while I outline the next steps. Oh, and bring in the girls.”

*

“The last leg of the journey from Odessa has left me feeling grimy,” was the greeting Yuri got from Mehmet when he boarded the cruiser. “I need a wash down. Is there anything you want me to do first?”

“No, Mehmet, you go ahead,” Yuri said as he languished under the Bimini hood up on the flybridge. The air was pleasantly warm and Yuri’s thoughts wandered aimlessly with the sound of Mehmet’s disappearing footsteps. His eyes hooded and his head grew heavy. Even before Mehmet’s return, Yuri had tried sitting upright, staying alert, watching over the open bay towards Marmaris. But the heat had got to him. Sleep invaded his mind and Pinar Yeter filled his thoughts.

Pinar was a senior reporter with Istanbul’s Hurriyet national newspaper. When he was in the city, he lived with her. That had been going on for over ten years now and marriage was featuring more and more in his mind of late. He was over fifty and he felt his working life was coming to an end, and he’d had enough. Pinar was the woman with whom he’d like to share the next chapter. His eyes flickered and his semi-conscious state ploughed through every compatible characteristic they shared, and they were plentiful.

At the end of reasonable thought, more intimate similarities came to bear, but then a drumming noise vied for control of his mind, shattering the peaceful delirium. Something had buffeted up against the outside of the hull. He sighed negatively, got up, and tottered over to the edge of the flybridge. When he looked over the side an unwelcome shiver ran through him – Adam and Hassan. They were maneuvering around the boat in a water taxi. He pulled back and his thoughts sobered. Panic coursed through his veins. Mehmet; he didn’t want Adam to know Mehmet was here. He skipped the steps down into the saloon.

“Mehmet!” he called.

Mehmet came up behind him from the aft cabin. “Yes.” He was toweling his thick mop of hair with one towel and had another wrapped around his waist.

Yuri spoke to him softly, almost a whisper. “Mehmet, get back into the aft cabin. Adam Mannesh has just turned up. Don’t ask me why, but it doesn’t feel right. I don’t trust the situation. Stay out of the way, but listen in to what is going on. If I leave with them, get in touch with Michel.”

“Bit over the top; they’ve been nothing but helpful so far …” Mehmet began, slinging the wet towel from his hair onto the saloon seating.

“I know, but … just do as I ask, Mehmet.”

The conversation ended with Mehmet disappearing into the aft cabin.

Adam shouted up from the jetty. “Yuri, are you on board?”

Yuri was tempted to ignore him, pretend he wasn’t there. Instead, he took a deep breath and went out onto the side deck. “Adam, what’re you doing here? For someone who said they wanted no further association with me, we seem to be seeing an awful lot of each other.”

Uninvited, Hassan was up and over onto the boat in three large steps. He took himself into the saloon while Adam, with a little more delicacy, used each of the five rungs of the rope ladder to climb aboard.

“This is important,” he said, and pushed his oversized body between Yuri and the bulkhead, held a hand to steady his blue fez, and followed Hassan into the saloon. Inside, he picked up Mehmet’s wet towel between finger and thumb, and looked at it quizzically before dropping it onto the floor and sitting. “You know I have many drivers working the coastline: water and road taxis. Well, they feed back information about anything that might be of interest. My latest information is that Sergeant Kudret and his team are moving the drug processing plants to new premises. They’re leaving town. Something has to be done in a hurry.”

Yuri raised an eyebrow. “Right, I’ll get in touch with my people and see what they want to do.”

“No, no, you don’t understand; they’re actually on the move. Something has to be done now. I can understand that you’re probably worried why I should be interested. But I let you down with Batur. I owe you and your team, and I’m the kind of man who needs to feel comfortable when I look at myself in the mirror each morning. Sounds mushy, I know, Yuri, but it really is as simple as that.”

For some reason Hassan hovered as if rejection would have consequences. But why should I feel like this? Yuri asked of himself. Nothing has happened to suggest danger. But … he didn’t believe Adam and something was causing an underlying fear to run rampant. A long time ago Yuri had been the toast of Spetsnaz. That ended when he lost his nerve in the face of the enemy. Michel had been his friend for many years prior to that and gave Yuri the job of gleaning information from the Turks in Istanbul; he wanted him to have a safe haven until his military days were over.

“And what is it you’re suggesting we should do?” Yuri asked, still unhappy with the way he was being drawn into Adam’s game.

“Move against Kudret now. We don’t have to wait for your team. I have a squad here, armed and ready to go. Unless you’re afraid or something?” Adam sniggered.

In recent months, Yuri had faced action and proven to Michel he could still do the job. But if Adam was telling the truth and Sergeant Kudret and his gangsters were about to get away and setup somewhere else, the threads leading back to military corruption in Russia would be lost and all of his renewed self-belief would be blown to hell.

“Afraid? I don’t know where you get such stupid ideas. Let’s go.” But he would be on his guard. Should Adam have anything else in mind he’d be ready for him.

Chapter 21

The Kremlin, Moscow, Russia

Michel rubbed a hand down his face. So, the drug operation was being moved away from Icmeler. Trouble was, the information was furnished to Yuri by a man called Adam Mannesh and somehow Mannesh had seduced Yuri into making a move against the drug runners. And Mannesh just happened to have a squad of gunmen on hand ready to help out. Michel dropped his hands onto the arms of the chair and then slammed his open palms onto his desk.

“Shit!”

It hadn’t been long since Mehmet had contacted him and told him what Yuri was up to and, of course, Michel had been obliged to go with it, telling Mehmet to keep tabs on what was happening. That same obligation had forced him to make his play and order the team in Odessa to go to Turkey.

“Why, Yuri? Why?” he said with more than a little frustration in his voice.

Yuri had no reason to believe Kudret’s movements involved Soviet citizens … How could he have allowed himself to get dragged into the fiasco? And the team shouldn’t have had to go over there yet.

“Shit!” he cried again, thumping his fists down.

It was troubling that Mannesh had become party to the raid; there had to be an ulterior motive for him doing so. In his heart Michel had always known that he’d be sending his team in to sort out this latest Turkish connection, but not this early. It was all too fast, his hand was being forced, and now he’d have to take action in Moscow as well. He had wanted to take his time, build a case that would send Irishka to hell, but what had he pulled together? An ammunitions sergeant in a Tula munitions factory. Even having him would be flaky if he was unwilling to talk.

Michel got up and paced the floor. “Think,” he mumbled. “What do we have?” He stopped at the corner window. One way looked over Red Square, the other towards the Moskva River. His view swayed between the two and then rested on the river. What do we have that we can prove? he thought. Georgy, Sergeant Borislav Georgy, is the only link between Turkey and Moscow. If I could find out who he answers to, but who can I trust to make the investigation without making it official? Not an easy list to pull together while Irishka has his people everywhere. He relaxed his jaw as he became aware of the ache from clamping it tightly and studied the river’s natural formation. So many times in Russian history it had been the last stand of defense around the city. The thought set his mind racing … the city … the river … the Great War.

“That’s it!” he said, his heart rate increasing at an emerging idea.

In 1942 the 79th unit of Smersh had played a significant part in winning the Battle of Moscow against the Germans. In fact, ever since the 1917 revolution they had been as reliable as the river itself. Cruel people, true, but a logistically sound unit, none more so. The two sergeants who had the audacity to investigate him. Could they be trusted? If they had been manipulated into doing Irishka’s bidding as they claimed, they wouldn’t be harboring warm feelings towards him. They had bungled the job in Vorkuta, but they were up against Jez and Pavel, so that was understandable.

The nature of the investigation Michel had in mind would suit these two. They had no qualms about using strong-arm tactics when their backs were against the wall – or when they weren’t come to that. He struggled with the decision, tried convincing himself they were perfect for what he wanted, and then said, “Shit, who else is there?”

He buzzed through to his aide’s office and his sergeant appeared as though he had been waiting outside the door.

“Sergeant Filat, I want you to get, uhm … oh, I don’t remember their names – the two Smersh sergeants that burst into my office. I asked you to follow up on their penance.”

“Yes, General, do you want their files as well? I’ve kept tabs on them since you ordered me to relate the case to Captain Bukosky. Not that there’s been much to keep tabs on. They’ve been office-bound ever since their outburst.” The sergeant gave him a cheeky grin.

Filat had grown on Michel and he would be reluctant to lose him just because he didn’t have rank enough to be aide to a general. Nevertheless, Michel’s trust for anyone was still wobbly following the attack on the Gulag. But there comes a time when trust has to be given and Filat’s time had come.

“Forget the files, but I do want our Smersh men here. I have a job for them.”

Michel gave Filat as much information as he thought necessary. The sergeant smiled, clicked heels, and left.

Chapter 22

It was still early and an orange haze hovered over the city streets as Sergeant Afanasiy left General Petrichova’s Lubyanka office. A grin had grown enough that it almost touched each ear. He turned to his partner, his gravel voice nearing tuneful when saying, “We’re back in.”

They crossed Dzerzhinski Square.

“What do you make of Petrichova now?” Afanasiy waited for a response.

Rarely did Anchova reply without first giving thought to a question, too much sometimes. “I think …” he whispered at last. “I think that maybe there’s some sort of power struggle going on between the generals and that there is a link between Sergeant Georgy and General Irishka.”

Afanasiy was thinking the same thing, but he would let his partner spell it out. “Power struggle? How so?” he asked, and then had to strain his ears; either his hearing was degenerating or Anchova was getting quieter.

“When we got into trouble with Petrichova, it was because General Irishka was trying to get something on him. Now I think it’s probably the other way around. Seems to me they’re both as corrupt as hell. But Petrichova is our boss so we should do whatever it takes to get Irishka.”

Afanasiy nodded. “Good,” he rasped. “I agree. Petrichova has given us information about Sergeant Georgy. Probably only as much as he thinks we need to know, but that’s where we start. We’re going to Tula,” he said, pushing his glasses higher up onto the bridge of his nose, and let the grin take control of his face again. They were back.

*

Apart from Petrichova telling Afanasiy that Sergeant Borislav Georgy was probably mixed up in a drug deal, the only other info given was a photograph and his work schedule; at least they would pick up on him easy enough. When they did find him, first light hadn’t long broken and he was crossing Tula’s Lenin Square, wandering towards the munitions factory. With footfall slow and measured, he looked lost in space. Reaching his destination, he seemed reluctant when disappearing into one of the factory’s office blocks.

Afanasiy had prepared to stand around in the cold all day, as his intention was to dog Borislav’s footsteps, get to know how he spent his time and with whom. If luck was on their side, they would identify the associate that Petrichova believed Borislav had before even speaking with him. But he would have to get him into an interrogation room at some point and to do that he had already come up with a rather unsavory idea.

The day drew to a close and Borislav left the plant, but instead of heading for the barracks, he made his way to a restaurant and went straight through to the bar in the back room. He met and embraced a man in uniform, but this soldier was a colonel. A colonel and a sergeant was an unusual mix. In fact, highly improbable. Afanasiy found himself questioning the situation. He wasn’t overly optimistic about coming up with something damning on the first day, but he would have to check out this colonel.

In the bar, Afanasiy had a quick non-alcoholic Kavas and then moved back across the street from the restaurant to wait with Anchova. Afanasiy stamped his cold feet for an hour and then the colonel left the restaurant. “You wait for the sergeant,” he said. “I’ll tail the colonel.”

He followed him to a civilian apartment in the centre of the city. It was only a short walk to the ammunition factory and the following morning Afanasiy trailed him there too. His name was Colonel Sergei and he was the senior officer at the cartridge factory. It made no sense. Why would a man of his rank be rubbing shoulders with an invoice sergeant? Realistically, there would never be a legitimate reason for their paths to even cross. Yet here they were, embracing, drinking together, laughing. It was something that needed follow up.

Afanasiy made direct contact with Petrichova, and told him about Sergei. “There is a possibility that these clandestine meetings are above board, General,” he concluded, “but we need to be sure. I need to find out if there is any way these men might know each other from past lives.”

Petrichova had given him a number and told him to call back in two days. Now Afanasiy had his answer he was tingling with excitement; there were no blood connections, they had no childhood ties, and there were no career overlaps in their records, nothing to suggest they’d even known each other before coming to the Tula plant.

Afanasiy preened as his guttural tones almost sang bass to his partner. “Nothing we have could be deemed evidence,” he began. “But it seems to me there’s a line of command here that goes beyond military rank.”

Anchova’s voice whispered, “So we go after Georgy now?”

“Yes, my friend, I think we do.”

*

Before Afanasiy had left for Tula, General Petrichova had told him that Borislav had been in Moscow on the previous Wednesday. Now was the time to bring his idea into play. He entered the Tula Cartridge Plant’s office block with Anchova by his side.

“I’m here to speak with a sergeant called Borislav Georgy,” Afanasiy told the soldier who had stopped them in the foyer.

“Let me see your papers, please,” she said, with a sigh revealing interminable boredom.

He flipped her a look at his ID card. She nodded and he shook his head in agitation.

“His workplace; I don’t know where he works.”

“No need, Sergeant; security demands that I escort you.” She had been thumbing through a rotary card index system, but now stopped. “Ah, here he is, not far to walk.”

She took them to Georgy’s office and they found him bent over his desk, pushing a pen.

“Sergeant Georgy?” Afanasiy asked gruffly.

Georgy looked up from the paperwork, surprised. “Er, yes, I…”

The guard was a heavy built woman and filled the gap while standing in the doorway. Afanasiy nodded her out politely and closed the door.

“I’m ordering you to come along with us, please,” Anchova said, loud enough to halt Georgy in mid-speech but barely enough for anyone else to hear.

“But I … What is this? I–”

“If you don’t stand and come with us this instant, we’ll consider you’re resisting arrest and take you by force,” Afanasiy’s graveled words warned.

“Arrest? What are you talki–?” Borislav didn’t get those words out either. The little men moved against him, grabbed his arms roughly, twisted them up his back and forced him from the office.

The guard had left her position and Colonel Sergei had been quick to take her place. His face bloated outward as he began blustering. “Stop what you’re doing right now. This man is assigned to my command and I don’t care who you are or what you’re here for, you have no right to manhandle my people while they’re working within the factory confines.”

Afanasiy and Anchova let go of Borislav. Afanasiy noticed how Anchova took a step back as if to say, ‘I’m only a spectator.’

“Yes, I understand and apologize for the intrusion, Colonel,” Afanasiy said, bearing the brunt of responsibility. “But we are sergeants with the KGB, Smersh to be exact.”

They both pulled out IDs, but Sergei brushed them aside. His flustering came back into control and he said with quiet influence, “Never mind that; what do you think you’re doing here, and with whose authority?”

“Well, Colonel, the Smersh Seventy-ninth Unit is our authority and with regard to why we’re here, it’s known that Sergeant Georgy was in Moscow on Wednesday last. A minor was raped in the city and Georgy has not only been placed at the scene but there are witnesses saying they saw him with the boy.”

The imaginary crime had the desired effect. The colonel visibly shrank from his friend. Afanasiy had come up with this particular offence before, and it was the one most feared by men. The colonel’s fiery defense became more reluctant.

“Well?” he asked Borislav timidly.

“I … I don’t have a clue what they’re talking about, Colonel. I was in Moscow when they say, that much is true, but I saw no boy so no witness could have possibly suggested that I had. I swear, sir.”

“If he’s telling the truth, sir,” Afanasiy told him, “he has nothing to worry about, but he must come with us to Tula KGB headquarters. Refusal would just waste everyone’s time. I’m sure you’re busy yourself, and we also have commitments in Moscow. It would be easier for everyone if he came along now.”

“Sergeant,” Sergei said to Borislav, “you have nothing to fear.”

Afanasiy was a past master at doublespeak and immediately recognized what amounted to ‘a nod and a wink’. He waited quietly, wondering what the colonel’s next move would be.

“Go with these men,” he eventually said, and turned to the Smersh officers. “Trust me, if you harm this man in any way it will cost you your jobs and your liberty. I give you my oath on that.”

Borislav began leaving with them, but then stopped abruptly and turned to Afanasiy. “Did you say Afanasiy, and Smersh?”

Afanasiy raised eyebrows in puzzlement. Where was this going? “I did.”

Borislav pulled free of his grip and tried to force his way back to the colonel. “Sir, this man is not who he says he is. I met Afanasiy at the port of Odessa and the only similarity between the two men is they both had pebbles stuck on their noses.”

It took several phone calls to verify that the Smersh officers were the real thing and an amazed Sergeant Georgy was led away, this time in cuffs. Pebbles indeed, Afanasiy thought. There will be no softly, softly with this one.

Chapter 23

Marmaris, Turkey

When Adam gave Yuri the outline of his plan in the marina the last thing he had expected was for him to go along with it. Not a murmur. Fool! To think he’d believed Yuri to be so clever. He shook his head. Going to the boat had never been about getting him to agree to … well, anything really. They were on a scouting mission to find out how many Russians he had with him before they hit Kudret. And, as luck would have it, they had all gone back to Soviet soil. Even the Turk he hung around with was absent. He’d been so sure Yuri was smarter than that. From what Adam knew of him, the only thing he could think of was he had too many personal demons on his shoulders. Not that any of it made a difference now. The only reason Adam was keeping him alive was for his blackmail lists. Adam was aware that for years Yuri had built lists of the transgressions of political and business people in Turkey. There was no visible end to what he could achieve if he could get his hands on them. In fact, the lists had to be as valuable as the drug trade itself. And, as a bonus, Yuri would tell him what they might be up against should the Russian team return.

The water taxi sidled up to and bumped against the public jetty on the adjacent shore to the marina. Yuri stepped from the boat first, turned, gave a worried nod, and began walking towards the bar-cum-brothel in Icmeler. Sergeant Kudret ran several whore houses as well as the drug trade and Sergeant Amoun had invited every policeman at the station, other than a young recruit on the desk, along to celebrate his birthday. He told them he was buying.

Adam took to the jetty in a stride and Hassan followed. They walked in the opposite direction to the one Yuri had taken. About a hundred meters along the quay they came to a cream-colored, twenty-eight-seat coach parked in the road with the engine running. The decal on the side read Istanbul Tours. The words were in large, red letters and a lick swished back from the last letter, underlining the insignia with a swirl. The coach was facing the sea and the sixteen people Adam had brought from Ankara were spread out inside. The driver sat behind the wheel, cigarette between lips, sucking like a child with a dummy. He drew on the weed and smoke streams trickled through his nostrils while blue vapors crept from the edge of his mouth. The ash had grown long, the butt short, and the ensemble looked perilously close to setting fire to the overweight moustache resting on his top lip.

Neither passengers nor driver acknowledged Adam’s approach. Ignoring the bus in return, he and Hassan went over to the opposite side of the road and passed time window shopping. Twenty minutes later, Sergeant Kudret appeared on the promenade with four of his uniformed officers and the three officers belonging to Adam. There were also three men in dark suits, detectives, with them.

“They all seem to be in party mood,” Adam said to Hassan, as he watched the group playfully pushing at each other and laughing too loud. “Come on. Time to put this thing into action.”

They crossed back to the rear of the coach and began beckoning the driver out onto the not-too-busy coast road. The police group approached and Kudret gave Adam a broad grin. “Mister Mannesh, working like a peasant,” he laughed. “You’re not going down in the world I hope.”

His companions chuckled with him. No, I’m not, but you will be, Adam thought, but said, “Ah, Sergeant Kudret, isn’t it? Yes, you would think so, but me doing this is a one off,” he said, the thought bringing a cheesy grin to his face. “I think you know I operate a driving firm – land taxis, water taxis, stuff like that. Now I’m trying to set up a tourist operation for business people in Istanbul. Marmaris and Icmeler are still fairly untouched and seem like a good part of the country to launch the operation.”

Kudret smiled. “Hmm, sounds good. What do you do with the people when you get here?”

Excellent, someone must have given him a copy of the script. “Unfortunately that has just given me my first problem. The hotel I had made a deal with has overbooked and we have nowhere to stay. Not a problem in itself, one of my people is sorting something out as we speak, but I need somewhere to feed and water this lot. Somewhere to keep them excited until we’re sorted.”

As he spoke, a couple of the passengers disembarked and began complaining. “I know,” Adam told them. “And I can only apologize, but bear with me and I’m sure my people will find an even better alternative.” They returned to their seats grumbling.

Adam sighed and then Officer Nazar stepped up, smoothing a finger along the length of his fine moustache. “Dear me, does the farmer know they’re out of the pigpens?” he asked, loud enough for those on the coach to hear. “Not exactly beauty contestants are they.” He held his head up and back, Valentino style. The officers with him burst out laughing.

Adam chuckled and quietly said, “No, but they are quite important business people.” He turned attention back to Kudret. “That’s why I’m organizing the trip myself. Anyway, they’re getting twitchy. I’d better find somewhere to keep them happy.”

“Join us,” Kudret said. “We’re celebrating the new sergeant’s birthday and are on our way to The Zanzi-bar at the other end of the promenade – plenty there to excite them, believe me.”

Adam looked at him, puzzled, as if he couldn’t understand the suggestion. He pushed the back of his fez slightly forward, scratched the back of his head, and then let his eyes widen. “Thank you,” he said, nodding agreeably.

Kudret told his officers, “I’ll see you lot at the club. I’m going with the coach to show the driver where to park. Try conducting yourselves like proper policemen, please.” He shook his head and laughed at the scorn he got back from them. The policeman walked off along the prom, laughter and cheering dominating as Nazar continued to snort like a pig, enjoying his revenge against those who had laughed at his fat friend.

Kudret climbed onto the bus, made a cursory introduction to the passengers, and sat in the front seat next to the driver, who had lit up yet another cigarette. The driver let a few moments pass before lifting a thumb and forefinger, and flicking the cigarette through the window. The red end splintered into sparks as it smashed onto the sidewalk below. The coach, which had part-blocked the road for the period Kudret chatted, took a quarter turn and moved off in the direction of Icmeler.

The drive was a short one. “Here we are. Stop and let the passengers off then you can park over there,” Kudret said, pointing to a spot where the coach would have to park long-ways and take four or five standard spaces.

At the entrance to the club, Adam stepped back and Kudret ushered the group in, laughing under his breath. “Funny lot,” he said. “Except for the long skinny one, they’ve all got purses.”

Adam laughed along with him and, knowing what he knew, it was genuine enough. “I know, city fashions …” he said, raising an eyebrow skyward.

They followed the last man into the bar. “They’ll be alright without you now. Sit at my table; I’d like to hear about this new venture of yours,” Kudret said to Adam.

The sergeant sat down first and faced the entrance. “Here they come,” he said, as his police group shuffled in. “You’ll need to show a little understanding, Adam. After this lot has had a few drinks the roof will lift off.”

“Don’t worry. I like a party where people go at it as if it’s their last,” he laughed.

Two of the dark-suited detectives came over and sat with them. The rest of the policemen spread out, other than Adam’s officers, who went to the bar and stood with their backs to it. Adam’s group moved away from the bar and out near the walls, tentatively clutching drinks and purses. Adam shifted his chair to a position where he could see the entrance. There had already been two uniformed officers here when they arrived, including Kudret, that made ten in opposition. It was early, so the two barmaids would be the only collateral damage.

“Your new sergeant seems a friendly sort.”

“He is. I like him, but three more officers assigned for duty here seems ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“With the new people, we now number ten uniforms and three detectives. Oh, plus the one at the station now. It’s crazy.” Kudret shook his head in disbelief.

“But I thought you covered a large area.”

“Oh, we do, a huge district, but nothing much illegal happens that we’re not already on top of.”

Adam shifted attention, broke free of the conversation. He had asked Yuri to stay outside until the last of the policemen had entered. His entrance had brought them close to the signal Adam had passed on to his crew when he came from the water taxi. All eyes would stay on Yuri until the fireworks kicked off.

The timing was good. Everyone was settled with a drink. Yuri went to the bar and ordered vodka. Adam watched Kudret puzzling and then the sergeant’s shoulders suddenly stiffened. He stared harder. “That big man who’s just come in, he’s a Russian.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, I’m having him watched. He’s been spending a lot of time at the marina in Marmaris. Maybe coincidence … er, because he’s Russian, but he’s been hanging around ever since the murders. And my information tells me Russians were responsible. Did you hear about the murders?” he asked Adam.

“Beyrek Ozel, his family, and some of his people were killed. Yes, of course I’d heard,” Adam said. “I’d known Beyrek since way back, when we both lived in Istanbul. In fact, there’s been occasion we’ve worked together.”

Kudret looked surprised. “You worked with Beyrek Ozel?”

Adam smiled. “Yes, and not just me; Yuri knew him, too.”

Kudret was positively frowning now. “Yuri?”

“The Russian over there, the one you said you’ve been following. He’s Yuri Aleksii, and you’re right to watch him; he’s a player.” Adam laughed, knowing he wouldn’t have to explain the words. Maybe he’d heard the laughter, but Yuri turned towards the Kudret table. Adam nodded and Yuri responded by bowing his head. It had begun. The setup suddenly came to life and flowed like poetry. In response to Yuri’s nod, one of the bus passengers pushed a fellow tourist. The man toppled back against a group of policemen sitting at the centre table. Kudret raised his butt halfway from the chair and Adam placed a hand on his elbow to hold him back.

Two officers got up to sort out the scrap and, with undeniable speed, Ata Abbas moved between them. He had positioned his lanky frame against the wall near the exit, a Srbosjek strapped to his hand: a Serbian wheat sheaf cutting blade molded into the side of a leather band with thumb hole and wrist fastener. He positioned himself to prevent anyone seeing what was happening and sunk the blade into the abdomen of one of them, dragging it upward. Withdrawing the weapon, he slashed it across the man’s throat, spun full circle, and plunged the knife into the spine of the other officer.

Adam had watched, he’d known what to expect, but the sheer speed of Ata’s movement had even taken him by surprise. Ata stuck the policeman a few times more and both victims crashed through tables and onto the floor. Ata raised himself upright, stared around the bar, daring anyone to tackle him, and successfully took the attention from the rest of Adam’s people. His grin frothed and his face suggested he might faint with ecstasy.

Kudret’s people were clearly confused, bewildered even. Adam’s crew had been furnished with the Type 67 silenced pistols favored by the military of the Chinese Peoples Republic. Already they had withdrawn the guns from their purses and were firing into the remaining policemen. As previously instructed, the cross bolt buttons had been locked, putting the guns into single shot, increasing the silencing effect, and safeguarding those in the melee who weren’t meant to die. In a few seconds, nine police officers lay dead.

Silence stepped in. A barmaid spattered with blood had pressed back against the wall, as if trying to dissolve into it while the other girl remained frozen to the spot with her mouth open wide, trying to scream but unable to. Helga threw herself sideways over the counter and with a side-hand-chop, struck the girl against the wall in the throat. A sound like pulping wet clay and the barmaid’s larynx had smashed. She fell to her knees gagging. Atas Abbas had forsaken his knife and was pointing a pistol at the other girl. The joy on his face was palpable when he fired three bullets into her chest.

Adam stuck his Czech Cz-70 pistol into the base of Kudret’s skull and scrunched the back of his shirt into a fist. Yuri took a senseless step towards the girl, holding her throat, as an assassin squeezed off a round and shot out her left eye. The remaining girl kneeled on the floor, groaning, and another tourist put a bullet into the back of her skull. To confirm the policemen were dead, each received a shot to the back of the head.

“Well,” Adam said, jovially. “Looks like you’re the last man standing, Sergeant Kudret.”

“But … I don’t …” Kudret replied and turned to face his counterpart. “Amoun,” he whimpered and Amoun came over and patted Kudret’s upper arm, as if they were friends.

“Don’t worry about him, Sergeant Kudret, he’s with me,” Adam said. “Anyway, you’re safe enough. We’re going to the depots where you process the drugs. You’ll introduce me as your new partner and business will go on as normal.”

Kudret’s paled skin visibly relaxed and mirth had Adam’s fleshy weight moving like the shifting seas. He took in the expression on Yuri’s face and whispered softly to him, “I told Kudret we’re going into partnership and he said he’d be pleased to get us into the drug depots.”

Yuri didn’t respond. His face had turned as ashen as Kudret’s, but then he asked, “What will you do with these bodies?” and Adam thought he detected shaking in the voice.

“The bus is backing into the side alley now. These poor souls will soon be boarded and it won’t be long after that they’ll be the very foundation of a hotel I’m having built just along the road,” he said, laughing some more. “You’ve probably passed it a hundred times. You might even know some of the people residing there.”

*

The bus had backed into the alley next to The Zanzi-bar. Yuri reckoned it must’ve left and returned after making a pickup because several men and women in overalls were getting off with cleaning equipment and then three young women got off dressed for bar duty. Clearly, it would soon be business as usual. There was no doubt; Adam had planned the attack down to the last detail. But why did they bring him along? Yuri wondered. Consideration came to an end as two black limos pulled up to the sidewalk. Adam told Yuri to get into the lead car with him. Hassan and Kudret got in the back and Helga climbed into the second vehicle with four men. Adam’s policemen began walking off in the direction of the station. That meant ten, maybe twelve, gunmen had been left behind.

A ten-minute drive and the cars stopped about a kilometer from the drug depots. Adam got out and went to the rear of the car. Yuri followed, uninvited.

“Listen,” Adam said to Helga, who had joined him from the trailing vehicle. “Tell the others I don’t want any of the processors hurt. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Let’s go,” he told Yuri.

The cars arrived at the depot and Kudret led them to the entrance. When the perimeter guard acknowledged him, all but one henchman walked through into an unused saloon and out through the back where another building had two more guards in attendance. They were relaxed. One nodded subserviently to Kudret and before anyone could say anything, Adam’s people shot them down. Yuri watched. They were organizing themselves like a covert special operations squad: neatly, swiftly, almost silently, two dead bodyguards at the door and four more inside. A young woman who wore a white face mask and nothing else had been caught in the crossfire and blood blubbed between the mask and her chin. Her dead eyes stared off into the unknown.

Adam shrugged. “Casualties of war,” he said and grinned.

It was crystal clear why Adam hadn’t wanted the workers hurt, of course; he needed the chemists and those who mixed and sorted the shit. They were one set of people he couldn’t do without. Yuri thought about the helping hand Adam had been so quick to offer when Anna was taken. The whole thing had been about him stepping into Kudret’s shoes, and taking over Beyrek Ozel’s empire. Before Yuri could curse himself further for his stupidity, a man rushed into the room.

“Ata has just stopped by on his way to the seed barn. The whorehouse has been cleaned out and our hostesses are in control,” he said.

Adam laughed, threw his arms around Hassan, and warmly embraced him. “We’ve done it! Now …” Yuri heard him whisper what seemed to be the beginning of a sentence, but it had been all he wanted to say. Hassan took a step back as Adam spoke to the sergeant. “All finished, Kudret. Looks like you’ve just become excess baggage.”

“But you said–”

Hassan had worked his way behind Kudret and pulled a pistol. He squeezed off a shot, a boom, and the dome of Kudret’s skull was smashed away from the rest of his head. Flesh, hair, and blood tufted and Kudret crashed to the floor. Maybe it was a demonstration to nurture fearful respect from the workers when Adam put two more shots into Kudret’s back. If that had been the idea, it worked.

Yuri stepped over Kudret and faced Adam. “Not very clever, you–” But before he could finish, something thudded, shaking the contents of his head, and an array of sparks splintered through his mind. Thoughts came and went without sense, and his whole being spiraled between dark and light before plummeting into a mental abyss. The confusion ended as he was absorbed by a nothingness that had become absolute.

Chapter 24

KGB Headquarters, Tula, Russia

Afanasiy marched Borislav Georgy to the interrogation room he’d commandeered, and he was bristling – pebbles indeed! He slipped on his black leather gloves, the ones with pouches on the backs of the fingers and knuckles packed tight with powdered lead, and pushed Borislav through the doorway. The invoice sergeant turned in response and Afanasiy threw a roundhouse punch that deflated him like a balloon; his body withered and he crumpled to the floor. Afanasiy looked down at his unconscious prisoner, satisfaction calming his anger.

It was the first time Afanasiy had worked in this particular KGB building, but it was like every other he had visited, other than this room had windows. But, like the rest, it was poorly lit; chilled, yet clammy; damp, yet dry and dusty. Wherever his work took him the smell of these rooms clung to him like shit to a blanket. He involuntarily shivered; even in the frozen wastes of Vorkuta he could imagine the smell. Weapons of persuasion had been brought into the room earlier by a duty guard. As Afanasiy had demanded, the tools were strategically placed on a table taking pride of place in the center of the room. They were always the first thing a prisoner saw on entering and their eyes seemed to grow ever wider on seeing them.

Afanasiy smiled at the simple worktop on which the toolkit sat. It reminded him of his boyhood. He used to watch his mother scrub the cuffs of his father’s shirts on a table like this one. He would try to help; holding onto the sides, he would climb so his feet rested on the trestle bar and reach out a hand to pull the clothing straight. His mother would be leant over the bleached, old, wooden slats holding down a shirt sleeve, gripping a large block of funny-colored soap. The smell of steaming clothes would fill the room and she’d rub and rub, fighting the fight against unyielding stains. He smiled fondly thinking of how strands of hair fell over her face, and of how she’d stick out her bottom lip and blow them out of the way.

His father worked in an iron foundry, the shirts were old and frayed, the oxide stains impossible to remove, but that never stopped him beating the hell out of young Afanasiy’s mother for not getting them to his satisfaction. And because he was poor-sighted even as a boy, and not handsome enough to show off to his father’s friends, his father instead ridiculed him in front of them. He had been the first person to call him pebbles – bastard.

His attention jolted and he noticed Anchova’s lips curling up at either end; he even smiled quieter than anyone else. Interviews in these rooms were Anchova’s favorite part of the job. He loved playing softly-softly with a prisoner and then coming down hard. And he’d enjoy retelling the story of what transpired, as if it had been some hilarious incident at a social gathering. Afanasiy never shared those feelings. To him, interrogation and torture were a means to an end. However, looking at Borislav now, he wasn’t too sure if that was the case with him.

They strung Borislav up while he was unconscious and now, stripped of clothing, he hung dangling from his arms on rope blocks. He moaned; he was coming round. It was at this point Anchova would normally have the smelling salts ready, but not today; today he stood back and waited. Afanasiy looked at Borislav and shook his head. Not a pretty sight: more aprons hanging from his overweight midriff than could be found in a restaurant kitchen – a heart attack waiting to happen.

His patience was wearing thin. “Bring him round,” he demanded.

Anchova’s response was stunted. He had been nursing his ear, looking deep in thought, but he shook his head, unscrewed the cap from the bottle, and wafted the spirit of ammonia under Borislav’s nose. Borislav’s head jerked up, his arousal immediate. Afanasiy smiled inwardly; arousal, he thought, and couldn’t suppress a throaty laugh. Borislav’s little dick stood out like a very short, thin, pencil stub and his testicles had almost disappeared into his pubic crest.

Afanasiy moved behind the prisoner, hoisted the rope on one of the blocks with a snatch, and Borislav screamed as his shoulder dislocated.

“Why, why are you doing this?” he sobbed, tears and mucous dripping from his nose. “I’ve never touched a boy, I swear. Never have I touched any child … ever. I swear.” His face reddened and sweat popped.

Afanasiy’s chuckle dug thick phlegm from the back of his throat and he spat on the floor. “No, no, don’t go worrying about that, Sergeant. That was merely a ruse to get you here.”

The weeping halted, surprise seeming to override pain. “Get me here? But why I …?” He stopped talking and his brow scrunched.

“I must tell you, Borislav,” Anchova said, softly taking the stage. “My colleague here can be a very cruel man. I have my moments too, it’s true, but you’re a soldier like me. I don’t want to hurt you. Tell Sergeant Afanasiy everything he should know about this drug ring you are part of and I’ll make sure he doesn’t lift another finger against you.”

Georgy’s pain had him moaning again. “My shoulders, please, I don’t know anything about drugs, please.”

“Give me a hand,” Afanasiy said to Anchova as he pulled a tin bath filled with iced water across the floor.

Together, they placed the bath under Borislav’s dangling feet. There were cables on the table with the ends stripped back and the wires bared. Afanasiy twisted one end around Georgy’s index finger and tried, without success, to get the other around his retracted testicles. It took several moments to get the wire secured and a memory brought a gruff laugh to his throat. Anchova was also laughing, but you had to look at him to know it; it came out as a silent hiss.

“Are you thinking the same as me?” Afanasiy said.

“Yes, I think I probably am,” he whispered.

Afanasiy was talking about the time they carried out a similar interview. They had fastened a wire too tight and almost garroted a prisoner’s testicle. Blood had sprayed everywhere, on him, on Anchova, everywhere, but never have they had such a quick confession. The laughter settled, he sobered, and nodded to Anchova.

Anchova brought his soft voice into action. “You no doubt realize this will hurt, but I feel I must warn you, it might be a lot worse than you think. Your shoulder has already turned blue, probably because you’re fat and have poor circulation. And having the heart of a fat man, I’m really not sure how long you might live under this sort of interrogation. Why don’t you just tell us about the drugs and we won’t have to do this?”

Borislav remained silent and Afanasiy impatiently took Anchova’s arm, moved him to one side, and said, “Don’t worry about answers; I want this to happen.” He grinned up into Borislav’s face, released the ropes, and lowered Borislav’s body until his feet disappeared into the ice-cold water. Borislav stiffened and fear seemed to take on a whole new dimension for him; eyes agog and mouth opened wide, his eyebrows had lifted and forged deep rifts into his brow, his breathing had become indiscernibly shallow, the veins in his neck throbbed violently, his hair stood on end, and his superficial muscles quivered.

“And we haven’t even flicked the switch yet,” Afanasiy said, clearing his throat and spitting. “Hit the lever,” he demanded.

Anchova gave an expectant look to the prisoner, but getting no response flicked the toggle. The electricity flowed and Borislav went into convulsion. Afanasiy let the juice run for a few seconds then motioned his head and Anchova turned off the power supply.

“I’m not sure where all these heroics are coming from, Borislav, but let me tell you,” Anchova said, “we can do this all day and when the day is over, well, tomorrow is another day.” But the words went over Borislav’s head. His body had relaxed. He was unconscious.

Chapter 25

Sergeant Georgy had that pasty, dead flesh look when he fainted, which could be a worry. Afanasiy’s prisoners had died in the past, luck of the draw, but if Borislav were to leave this life before giving up his information it could leave Afanasiy with his balls in a sling. And he’d had enough of that after the Vorkuta fiasco. Knowing that Borislav was being illegally held and that he had the backing of his colonel, it didn’t take an Einstein to work out that he had to come through this unscathed. When he did come around, if he did, Afanasiy would go easy on him, bypass the rope block, and sit him in a chair. The soft touch wouldn’t make much difference now. The fear of further pain would be persuasion enough. Afanasiy had been on the job too long not to know when a prisoner was broken.

He and Anchova left Borislav to sleep it off in the interrogation room and went to a bar for lunch. On their return, they found the prisoner curled up and groaning – Afanasiy took more than a little relief seeing he was still alive. Apart from worrying about the prisoner’s health, he was glad to escape Anchova’s constant griping about how the cold was biting into his ear. He should’ve been thinking how lucky he was. If Afanasiy hadn’t had the quick wit to pick up the earlobe in Vorkuta, he couldn’t have had it sewn back on. Then he really would’ve had something to cry about – nowhere to hang his glasses. A guttural laugh choked from his throat and Anchova gave him a withering glare, as if he had second guessed what he’d been thinking. Afanasiy cleared his throat.

They tied Borislav to a chair and Anchova sat opposite him while Afanasiy sat on the edge of the bunk and pulled out a pack of Black Russian. He tapped one out for Anchova and lit up another for himself. Stupid glasses, he thought as small clouds of grey smoke drifted under the frames and stung his eyes. Borislav swayed in his chair like a drunk and if it hadn’t been for the ropes, he would’ve fell to the floor for sure.

Afanasiy lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m not sure he isn’t playing for time. Use the smelling salts.”

Anchova floated the ammonia under Borislav’s nose and he almost jumped back to life. He coughed a phlegm-filled cough and shivered as if in shock.

“At last … So, now you’ve had a small taste of what could be ahead for you I’ll hold back my persuasion, trusting you will talk.”

Borislav’s eyes were inflamed from his relentless crying. “You have no right …”

Sergeant Afanasiy was impressed that the man still showed a little spirit, a surprise indeed. He drew on his cigarette, pursed his lips, exhaled a thin blue line, leant over and stubbed the butt out on Borislav’s arm. Borislav yelped as red embers sparked from his flesh, some falling to the floor, others burning out alongside the black ash on his skin where a bubble had already begun swelling.

“Then get your rights back. Tell us what you know.”

Tearfully, he gave an exhausted sigh and hung his head. “What is it you think I can tell you?”

The people Afanasiy interrogated always played the game in the same way – but why? They must’ve known they would break in the long run, so why endure the pain first? Not a trait he suffered from, which was why he had been quick to give answers when the Kornfeld lookalike had questioned him in Vorkuta.

“Let’s start with the drugs. How is the operation set up and in which Russian districts do you supply?”

“What? Russia? No, no, not Russia,” he said.

The denial was a point at which Afanasiy should have inflicted more pain. But Borislav had a look of surprise. Anchova lifted his butt from the chair, but Afanasiy put a hand on his arm to restrain him. “Let’s do it another way,” he said. “I don’t ask questions, you just tell me about your end in the drug trade. Oh, and what drugs is it we’re talking about?”

Borislav’s shoulders slumped and he winced at the pain the movement caused. “Heroin … and it isn’t for distribution in Russia. I believe it’s shipped to the West.”

Afanasiy sat back and pondered. This scam could be bigger than he had first envisaged. If he got enough info from Borislav it could be meaningful to his career. “Shipped from where?” he asked.

“Turkey.”

Borislav wasn’t about to voluntarily tell his life story, so Afanasiy tried thinking ahead. “Who handles it and from where does it originate?”

“The Turks handle the operation. I don’t know where the drugs come from, only that a Hasidic Jew skippers the Gulet from somewhere east.”

A Hasidic Jew skippering a Turkish schooner. Afanasiy smirked. That was so unlikely it had to be true. “How do these Turks pay you?”

“They don’t. And I don’t really know anything about the Turkish side of things, I swear.”

“Then who pays you?”

The room went silent; Borislav looked down. Afanasiy decided to let it go for the moment. “Very well, I assume you have something to do with payment for the drugs.”

“Yes, I take care of that side of things. In fact, that is my main part in it.”

The interview continued, slowly and painfully. Nightfall painted the window black, but Afanasiy had the bit between his teeth. He couldn’t leave it now. “Why were you chosen for the task?”

Borislav was ever weakening and his head kept nodding forward. He was losing concentration. Afanasiy suddenly realized the prisoner hadn’t eaten since the previous evening.

“Answer this one question,” he said, “and I’ll let you sleep, eat, wash … and I’ll have a medic look at your shoulder.”

Borislav lifted his head and looked at Afanasiy with gratitude.

“Why were you chosen for the task?”

“I was recruited because of my position at the plant.”

Afanasiy wanted to press, but the prisoner was on a heading for delirium. “Okay, tomorrow we finish up. But remember, Borislav, if sleep gives you a renewed courage and you decide to get tough, so will we.”

But Afanasiy knew he was already finished. It was safe to wait.

*

Early morning, the air had its teeth in, and as the Smersh men walked from their accommodation to Tula’s KGB headquarters, Anchova complained of how it was biting into his ear. Afanasiy agreed to whatever he said with a nod, but he’d just about had enough of his partner’s whining. His ears blocked out all noise, and he let himself focus on the interview ahead. Inside the interrogation room, sunrays pierced the window, splintering across the open space, and capturing dust motes in beams of fuzzy light. Heat magnified through Afanasiy’s glasses and burned on the high points on his cheeks. Anchova could moan all he wanted, but it was a bright and beautiful day, and all was going well.

As requested, Sergeant Georgy had already been brought from his cell. The medics had reset his shoulder and he was fully dressed. Sitting with one shoulder drooping like a wounded bird, his eyes didn’t lift from the table top. Afanasiy almost felt sorry for him; he knew what it was to feel such depression.

“Good morning, Borislav. You had a good night’s sleep I trust?” The question rasped from Afanasiy’s throat. Deeper than normal, it even surprised him.

Borislav grunted a response.

“Okay, to pick up where we left off, you were recruited because of your position at the plant. What significance to the operation has your job got?”

Borislav gave him a puzzled look. “You had no idea of what was going on before you began torturing me, did you?”

Anchova fielded the question with quiet repose. “That has no relevance now, Borislav. Answer the question. What is it that makes your job significant?”

He let out a heavy sigh. “I use two of my drivers and a truck from the cartridge plant to take the payment to Turkey. My papers give me authority to travel freely. I oversee the operation to make sure the drug swap takes place without problem and then I come back to Russia with Anton.”

The questions queued up in Afanasiy’s head. He hardly knew where to start. “Who is Anton?” seemed the obvious place.

“He watches out for me.”

“A bodyguard. Okay, so Anton comes back with you?”

“Yes, but I left him looking after a Russian prisoner we had taken. Both Anton and the prisoner seem to have gone missing.”

“Russian prisoner? What Russian prisoner?” Afanasiy was hooked.

“I don’t know. A woman … Anna. I don’t remember her second name. A Turk who goes under the name of Batur tipped us off that she was coming to Turkish soil. We ambushed her after she left the airport.”

“Why? Did she have something to do with the drug trade?”

“I don’t know why. When I found out about her, I informed my superiors and they wanted her questioned and disposed of. I think she had something to do with those two men on the run here in Russia – at Vorkuta. My people seemed to think she knew them and they wanted their identities. They also wanted the full background of those she was meeting in Turkey. And they thought she might know who the Chechen rebels were from the Gulag.”

Afanasiy’s skin tingled. “Did you find out who any of these men were?” he asked eagerly.

“No.”

Leave it for now, he thought. “Very well, but you say the woman and your bodyguard went missing. What happened?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t have time to check it out. I had to get back, so I left the problem with Kudret.”

“Kudret?”

“Yes, Sergeant Kudret; he’s a policeman in Marmaris. He’s currently in charge of the drug trade. There have been a lot of changes in the Turkish operation lately. He came out on top.”

Anchova scribbled notes like there was no tomorrow and excitement tingled over Afanasiy with each new revelation. He continued, “Okay, so I’m guessing you’re paying for the drugs with ammunition from the cartridge plant?”

“Not ammunition, no. I transport Semtex plastic explosive. Don’t ask me how it ends up at the cartridge plant. I don’t know. I only deal with the paperwork, use it, and then bury it in the system.”

“What about the route? How do you get back and forth to a non-Soviet country without suspicion?”

“I told you; my papers give me authority to travel anywhere on Russian soil and I have similar powers for my truck and its drivers. The Turks I deal with make sure the authorities in Turkey never ask questions. As for how I get there, we drive to Odessa in the truck, take a cargo ferry to the Crimea where I take care of official business then I separate from my drivers. I catch a pedestrian ferry to Istanbul and the truck takes a cargo ferry. Anton is always waiting for me on the ferry. I have a car at my disposal in Istanbul and Anton drives me to the railway station. I pick up another car near Icmeler and we meet up with the truck a bit later.”

“Obviously the truck drivers are making the deliveries, but are they actually on your payroll?”

“Yes.”

“And this is all done legally?” Afanasiy couldn’t believe security could be so easily sidelined.

“Yes, part of my normal job is picking up and delivering materials for the plant. My remit covers invoice and supply, so everything is above board as far afield as the Crimea. This is why I go separately to Anton, so I can do the legal business before going on to Turkey. I often do the same on the way back.”

Afanasiy took a minute to take in the overflow of information before carrying on. “You said you cover invoicing, but there’s more to the paperwork than invoices. Do you cover everything?”

“Well, yes … no, not alone. Another sergeant at the factory helps. Between us the activity is covered from receipt of Semtex through to delivery. When I leave the Tula plant the paperwork describes a half load of ammunition and a half load of Semtex, but by the time we get to the Crimea it only mentions the cartridges. The ammunition I take is usually specialized stuff to justify using one lorry. My drivers do the unloading and up to now no one has questioned us about a delivery.”

“The Semtex; you’re talking high quantities?”

“Yes, as I said, up to a half a truckload at any one time.”

“Truckloads of Semtex being ordered and delivered to the Tula cartridge factory for your use would take a much higher sign off than a couple of sergeants. Who are you working for?”

Borislav’s expression changed as if his feet had been dropped back into the ice water and the wires reattached to his testicles. “Er, I don’t know. I get my orders in–”

“Yes, yes,” Afanasiy’s deep voice interjected. “In an envelope and the same method is used for payment; you never see who you work for.”

Borislav nodded.

“Borislav, do you know how long I’ve been doing this kind of work? That line and anything like it is just so old, believe me. Now, one more time, who are you working for? And remember your shoulders. Next time the damage could be irrevocable.”

Borislav’s eyes darted around the room, his mind clearly looking for something to say that wasn’t the truth but was, at the same time, something that Afanasiy would believe. The interrogator gave a throaty laugh while Anchova did his impersonation of a hissing snake.

“Just tell us,” Anchova bellowed softly; how did he do that?

Two of them competing to be quietest now, Afanasiy thought as Borislav whispered his answer. “Colonel Sergei … Colonel Sergei manages me and I pay everyone else. No one knows about the colonel but me.” He sobbed. “When he finds out I’ve betrayed him, I will die.”

“Not by his hand you won’t, Comrade,” Anchova whispered. “He’s finished.”

Afanasiy said, “We’ll collect the names of the minions later, Borislav. For now, tell us about Sergei. Is he the only high-ranking officer handling you?”

Borislav nodded in subservience. “Yes, Colonel Sergei; he gave me the orders and made the payments to me. From it, I paid those in my control.”

“You’ve done well so far, Borislav, but if I thought you were holding back information, hoping to negotiate later, I might have to strap you up again.”

He looked terrified. “No, no! I’ve told you everything!”

“Then why haven’t you mentioned Captain Ferapont? You met with him in Moscow on your return from Turkey. I’ve made checks and I can’t see any reason how you could know him.”

Borislav’s face opened in surprise. “Him? Oh no, I don’t work for him. Colonel Sergei asked me to go there and give him some paperwork with signatures. I was glad to get rid of it. I’d been carrying it around since I left for Turkey. I like the colonel, but he has a furious temper.”

Afanasiy nodded. “You didn’t peek at this paperwork?”

“No.”

“Right, one last question: if Sergei gets furious, what did he think about you losing your bodyguard in Turkey?”

“He doesn’t know. Anton is a civilian and only works for me. I didn’t want the colonel thinking there was anything wrong so I kept quiet about it.”

*

Michel studied his little Smersh men as they proudly marched into his office and handed over their report. They had driven back to Moscow overnight and had come straight to his office. Now, they took a step back and stood to attention, but failed to wipe away their self-satisfied expressions.

“Your faces seem to indicate you’ve enjoyed a measure of success.”

“Yes, General Petrichova. The ammunitions sergeant broke down. He gave us everything he knew and said he is willing to testify in return for leniency.” The gravel-throat sergeant seemed to think that funny. “Whether it gets that far is up to you of course, sir. But we took it on ourselves to bring him with us to keep him a safe distance from the cartridge plant.”

“Here in Moscow? Yes, good,” Michel said, drumming his thick fingers on the desk’s red inlay. The report was bulky, so hopefully Sergeant Georgy had a lot to say, he thought. He looked up from the paperwork. “I hope you didn’t use torture to get this.”

“No, General Petrichova,” Afanasiy growled brazenly. “There’s barely a mark on him. He’d been blubbing like a baby, so I gave him a cigarette to calm him. He dropped it and burnt his arm. But we didn’t touch him. And his initial whining had been because he’d resisted arrest at the ammunition plant and his shoulder was dislocated in the furor.”

“Hmm,” he said. A lie, he knew, but to be judgmental would be nothing short of hypocritical. The ruthlessness of these two was the very reason he had put them on the case. He thumbed the pages and excitement welled up. The interrogators might not have known it, but the sign-off required to bypass proper channels for such vast amounts of Semtex would be a hell of a lot higher than a colonel. And, there was no way for an ammunitions plant to justify having this amount of plastic bricks.

He stopped on the penultimate page. “You mention someone named Anna in the report.”

“Yes, General, we’ve written up everything we were told.”

“This is good, but make sure there is no follow-up on her. She’s undercover. Remove all mention of her.”

“Yes, sir,” Afanasiy said, giving a side glance to his partner.

Michel read on. “Hmm, and you can forget about the two men in Vorkuta as well.”

Anchova’s face reddened and he whispered. “But if you knew about the two men in Vorkuta, and this Anna works for you, General, why didn’t you tell us? You must have already known a lot of what’s in the report.”

“I did, but I didn’t want you going in forearmed. I wanted everything fresh and new. That way I’m able to fit in what I know, and verify whether Borislav is telling the truth.” They didn’t look convinced, so Michel thought he’d give them a carrot. “Right, this is good work, Sergeants, and could be very meaningful to your careers. Well done.”

The Smersh men’s faces creased into smiles. Everyone can be bought.

“My aide will contact Captain Bukosky and you will be commended, but you’re not finished yet. You will remain under my direct command until further notice.”

The Smersh men looked like they had already been promoted.

“I’ll have half dozen GAZ-69s and thirty agents from Osnaz transferred to your authority; I want you to grab some rest while I put the necessary warrants together. Take your command to Tula and seize the cartridge plant, commandeer all paperwork and arrest those implicated by Sergeant Georgy. Determine the top level of authorization for signoff of the Semtex. Remember one thing: until you’re in Tula no one should be aware of what’s going on. Apart from anything else, it could be dangerous for you.”

The Smersh men almost skipped from the office and Michel smiled; he had made a sound choice when making use of those two. But he could only hope Irishka didn’t get wind of things and shut down the Semtex trail. The situation was still finely balanced and the tables could yet be turned. The sergeants might have broken Sergeant Georgy, but once again proof was flaky. Any attempt to take Irishka down could yet blow up in Michel’s face.

Chapter 26

The Heroin Depot, Marmaris, Turkey

Yuri was at a loss. Why was he on his hands and knees? His arms suddenly lost strength and he flattened out onto his face. Take a minute, he told himself. No time. Hands grabbed his arms and he was dragged forward. Too rough, the contents of his stomach came up into his throat. He watched his shoes scuff their uppers as he was trailed over bare concrete. His mind swam and his stomach reacted to his unbalanced feelings. The ground became spattered with its contents.

Whoever was holding Yuri dropped him and stood away. “Oh, shit! … You dirty bastard!” a male voice said, and kicked him in the ribs. The blow took the wind out of him and he threw up again. What had happened? A prisoner clearly, but he couldn’t remember how it had come about. Shock jolted him. Mehmet! Had he been taken, too? No answers came before he was hauled from the building and thrown down. He pulled up to his knees and tiny whirlwinds whipped up sandstorms under his body, dust twisting into his face. He heaved again. An engine sprang into life and Yuri squinted towards the noise. The back door of a car opened. Eyes still watering from the dust attack, he saw the outline of a man by the vehicle.

“Get him in the car,” a voice said impatiently.

A deep voice answered, yet it sounded like a woman – Helga! Pieces fell together and then the whole sorry episode cleared in his mind. At least Mehmet was safe.

Someone took his weight and shoved him into the back seat of the sedan. Helga went around the car and squeezed in next to a man already in the vehicle. Yuri fell back against the soft upholstery and his head flopped forward. Pain seared in his eyes and the whole of his skull throbbed. He heard his own voice mumble but it didn’t even make sense to him. Hassan leaned into the back of the car and hovered.

“Don’t want him throwing up in the car,” Yuri heard before a blow struck the side of his head. Robbed of awareness, he slipped back into the darkness.

*

Yuri’s head hung heavily on his chest. He couldn’t see much, but what he could see didn’t add up. Earlier that day, when he left Great White with Adam, the sun had been shining, but a cold wind had stolen its warmth so he’d worn a long-sleeved shirt. The T-shirt he had on now wasn’t even his. Both of his arms were bared and strapped to a chair – palm up. Fear tingled over his skin; interrogators only did that when they wanted access to a victim’s veins. He lifted his head and looked around – Adam’s seed barn.

“Ah, Yuri, that was quite a nap you’ve had, but you’re back with us now,” Adam said, chuckling. “You were covered in puke, so we had to change your shirt. I just can’t work in those conditions.”

Yuri tried to look at him, but his eyes wandered out of control. “This is madness, Adam,” he croaked. “You can’t get away with it.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Killing the policemen alone will have the whole of the Turkish authorities after you.”

Adam laughed. “Oh, Yuri, you’re nearly as much fun as Batur. The Marmaris police station is running as normal and I have contacts in administration that will keep things as they are for the time being. But after you’ve given me your lists I’m sure the whole episode will … well, it will just go away.”

Yuri tried to laugh it off, but failed. “I’ll never give them to you.”

“Tut, tut, don’t be silly. I know all about your little weakness from Alik. Remember Alik Ishild? The agent who helped you kill Beyrek Ozel. He belonged to me right up to his untimely death … Yuri, I don’t have you down as a stupid man, and clearly you’re no longer wondering why I’m keeping you alive. But believe this – you can still walk away.”

Panic rose in Yuri’s chest. He’d been betrayed by one of his own: Alik Ishild. Now Adam would know about his past, how he’d failed in the face of the enemy. However, Adam had mentioned his weaknesses, but didn’t know how things had changed over recent months. Yuri had confronted his demons and won. Adam could promise whatever he wanted here, but he would never take away the bravery that had deserted him for so long, no matter the cost.

Suddenly, the barn door was flung open and Helga ran in. “Mister Mannesh, there’s at least one person spying on us from the top of the rise.”

“Well, what do you think I pay you for? Take care of it,” Adam growled.

“What, you want them killed?”

“Yes, of course! Why would I want them down here with me? I …” He stopped to deliberate. “Just a minute, let’s not be rash here. It could be the Turk that Yuri adopted. Bring him here. Maybe I can use him.”

Helga rushed from the barn. Yuri heard the conversation and frantically strained to free himself from his bonds, but he couldn’t move. Adam gave him a friendly smile and said, “So, where were we? Ah yes, you have something I want … two things actually. The lists obviously, but I also need to know if your team will return. I know about Mehmet and Anna. How many others are we talking about?”

Yuri’s gut twisted. He could lie to them, of course, but if they had Sodium Amatol or any other truth drugs he might get mixed up and tell them what they wanted to know. He decided not to reply.

Adam was stood next to Hassan, legs apart, hands on hips. “Oh so brave,” he chuckled.

Yuri closed his eyes, ignored him.

Adam snorted. “Persuaders, Hassan, we need the persuaders.”

Yuri sneaked a look to see a table, just out of the reach of his feet, with a small metal case on top. Hassan flipped the lid and took out a hypodermic syringe, cotton wool, a small bottle of surgical spirit, and a couple of screw-cap vials. No fear, Yuri told himself. He had to purge his mind of that possibility, as he’d been taught when training with Spetsnaz. He searched for something to concentrate on, anything, a mantra that would hold all else at bay.

“Yuri, I’m going to leave you to consider your options. And please don’t come to the wrong decision.” Adam picked up a vial. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of this one,” he said. “Dopamine: a natural chemical your brain produces to balance the central nervous system. Scientists are currently developing a serum to treat shock and nervous debilitations, like yours I suppose,” he laughed. “But it appears that given in the wrong quantities it induces fear, enough to send you out of your mind. I don’t know if that is true; I’ve never used it on anyone before.” He put the vial on the table, laughed, and his fleshy body swayed gracefully as he walked away. “Come, Hassan, join me. We’ll have tea.”

Yuri stared at the syringe and anguish took an ugly grip on his soul. Surely Mehmet would have contacted Michel before following – maybe, but what use would that be now? It would take hours for the unit to get from Odessa. And Mehmet coming here had been stupid. As good as he was with a knife, he was a lousy shot. He would have no chance against this many professionals. But Mehmet wouldn’t try anything by himself. Surely, he was too sensible for that. Yes, he’d make a run for it as soon as he saw them move on him.

But Yuri was finished, he knew. Until faltering in the Near East, he had been an inspiration to those who fought alongside him, so if it was over now, so be it. Whatever might be in store for him, he would never allow himself to weaken as he had then. He would die like a soldier. His mind lost itself in mantra: I will not weaken … I will not weaken … I will not weaken …

A minute or a month passed and Yuri heard the footfall of Adam and Hassan echo out on the boiler plate steps. They would be expecting him to have folded.

“Well?” Adam asked.

Yuri set his jaw and stared across the open divide without acknowledging the presence of the two Turks: I will not weaken. He gritted his teeth and silently repeated his mantra.

“Very well,” Adam said, but then faltered. “The thing is, I like you, Yuri,” he said softly, “and I really do want to give you a chance to save yourself. So before I take such a severe step you should be aware of the futility of your campaign … Yuri!”

Yuri would not relent. He bit into his lower lip and the flavor of blood swamped his taste buds. I will not weaken.

Adam shook his head and pulled cotton wool from the wad, soaked it with surgical spirit, and laughed. “Wouldn’t want him getting an infection, would we, Hassan?” he said, rubbing the cotton ball in the crook of Yuri’s arm. “This is the brachial vein if you’re interested; once injected the dopamine will travel to your brain in seconds, less.”

Adam’s lips parted and Yuri saw him nip his tongue between his teeth as he gave his undivided attention to what he was doing.

“You’re sure now?” he asked as fluid spit out onto Yuri’s arm.

I will not weaken.

The hypodermic needle punctured his flesh and the liquid forced a path into his artery. The effect was swift, immediate. His vision swirled and life’s fears grew in magnitude. In an instant, stark terror dominated his soul. Sweat ran down his back, his teeth chattered, and he shuddered as if in the shock of injury. Muscles tightening and chest constricting, his spine stiffened, and the fluid raced up through into his skull, stifling his brain.

I will not weaken.

“There, now, do I have to ask the questions again or will you be a good boy and cut to the chase?”

Over and over, the silent oath repeated itself: I will not weaken … I will not weaken … Staring forward, he ignored his tormentors.

“Give him another shot, Hassan.”

“But the chemist said that too much of this shit would kill …”

“Huh, these chemists! Don’t worry, he’s a big man. He’s not going to die. Give him the shot.”

“But if he does die, what happens to the lists?”

“Just give him the injection, Hassan. We’re not getting success from the first shot are we? And Helga hasn’t brought the young Turk back. Give him the shot. He’ll be fine.”

Yuri heard a sigh and then the needle jabbed again, the juice flowed, and his heart rate increased, thudding, palpitating, and banging like a hammer on the inside walls of his chest. He hyperventilated, his fingers and toes tingled, and pain stabbed his heart. His resolve collapsed. He would tell them anything, he would sell his very soul if only they would take away the fear and anxiety that saturated his being. Please, no more. But a new resolve forced through and turned his spirit. Determination stepped forward and his mantra began again, almost without his intervention. I will not weaken … I will not weaken … and then, though still conscious, he lost control of thought altogether.

Chapter 27

Mehmet had watched the small motor boat pull away from Great White and, with three large passengers and a skipper on board, bob along precariously in the water. He would have liked to see the swell topple the little water taxi and the men scramble for shore; if that happened he could help Yuri from the water and maybe whisk him away from a bad decision. Unfortunately, the skipper was all too aware of what he was doing and they neared the opposite shore unscathed. Mehmet skipped the steps down to the saloon and radioed the Russian Embassy annex in Yenikapi. After giving them an outline of what had happened, he ordered that the information be immediately patched through to General Petrichova.

Reaching the promenade, Yuri left the boat and walked off by himself, while Adam and Hassan took a heading in the opposite direction. The clothing Mehmet jumped into wasn’t suitable for the tail-end of the windy season, but there was no time to spare. However, he did pick up his throwing knife, an Uzi sub-machine pistol, and a spare clip. He slipped the clip into his pocket and wrapped the pistol in a pillowcase from the dirty linen basket. He only took the gun because Yuri would have him do so, but in reality his shooting was rubbish and the extra weight was a bit of a burden, but … no buts, just do it. He jumped the last two ladder rungs onto the pontoon and ran through to the harbor exit where he’d parked his Vespa. Coming to the promenade, he drove past Adam and Hassan. They didn’t notice him.

A couple of kilometers further into a fairly strong wind, he caught up with Yuri. “Yuri!” he shouted, slowing alongside the walkway. “What’s going on?”

Yuri gave him a sideways look. “Keep riding. I’m on my way to The Zanzi-bar on the Icmeler front.”

“I know it.”

“Go ahead then and keep out of sight. If you didn’t hear what was said back at the boat, they’re moving against Kudret and the heroin depots. Whatever you do, don’t get involved. Stay undercover until the others get here. I assume you’ve already contacted Michel?”

“I had to patch through a message, but yes, the unit will be on its way soon enough.”

“Good.”

The bike moved too slowly and the relentless wind took hold of the front wheel. The scooter had no choice but to follow it out into the centre of the road. A car screeched to a halt. A horn beeped and then another and finally both drivers yelled a tirade of abuse through rolled-down windows. Mehmet waved and nodded humble apologies before easing to the side of the road.

Fifty meters beyond The Zanzi-bar, he parked and walked back to hang around on the promenade. Lots of people, including Yuri, piled into the bar and after an age, a couple of limos pulled up outside. Yuri eventually came out with Adam and his cronies. Several people got into the cars and they pulled away with Yuri in the lead vehicle. Mehmet ran to his bike and followed from a respectable distance, and it wasn’t too much of a surprise to see the cars eventually stop at the drug warehouses. They all got out and went inside. For the first time, Mehmet noticed Sergeant Kudret was with them. And that made no sense at all. He continued watching from a distance, time dragged, and then he saw Yuri hauled out and thrown to his hands and knees. They heaved him into the back of a car and Hassan leaned inside and smacked Yuri on the head with some sort of cosh. Then the cars were off again, and again Mehmet followed. They were on a heading for the seed barn, so Mehmet went off-road, took a dirt track to get ahead, and left the scooter about two kilometers from the barn. A path running along the blind side of the hills brought him to a spot not far from the building. Inching his way to a high rise, he saw two men outside the barn. They had machine pistols and walked the perimeter in opposing directions.

Afternoon had worn thin, the wind cooling further and filling the air with a fine dust; Mehmet hoped it would work in his favor, that he could continue watching unobserved. But then a dark-skinned woman with short, blonde hair came through a small door harbored within one of the larger doors, and stopped to talk to one of the guards. Mehmet had seen a James Bond movie in Istanbul with Yuri: Goldfinger. The main heavy in the film was called Oddjob and if he had been wearing a blonde wig and a grey checked suit, then this ‘lady’ was a ringer, right down to the moustache. But then he changed his mind; she looked more Oddball than Oddjob.

The guard stared at the ground while she took in the vista. For a moment Mehmet’s spirit jumped, thinking she’d seen him, but then she nodded to the sentry and went back inside. Mehmet thought he would give it fifteen minutes, let them settle, and return to the marina to meet up with the others. He rested his chin on his forearms and relaxed.

*

Maybe he had nodded off or, if not, Mehmet had been suddenly aroused enough that his head jerked back in fright. But he must have been dreaming; those at the barn were still walking the perimeter without concern. The sun had dipped while he’d tried keeping vigil and it had left a grayed, bluish atmosphere in its wake. He shivered, time to go, but when he turned over, he found himself looking up at the tallest, skinniest man he had ever seen. To have labeled him ugly would have been flattery. His head was bald and he had a long, thin nose and large, black eyes; sunken cheeks hollowed out as far down as his stub chin and the yellow skin that covered it hung loose. A knife was gripped firmly in his fist and an unnatural, excited leer made Mehmet feel like a child about to be molested.

Fear took an instant hold and he reacted by spinning his body out of the way, but the man was fast, too fast. Mehmet had knife-trained on the streets of Istanbul as a child and then with elitists from Russia’s Special Forces as an adult, but this man moved like a specter. The knife swiped in a blur and the man grinned lecherously, an eerie smile splitting his face without revealing teeth. Mehmet had moved in unison with the assault, but too slow; excruciating pain froze his brain as the flesh covering his ribs unzipped and the blade sparked against bone. Blood gushed, he couldn’t move. He would surely pass out from the hurt. But he couldn’t allow it. Think … reason … If this man wanted him dead, surely he would be dead already. He’d been sent from the barn to take him prisoner. Remember Yuri’s teachings – take advantage of anything on offer. And the only thing going for him right now was that this misfit didn’t want him dead.

He ignored the agony and rolled a fraction, arching his back as if in unbearable pain, and slipped his knife from the back of his waistband. His attacker readily accepted that Mehmet was defeated and bent over him, grabbing hold of his shirt collar and pinning the knife to his throat.

“Carefully does it,” he said with velvet tonsils, as if the sexual kicks he was clearly getting were reaching a climax.

He pulled Mehmet halfway to his feet and held his groin against the top of his leg – he had an erection. Turn it to an advantage. Mehmet let his body flow in assistance with his aggressor as he was pulled closer. The knife at Mehmet’s throat relaxed as the other’s fervor grew. When he had eased it back enough that there was a space, Mehmet brought his knife between their bodies and plunged the blade to the hilt where his enemy’s heart would reside – should he have one. The shock of the assault was clear; his face stretched, his eyes widened, and his mouth yawned. Drooling turned to dribbling and leering to terror. He let go of Mehmet without a sound and stumbled back, clasping his chest. His long spindly legs juddered and he fell to his knees, looked at the fatal wound, and then turned his face up to Mehmet in disbelief.

Through his pain, Mehmet went behind him and kicked him to the ground. He leant over him, whipped the blade across his skinny foe’s jugular, and watched until the muscular contractions stopped. Yuri had taught him whatever condition they were in, always to make sure the opponent was dead before turning away. But then Mehmet dropped to his knees and clutched the sliced flesh that had folded back from his ribs. The wound was bad. He’d need stitching sooner rather than later. He should get back to the marina now, before he was too weak.

The day was ending and the curtains of darkness closing. Hopefully, he could slip away before the others realized their scout had failed. He took off his shirt, ripped the material into long strips, folded the pillowcase, and bandaged it against his body with the pieces of shirt. The bleeding seemed to slow, but then seeped through the material. He had to make a move while he could. He took a look over the rise to check the safety of the situation and a tremor ran down his spine as a spray of bullets stitched the sandstone near his face.

Chapter 28

Mehmet flattened out and edged back as bullets peppered the ground near him. He was only thankful that the scattered grit hadn’t dusted his eyes; he had already had enough misery for one day. The Uzi was to one side of where he lay, but stretching for it unzipped him that bit further. With fingers trembling, he pressed a hand to the injury, snaked closer to the gun, and clutched it to his side. He weighed up his options; he hadn’t any. Badly wounded and a host of gunmen at the bottom of the hill firing sub-machine guns at him, he was finished for sure. But Yuri was down there and in big trouble; he couldn’t allow himself to give up yet.

He pushed the pain aside and moved forward on his belly. As near to the edge as he dared go, he lifted the pistol, pointed it towards the barn and panned the gun as he fired. The fact the day was darkening made little difference to his shooting abilities; Yuri had always said he couldn’t hit a barn door from up close, but he proved him wrong on this occasion. The sentries raced to the base of the hill and again Mehmet pointed the Uzi over the rise and squeezed the trigger. Unlikely, but someone cried out. He peered over the rise and saw a man running back towards the barn, his deserted comrade left to squeal alone. Now was a good time to take advantage, now was the time to run. But getting to his feet, he wobbled and blood loss had his mind wandering. Still trying to concentrate, he saw Oddball run from the barn and make for the base of the hill. Her weapon was set to automatic and she fired as she zigzagged towards him. He fired back, but not for long; the clip emptied.

Clutching the Uzi to his injured side, he moved off, but the loss of daylight and concentration let him down again, and he staggered in the opposite direction to where he’d left the scooter. Oddball’s footfall grew heavy; she was closing the gap – fast. He clamped a hand to his side and stumbled rather than run. Reaching the bluff on the downward slope opposite the barn, he turned to see that Oddball had made it to the ridge. Maybe a hundred meters between them, but in his condition that was no advantage. Oddball began coming towards him and Mehmet took a step out onto the slope, misjudged his footing, and went tumbling down. Gut reaction caused him to roll up his body, but he hit the ground heavily, bounced, and went into a free spin. Pain seared and skin flayed from his naked back. His shoulder took the brunt of the fall and an old bullet wound there tore open. But all of that was a tickle compared to the ache in his ribs.

The descent continued. With no bushes, mounds of earth or outcrops to slow the fall, his speed whipped up. He carried on crashing downward until at last the steep slope gave way to a narrow gully. His body had suffered with every movement and now he just wanted to wallow in the relief of this new found stillness. But then he heard Oddball. Weakly, he pushed up onto his knees and struggled for cognitive perception.

Oddball’s head popped over the brow of the hill. She had set her weapon to manual, probably to save ammo, and fired off single shots. Fortunately, she couldn’t shoot any straighter than him, which might have been funny, but it wasn’t. If she was using an Uzi, she was on the fringe of effective distance, which was another indication that guns weren’t her strong point.

Mehmet watched her lower the gun to her side and begin clambering down the slope. He had his own Uzi clutched tightly to him. He had no recollection of clinging to it on his way down the hill, but wasn’t about to question why he had. There was a full magazine in his pocket, but there was no time to stop and load here. He stumbled along the gulley, took occasion to see if Oddball was gaining, and got a little satisfaction to see she wasn’t doing so well. While she’d thundered up the hill like an athlete, she only succeeded in scrambling down this side, bouncing inelegantly on her butt, holding her arms out, trying to balance the descent and then rolling over. He should have reloaded.

The hills that confined him to the gulley looked to open out a little way ahead. The day had darkened, but he was sure he could see greenery in the open expanse beyond. If he could round the bend he’d have time to bang in the clip and bushwhack her.

He stumbled along the gulley, crouching, while pushing a hand against his wounded ribs to hold the flesh together. Oddball was back on her feet and running, firing single shots as she did. He was almost to the greenery. If he didn’t fall, he could yet make it. But at the end of the draw his heart dropped into his stomach. The greenery wasn’t an opening at the end of the hills; it was a moss-like sludge trapped between them. However, the hills had opened to an extent; the sludge was at least fifty meters across and nearly as long, but it totally blocked his exit. If he tried wading across, Oddball would catch up and cut him to ribbons. He looked back to see she hadn’t made the sort of progress he would have expected. Think! Under, if there was enough water under the mire he could slip beneath and out of sight. On the opposite side of the pond he saw a small overhang. If he could swim under the sludge, he could hide beneath the overhang, get the magazine loaded up and make a last stand.

He dropped onto his less damaged side and slithered into the moss, but the stench of chemical flared his nostrils. More problems, it could be toxic. Oddball had second guessed his move and attempted to stem his progress by spraying a burst of shot. She was too far away, so he was fairly safe for the moment. And her emptying the clip would give him more time as she reloaded. Think! Toxic waste? Maybe. Lead poisoning from Oddball? Definitely – go!

Slithering into the slime, a new panic came as he flailed about on top of the sludge. There wasn’t any water. And to add to his gloom, his movements had pulled at the wound in his side. But he had to stay belly down. What to do? Try reloading or get further away? She was too close; there wasn’t enough time to reload. He slithered another two meters into the mire and thoughts of discomfort disappeared when he sunk down into a stink-filled sink. Water! It was warm and brought a degree of comfort to his many abrasions. In all probability, before submerging, he would’ve made a path through the bog and Oddball would easily guess his direction, so he veered off and away from the precipice, pulling a line through the moss on the surface. The deception couldn’t take too long; she would see what he was up to and he had held his breath almost to breaking point. He brought his hand back under, submersed to the bottom, and reversed direction towards where the overhang should be. His ribs burned, his strength was bleached, and his spirit weakened. All he had left was adrenalin. Bullets began zipping into the swamp water, but it was clear she had no idea where he was. Care was still needed; a stray bullet can kill as easily as an aimed one.

Lungs close to bursting, he frogged along the bottom until striking his fist on a rock and then coming up too fast, he struck his head, but at last his luck had turned; he had made it to the overhang and there was enough room between water and ledge to get his face out and grab air. He made sure his face remained covered with slime so that Oddball wouldn’t easily see him. The Uzi magazine was changed underwater for the sake of silence, but if that same water rendered the ammunition useless, he would fire, the pistol would click, and Oddball would be alerted to his whereabouts.

Suddenly, the silence broke without his input. A flourish of shots sizzled and zipped through the water near and far. There must have been a path around the perimeter that he had failed to see and his nemesis was working around it while shooting up the pond. The clumping of her shoes neared and then she was almost above him. Another step and she kicked grit over the ledge that splashed in front of his face. The overhang was dry and crusty. If he fired a line into it, maybe it would collapse. If she fell in, he might somehow have a chance; he had his knife.

Oddball fired her pistol until the weapon clicked – the clip was empty. It was now or never. He pointed the Uzi upward, squeezed the trigger, and kept the gun firing as if drawing a pencil line across the underbelly of the overhang. The ledge creaked and then avalanched into the water, which would have been a good result if it hadn’t fell on him and pushed him under. When the landfall stopped moving, Mehmet was pinned to the bottom of the mere, lungs all but empty of air. Pain ignored, he thrashed in panic, floundered, and kicked rocks away. The earth moved and his legs and arms were freed. When he arched his back, the rest of the debris let go of him. Putting himself at the mercy of Oddball, he pushed for the surface. His face broke through the moss and he sucked in sweet air, but instead of seeing Oddball waiting on the waterside, he found himself alone. She must have jumped away when the overhang fell and not realized he had been trapped. She would be hiding, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

He stayed in the water, but then heard moaning, soft moaning. For a minute he thought it was him and that he was crying. But the sound turned to a constant. And it definitely wasn’t coming from him. Wearily, almost hopelessly, he pulled at what was left of the ledge. Not enough strength in his arms, he tried for a foothold with his feet, dragged himself halfway out, dug his fingers into gritted rock, and pulled with his hands while pushing with his feet. He got ashore, lay belly down, and closed his eyes. Exhaustion had taken him and he no longer cared about Oddball. He was finished.

Minutes passed, the whimpering got louder, and he looked a little way across the divide to see Oddball on her back near the gulley wall. The area around her crotch was smothered in blood and one of her legs had almost separated from her hip. Her lips dripped blood and her face was contorted in anguish.

He dragged himself to a sitting position and pulled as much air into his lungs as he could manage. It was fresh and tasted of freedom. Relief overwhelmed him. He laughed and then he cried. The sky was a clear midnight blue and the brightness of a full moon stung his eyes. The simple sight of starlight and earth filled him with gratitude for the gift of life. He was alive and for the first time in memory was glad to be so. The wind had dropped, the air was cool, and for some strange reason, he’d gone past pain.

“Help me! Please, help me!” Oddball cried.

Mehmet’s fascination with the world around him was broken and he turned towards her. He should crawl over and kill her, he knew, but a spark of humanity came with the gratitude he was feeling. “Hold on,” he said. “I’m coming.” He got to his knees and crawled towards her.

“Help me! Please, help me!”

“Surely, I will. Just give me a minute.” He straddled his arms so he was leaning over her chest and worked his view down her body to see if anything could be done for her. And then, like a striking Cobra, her arm darted up and her fingers dug into his neck. Her strength was unbelievable and her grip choked the blood supply to his brain. His vision blurred and his eyes crossed. He couldn’t fight such strength. His body fell across her chest, but her grip remained solid. There was nothing he could do to stop her other than sink his teeth into her breast, but she seemed oblivious to pain. If something didn’t happen in the next few seconds, he would die. Tracing a hand along his waistband, his fingers wrapped around the handle of his knife. With teeth sunk into her chest, he used his face as leverage and pushed until there was a space between their bodies. Not much room, but enough to slither his hand between them and push the blade against her body. However, the knife must have blunted somehow and made no inroad, and awareness of what he was doing made her tighten the grip. Panic renewed his pressure and the knife surged, the blade finally disappearing between her ribs. Her grip weakened and then her hand fell limply from his neck.

He wept from exhaustion, and awareness of his injuries came back as a fanfare. Mind wandering, he no longer knew what was real and what was imagined. Rest, he needed rest. His body relaxed on top of her, his thoughts drifted as nonsense, and he passed out.

*

Mehmet had no idea how long he’d been out, but it was the brightness of the rising sun shining along the gulley that stirred him. Caked mud held his eyes half open, he squeezed them shut, and turned his head from the glare. And then consciousness reminded him of his pain, more pain than he had ever endured. He just wanted to whimper. But there was no time for self-sympathy. If he were to stay alive, he had to get moving.

Slime had dried on his skin and hair, his mouth felt like parchment, and his lips were cracked. How long had he been there? Maybe the dry sludge had acted as a stopper, but the bleeding in his side had halted. He struggled to his feet, edged around the pond, and staggered back into the gulley. If he could get to the rise of the hill without being seen, maybe he could wind his way past and back to the scooter.

In his head he knew Oddball hadn’t chased him far, even if it had seemed like a marathon at the time. Maybe it wasn’t such a journey back to the bike, but without food or water to sustain his efforts, it would be completely dependent on luck. He came to the scuff marks where he’d fallen down the slope and gave his all to get to the top of the ridge and then crawl to the point above the barn where Oddball had first come after him. Keeping low, he crept past as quietly as possible.

And then the sound of automatic gunfire filled the air and he wondered if a new world war had broken out.

Chapter 29

Dalaman Airport, East of Marmaris

Jez flew into Dalaman from Odessa with Anna and Pavel, and found the Russian Embassy guard waiting at the airport as arranged. The soldier handed ignition keys to Jez and led the way to a blue Fiat 130 Coupe parked on a dirt road just outside the airport.

“It has a V6 3.2 liter engine and goes like the wind,” the young soldier bragged.

“And you found that out when driving it here from Yenikapi, I suppose?” Jez asked. “You clearly weren’t aware of what was in the trunk.” It was filled with the weaponry and explosive that Jez had requested from Odessa.

The soldier seemed to realize that maybe he shouldn’t have said what he said and straightened. “No, I …”

Jez furrowed his brow. “What’s done is done, but you could have ended my operation before it began … Have you got a ride back to Istanbul?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll take no more of your time.”

“Thank you, sir,” the guard said and hurried off.

Pavel struggled to hold a straight face while Anna raised her eyes at Jez as if she were his mamma and then threw the one duffel bag that held the kit for all three of them onto the back seat. Pavel got in next to it, Anna sat up front, Jez took the driving seat, and said, “We go to the seed barn first. If Yuri isn’t there, it isn’t so far to go on to the heroin depots.”

Anna had liaised with Yuri and knew the whereabouts of both places.

They drove the eighty kilometers of winding, sandy roads that had more bumps than a stingray’s backbone, until at last Anna told Jez to stop.

“We’re about two kilometers from the barn. Reverse up to the other side of that hill. If any vehicles pass they won’t see our car and we’ll be well positioned to make a quick getaway after rescuing Yuri.”

Jez smiled at her optimism, but did as he was told and reversed the car into position. He then went to the trunk and unloaded enough of the firearms for a light assault, but turning away from the car, something caught his eye and he pointed. “There’s a motor scooter there,” he said, and went over and sat on it. “The key is in the ignition. What do you think, Anna?”

“Lots of people around here drive these things. I’m pretty sure Mehmet has one, but he is supposed to be waiting for us at the boat.”

“Why didn’t we pick him up anyway? Extra hands are always a help,” Pavel said.

“Mehmet is a top operative with everything other than a gun. If Yuri is in trouble then Mehmet could be more of a hindrance than a help.”

Pavel nodded in agreement. “Okay, Michel is sure they’ll keep Yuri alive for his lists. Let’s hope Mehmet hasn’t gone all gung-ho and rushed in to save him because there are no such good reasons to keep him alive.”

No one answered. They went back to the Fiat and Jez passed weapons out. Pavel crisscrossed ammo belts across his chest, shouldered an AKM assault rifle, and removed the shoulder stock from an APB 6P13 pistol before squinting along the length of the silenced barrel and tucking the gun and a spare magazine into his clothing. Jez did much the same, but Anna took only a pistol.

Jez weighed up the situation and then said, “Okay, let’s do it.”

It had been near eighteen hours since Mehmet had sent his report to Michel; there hadn’t been much time to make plans and now time was pressing. Jez knew that however they got this job done it wasn’t likely to be subtle.

The sun glared over the eastern ridge and it was hot as they took off at a crouch. They covered the ground at speed, until the road opened out and the barn came into view. Time came to belly out, so they crawled to the rear of the building. There were three guards at the barn that were taking turns in checking the perimeters. Jez let the latest get halfway along the rear of the building and reached for his pistol, but Anna put a hand to his upper arm and indicated that she would do it. He eased back as she rested the silenced barrel on her left wrist and took careful aim before gently squeezing off a couple of shots. A noise comparable to a couple of pebbles hitting a wooden door popped and two headshots dropped the guard.

Jez asked, “Why stop me from making the hit?”

“Because you and Pavel have AKM’s and are better positioned to defend should anything go wrong.”

He nodded and crawled off towards the front of the building with the AKM slung over his back. Another guard was out front and alone. He seemed relaxed enough, standing with his feet wide apart and loosely clutching the machine pistol across his midriff. But for the simple job of guarding a barn, Jez thought he came across as too alert. Maybe Mehmet had made a visit and the guards were expecting more trouble.

The APB 6P13 was fully automatic, but a skillful user could easily fire one, two, three, or four round bursts with accuracy. Jez took the gun from inside his jacket and nonchalantly walked out and showed himself. The guard was a little faster than anticipated and turned, swinging his machine pistol up into firing position, but Jez had already straightened his arm and fired four rounds, panning the barrel and striking the major kill points around the guard’s torso.

The sound of Pavel’s AKM assault rifle rattled out on the other side of the barn, so Jez returned the pistol to his jacket and swung his rifle to the front. Anna ran past him and went to ground near the base of the hill out front. She was up on one knee and had her pistol balanced over the crook of her arm. Pavel came round to join them and looked at the guard Jez had killed.

“That’s all three down,” he said, as he and Jez turned to face the barn.

For around twenty seconds it must’ve sounded like Chinese New Year as they opened fire and the guns blazed until the magazines emptied. The power was focused on the smaller entrance door and was enough for it to burst inward. Jez put the rifle down, took out his pistol, and crouched in wait of retaliation.

“Don’t take anything for granted,” he whispered. “There must be something in there or why guard it?”

Anna moved swiftly to one side of the large double door and covered the opening. Pavel mirrored her action opposite. Jez dropped to a crawl and elbowed his way through the small entrance. He saw a man on the floor drawn up into the fetal position. Yuri! His arms had been strapped to a chair and he’d been pushed over and left lying on his side. But his legs were free; why hadn’t he got to his feet and smashed the chair against the ground or the steel steps?

Jez went to him, but Yuri curled away and the terror in his face was clear. Jez hadn’t heard anything, but now, close up, he found himself listening to pitiful whimpering. Yuri was crying as if in a panicked terror.

“Yuri,” Jez whispered and leant over to put a hand to his shoulder, but Yuri shriveled back. Jez stepped away. “Secure the inside walls,” he yelled, and Anna and Pavel rushed in at a stoop, guns held out at arm’s length and ready to open fire.

“Secure!” Anna shouted.

“Secure!” Pavel echoed.

“Cover my back,” Jez said and raced up the mezzanine steps, checking the rooms at the top.

“Secure along here,” he shouted.

Anna had followed Jez up the steps, but turned the opposite way at the top. She went into the rooms on that side until reaching the end of the narrow corridor and then checked the outside area from a window there. “There’s someone crawling along the top of the rise in front of the barn.”

Jez rushed up behind her. “I see him. He’s mine,” he said, already running back down the steps. Outside, he veered off to the right and wound his way up the incline to one side of where he had seen the man on the ridge. At about fifty meters along the top, the target was on his knees and crawling away. Jez held his pistol ready for unseen tricks and ran past the corpse of a long, skinny man and on to the one crawling.

“Stop!” Jez shouted in Turkish. “Spread your hands out on the ground in crucifixion and don’t move a muscle.”

The man jerked, as if he’d been wakened from sleep, and then splayed his hands out on the ground. He lay there like some sort of pond life, covered from head to foot in something green that had dried to his skin. His hair was matted and his upper body naked, except for the sludge. There were signs of blood and most of his skin was scraped from his back. Without permission, the man pushed himself back up onto his knees and began crawling away.

Jez pressed the gun into the side of his neck and said, “Stop or I shoot. Roll onto your back.”

The man rolled over and groaned as his flayed flesh made contact with the rock.

“What is your name? Who are you?” Jez asked.

Weakly, the man croaked, “Mehmet Pasha.”

*

Jez staggered and slipped as sandstone gave way underfoot. He edged his way down the incline, taking care with his wounded comrade; if they were to take a tumble, it could be the finish of him. He had given Mehmet a quick once over and while the extent of his injuries weren’t overly clear because of the dried sludge, it was obvious enough that the wound in his side could be life threatening. The jostling down the hillside must’ve caused horrendous pain, but Mehmet made no bones about it. At the bottom, Jez carried him over to the barn and sat him against the outside wall. Pavel had found a switch and opened the large double doors. He watched them cross, but made no attempt to help.

“I assume that’s Mehmet,” he said.

“Yes, and thanks for the help.”

“Oh, sorry, you looked in control,” he said and then quickly added, “I’m going to check the immediate area. There has to be more to this lower level than a parking lot.”

“See to it that Mehmet has water first,” Jez said, and left to go into the barn.

The sun softly invaded the space inside, capturing dust motes in its beams. Yuri had been freed from the chair, but remained curled up in a ball. Jez said of a small table lying on its side, “Looks like they left in a hurry. Pity we killed the guards; maybe they could have told us where Adam is and what he’s up to.”

Anna’s attention had been taken by something behind the table and she was picking it up. A couple of empty vials and a syringe. The vials had labels, but were smudged and damp. She took them to the door. “Dopa … just a minute, dopamine. Have you heard of it?” she asked.

Jez shook his head. “They must have used it on Yuri. We’ll take it with us. Maybe our people have an antidote.”

“No!” a voice screamed out behind them.

Jez turned to see Mehmet on his knees clawing his way towards Yuri. He hadn’t cried at his own pain but now he was sobbing like a baby. “No, no, Yuri!” He reached out a hand, but Yuri curled away.

Jez got Mehmet to his feet, forced him back outside, stood him up against the barn door, and said, “Mehmet, he’s been drugged, but our medics will be able to do something. It won’t be as bad as it looks.” But Jez had enough experience not to believe a word he’d just said. There was no quick fix for anyone in that state.

Pavel came from the back of the barn. “Nothing of interest around the barn’s perimeters and the parking lot is just that, a parking lot.” He focused on Mehmet. “How are you holding up?” he asked.

Mehmet continued to stare at the ground without answering.

“Pavel, bring the Fiat up to the front of the barn,” Jez ordered. “We have to get our wounded to the boat and arrange a pickup.”

*

Jez had organized for helicopters to pick Mehmet and Yuri up, and they had to heavily sedate Yuri just to get him onboard. By now, with luck, they should be in Istanbul. General Petrichova had patched the order through that they wait on the boat for further orders, so they motored Great White from the bay and anchored a distance offshore where radio reception would be better. The locals would have thought the temperature on the cool side, but that wasn’t the case for Jez; he hadn’t been in such heat since his Spetsnaz days. He found a light breeze up top and had just made himself comfortable when Pavel popped his head up from the lower deck.

“Michel is on the radio and wants to speak with you,” he told him.

In the saloon, Jez cleared his throat and put the earphones on. “Michel, we are prepared to leave and Yuri and Mehmet should have arrived in Istanbul by now.”

“No, I’ve given it some thought and it seems that every time we douse the flames in that area, the fire comes back stronger. I want the Turkish connection extinguished once and for all. You will destroy the drug depots along with Adam Mannesh’s Icmeler premises. And I have no desire to hear of survivors. Do we understand each other, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, General, crystal clear, sir.”

With protocol satisfied, Jez went back up top to think over the orders. While he knew Yuri and Michel were close friends, he was still surprised. The situation was no longer a Soviet concern and Michel was usually a stickler for procedure. Nevertheless, Jez couldn’t deny a twinge of satisfaction hearing the new orders; Adam Mannesh had played a cruel game and what he’d done to Yuri deserved retribution.

Anna and Pavel joined him on the flybridge.

“So where is our next stop?” Anna asked.

Jez pulled his mouth into a straight line and then smiled. “Right here. Our orders are to seek and destroy every aspect of the Icmeler operation.”

“Everything?” Pavel said.

“Yes, and Michel made it clear he would be disappointed to hear of survivors.”

*

“There’s nothing to suggest anyone’s been to the barn since we were here last, but we go in commando just in case,” Jez said, as they made reconnaissance from the approach road to the barn.

Masking up with camouflage paint and sticking pieces of tumbleweed into the necks and waists of combat clothing to change their human form, they crawled forward, surrounding the building on three sides. No signs of life. But Jez had to be sure before committing the unit. He crawled to the side of the barn and worked his way around front. Unsure of what his next orders might be, he had left small, tell-tale objects at the base of the large outside doors and a cobweb-colored cotton across the centre of the integral door before leaving with Yuri. He now broke the cotton and crept inside, inched his way to the mezzanine steps, and took them at a crouch. After a thorough check, he shone a flashlight through the upper window to let the others know the area was secure.

Anna ran from her position, crossed by the front of the barn and on up the road they’d just come in on. She drove the Fiat back in front of the barn where Pavel flipped the trunk lid and took out Semtex plastic bricks. She then took the car a safe distance away and returned to help Pavel. Some of the bricks were taken into the barn and the rest stuffed into the holes dug around the foundations outside. Anna joined Jez at the top of the hill where he had kept vigil. Pavel was soon to follow, but he came up the incline, unrolling detonator cord. At the top, he tightened the two wing nuts onto the wiring terminals and said, “Ready to blow.”

“Then do it,” Jez said.

Pavel pushed the plunger, the current travelled, the Tetryl in the detonator head fired, and the Semtex began its campaign of destruction. The individual bricks detonated in quick succession and came together as one great ‘Whump!’ Sand and rock blew upward and outward, a dust cloud formed and settled, and in the blink of an eye the barn was history.

Jez stood and said, “Okay, nothing much anyone can do with that. Move out.”

Chapter 30

Marmaris Police Station

“Why move here? Surely, the capital is more exciting,” the young police officer said in a wanting voice.

Nazar raised an eyebrow. “If you like having to watch your back all the time then I suppose it is.”

The young officer was Alexandros. Of Greek parentage, he had olive skin and the features of a Greek statue. His big puppy-dog, brown eyes alone were likely to turn the heads of most girls, but he didn’t seem aware of it. A shy young man, he hung on every word Nazar uttered and the hero worship he tried hiding from the older officer was clear for all to see. Nazar liked to tease him and made up gory stories that put Alexandros in recoil, but then he would make up some heroic deed he hadn’t done and draw the boy back in. Nazar enjoyed his God-like status and had no intention of losing it. He ran a finger over his lip, smoothed out his pencil-line moustache, arched back slightly, and held his well-practiced pose.

Nazar’s friend Savas enjoyed the taunting, too. “I was thinking about Ankara,” he began. “Remember? When we were in Gençlik Park1. You should have been there, Alexandros. The girls come to our friend Nazar here like bees to flowers. One more or less hung onto his shirttails as we walked through the park. To cut a long story short, we both ended up fucking her. But she hadn’t wanted me. I can’t imagine why.” Pulling his head back in a similar pose to his friend, they all laughed. “Anyway, when we were done with her she held her clothes together at her chest and screamed and shouted at us, threatened us with the police. Nazar got fed up with her ranting, pulled out his knife, and slashed her.”

“Arma manesca,” Nazar said, popping the blade from its handle. “My Italian thrusting knife.”

Alexandros withered. “But why? Why would you want to hurt her? And why should I have been there?” he finished a little indignantly.

“Because you could have lost your virginity,” Savas said and the two older policemen went into raptures.

Alexandros’s face blushed crimson and he began defending his manhood. “No, no, that isn’t true. I’ve been with lots of girls. In fact, I have to turn away more than I can handle.” His face blazed and Nazar could see they’d hit the nail on the head, but it was Savas who picked up on it first.

“Yes, we definitely have a virgin here,” he said, holding onto his wobbling stomach.

The mocking came to an end when a machine gun knock rattled the main door and a mustached, heavy-shaped man with a heavy-shaped head and swarthy skin rushed into the foyer and began pushing his way into the office entrance to one side of the incident desk. An admin worker jumped up from his desk, but failed to stop him going in.

“I need to speak to Sergeant Amoun,” the man blurted out.

“And you are?” Savas asked, as he filled the passageway and brought the intruder’s progress to a halt.

“My name is Avra. I work as a driver for Mister Mannesh.”

Nazar ran a finger over his top lip. “Adam Mannesh?”

Avra nodded. “Yes, I need to speak with the sergeant about the seed barn.”

Alexandros was still looking a little hurt from the send-up, so Nazar put a hand on his shoulder and tried to placate him. “We were only messing with you. Savas had made up the story to get you going. Cheer up and I’ll take you to a club tonight after work. And if you are a virgin today, you won’t be tomorrow.” Nazar smiled and the boy smiled back weakly.

Avra told his story as he was taken to the sergeant’s office.

“Tell him what you’ve just told me,” Nazar ordered when they got inside.

“I drove a change of guard out to the barn. But there were no guards to replace and there was no barn for the new guard to watch over.”

*

They returned to the police station and Sergeant Amoun sat in the main interview room scratching his head. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it. Adam told me that the building has stood through earthquakes, nothing has worried it, and now it’s completely gone. It must’ve been Russian mafia or the Russian agents Adam told us about. Either way, it was Russians.”

“We should pack up and go back to Ankara,” Nazar said, his usual poise slipping.

Amoun moved the scratching to the side of his face. “I don’t know. You could be right.”

Savas stepped in aggressively. “You’re fucking mad, both of you. Do what you like, but if you think I’m leaving all this money behind for a few Ruskies you can think again. Anyway, without Adam’s help it would take forever to fix the transfers. And somehow I can’t see assistance coming from that corner.”

Amoun looked at him and moved the scratching to his chin. “Hmm, and of course you’re right, Savas. And thinking about it, the Russian mafia wouldn’t slaughter the milk cow that provides for them, even if for some reason there was a piece of steak in it for them. No, it will have been the agents, and according to Adam’s spies there are only a few of them … We carry on as normal.”

“But what about Adam? He might have been in the barn when it went up,” Nazar said.

“He wasn’t. I spoke to him only yesterday. He had to rush off to Ankara to sort out some trouble there.”

Alexandros walked into the office and looked puzzled when everything went quiet, but then beamed when Nazar winked at him.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Amoun said. “Savas, take the front desk. I’ll be in my office. Nazar, you can go somewhere and play with your new friend.”

Amoun and Savas laughed heartily.

Chapter 31

Marmaris Police Station

“The young policeman going in,” Anna said to Jez, as they sipped Turkish tea in the restaurant opposite, “I’m sure he’s not part of Adam’s crew, but it’s important that we find out how many of them are.”

Jez looked at the tea, grimaced, and pushed the cup across the table, away from where he sat. “Okay, I speak a little Hebrew. I’ll go into the station, put the accent on my Turkish, see if I can get a headcount.”

“Oh and how will you do that using Hebrew?” Anna asked, eyebrows rising.

“I’ll tell them I’m looking for relatives and we’ll see where that leads us … Don’t worry, I’ll get by.”

The foyer in the police station was quiet. A young man in civilian clothing worked alone in a corner and the main desk was unmanned. The clerk took no notice of Jez’s arrival.

“Excuse me, sir,” Jez said respectfully. “I wonder if you could help me with directions.”

The man lifted his head as if he’d been in a trance, smiled, pulled his glasses down over his nose, and looked at Jez from above them. “The desk officer is out back, but if I can help I will.”

“Well, I’ve worked my way from Israel, around the coast, and sometimes across the water. After all these days travelling without problems, I’ve managed to lose my way,” he said, accidentally throwing in the odd Hebrew word.

The man grinned. “And where is it you want to go?”

“I have relatives in the Jewish quarter of Izmir, next to the street of synagogues to be exact. I know there’s still a long way to go but I thought it might be easier travelling overland and take a more direct route. I wondered … is there a long-distance bus or train I can pick up from here?”

“Wow, you do have some way to go, but yes, I think I can help you with that.” He sorted through a couple of listings from a shelf on the back wall, spread a tatty map out over his desktop, and then spent five minutes familiarizing Jez with the journey. But then a car screeched to a halt outside the station, loud enough that Jez and the clerk looked up. A heavy, swarthy man rose from the car and barged his way into the foyer.

“I need to speak to Sergeant Amoun – right now,” he demanded. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed past, rattled on the inner office door, and disappeared into the main block.

“Everything’s gone to pot since the troubles we’ve had,” the clerk said in exasperation as he sat back down.

“Troubles?” Jez asked.

“Oh, don’t worry, too long a story. But three policemen, Sergeant Amoun and two of his officers, have transferred in from Ankara. The place has been in chaos since they arrived. To make things worse, the long-serving officers have all gone, immediate transfers, something like that. Amoun said he would explain fully when the time came, but that seems to be sometime never.”

The words had barely passed from lung to lips when the swarthy man came rushing out with three policemen surrounding him. They left the station, got into the civilian’s car, and drove off.

“See, that’s them. I’m telling you, chaos. They didn’t even hint where they might be going or how I can get hold of them should the need arise … Chaos.”

The younger policeman came out into the foyer.

“This is Alexandros,” the clerk said, still looking ruffled.

Alexandros nodded to Jez before turning to the administrator. “Nazar told me to man the front desk.”

“I bet Nazar is the great big man,” Jez said, nodding knowingly.

“What makes you think that?” Alexandros asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Sounds like a big man’s name.”

“Wrong. Nazar is the slim, good-looking one. The fat one is Savas.” Alexandros said, as he sourly turned away and moved paperwork around the desk as if in a sulk.

The clerk turned his attention back to giving Jez directions. Jez thanked him and left.

*

“It’s a bit late to pick up on the whereabouts of the policemen. We need to hit those three more or less at the same time, so I think it will make sense to take out the heroin clubs this evening and our police officers at the end of their working day tomorrow,” Jez suggested, after returning to the marina.

“Sounds good,” said Anna. “But I’m not in favor of hurting those mixing the product. They will be poor peasants trying to get some quick money together. Dishonest, but not enough to die for.”

Jez said, “It makes the task more difficult. We could level the depots from a distance. Saving the workers means getting up close.”

Pavel shrugged. Anna nodded.

Jez sighed. “I don’t like the idea of risking your lives to save theirs, but … if that’s how you want to play it.”

Pavel drove the Fiat towards the target area. “Pull off the road here,” Anna told him and they crossed desert-like terrain for a kilometer. “Turn off the headlights. That dip in the bank over there, it takes you into a dry gulch,” Anna told him.

Pavel eased the car down the incline and drove along a gulley that ran parallel to the blacktop.

“Keep the revs low and freewheel where possible. The gulch runs past at around five hundred meters from the front building, but the night is silent. They might hear.”

“It’s hard to tell if this is a natural riverbed or a storm drain,” Pavel said. “Not that it matters; either way it gives perfect cover.”

“Stop here,” Anna ordered. “We walk the last hundred meters.”

They took position opposite the main building and watched. A police car drew up outside and two policemen went in: Nazar and Savas.

“If we move quickly, we could virtually finish the whole job right now,” Jez said.

“No, we should stick to the plan,” Anna came back at him.

The chance slipped when, in no time, Nazar and Savas were back out and gone.

Jez sighed. “Might as well settle in; it will take most of tonight to check out how their time passes.”

Only one man stood on the door, but every so often four others joined him from inside. During the time they watched, Jez counted eight different guards on duty.

“None of them are wearing masks,” Anna said.

“So?” Pavel said.

Jez said, “The manufacturing is in progress and the atmosphere will be full of heroine particles. Without masks they might lose control, with masks they would lose their edge.”

Another hour passed and an open-backed truck full of women in flimsy robes pulled up: a new shift.

“They don’t look too happy in their work.”

“No, but they will be when they come out,” Pavel answered.

Almost immediately, a group of women, also in flimsy robes, piled out of the club laughing. They climbed up onto the flatbed of the truck and took position along bench seating on either side. A guard climbed up with them and the truck pulled away with a group of very happy workers.

Jez smiled. “One of the perks of mixing the powder … Quickly, let’s get the fire power out of the car. Pavel, you take what you need along the gulley and set up your attack point. Leave what you don’t need, here. Anna will come with me.”

The Fiat’s suspension springs groaned with relief as Jez helped unload the trunk: communication handsets, field glasses, an RPG-7 anti-tank grenade launcher, three Dragunov rifles, Uzi pistols, and an assortment of explosives and spare ammo.

“Anna, grab an Uzi,” Jez said, as he also picked up one of the Israeli sub-machine pistols. “And one spare clip should be enough. Pavel, we are going after the truck and our radios will be out of range, so we won’t be able to assist if you’re heard. Silent running should be maintained.”

Pavel nodded and began moving his artillery while Jez and Anna backed up the gulley with the Fiat engine as low revving as was possible. Reaching the road, they sped towards Icmeler until catching sight of the truck. Jez pulled his silenced pistol and laid it across his lap. “I’ll cut in front of them.”

He floored the accelerator and came alongside the wagon. A guard in the back pointed a sub-machine gun their way and tilted his head, questioning. Anna pointed to the rear wheels and waved her hands frantically. The guard tapped the roof of the cab and shouted for the driver to stop. Jez pulled up the Fiat in front of the truck, got out, and made to tuck his shirt into the back of his trousers. Anna got out with her arms folded across her chest as if she were cold.

“Something is dangling from under the back of the truck,” Jez said with voice raised. “It looks dangerous.”

The guard lowered his weapon and turned towards the rear of the truck. Jez swung his Uzi to the front and shot him. The driver ducked down in the cab and came back up firing a handgun. Anna whipped her pistol from under her arm and squeezed off a spray of shots into the cab door. A grunt was followed by what sounded like the driver’s handgun clattering to the metal floor. Anna raced around to the opposite side of the cab, jumped onto the soleplate, and pointed the weapon inside.

“Secure here,” she shouted.

Jez had covered her back while making sure those in the truck weren’t in a position to show hostility.

“Okay here, too,” he replied. The girls huddled closer together as Jez gave them his full attention. “Don’t worry,” he told them. “You are in no danger from us. We just need to keep an eye on you for a while.”

Anna helped him drag the bodies to a ditch and then said, “I’ll drive the truck. Follow me to the seed barn and I’ll stay with the girls.”

Jez followed in the Fiat and, arriving at the crater where the barn had once stood, helped Anna to herd their captives into the center of it before taking the truck to the depots to where they had unloaded the weapons from the Fiat. He made his way from the truck to where Pavel lay in wait.

“We have a few hours to kill before the next shift change,” he said on reaching him.

Pavel grinned. “That’s okay, look,” he said, handing Jez his field glasses while grinning.

Jez focused the binoculars; the workers were all sitting around a long table and the only thing stopping them from being completely naked were little white masks covering nose and mouth. “I suppose being undressed makes it difficult for them to steal the powder.”

“Whatever the reason, the usual boredom of the waiting game has passed quite pleasantly.” He smiled a cheeky smile while raising his eyebrows up and down. “I would hate to get like the guards down there. All those attractive girls, buck naked, and they don’t give them a second look.”

Several hours passed, happily for Pavel, and the guards filtered outside. Some checked wrist watches, others walked to the bend in the road and came back shaking their heads. A couple of the girls came out with their robes on and five minutes later, the rest followed.

“I’ll work around to the other side,” Jez said. “I’ll click the radio to tell you to ready yourself, but don’t fire until I give the order.”

*

Pavel had set the volume to minimum on the radio, so when it clicked it was barely audible. But click it did and he hoisted the grenade launcher onto his shoulder, and steadied himself. Haven’t used one of these things for a long time, he thought. Remember: hold position after you fire or the back-blast might take you out. He aimed at the building furthest away from the girls and waited. Finally, the word “Go!” crackled out on the handset and he fired a missile.

*

Jez heard the missile whoosh and the building furthest from the workers took a direct hit. The structure remained upright, but then it creaked and groaned before collapsing into a pile of rubble. The girls tried to run into the building they’d just vacated, until Jez sprayed a burst of shot across the door, taking down one of the guards with the assault. The panicked workers veered off and began running down the road.

“Now!” Jez yelled and a second whoosh devoured the remaining building; he had emptied and reloaded a second clip before any of the guards had chance to properly regroup. Pavel put aside the heavy artillery and came in behind those surviving Jez’s onslaught. And then, almost in moments, it was over and everything went quiet. Jez allowed five minutes of silence and then moved forward at a crouch. “Shallow breathing,” he ordered over the radio, stiffening. “The settling dust is heroin.”

Pavel came into view.

“Nothing to tidy up here. Gather the girls,” Jez told him.

“No casualties with this lot,” Pavel said, after ordering girls from their hiding places and gathering them into a group. “Get the truck, Jez. Everything is under control.”

Jez brought the wagon to the front of where the depot had been and they loaded the girls into the back. They were all terrified and must have wondered if this was the end of the road for them, so Jez tried to appease. “I promise you,” he said. “If you do as you’re told, there is no need to worry for your safety. You’ll all be back in your homes in a day or so. My friend here will sit in the back of the truck with you, so don’t get ideas of escaping.”

They picked up the group from the seed barn and Anna rode shotgun in the truck while Pavel followed in the Fiat.

“I’ve arranged to leave the girls at a village in a bay in the district of Orhaniye on the opposite side of the peninsular to Icmeler,” she told Jez. “There is a band of Kurds I’ve used before. They will look after them for two days and then return them to Icmeler. There is no way anyone will hear of this assault in the next twenty-four hours.”

“What and the Kurds keep the truck as payment?”

She laughed. “No, they don’t come that cheaply.”

It was late, very late, but the Kurds were alert and waiting. Anna passed keys and money to their spokesman and without further discourse the three soldiers were in the Fiat and driving back to Marmaris Marina.

Chapter 32

Istanbul, Turkey

“God, that was some run of luck,” Adam said, as they were driven along the main trunk road from Ankara to Istanbul, “and all bad.”

Hassan cocked his head to one side and agreed without saying anything.

Like a game of skittles, Adam’s pins had fallen together: the drug they used on Yuri had failed and then a telex to the barn warned them their second-in-command in Ankara was attempting a takeover bid, and finally, their legitimate partners in Istanbul were turning the screws. They’d been stretched in every direction – and it wasn’t yet over.

“I know,” Hassan said, “but we’ve sorted worse.”

Adam turned his attention to the driver in the seat directly in front of him: Batur Hasim. But then a thud struck the back of the seat and jolted him. He had almost forgotten about that. “What’s the matter? Not comfortable enough for you back there?” he shouted to the Ankara second-in-command he’d brought along after defeating his ambitions. No response.

A quiet half-hour drive and Batur pulled the Pontiac in next to the sidewalk outside a three storey office block on a coast road in European Istanbul.

“It’s too busy here. We can’t leave our passenger in the back of the car. If he keeps kicking the panels, the car will shake and someone might respond,” Adam said. “These legitimate partners can be more ruthless than some of our underworld people; this meeting could hold us up for a while … Batur, take the car to the big parking lot. Get something to eat, but eat it in the car. I don’t know how long this will take, but be sure to stay there and wait for us.”

“Yes, Mister Mannesh,” Batur said humbly and pulled away.

Adam watched the car turn the corner towards the parking lot and went into the office with Hassan.

*

The view from Adam’s high-floor office overlooked the Bosporus and on across to Asia. Some said it was a vista to die for, and some did. A self-satisfied feeling took him as he slumped into a huge, comfortable chair and buried himself into the billowing cushions. But then recent events jumped back to mind and his face stiffened. Hassan had picked up a steaming coffee jug from the bar counter in the corner of the room and poured two cups. He pushed one in front of Adam and sat in a comfortable chair opposite.

“Drink that,” he said. “I can tell by your face you’re letting these little bits of flyblow get to you. Calm down.”

Adam nodded without answering and felt his body trying to relax; it had been a long day after all. He sipped at the coffee and his Greek secretary sprung to mind. Alala, more of a Greek goddess than a secretary, he thought. He had her answering telephones and taking messages. Maybe she was capable of more, but he never gave her too much to do. If she fucked up, he’d have to fire her and he wasn’t sure he could do that – he hadn’t screwed her yet. The door opened and Alala entered as if spirited in by thought. He felt his loins spike: the way things moved on that girl. But she looked confused, her practiced walk rushed; he stiffened again – and not in the ideal way.

“Mister Mannesh, I didn’t see you come in and much as I’ve tried, I haven’t been able to get hold of you.” Her olive skin glistened and a lock of hair hung loose over hazel eyes. Agitatedly, she blew a cooling breath up her face and brushed the hair aside.

“Well I’m here now, so what’s happened?” Adam said, trying to remain composed.

“Yesterday, a call came in from a Sergeant Amoun in Marmaris. He said he had business dealings with you that needed immediate attention, said you should call him as soon as possible, that it could be a life or death thing. I just didn’t know what to do.”

A cold shiver ran the length of his spine. Too many things going wrong. What could it be this time? “Don’t worry, Alala, he’s a friend of mine. A friend who sees every situation as life or death, but it will be nothing. I suppose you better contact him, put him through to my phone. I’ll sort him out before he has a coronary.”

She breathed a sigh of relief, clearly glad to be rid of the burden, and smiled. “I’ll do it right away, Mister Mannesh,” she said and left.

Adam looked at Hassan, screwing up his forehead. “What now?”

Stone-faced, Hassan poured another coffee and sunk it in one.

Adam pondered. Probably true what he’d said to Alala; Amoun was overreacting, something of nothing … so why feel flustered? He tapped his fingers without cadence – hurry up, for fuck’s sake – ring. Obligingly, the phone rang.

Adam snatched it from its cradle. “Amoun,” he said, too quickly to be smooth.

“Adam, yes, it’s me. Don’t ask how, but the seed barn has gone.”

“What do you mean gone? Barns don’t have legs,” he said. Of course, he knew what Amoun was saying; he just didn’t want to face up to it.

“It’s been blown up, leveled to the ground. The gunmen from Ankara are dead, too.”

“What, all of them?”

“No, just those at the barn.” No answer. “With these Russian gangs all over the place … I don’t know, I was wondering if we should cut and run, go back to the capital.”

Adam slumped back, sunk deeper into the cushions. Fuck! That meant Ata and Helga had lost Mehmet, too. The barn was demolished and the communications with it. But worse – his chance of getting the lists had gone.

The phone crackled. “Adam!”

“Yes, yes, I’m still here.” He paused a little longer. “You’re sure it was the Russians?”

“Well, I’m guessing, but who else could’ve done it?”

“Nobody, you’re right. But don’t even think of leaving; there’s too much at stake.”

“Of course, Adam, I know. It was just a thought.”

“Are the Russians still in the area?”

“As far as I can tell, they’ve packed up and gone.”

“Okay, then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”

The line remained silent.

“We go ahead with the plan. We still have the delivery organized from our friendly Russians, so we get that and wait for the Hasidic to turn up with his goods and make the swap. I can’t be any more specific on the phone, but you do know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes, Adam, carry on as normal until the Hasid shows.”

“Yes, good. I have business to conclude here, but as soon as it’s done, I’ll be coming out with Hassan.”

Adam dropped the receiver onto the cradle. Hassan swallowed more coffee and said, “Sounds bad.”

“Pretty much,” Adam replied. “We’ll have to put this legal stuff on hold.” He paused. There were those in the import-export part of the business who had joined forces. They were vying for controlling interest in the company. Could it wait? he wondered. Takeovers aren’t something that happen overnight – are they?

“No, none of it can wait. Why should it?” he decided. “First we organize those pompous bastard lawyers who are paid an urn load of money and after they’ve sorted things out we go to Icmeler.”

*

Most of the afternoon had gone by the time Adam and Hassan left the building, and there was no sign of Batur.

“I’ll crucify that little fuck,” Adam said. “I specifically told him to wait here.”

“Calm down, you told him to stay in the parking lot because of what’s in the trunk.”

“Oh, that’s right. Come on then; we’ll go get him. He can take us to the apartment. I should have had a shower in the office, but I’m not going back up there; haven’t got the stomach for the place at the minute. You have a change of clothes at my place, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Hassan said, as they began the five-minute walk to the parking lot.

“Good, we’ll freshen up there and I’ll contact the lawyers, get them to sort this lot out.”

“I’ll be glad to get to Icmeler. These legitimate colleagues are the biggest thieves I’ve come across.”

Adam’s laughter turned sour when he saw no visible signs of Batur in the parking lot. He’d skipped – with the prisoner. He sighed, exasperation real. And then his facial muscles froze. “No, no, no! I don’t fucking believe it! Losing the prisoner means we’ll lose the capital … What the fuck is happening, Hassan? It’s beginning to look like the whole world is trying to shaft us at the same time.”

“Stay positive, Adam. We’ve handled worse,” Hassan said, but dullness dominated his eyes.

Going back to the office, Adam arranged for another of his cars to pick them up and it wasn’t long before he saw his Ford Torino 500 being pulled into the sidewalk. He and Hassan left the building and found the driver with an arm sticking out of an open window and the fingers on the end of it tapping ash from a burning cigarette. The little shit was smoking in his Torino. What is this, public transport? His skin prickled.

He spread a large hand onto the roof and leaned over. “If I see you smoking in one of my cars again,” he said to the driver. “I’ll kill you.”

The driver’s response was nonchalant. After all, Adam was just another legitimate businessman. He flicked the butt past him and blew out the final drag inside the car. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled, without looking up.

Adam swung open the door, pulled the driver up from the vehicle, and smashed a fist into his temple. The man was going down, but Adam kept the punches going and when he hit the ground, he kicked him in the ribs and stomped on his head.

Hassan dragged him off. “Behave! Too many people about,” he said, holding his face threateningly close to Adam’s and then using the lapels of his jacket to turn him to face the people who’d stopped on the sidewalk to stare.

Adam nodded and straightened his clothing. “Before anything else turns to shit, we have to split up, Hassan. You stay in Istanbul and sort out the legit stuff. Do what it takes to stop them – whatever it takes. I’m going to the depots in Icmeler. I know I can only wait and watch, but I’m beginning to think if I don’t keep it under my personal control then I won’t have it under control at all.”

Chapter 33

Marmaris, Turkey

Anna took a sip of her black coffee while watching the police station from across the boulevard. But she had ignored the drink for too long; it was cold. She grimaced, pushed it to one side of the white, plastic table, and leaned back in her seat. The spot she had chosen was against the wall next to the café entrance. The locale was quiet enough and she saw no reason for concern, but her training was ingrained: cover your back, have an alternative line of escape – in this case, through the front of the café and exit the rear into the back alley. The afternoon had been pleasantly warm, but now the café was on the shaded side of the street and a wisp of a breeze had picked up; she shivered in response.

Her flaxen hair had been washed through with a red rinse, pulled back severely from her face, and swirled into a loose chignon. Her makeup was light and the gray business suit she wore was slightly creased, as if she’d spent a week behind a desk. A number of property leaflets were stacked on the table next to her purse. She had picked up the flyers from the office of a German property agent in the village. The ideal cover to get her up close.

Across from where she sat, Pavel leant against the cornerstones of the police station trying to lose himself in a local newssheet. Slightly less than tall, but weighing in at around a hundred kilos, insignificance failed him. Jez, on the other hand, looked like one of the locals. He hung around a bit further along the road and was heavy in conversation with a foreign girl: a blonde, German, American … whatever. They laughed and joked and Anna began wondering just how experienced this husband of hers was with women. She watched as his face crinkled into that ‘little boy’ grin she thought he kept for her alone and his eyes seemed to smile at will.

But then two officers came out of the police station and passed the time on the sunny side of the street. One was Nazar. The other was the young policeman Jez had described, Alexandros. A minute later and Savas joined them. The conversation was friendly banter that clearly made the young officer bashful. But then Nazar embraced Savas, left him standing, and walked along the promenade with Alexandros almost hanging onto him. Savas went in a direction that would take him into town.

Pavel rolled up his newspaper and followed the two policemen while Jez opened his palms to the girl, shrugged, and went after Savas.

Fifteen more minutes passed and Sergeant Amoun came out of police headquarters, raised his arms upward and outward, and then yawned before pulling his cap down slightly askew and lazily strolling off along the seafront. Anna picked up her purse, gathered the property sheets together, and followed him along the same route Nazar and Alexandros had taken. He went into a bar on the coast road. She walked to the back of the building to make sure he wasn’t trying to slip away unnoticed and chided herself; he was a cop, not a spy. She crossed to the seaside of the prom and waited. It wasn’t too long before he left and walked north through the town and a further kilometer beyond. He then stopped at a cottage near several other similar buildings, yet far enough away that a minor disturbance shouldn’t be heard, and disappeared inside.

Daylight dimmed and a breeze whispered over the sandy roads, drawing snakes in the shuddering dust. Amoun’s cottage was a single storey stucco with white walls under a red, clay-tiled roof, with security bars blinding the window openings. The white paintwork had grayed and like everything else about the place, looked sorely in need of attention. Anna felt confident her cover was ideal. Walking through a gateless gap between a brown, paint-peeled, rickety fence, she hesitated at the front door, took a deep breath, and calmly exhaled through pursed lips. She knocked. No answer. She knocked again. This time she heard shuffling. The door gave way to reveal Sergeant Amoun zipping up his trousers and fastening his belt buckle.

“Needed a drop,” he sniggered. “What can I do for you?”

She smiled shyly. “Hello, sir, I believe you are Sergeant Amoun.”

He nodded.

“My name is Anna and I work for a company in town – The Icmeler Property Consultants.” She pressed the leaflets to her chest and opened her large purse barely enough to get out a card that she handed to him. “I’m told you’re new in the area and because you’re in a let, my manager thought it appropriate to send me to see if you were interested in owning a property in the region.”

He looked her up and down, and peeled his lips back lecherously. “You’re foreign.”

“Yes, German,” she answered, making the words sound guttural.

“Ah, of course, the blue eyes, yes, come in,” he said, and stood back so Anna had to go in before him. Reluctantly, because she had her back to him, she stepped through the opening and walked up a narrow, uneven passageway. The corridor walls bloated and curved in and out. The space was dim and dank, and she felt crowded and uncomfortable. The front door clicked behind her and her shoulders tensed. Amoun caught up and followed so close she thought she could feel his clammy breath on her neck. Her skin crawled; he had turned the situation.

Amoun was huge, and he looked strong, too. If this was to be a physical clash and she couldn’t get to her pistol, she would need more space than there was in the passageway in order to beat him. Wait for the corridor to come to an end, she told herself, and get the job done quickly. Relief came when the passage gave way to a large room. Her purse clip snapped open and she was about to turn, but an open-palmed hand spread across her back and pushed violently. She shot forward like a bullet, leaflets flying off in every direction.

“What … What are you doing?” she stammered, rolling over from her stomach, backing up against a worn, old sofa and pulling her purse along under her buttocks as she moved. Her blouse had popped buttons and she was showing more of her breasts than she cared to. But the leer on his face told her to take advantage and she made no attempt to cover up. If she could take her pistol from the purse without him noticing … but he beat her to it again and pointed his handgun at her.

“I watched you coming up the path and I must say Adam’s description was good.”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir. I am …”

“Save your breath! Adam is coming in from Istanbul and will settle it soon enough. I’ll call him now. If you’re not the Russian bitch … well, no harm done.” His eyes lowered to her breasts and the whites below his irises glistened blue. He rubbed a hand provocatively on his crotch. “I think maybe we could have a bit of fun while we’re waiting. Just sit still while I call Adam. No, second thoughts, you might as well start undressing.”

Anna didn’t move and Amoun sniggered while reaching for the old Bakelite receiver. He waved the pistol barrel up and down insistently, tucked the handset under his chin, and stuck a thick finger into the open-holed number dial. Anna wriggled her backside while slowly unfastening the last of the buttons on her blouse. He dialed the first two numbers, but his concentration wandered as he squinted to dial the third. Anna leaned over onto one buttock and slipped the Makarov from her purse, but Amoun looked up and signaled she should continue undressing. She left the pistol behind her and took off her blouse, unclipped her bra, and let it drop into her lap. Amoun’s eyes widened and his letch became … more lecherous. He looked at the handset as if it were spoiling his fun, unaware that his fun could well be coming to an end. Anna saw an opportunity, dropped onto her side, grabbing the pistol as she went, and fired off a shot, but it wasn’t accurate and only ripped into the fleshy part of Amoun’s upper arm. Amoun had been quick to respond to her movement and had got off the first shot, but his reaction was one of overreaction and he missed altogether.

Suddenly aware of the hit, he cursed and looked at the wound.

“Bad idea,” she said, as she readjusted her aim and fired another shot from where she lay. The bullet thudded into his temple and the flesh and bone that stood in its way became insignificant as it tore into the side of his head, exiting through the front of his scalp. The sergeant hit the ground with a thud.

Only now did she notice the radio crackling softly in the background and the telephone receiver swinging loose on its cable. She lifted it to her ear, but said nothing. The line clicked and the tone changed to a monotonous droning. Someone – Adam – had picked up and subsequently hung up. She’d been sloppy. If that was Adam on the other end of the phone – and who else could it have been? – he had the heads-up and would be in flight. Anna dressed, went as far as the front door, and leaned on it. After a few deep breaths, she smoothed her hair and clothing, made good with a little light makeup, casually left the premises, and walked out into a hamlet that seemed to have closed for an early night.

Chapter 34

Nazar came out of the police station with Alexandros. Savas joined them a couple of minutes later and kicked off friendly banter that left the younger policeman squirming and red faced. But then Savas embraced Nazar before he headed off towards town. The two remaining officers went along the coast road and into a bar. Pavel followed them and waited a few beats outside before going in. The way he would play the task would leave the young officer oblivious to what was going on, so he wasn’t overly worried about him being there. He stepped up to the counter as the barman was putting two glasses of Raki in front of the policemen and pointed to the drinks, saying, “I’ll have some of the same.”

Nazar shot him a furtive glance. “Russian?” he asked, uncertainly.

Pavel grinned in offended sarcasm and said, “I certainly am fucking not. I’m Finnish. I came in with a schooner moored out in the bay.”

Nazar visibly relaxed. “What, the big one?” he asked.

Pavel nodded, hoping Nazar didn’t know the boat’s country of registration; it was Russia of all places. But he only nodded and smiled, picked up his drink, and moved to a table with Alexandros. Before he sat, he pulled his head back in an artistic pose that made Pavel snigger into his drink. He downed the Raki in one and ordered another – even though he hated the stuff. Just as the bartender put the replenished drink onto the counter, Sergeant Amoun came into the bar. “I’ll have that,” he said, taking Pavel’s Raki and joining Nazar without paying for it.

This could spell trouble, Pavel thought, as he lifted his eyebrows to the barman and ordered another; the plan had been to take out the policemen separately. However, the worry faded when Amoun said a few words to Nazar, swigged back the Raki, and left. Alone again, Nazar and Alexandros started laughing and joking like a couple of collusive schoolboys.

Half an hour passed, Nazar stood, drunk up, and slapped the young officer on the back. Alexandros, clearly not much of a drinker, seemed to gag as he spluttered on his drink.

“Take your time,” Nazar chuckled. “I’ll wait outside.” With that, he walked from the bar alone.

Pavel had no such trouble throwing his drink back. Empty, he crashed the glass down onto the counter, thanked the barman with an “Ah!”, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and followed Nazar from the bar.

Nazar stood in the gutter kicking at the edging of the sidewalk. He smiled on seeing Pavel. “Had enough?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s getting close to my watch,” he answered, but stumbled as he caught a foot against the door frame. He tried righting himself and Nazar stepped forward to grab him, but Pavel had lost his footing and went sprawling onto the pavement.

“Shit!” he said, getting to his hands and knees.

Nazar chuckled. “You won’t be fit for a watch the way you’re going. You have to take more care with your drink.”

Pavel stayed down. “No, no! I’ve only had two. I’m just having a clumsy day. Twice this has happened to me since leaving the schooner.”

Nazar responded with a pleasant smile and for some reason pulled his head back and swiped a finger the length of his moustache. Then Alexandros came out. “Everything alright here?” he asked, resting a hand cautiously on his holster.

“What …? Oh, don’t worry. Our friend fell … Here,” Nazar said, holding out a hand to Pavel, “let’s get you up.”

Pavel gripped his wrist and pulled himself to his feet, but the pinkie ring he wore had a small diamond held in by a gold claw and one of the claw points was bent outward; it caught Nazar’s hand as Pavel pulled his own away.

“Ouch!” he said.

“Oh shit! I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?” Pavel asked nervously. “God, how much more can happen? Everything’s gone wrong today.”

Nazar rubbed the injury and sucked at a tiny droplet of blood on the side of his hand. “It’s okay, just a pinprick, but I hope you can pull yourself together soon or who knows what calamity you might cause.”

Alexandros laughed and Nazar tilted his head back towards him, sniggering as they walked off, heads almost touching. Pavel watched them go. It was done. Tentatively, he took the ring from his finger; the chemical pellet, no bigger than a pin head, was no longer attached to the claw, but he wasn’t taking chances. He walked across to the sea-side of the road and tossed the ring over the railing and into the water.

Later, he thought, Nazar will have a high fever and in three or four days, maybe less, he would die. The policeman had seemed pleasant enough, but Pavel was resigned to this kind of job and felt no remorse.

He turned and made his way back along the Gezi Yolu coast road towards Marmaris Marina. Thoughts of the cheery guard on the train in the Perm District crossed his mind and he began humming ‘The Song of the Volga Boatmen’.

Chapter 35

Since watching from the corner of the avenue, Jez had been getting strange looks from Anna, who sat outside the café opposite the police station – probably because of the Swiss girl. She’d stopped to ask him directions and then began coming on to him, but would Anna see it that way? He guessed he would find that out later, but right now Savas was on the move.

“I should be in Icmeler helping a friend out with a group of tourists,” he said to her in English when he saw Savas leaving his colleagues.

“But …” she stammered.

“Sorry, I have to go.”

She was a good-looking girl and knew it. So much so that the surprise on her face to see Jez smile and hurry away was priceless.

Savas made a turn into a main road running parallel with the seafront and rounding the corner, and Jez could see there had been no need to hurry. The policeman had stopped and was wiping his sweating face with a handkerchief. He then moved on to dabbing at the back of his neck with the now-wet cloth. A giant of a man, too big, his whole body heaved as he struggled with the bulk.

He stayed with Menderes Avenue for half of its length and then turned north into an unnamed, narrow, cobbled lane. The road was long and winding, and Jez thought he could see a dead end some way along. But he was wrong. The old terraced stuccos were warped and bloated, and the view had narrowed because of it. Jez remained at a distance until the cobbles came to an end along with the dwellings. The road turned into a dirt track and Jez quickened his pace. Savas continued over the top of a swell and disappeared into the hollow behind it. Unsure of what was down there, Jez began jogging, but Savas was waiting for him in the dip. His holster flap was unclipped and he had a hand resting on the butt of the revolver within.

“And you are following me – why?” He asked the question calmly enough, but the breathing behind it was labored.

Jez took a half step back, raised his arms from his side, and hunched his shoulders. “Following you? A police officer?” He laughed nervously. “No, sir, I hadn’t really noticed you until now. If I seem to be trailing behind you it’s because we’re going the same way, no other reason.”

“Oh, right, and exactly where is it you are headed?”

He put his arms out further and took a couple of steps nearer. “You might have seen me in the police station a few days ago asking for directions. I’m an Israeli on my way to Izmir. I’m taking a day or two to rest up before going on with my journey. I was just wandering around.”

Savas sniggered. “Really? That’s hardly an Israeli accent; sounds more Russian to me.” He pulled the gun from its holster, but he’d clearly been slowed by Jez’s excuse, and was relaxed about it. “Turn full circle. Let me see if you are carrying.”

Jez complied and came back round to face Savas, who’d dropped the gun to his side. “I don’t carry, as you put it. I had enough of that living in Israel. That’s why I’m looking into moving to Turkey.”

The policeman gave a slow, deliberate nod and holstered the weapon, but kept his thumb resting on the butt. The timing, the quiet area, it wasn’t going to get any better, so Jez raced the few meters separating them while reaching into his pocket where he had a folded chain whip. He had mastered the skills of wushu while in Spetsnaz, using the whip many times on covert operations. Savas was fast and half drew the pistol, but Jez had already gripped the whip’s wooden handle and was flicking out the nine metal rods connected by steel rings. A metal dart at the end had white cloth flags attached and the ensemble fluttered like a butterfly on the wing as it unraveled. He whipped the weapon diagonally, the flags swished, and a rushing sound cut through the air. The gun was now out of the holster, but too late; the metal dart struck flesh and bone on the back of Savas’s hand and tore it apart without resistance. The gun fell to the ground and Savas screamed, but already Jez was arcing the chain back and forth in a diagonal pattern.

The policeman crisscrossed his arms over his ripped chest in panicked protection, as blood spurted from razor-like cuts. He was still giving his impression of a petrified mummy when Jez lashed the chain sideways, wrapping several of the metal rods around his victim’s neck. He then ran and jumped, yanking the wooden handle as hard as he could. Savas’s head swung towards him, his neck snapping like a dry twig, and he crashed to the floor.

Jez unwound the chain, folded it neatly, tucked it into its sheath, and headed back to the marina.

*

“Amoun told me Mannesh was returning to Icmeler,” Anna told Jez and Pavel when they came together on Great White. “I went to the hotel where I’d first met him and, according to the doorman, he hadn’t long left – in a hurry. My fault; when I dealt with Amoun, someone had listened in on the phone. Seems our biggest fish has slipped the net. I guess we’ll be going back to Moscow with an unfinished task to our credit.”

“Pity, I had a date with a Swiss girl later this evening,” Jez joked, and took a painful clip to his ear for it.

Chapter 36

KGB headquarters, Moscow, Russia

Afanasiy and Anchova had taken an Osnaz unit to raid the ammunition plant in Tula and made arrests. They had gone that bit further than expected and pulled in everyone implicated by Sergeant Borislav Georgy: truck drivers, an invoice sergeant, and more worryingly, Colonel Sergei, the plant supervisor. That had been a week ago and with Borislav as the only witness, the actions taken hadn’t filled Michel with confidence. The whole affair hung by a thread and Michel could only hope his little men would find paperwork to prove that the alleged shipments had indeed passed through the plant. If not …

A knock at the office door jumped his thinking and Sergeant Filat came in. Michel pulled his shoulders back. “Yes, Sergeant,” he said.

“Your prisoner, sir, Sergeant Georgy …”

“Yes, what about him?” he asked, a nervous tingle creeping over his skin.

“He was found dead in his cell, General.”

“Wha …? How?” he said, struggling to control his voice.

“Apparently a Spetsnaz officer told the guards she was there to represent Georgy. They initially responded with suspicion, but when she threatened disciplinary procedures they backed off. She went into the cell with the prisoner and, because Georgy seemed to know her, the guards left them to it. An hour later, she left and they didn’t check the prisoner for another fifteen minutes after that.”

“Do we know who she was?” Michel asked, fingers drumming a tattoo on the desk.

“No, sir.”

“When this affair is over I want a total restructuring of security. This building has the reputation of being impenetrable, but a woman has breezed in and, just because she wore a uniform, was allowed to kill a prisoner at her leisure and breeze back out again. This won’t do,” he sighed. “Have the guards look at the photographs of our female Spetsnaz officers?”

“It’s in hand, sir, but I’ll follow it up now,” he answered, then saluted and withdrew.

Later that very day, General Irishka made a visit. “I’m here because I got wind of one of your prisoners being killed in the cells.”

“I can’t imagine how you’ve heard that so quickly. I’ve only just been told myself.”

“Hmm, this prisoner of yours … my sources tell me he told you a whole lot of lies implicating my people in his crimes before he died.”

“Your people?” Michel asked, eyebrows rising.

“Inasmuch as they come under my monetary control, yes, my people. If in future you think things have come undone internally then you must speak to me about it first. As it is, I think you will have to release the prisoners in Tula with apologies. Even doing that, I have to raise questions in the assembly.”

“Questions, yes, right, it seems to me one or two things have escaped your attention. It is I who runs internal security, not you. Should information come before me that I think should be investigated, it will be investigated. In this case, should the investigations prove fruitless then yes the prisoners will be released. But the idea of making apologies to subordinates whom I fully believe are guilty is nothing short of preposterous.”

As worried as Michel felt with the situation, he couldn’t but feel a twinge of satisfaction watching Irishka’s face bloat in anger and then him storm from the office without so much as a goodbye. With him gone, Michel sat back and spun the story in his mind. Out of the thirty Osnaz soldiers sent with Afanasiy to the ammunition factory in Tula, he supposed it wasn’t too much of a stretch of the imagination to suspect one of them might be part of Irishka’s network. And now, with Georgy dead, there could be consequences. If some sort of proof wasn’t found at the plant, his head would be hanging out there; after all, his people had stormed into the Tula plant in a similar fashion to Hitler marching into Poland. And now he didn’t even have a witness, unreliable or otherwise.

From the window, the square looked an uninviting black and white intermingled with shades of gray. Michel chased back to his desk. It was getting late, but there was a chance Afanasiy might still be in the Tula KGB building. He buzzed his aide in.

“Sergeant Filat, call KGB headquarters in Tula. See if you can get hold of Sergeant Afanasiy or his comrade, er …”

“Anchova, General, Sergeant Anchova.”

“Yes,” he said, and got up and followed his sergeant to the door. The door shut, he walked back to the window, then to his desk, and then up on his feet, pacing. At last, Sergeant Filat patched the call through to his office.

“You wanted to speak with me, General?” the deep, scratching voice of Afanasiy inquired after Michel had snatched up the phone.

“Yes, have you found anything? We have trouble, so from here on in you must be careful; your life could depend on it.”

“Sounds serious, General,” he grumbled.

“Sergeant Georgy was murdered in his cell earlier today.”

“Oh … Ah, as a matter of fact, that no longer matters, sir. Well, with regard to the task,” he corrected himself alongside a chuckle. “I thought it was a bit late and was going to call you first light. But we’ve got Irishka, sir, we’ve got him.”

“Got him, in what way?” Michel felt his lip quiver.

“The second invoice sergeant we arrested last week, he’s given us everything, the whole chain of events. He knew of paperwork and told us where it was stored. It seems the people in Tula didn’t fully trust their Moscow comrades.”

“And this sergeant, he just told you that?”

“Oh yes, sir; he was very obliging.”

Michel huffed. “Really! And this paperwork … was it signed?”

“That’s the best bit, sir. The financial sign off was made by none other than General Irishka himself.”

Michel could hear guttural laughing directly on the line and hissing in the background from Afanasiy’s partner. His little Smersh men sounded very pleased with themselves.

“Well done. I–”

“But I’m not finished, General. We went back to the ammunitions factory to make sure we hadn’t overlooked anything and you wouldn’t believe what happened next.”

No reply.

“A delivery of Semtex turned up at the gate and the signature on that paperwork was also by General Irishka.”

“Excellent!” Michel said, heart lifting, but then he thought of what had happened to Georgy and of Irishka’s warning. “Don’t let any of the soldiers with you know what’s going on with regard to the documents, and keep all of the information in your personal charge until you get back to me. Order your troops to stay there and maintain guard on the factory and the Semtex, but I want you and Anchova back here now. If anything looks out of the ordinary on your journey, treat it as hostile.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Afanasiy hung up the phone and it clicked, but Michel kept the handset to his ear and heard another click before the line drifted into a drone – someone had been listening.

Chapter 37

The Kremlin, Moscow, Russia

General Grigory Irishka watched from his office window. The views reached beyond the Kremlin walls and across the Moskva River. He noticed a sprinkling of icing sugar on pink towers and sighed miserably. Nearly summer and still the frost bites. The thought gave way to nagging concern and he wrung his hands behind his back while rocking on his heels. If Petrichova’s Smersh sergeants were to stumble onto something then Grigory could be finished … But that wasn’t about to happen. He had a spy in the Osnaz unit who had kept him informed every step of the way. All the angles were covered. He was too experienced to be beaten by paperwork …

Then why worry?

He shook his head. “No need; everything is secure,” he mumbled through gritted teeth. “And you know negative emotions are for losers.”

All the same, his most recent exploits had been flawed. He had signed off payment from his own budget for the Semtex explosive – overconfident – but it seemed so secure.

No! It was stupid.

He rocked harder and his hands felt as though they were giving him Chinese burns. He unclasped them and wiped sweaty palms down his uniform trousers. “Calm down, calm down, for fucks sake! The paperwork is destroyed as soon as business is completed. Nothing is kept. The Smersh team had only gone into Tula on what Georgy had told them and he’s dead. No, it’s all …”

The door swung open and Ferapont, a captain from the Kremlin arsenal, rushed in. Grigory spun round and let his mumbling dissolve as he cleared his throat. “Don’t you think to knock before you burst in on a senior officer?”

Ferapont removed his cap, nestled it in the crook of his arm with hammer and sickle insignia facing front, pulled his shoulders back, and said, “This is no time for protocol, Grigory. We have trouble at the ammunitions plant.”

Grigory’s face furrowed and his eyebrows rose in surprise. “What are you talking about? The ammunition plant is no reason to goosestep your way in here. Our mole in the Osnaz unit has fed back information since the Smersh people went into the factory. Nothing has been uncovered other than what they got from Georgy. And he’s in no position to tell any more tales – is he?”

Ferapont was Grigory’s front man for the unofficial side of business. He had maintained position through his ruthless efficiency and he never backed down – not from anyone. The captain looked to the sky and shook his head like a wet dog. “Huh, no, no, that’s not it. It’s the Semtex. The shipment we arranged before they impounded the plant, it left the depot. Our line tap on Petrichova has revealed the truck was seized at the gates of the Tula plant.”

Grigory felt his neck expand and his face burn. Ferapont seemed oblivious to the fact that this oversight was down to him. If he could get away with it, he’d pull out his gun here and now and blow his face off. “Ruthlessly efficient,” he muttered.

“What …?”

He measured the captain and puffed up as if for battle, but then reined himself in. There was little point in making an issue of it. It was done, but the time would come. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, and turned away, pacing the floor as he rubbed his chin and shook his head. “You’ve fucked up big time here, Ferapont. The truck drivers will have invoices with my sign off.” He sighed heavily. “Shit, they’ll have me for misappropriation of funds!” And much more if they found out the Semtex ended up in terrorist hands – and those terrorists included Chechen rebels. “Shit! … Look, there’s still a chance. Intercept the Smersh agents before they get back to Moscow, before the proof falls to Petrichova. The two assassins stationed in Tula, get the mole to contact them. The train will be the likely form of transport of the Smersh men. Tell our people to allow the targets to board before making an assault. That way we’ll know the evidence is with them. Kill them and remove all documentation.”

“What and we just sit back and wait? What if it goes wrong?”

“No, we don’t just sit back and wait. We have our escape routes in place. Let the others know what’s going on and we’ll make way to our respective safe havens – it will be at that point we sit back and wait. And don’t bother looking for Captain Gorbi; he’s in Africa. When everything has gone to plan, we drift back into position. In the unlikely event the Smersh people make it to Moscow,” he said, and knitted his brow, “we run.”

Ferapont clicked his heels and rushed from the office. Grigory went back to the window, took stock of the situation, and tried to unfold every possibility of what might lay ahead. Even in a worst case scenario, his safety was assured. Once at the safe house the steps to a clean break were well thought out and would be straightforward. Even so, he wasn’t about to leave it there. Oh no, General Michel Petrichova would be made to pay. He … Stop! No time for planning revenge now; get the important stuff together and move.

*

Afanasiy gave Anchova an outline of his talk with Petrichova and then called in the Osnaz unit commander. “General Petrichova wants you to take command here, guard the Semtex, and make sure the factory remains closed for business until further notice,” he told him. The Osnaz sergeant wanted a few minor details clarified and then returned to the factory. Afanasiy had no reason not to trust the sergeant, but decided against telling him of their travel plans. As the general had said, “Don’t let any of the soldiers know what’s going on with regard to the documents.”

“Petrichova wants us back in Moscow and the quickest way is by air. What do you think?” he asked Anchova.

“If there are people after us and we come unstuck, it’s a long way to fall,” he said, whispering both words and hissing a laugh.

“You’re right, and driving ourselves would leave us exposed. We’ll take the train. Put the genuine documents in your briefcase. I’ll put some of this other legal paperwork in mine; can’t make things too easy for them.”

To keep the loop tight, they took a marshrutka, routed taxi cab, to the Tula Railway Station where they could pick up the Moscow railroad.

Anchova went to the ticket kiosk. “We need a private compartment on the first train to Moscow.”

“There are no private compartments,” the ticket clerk told him, shaking his head, unbelieving.

“Then I suggest you make one,” Anchova whispered, slapping his KGB ID on the counter. “This is state business and your refusal could be the difference between you having a job and looking for one.”

The clerk ran a finger between his neck and shirt collar. “Oh, very well, sir, give me a moment. I’ll see what I can do,” he said, while clearing his throat.

They managed to buy coffee in wax-board beakers just before the train pulled in. The stewardess greeting embarking passengers tried to stop them from boarding with the drinks, but another show of ID and Afanasiy and Anchova were shown to an empty, eight-seat compartment. Afanasiy stared out of the window, leaned his head against it, and watched the platform appear to move back as the train pulled out of the station. A few minutes after reaching full speed, they had put the industrial region behind them and their fellow passengers had settled into the relatively short journey and returned to their seats. But the new emptiness was suddenly filled by footfall that sounded like soldiers goose-stepping into Czechoslovakia. The steps slowed as they neared their cubicle. The noise, however, belied the reality; there was only one man and he stopped at the door to stare through the glass partition. He wore a dark, double-breasted raincoat, black trilby hat, and was big enough to almost block out the light on that side of the carriage. Afanasiy looked to Anchova, who had already reached a hand into his full-length, leather trench coat. The man seemed to have noticed the move and, without a change of expression, turned and walked on. Anchova relaxed his arm.

“Another three hours and we’ll be in Moscow,” Afanasiy said with a low rumble, “and I’ll not be sorry to get there.”

Anchova nodded. “We’ll take a marshrutka from the station to Lubyanka. Having this paperwork is making me feel jittery. Our snooper has gone, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see him back, not the way he was weighing us up.”

Afanasiy agreed with a grunt, but his thoughts had already moved on to thinking of what the benefits of getting the paperwork to Petrichova could mean: an officer’s rank maybe. Why not? It was a big deal. Still daydreaming, he caught sight of something, someone – the big man. Both men reached for their weapons simultaneously as a man made a show, but to Afanasiy’s relief it wasn’t whom they’d expected. But then tightness gripped when, instead of walking by, the man stopped and gawped through the window. Nearer the height of him and Anchova, he was gaunt and skinny, but while his height and build was opposite to the first snooper, he was dressed identically.

As if using the glass as a mirror, he straightened his posture, smoothed his lapels, and walked on. Afanasiy relaxed. He was letting things get to him. After all, most business travelers dressed like that. Barely coming to terms with the thoughts, a new worry jolted him. His interrogation methods had always worked around understanding people, how they reacted through facial expression. He was more than adept in the art. And the latest voyeur had the same lack of expression as the first, exactly the same. Afanasiy would go as far as to say they were travelling with the same intentions in mind.

“What did you think about him after taking our first visitor into account?” he growled to Anchova.

“I think I’m thinking the same as you,” he replied quietly, and revealed a pistol he had tucked in against the side of his leg.

Afanasiy took out his gun, clasped it in a fist, and kept it out of sight. Another couple of hours passed uninterrupted and they stopped at Chekhov Station before beginning the final leg. “Nearly there,” he said, but no sooner were the words spoken than both snoopers appeared at the door and rushed in on either side of the opening. Afanasiy slipped from the bench seat to the floor to make himself a difficult target. The door was fully open but he couldn’t see to shoot. Instead of taking cover, Anchova had jumped to his feet with his pistol clenched in his hand. But he had stepped out in front of Afanasiy and covered the line of fire – he was out of position and couldn’t give back-up to his comrade.

A shot boomed out and then a second. A third shattered a compartment window and a fourth brought a scream from the corridor. Anchova dropped to his knees as he fired off another round and Afanasiy managed to push himself to one side. Now he saw the big man and reacted quickly, firing twice, striking him in the chest and head. The man was thrown back but he didn’t go down; Anchova had killed the skinny man and it was his body that stopped the big man from falling further.

“Well done,” Afanasiy said victoriously while turning to his comrade. “We got them.” But Anchova was clutching his chest, his gun was on the floor, and blood oozed through his fingers and over his knuckles. Panic struck Afanasiy. “Come, Comrade, let me help you onto the seat.”

“No, don’t move me,” Anchova said with an alarmed whisper, eyes widened in fear.

“No, don’t give up …” he said, but could see he was wasting his breath. The brightness faded in Anchova’s eyes and his lids dropped under their own weight. Resistance left his body and he went limp. Afanasiy felt for a pulse but there was none. His friend was dead. He lifted him to a sitting position, sat on the floor beside him, linked an arm through his, and stared blankly out of the window and up to the sky. Afanasiy remained motionless until the train pulled into Moscow central station.

Chapter 38

KGB Headquarters, Moscow, Russia

Afanasiy seemed overcome with emotion – or lack of it. He’d handed in the documents, delivered his report as if he were part of some sort of robotic program, and then sat staring over Michel’s shoulder towards a sky that was as dull as his eyes.

“The evidence you have accumulated here is gold, Sergeant. Irishka’s trading in Semtex will surely win him a firing squad. Even if by some strange quirk of fate he escapes that sentence, we have him for misappropriation of military funds. That alone will get him life – in Siberia. I can’t emphasize how valuable your work has been here. Because of it this corrupt line of command is toppling.”

Afanasiy said nothing in return, and then Sergeant Filat burst into the office. Michel turned his attention and was about to reprimand him, but Filat spoke first.

“I have a twelve-man team assembled in Dzerzhinski Square, General. If you want this done quickly we need to hurry.”

Michel reined in his pomp and a tingle of excitement painted his skin. He would lead them to the Kremlin, make the arrests himself. He couldn’t wait to see Irishka’s face, arrogant bastard. He gave his attention back to his little Smersh man. “Sergeant Afanasiy, I want you at my right hand when we go into Irishka’s office. I want him to know that you were the final instrument that brought him down. I think your comrade would’ve appreciated it.”

“Thank you, sir,” his throat grated monotonously.

Arriving double-time at the Kremlin, they raced through the corridors until coming to the passageway of Irishka’s office. Noticing Irishka’s aide was absent from his desk, Michel felt a tinge of apprehension. They exploded into the office unannounced and Michel felt his chest grow heavier. Irishka wasn’t there. Of course, he might be at a meeting or … in fact there were a million things he could be doing. But Michel could feel it – he’d skipped. Afanasiy stared at the floor, shaking his head, and Michel sighed.

“We have a number of other officers implicated. We’ll split the unit up. Close in before they all make a run for it. Filat, Afanasiy, take four men each. We’ll meet back in Dzerzhinski with whatever we pick up.”

An hour later, the units came together in the square – empty handed.

The search continued over the next three days. Michel was at his desk trying to work out how the pickups had gone wrong. “Not one arrest,” he said to Afanasiy, whom had barely left his side during that time.

“I wouldn’t have expected anything else,” the little man replied – without using sir. “They’d operated over a long period so were bound to have escape routes in place.”

Michel stared hard at him. “Yes, you’re right … and, because the assembly had us keep everything low profile to prevent the west from delighting in such news, the bastards will have slipped the net. They’re probably already out of the USSR … I have to go to Turkey, but this isn’t over.”

He had been speaking to himself and his mind was someplace else, but then Afanasiy said, “Of course not, sir,” and the present came back into focus.

“The Semtex … while I’m away I want you to go over everything again with the invoice sergeant from the Tula factory. Find out the procedure from shipment down to the last detail of delivery. Everything must go ahead as scheduled.”

Afanasiy looked surprised, hurt even. “What, you’re taking over where Irishka left off?” he said, gravel gurgling.

“No, Sergeant, don’t be stupid.”

*

Grigory hadn’t stopped pacing the floor of the Moscow safe house while waiting for news of the assassinations. And when Ferapont brought the news, it was all bad. The Smersh agents hadn’t been the ones terminated, but his assassins. Grigory’s world crumbled. He couldn’t believe it. Ferapont had gone on to say, “I’ll fill you in on the details as we go, but right now a limousine will take us to the airport, General. We need to get off Soviet soil as quickly as possible.”

Grigory had been ready for this ‘worst case scenario’ and it wasn’t long after hearing Ferapont’s revelations that they had driven the five kilometers northwest of Kublinka in the Moscow Oblast to board a military helicopter destined for Gdansk in Poland.

“When we land, a military limousine will take us to Port Szczecin,” Ferapont said, “where passage has been arranged to take us to Hamburg.”

“My exit strategy didn’t suggest that the ship’s crossing would terminate in Hamburg,” he blustered.

“No, I should have said that the captain believes we are going all the way to Stockholm, but we slip away in Hamburg and lose our military trappings.”

“Mmm, yes, very well,” he said, but the concession was begrudged.

*

They had been on board since early morning the previous day. Now, the night was black and the sea moderate. Grigory and Ferapont finished a meal with the ship’s captain. A few pleasantries over an after-dinner cigar followed and the captain excused himself with, “I have to make checks, if you will excuse me, gentlemen.”

Grigory bid him goodnight, but remained at the table drinking what was left of a glass of cognac. “It’s been a very pleasant meal, Captain Ferapont. Maybe one more drink before retiring?”

Ferapont nodded and poured two large brandies.

Grigory sunk his in one, banged the glass on the table, and exhaled heavily “Ah … right, fresh air and a walk around the deck for me. What about you?”

Ferapont smiled eagerly, clearly happy that frosty days might be coming to an end. “Yes, it will be my pleasure to accompany you.”

Out on deck, Grigory leant over the balustrade and stared down to the deep, full of thoughts of life and what had happened for him to end up here.

“You’re quiet. Are you still unhappy with the situation, General?” Ferapont asked, suddenly wary.

Grigory huffed. “Am I still unhappy?” he mimicked. “Ferapont, I had you down as dogged, intelligent, a man to be relied on in crisis, and then you ask me am I still unhappy?” He bent over the rail, took a silenced Makarov from inside his jacket and pulled himself upright. “Yes, you fucking moron, I am still unhappy. The army has been my life, everything to me since I was a young man. You … you take it all away and then ask if I’m unhappy. Yes, I’m very unhappy, but I’m sure this will help.”

Shock spread across Ferapont’s face as Grigory leveled the gun and blasted him high on the head. The ship rolled on undulating waves and the bullet skidded over Ferapont’s scalp, taking blood and hair with it. The captain fell forward, clinging limply to the handrail.

“Out of practice,” Grigory whispered then slipped the gun back into his jacket and pulled Ferapont upright. The captain was unbalanced and moaning as Grigory pushed and tipped him over the rail and out to sea. He went to the dining room, brought the brandy out on deck, and emptied it over the side before putting it back where he’d found it.

The following day, the ship’s German captain made a man-overboard report and wasn’t pleased at having lost a passenger. “That’s the trouble with you Ruskies,” he complained. “You never know when to stop drinking. There was blood on the handrail; probably fell and knocked his head as he went over.” He shrugged. “No, you never know when you’ve had enough. Now I have all sorts of reports to make and I’ll have to answer to my board.”

Grigory answered with a shrug.

He sneaked off the ship in Hamburg, picked up the pre-booked tickets for himself and Ferapont at the airport, and flew to East Berlin. Up to now he was on plan, but he was still on the Soviet side of the city and resuming his military rank, he commandeered a military office near the Berlin Wall and dialed a number he had in his notebook. “I need to speak to a diplomat with experience in negotiating East Berlin exchanges,” he said in German to whomever it was picked up the phone in the US Embassy.

A five-minute delay had Grigory walking as far as the twisted cable on the handset allowed and then, “How can I help you?” a man asked.

“No, this is really more about how I can help you. I am General Grigory Irishka and I want to discuss the exchange of a recently captured American spy, but be aware, this transaction is only semi-official, so it will be necessary to keep the operation under wraps.”

A Soviet detail took him to the Friedrichstraße (Checkpoint Charlie) where he was met by US officials. The wall was protected by machine gun nests, watch towers, razor wire, attack dogs, trip-wire explosive, and goodness knows what else, but he had walked through as if alone in a field of daisies.

“General Irishka, this is indeed a pleasure. Your reputation precedes you,” the diplomat greeted Grigory, as he climbed into the back of a black limo in the Western-controlled side of the city. “While I’m always interested in the return of our citizens, I’m intrigued as to what it is you expect in return.”

“All in good time. Getting your spy back is merely a gesture of good faith. But before I do anything else, I want time to myself. I would like to have a leisurely evening in one of your best hotels, eat and drink the finest, enjoy the freedom of the city, and forget about politics. Tomorrow we talk and, believe me, you will not be disappointed.”

The official opened a tab in what he said was the best hotel in West Berlin. Grigory had his fill and retired early to bed. At three in the morning, he slipped out through the back way of the hotel and used one of his many identities to pass through Dreilinden (Checkpoint Bravo). Once in German jurisdiction, he boarded a train to Dresden. From Dresden he hired a Hertz rental and took a couple of days to drive to Maastricht in Belgium. Forever changing identity along the way, he spent a week zigzagging north and south. When he was satisfied that all signs of his existence had dissolved in his wake, he took a flight from Antwerp to Paris. Tedious, but the tactics would slow the pursuit. Petrichova would track him to East Berlin easily enough, but after sneaking from the hotel when under the protection of the US, he would come to a dead end.

Chapter 39

In a suite in the Paris Marriot Hotel on Champs-Élysées, Grigory straightened the knot of his powder blue, silk tie and stood back from the full-length tilt mirror. He fastened the middle button on his jacket, wiped a sprinkling of dandruff from his shoulders and tucked a too-long tuft of gray hair behind his ear. The clothes were new, expensive, but the image was crushing. He pulled up to full height, and squared his shoulders. For so long, the proud soldier had stared back, a man of influence, a decorated hero of the Soviet states. Now, he could only see a fugitive on the wrong side of middle age. He winced. His face had gone too, sagging jowls, eyes puckered, lines that belonged on an older man. He lowered his gaze and shook his head negatively. Be strong, he told himself, but his eyes had stopped at that paunch and he sighed again; that’s not age, just too much easy living … fuck!

Not a man to suffer fools gladly, his face hardened. “Things aren’t about to improve just standing gawping,” he said, and tore away from self-pity. He then went to the window and observed the Champs-Élysées: la plus belle avenue du monde – some say the most beautiful avenue in the world. Again, his spirit dropped. If that tag was meant to inspire, it didn’t. But then what would after the journey he had endured? And all because of that bastard Petrichova.

A million times Grigory had questioned himself on how he’d fucked up … Why keep the Semtex activity under such close control? Why use the budget allotted to him from the ministry? And for that matter, why sign the paperwork off? The next in line could have done that. He hadn’t needed to use government funds; he could’ve gotten the Semtex from Russian mafia, paid for it from his vast personal fortune – greed, that’s what is was, greed. He shook the thoughts and stared out over the most famous of Paris’s avenues. The moon had hidden behind a pall of cloud but street lights shone silver on the boulevard where an earlier rain had left the sidewalks wet. His stomach growled, but he couldn’t eat, not yet, thoughts of recent days still haunted him.

What now? He had fortune enough stashed away to live fifty lifetimes in luxury, and he still had control of the scams that had nothing to do with the Semtex. In reality, everything was as it should have panned out in the long run … In the long run, yes, not now!

A fresh downpour blew in sideways, battering the hotel window. The silver sidewalks faded and his insides grumbled. But it can’t end here. It won’t end here … So, what are the facts? Simple, Petrichova was hunting him? Huntinghim? Anger spiked and resolve stepped forward. “Turn the tables,” he voiced. “Petrichova would never expect that.”

Yes, he would go after Petrichova – but how? That wasn’t so clear cut, but he had a campaign in mind and that lifted his spirit. He paced and his stomach rumbled in time with his footsteps. Stopping at the reflection in the tilt-mirror, he got a glimpse of his old self. He nipped lapels between thumbs and forefingers, smoothed down his jacket, and went to dinner.

Chapter 40

Russian Embassy Annex, Yenikapi, Istanbul, Turkey

Panic filled him without reason. He tried to run, but his feet were too heavy. Without rationale, concrete blocks appeared around his ankles and he could barely take their weight. He was drowning in exhaustion and needed to stop and rest, but he couldn’t! A lanky skeleton materialized from nowhere, unfolded a blade from a knife, and slashed the air between them. He had to run, he had to get away, but the gaze of deep-set, black eyes dulled by death pierced his soul; he couldn’t move. Decaying flesh hung from the chin and cheekbones of an all-but-empty skull, moisture dripped from the gaping mouth, and bared yellow teeth leered menacingly at him. A new panic claimed him and he flailed his arms in fright, but then something stirred afar. They turned their heads in unison to see a thickset midget approaching: a woman, naked and covered in slime. One leg trailed behind her as if detached from her body, but somehow she glided towards him without effort. The skeleton acknowledges her with a nod and then returns focus to him. The knife blade flashed. It missed but still he felt the pain. Dragging himself onward, his would-be killers floated easily by his side, taunted him, knew they could kill him at will. Suddenly, the skeleton and the midget closed in on him, shrouded him like a cloak. From within the new darkness, he saw the blade flash again. His side split and his ribs scorched with agonizing pain.

“No!” Mehmet screamed, as he sprung up into a sitting position, pain searing his side. Fear drenched him, he exhaled deeply, but the nightmare refused to relinquish its evil grip. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees, taking the weight of his head in his hands, but as quickly jumped to his feet and crossed to the window. It was early morning, such that the sun was yet to rise and the light was muted as in the opening of a day.

Two weeks Mehmet had spent in the embassy’s medical wing, but the past few days of it had worn him down. The treatment was complete, but they insisted he stay where he was until they’d finished with their many health checks. He understood the reasoning, but he was sure the nightmares persisted because there was nothing else for his mind to dwell on. Still under the influence of sleep, he tottered over to the washbasin. The tap creaked open and the pipes shuddered. He threw cold water into his face and then swilled it over the back of his neck. As he toweled his face, he studied himself in the mirror. The scar down his ribs was young and, although the stitches had been removed, the slightest of stretching felt like it was tearing apart; another reason his dreams caused physical pain, he supposed. Thoughts moved to the task that nearly finished him, but that was pointless, he knew; the survivors had disappeared without trace.

He pulled on clean shorts and topped them with a pair of Levi jeans. The black T-shirt the embassy staff had given him was only a medium fit and he had a fight to get his head through the neck. Even with it on, it clung like an extra skin to his well-formed frame. Since getting back on his feet, he had worked out at the embassy, and had even gone out for a run as far as Topkapi Palace. And that was what he was about to do now.

He made the bed and tidied the room before going out into the third floor corridor. The cables on the elevator at the end of the passageway could be heard stretching and the ironwork of the cage groaned quietly. He took the swirling staircase, walking around the meshed lift shaft they encapsulated. One of the secretaries had come up from the ground floor and exited on the second floor. She had opened the crisscrossed doors as Mehmet covered her path. She smiled, clutched her paperwork tighter to her bosom, and used her free hand to pull the door closed again. The mesh clicked, the elevator responded to another call, and the cables churned back into action. She smiled again and Mehmet stopped to watch her walk off along the corridor, the stirring within making him realize he was back to full working order. Grinning to himself, he skipped down the rest of the stairway. In the foyer, he turned his lingering smile onto the female security officer there.

“Thank you,” he said, as she handed him a pass.

“Don’t be out too long.”

“No, Mamma,” he replied in Russian, but she was another blond beauty and ‘Mamma’ was just about the last thing he saw her as.

Outside, the sky was clear and the low-rising sun caused him to hood his eyes. The winter winds had weakened but there was still enough to cause the palm fronds to whisper on their stems as he limbered up before setting off on his run. This morning he would head for Topkapi Palace and on into Eminonu. He had no worries that he might be recognized. Apart from the length of time since he had been well known there, his beard had filled out and his too-long, jet black hair was in need of a trim.

He ran along the seafront until getting to the Sultanahmet District where the main mosques and churches filled the skyline. The promenade there was built up and most of the people he noticed were dressed for office work. He slowed to a walk. When he got to Topkapi Palace, he turned alongside the Golden Horn towards the Galata Bridge, but when a big American car pulled up outside a three storey office block on the city side of the coast road, he stopped to watch. A big man got out from the back of the car. There was something familiar about him. Suddenly, Mehmet felt his spine go rigid. Hassan! Adam’s bodyguard.

Hassan looked over his shoulder as he approached the office entrance and stared directly at Mehmet, holding his gaze for a moment, but then he turned away without showing signs of recognition.

Could this be true, Mehmet asked himself, or wishful thinking? The driver was still in the car; maybe he could get information from him. He crossed the blacktop and approached the vehicle from behind, then brushed dust from the badge on the rear fender, and read the name Torino. He came alongside and tapped the glass. The driver hadn’t noticed him creep up and swung around and away as if under attack. Mehmet laughed and held out his hands in surrender. The driver pulled his shoulders straight, eased himself upright as if he’d only just noticed him, and that was when Mehmet saw the yellowed bruising.

The driver wound the window down and Mehmet said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What? Oh no, I dropped something,” he said, looking embarrassed.

“The Torino is a nice car. Must drive well,” Mehmet said, and a boy’s car discussion kicked off for five minutes. Mehmet moved the conversation on. “I haven’t seen you around here. Has your boss got business in there?”

“Yes, his boss owns the building. We’ve been here every day for a few weeks now, but I think another couple of days will see the end of it, according to Mister Hassan anyway. And I for one won’t be sorry to see the back of them. Hassan doesn’t have a lot to say, but his boss is a bastard.”

“Why’s that?”

He shrugged and pointed a finger to his swollen face. “He’s too handy with his fists. I don’t know how many beatings I’ve had since they arrived.”

“Then why stay with them?” Mehmet asked, furrowing his brow.

“Mannesh went off somewhere, so the beatings have stopped … and anyway, we all need money, and I get a lot of it after one of his bad moods. Although, this last time he cracked the ribs, too,” he said, patting a hand gently down his right side. “But as I said, they shouldn’t be here too much longer. I overheard Mister Hassan say they have business elsewhere.”

The driver looked at his watch. “You better go,” he said. “He will be out soon.”

“Hmph, oh yes, don’t want to end up looking like you,” Mehmet laughed, then patted the roof and left.

Chapter 41

Mehmet rushed through the embassy corridors to the communications room and signed off a form that got him an immediate patch through to General Michel Petrichova’s aide in Moscow. After a five-minute impatient wait, the general came on the line and Mehmet outlined what had happened.

“Go back to where you spotted him,” Michel told him. “Follow him and determine where he’s staying.” The line went quiet for a moment and then, “In fact, I think a woman might prove useful on this task. I would send Anna, but Hassan knows her. I have another female agent in Istanbul. I chose her myself from an intake of cadets when she was younger and I have been impressed with her thus far. She’s working on the Asian side of the city. We can’t lose him again, so you go back now. Do not get involved in any heroics before she joins you. I want this done properly. When you find out where he’s living, let us know and she’ll join you there.”

Mehmet almost asked for a name, but Michel got in first.

“Her name is Olga Glinka. For recognition, get security to show you her photographs. She already knows what you look like.”

Just how she knew this jumped to mind, but Mehmet let it pass. The conversation ended without anything more of importance being said and he hurried from the building, took an embassy moped, and set off along the waterfront on Kennedy Cadessi. He turned left, stayed on the Ataturk Boulevard as far as the bridge, and then took a right alongside the Golden Horn, only to come back onto the Kennedy coast road. The driver of the Torino had said Hassan wouldn’t be long in the office, so Mehmet thought his vigil might spill over to the next day, but the car and driver were still parked at the sidewalk. Mehmet put a cable lock on the moped, slipped into the shadows of the old city walls, and watched.

It was early evening by the time Hassan left the office and climbed into the back of the Torino. The car pulled into heavy traffic and Mehmet casually unlocked the bike; the Torino wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry. After leaving the busy streets in their wake, they wound through to the Ankara Road in Eminonu, the car stopped in a small street lined with apartment buildings, and Hassan got out and went into one of them. When the driver pulled away, Mehmet found a telephone in a nearby café and called the embassy. The security officer there told him, “Your contact isn’t far away, so you can meet her at the coffee shop in the grounds of the Hagia Sofia in the old town or I can send a courier to pick her up and bring her to you.”

“No, I’ll get her. I’m not far away from the church and I don’t think my target is going anywhere for the moment.”

He hung up, walked to the grounds of the Church of Sofia, and found Olga at a table tucked away in the trees there. The black and white photo that security had shown him was close to being an insult; this girl was a beauty.

“Olga?” he enquired, while posturing.

She smiled, stood from the table, nodded without speaking, and sat down again. She was also much younger than the photograph had suggested, around mid-twenties.

“Sit down. You’re making yourself look like the two Turks I’ve just sent packing,” she said, with total authority in her voice.

Mehmet felt his cheeks flush and he stumbled on his words. “Oh, er, yes. Hello, er, Olga. I’m Mehmet.”

“You don’t say,” she laughed, but his discomfort must have been clear as she was quick to put him at ease and chat about nothing much in particular. Her Turkish was less than perfect, but the inflection on her accent did nothing but add to her more obvious charms.

“General Petrichova tells me your looks are an asset that we should put to use. I don’t like the idea,” he said, “but–”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she smiled. “I’ve been groomed for this work since I was signed up. There isn’t much I haven’t done for the sake of State security.”

He smiled sympathetically, but Olga dismissed it with what looked like an irritated shake of the head and began going over the plan.

*

Crowds filled the sidewalks – shoppers, moochers, tourists – enough that Mehmet could loiter without being obvious. Unlike Olga; her looks were drawing more attention than might be healthy.

“I want you to wait out of the way … over there.” He pointed to the arched doorway of a small bazaar that had already shut up shop. “I’ll give you the nod when I see him.”

“Why? Don’t you like to be seen with me?” she said with a sultry voice.

Mehmet cleared his throat and pulled a serious expression. “Too many people are staring at us.”

Still she embraced him and kissed his cheek before going to the other side of the road. He smiled a puzzled smile while shaking his head. He had never met a girl quite like this one and if he was honest, he had no idea how to handle her. He couldn’t fathom whether she had a thing for him, or was making a conscious effort to embarrass him. She was still uppermost on his mind when Hassan came out wearing a tonic suit with a gold shimmer running through the material. Another smile crossed Mehmet’s face; losing him in a crowd wasn’t going to happen.

Mehmet gave Olga a little wave and pointed to Hassan. She stepped from the shadows, kissed her hand, and blew it at him before turning her attention to the target. Mehmet grinned when she pulled a mocking face and let her tongue unroll from her mouth; she seemed to like the suit, too.

A hundred meters down the road, Hassan went into a restaurant bar. Mehmet followed, keeping his head down as he weaved through the small throng to the opposite end of the bar. He ordered a Raki and once served, moved away and squeezed into a seat next to a window, overlooking the street.

“Your table is ready,” a waiter said to Hassan. “Do you want to eat now, sir?”

“I’ll have a drink here first,” Hassan answered without emotion.

Mehmet traced a circle on the window and then wiped the area within: the signal for Olga to make her entrance. She breezed in like a film star and shrugged off a lightweight coat draped loosely over her shoulders. A waiter had rushed over and grabbed it before there was space between it and her body.

“Are you here to eat, miss?”

Olga smiled as she took in her surroundings. “Yes, but I think I fancy a drink up at the bar first.”

The waiter guided Olga to a seat next but one to Hassan. She sat, but then pushed her bottom up and out, smoothed her snug, black skirt with her hands and then pulled at a black, skin-hugging, crew-neck sweater. The jersey became taut and her ample breasts pushed out in rebellion. Mehmet watched Hassan try to appear nonchalant, but he was obviously as taken by her appearance as everyone else in the bar. She looked at him and smiled. He smiled back and asked, “Your first time here?”

“No, I’ve been coming here for a month now,” she answered, which made the hairs on Mehmet’s neck stiffen; if the waiters overheard the lie, her cover could be blown.

Hassan nodded and said, “I’ve been out of town. But if I’d known you were here, well …”

She giggled. The conversation quieted and Mehmet could no longer hear what was being said. Hassan looked a lot more confident and relaxed with Olga than he himself had been earlier.

Almost abruptly, Hassan stood. “Maybe you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner,” he said, imitating a gentleman.

Olga got to her feet and nodded as if she were about to curtsey. She linked arms with him and they went through to the restaurant.

Mehmet left a little breathing space before approaching a waiter. “I would like to eat if you have a table,” he said, and was soon seated. His table was two back from Olga and he sat facing her. He smiled and was pleased to see she was now taking her role seriously; she turned away without acknowledgement. Mehmet watched the couple share two bottles of red wine during dinner and then they finished with a Türk kahvesi, coffee. Hassan’s back was broad, but Mehmet could see the finely ground coffee beans settling through the liquid in the cup.

Olga pushed away from the table as Hassan finished his drink. “I need to powder my nose,” she rasped huskily. “Why don’t you order us another coffee and perhaps we can move on somewhere more comfortable afterwards.”

When coming back from the washroom, she tottered, lost her footing, stumbled a few steps, and fell clumsily over her own chair. She landed bottom first on the floor and laughed uproariously. “Too much to drink I’m afraid,” she said, giggling girlishly.

Hassan wiped his mouth on a napkin, folded it, and put it neatly on the table next to his cup. He rose from the chair and came around to pick her up. She steadied herself against him. “I’m okay,” she said, blowing through pursed lips, pulling the sweater down, pressing her breasts to his lower chest, and staring up innocently into his eyes. “Thank you … I don’t know what I’d have done without a big strong man like you to rescue me.”

Hassan eased his hold on her, but she wobbled and he reaffirmed the grip. They giggled, both appearing intoxicated with the game. Hassan still had his back to him when Mehmet got to his feet, stumbled against Olga’s table, and slipped a high dosage of chloral hydrate into the Türk kahvesi.

Chapter 42

Hassan picked up the cup, lifted his arm, and drank, and, according to script, Olga sipped at hers slowly to allow time for the drug to take effect. But only moments had passed when he said, “I think I need to walk off the meal,” and puffed as he eased himself away from the table. “I feel … light headed.”

Olga finished her coffee. “Oh, okay, if you’re ready to leave, I am too.”

He pushed the chair away, but grabbed at the table and pulled the cloth off as he stumbled. The cups and a small vase containing a single flower crashed to the floor. “Whoa!” he said, reaching for his brow. “I’m usually better with drink than this.”

Olga laughed. “Don’t worry. Here, rest on my shoulder. You said you live just along the avenue; I’ll help you get there.”

Hassan leaned on her shoulder, all the while looking groggier. One of the waiters took his other arm and they staggered to the exit door.

“Will you be alright, Mister Hassan?” he asked, letting go of him and opening the door.

Olga answered for him. “Yes, thanks, it’s not far to his apartment.”

Mehmet had stood at the bar and watched Olga struggle to keep her balance under the weight of Hassan. He paid his bill and squeezed past the bewildered waiter who stood watching her unsteady progress. The waiter turned, shrugged, and Mehmet said, “Perhaps it was something he ate.” He followed up with a boyish grin, but it wasn’t enough to stop the tirade of abuse that rained in on his head. “So much for the Turkish sense of humor,” he complained, and hurried along the sidewalk to catch up with Olga.

Hassan, while still conscious, seemed to have lost all sense of what was going on.

“Are you okay, Olga?” Mehmet asked and took some of Hassan’s weight from her.

She blew hard. “Hmph! He’s not exactly a lightweight.”

Mehmet agreed as they labored through the last few paces along the street. The door into the old apartment building where Hassan was staying was unlocked, the foyer inside a bit musty, but palatial; it must have been quite colonial in its prime. A sweeping staircase confined an open-cage lift, not unlike the one at the embassy. Mehmet hadn’t noticed, but a concierge sat hidden away in a corner and now his attention had been drawn and he ran over from the small reception desk to ask, “Who are you? Is Mister Hassan all right?”

Olga was relaxed. “Yes, we are friends. Hassan has just had a tipple too many.”

She looked up coyly and the concierge’s face softened. “Can I be of assistance?” he asked.

“No, really, we can manage. We’ll get him to his apartment, maybe have a nightcap and then leave him tucked up in bed. But we’ll be okay, thank you. Oh, unless you can go ahead and open his door for us, save us fumbling for his keys when we get him up there.”

“Of course, no problem at all,” he said and ran ahead, taking the stairs two at a time.

The doorman was leaving the second floor landing when the lift stopped there.

“Thank you again,” Olga whispered through the elevator’s meshed wall and waited until he was out of earshot before saying, “That saves us tracking down his apartment.”

They pulled open the mesh door and edged Hassan’s bulk awkwardly into the corridor. Inside the apartment, Olga kicked the door half shut with her heel. “Phew!” she said, blowing hard. “It felt like he’d been pressing his weight down on me.”

“I started feeling the same about fifty meters back,” he answered. “Let’s get him to the main room, so we can sit him down.”

The lounge furnishings looked jaded: a polished, yet scratched, dining table with three chairs under; two tatty armchairs next to a small coffee table with a top covered in mug rings, and a couple of drawers under it that were slightly askew and hadn’t been closed properly; an old dresser; a cupboard in the wall that was hidden with vertical strung beads; and plain wooden floors. The same musty smell of the old building Mehmet had noticed downstairs was also resident in the apartment. The inspection ended with alarm bells suddenly ringing out in his mind: Olga had said, “It felt like he’d been pressing his weight down on me,” and that was how Mehmet had felt. No one is that heavy … He was tiring them intentionally.

Mehmet stiffened, but it was too late to react; the weight on his shoulders increased as Hassan pushed down harder and then took a firm grip on his upper arm, pulled him back, and hurtled him like a ragdoll. Painfully, the fins of a radiator halted his progress and he spun away, landing with his back against the wall. Olga put up more of a fight and chopped the edge of her hand against Hassan’s face and chest, but the blows bounced off and he laughed, but then stiffened aggressively and punched her in the mouth. Her feet left the floor and her body took flight until crumpling against the wall next to Mehmet. Hassan took out a pistol with a silencer attached and Mehmet couldn’t believe he had forgotten to frisk him. He reached out, took Olga’s hand in his, and squeezed a silent comforter. Her mouth was bleeding and her lips had swelled instantly. She grimaced and then spat out a tooth. Her body began shaking as calmness left her and she sobbed pitifully. When Anna was captured and rescued, she had been tortured and who knows what else; she would never have reacted like this. Olga was newer to this game than she had been making out. His heart sank. How was he going to get her out of this?

Hassan brushed his jacket smooth. “You look surprised, Mehmet, a little puzzled even.” He laughed. “I’m not usually one to brag, but what the hell. When I pulled in front of the office block, you were on the other side of the Kennedy Cadessi watching. Surely, you saw me staring at you.”

Mehmet cringed.

“I must admit, Olga played me well in the restaurant. All credit to you there, Olga. But I knew it was only a matter of time before you made a move. When you stumbled against the table I didn’t see you spike the drink, but what else could you be doing? You watched me knock the table when I became groggy and if you’d been a little more vigilant you’d have noticed I hadn’t drunk the coffee … Oh, and this is not a movie, a Mickey takes much longer to take a hold, especially on someone as big as me. Truth is, you’re a pair of amateurs.” He cleared his throat. “To business, Mehmet, for one day only you are the chosen one.”

With that, Hassan raised his pistol and shot Olga. The bullet slapped and the grip on Mehmet’s hand weakened and slipped away.

“No!” Mehmet yelled, as he stopped her from toppling. Her head twisted to face him and her eyes stared straight through him. A gaping hole had cratered her forehead and his eyes burned as he looked upon her destroyed beauty. She slumped and then crumpled in a heap. In a snap, sorrow turned to anger and Mehmet vowed to Hassan, “Make no mistake, Hassan, I will kill you for this!”

Hassan laughed. “Yes, of course you will. Enough of your silly threats; the only reason I’m keeping you alive is because of your unnaturally close friendship with Yuri. But because of it, you still have choices. Give us Yuri’s lists and I might be able to persuade Adam to let you live … and that’s a good offer considering what you and your people have done in Marmaris.”

Hassan was now filled with his own success. He had been drinking and was relaxed, pleased with himself. This was about as vulnerable as he would get, Mehmet thought, and took advantage of his state, making a startled gesture towards the open door. Hassan turned his head a fraction and Mehmet accepted the moment. He rolled onto his belly, jumped to his feet, and pushed through the nearest door. A shot splintered the panel next to his head, yet he’d been an easy target; the lists were clearly very important to Hassan. Mehmet slammed the door shut, swung his back against the wall next to it, and felt for a light switch; he was in a bathroom. He shoved the bolt across the jamb at the same moment as the handle was pushed down from the other side. A curse and two shots fractured the lower panels of the door. Mehmet slipped a short-bladed dagger from a sheath strapped to his ankle and pressed back against the wall.

“Don’t be a stupid fuck, Mehmet! The bathroom hasn’t even got a window. Give it up; you’re not going anywhere.” Hassan’s voice was strong, but irritation hounded it.

A moment of silence and then the door thudded, the whole wall shuddering with it. Mehmet chocked the door with a wooden wedge that lay on the floor under the bath, but if Hassan didn’t stop the pounding soon, it wouldn’t just be the door; the whole wall would come tumbling down.

Hassan’s need for Mehmet to live seemed to lose importance when rapid fire peppered top and bottom panels. Another attack splintered a piece of planking from the upper section, the frame fractured at the point where the hasp was screwed in, and the door became twisted in the frame, leaving a gap big enough for Hassan to push a hand through. Mehmet switched the light off as Hassan stuck the gun into the hole and fired indiscriminately.

When Hassan withdrew the weapon to reload, Mehmet readied himself. Again, the gun was pushed through the opening and began firing. A flash from the weapon and Hassan’s hand showed itself. Mehmet came down with as much force as he could muster, stabbed the short-bladed knife through Hassan’s hand and forced the dagger back through flesh and grinding bone. Hassan squealed in surprised pain and the pistol clattered to the floor. Mehmet switched on the light, picked up the pistol, and fired into the broken panel. A noise moved across the adjoining room and Mehmet kicked the wedge from the door. Hassan had scurried across the wooden flooring, but not to leave the apartment; he was taking another gun from a drawer in the dresser. He turned and fired clumsily with his left hand. Take your time, Mehmet thought. He’s a big man and only three meters away; you can’t miss. He squeezed off two shots – and missed. He cast the pistol aside, took his throwing knife from his jacket and threw it. Deadly accurate, the blade flew and punctured the left side of Hassan’s neck. An arterial cascade sprayed over the wall beside him. The fountain of blood receded to mild blubbing and Hassan dropped to his knees.

“Hassan,” Mehmet said gently, “where will I find Adam?”

Hassan’s throat gurgled as he softly said, “Fuck … you,” and fell facedown onto the wooden floor.

Mehmet felt Hassan’s wrist and neck for a pulse but, of course, there was none. Michel wouldn’t be pleased. Mehmet should have taken him alive.

Chapter 43

The Russian cleaners turned up in a phony ambulance and Mehmet watched on sadly as they zipped Olga up into a tarpaulin body bag, lifted her onto a stretcher, and hurried from the apartment. Her handler organized the exit and had done it without emotion, but for Mehmet the guilt was crushing. Olga had been sent out into the field too soon; she hadn’t been ready.

“How old was she?” he asked.

“I think around seventeen,” the handler mumbled into his chest.

“What?” Mehmet exclaimed. “That can’t be right. She looked much older and she told me she’d been doing work like this since childhood.”

“No, not Olga; she’d been a relatively late starter. Some do come to us as children, that much is true, but not her. If she pretended to be more experienced than she was, it would be a reaction to peer pressure. A wasted resource, this was her first task and she had been top in class for most disciplines, but from what you say, for this she was sloppy.” He spoke the words without sentiment.

Mehmet wanted to argue in her favor, but what could he say? What could he do? She was dead. It was too late.

The Russian gave him a stone-faced glare, walked over to where Hassan lay, got down on his heels, and began preparing him for a body bag.

“Leave him where he is,” Mehmet ordered. “He isn’t one of ours and I can make use of the corpse.”

The handler gave him a quizzical look but moved away from Hassan and then left the room without question. If somehow Mehmet could get Adam to the apartment then the sight of Hassan might disarm him long enough for him to take the advantage. But how could he go about getting him there?

*

General Michel Petrichova was in Istanbul to organize the unit’s return and to plan the exchange of Semtex for heroin in Icmeler. Mehmet was with him in the Yenikapi Embassy and was trying to convince him to keep the vigil for Adam Mannesh alive; he had an idea, but Michel wasn’t forthcoming.

“I think Mannesh knows everything that’s happened and will have gone into hiding,” he told Mehmet. “I’m pulling the plug on that business and concentrating our efforts on the Semtex shipment.”

Mehmet tried to protest.

“And before you pull that face, it’s partly down to you. I told you to take Hassan alive.”

“And I had a choice about that? I know you give the orders, Michel, but I don’t think Hassan was using the apartment to pull us into his trap after spotting me. The clothes we found indicate he’d been living there. We can easily confirm that with the concierge.”

“Okay and you’re suggesting what?”

“I don’t need help. Give me a few more days with it alone. I have a plan,” Mehmet explained.

Michel sighed in exasperation. “You will be needed on the coast when the next part of the operation begins, but … well, we do have time to spare. You should be joining the unit for preparation, but I suppose a few days won’t hurt. If you aren’t getting anywhere by the beginning of next week, this thing is over.”

“Yes, General.”

At the General’s request, the embassy fit Mehmet out with patent leather shoes, a black business suit, a white shirt, and black tie. He looked at himself in a long mirror; his hair was in a short ponytail and his beard was cut close to his face. If he couldn’t pass for a white-collar worker, he would certainly get the green light as a pimp.

He took himself off to Adam’s office block on Kennedy Cadessi. After watching for a few minutes, he crossed from the coastal side and went into the foyer. As Adam owned the building, it seemed reasonable to suppose his office would be on the top floor, so he went straight up there. The corridor had five doors. Mehmet walked slowly past each and came back to where he had started. It was the nearest door to the stairs and it was emitting a strong smell of perfume. He pushed the door open and stepped into an office that was no more than a small cubicle. A startled young woman sitting at a typewriter jumped to her feet.

Mehmet held out his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in like that; for some reason I thought it would be a large office full of people,” he said, giving her his most disarming smile.

She smoothed her skirt and pulled a lock of hair away from her face, which fell back into the same position the second she let go. “You did give me a turn. It’s unusual for anyone to turn up without an appointment. How can I help you?” she asked.

She was ruffled; his smile hadn’t quite done the trick. While thinking of his next move, he let his eyes absorb her and the view stirred him. What a body, and such a face; he felt a pang of guilt, he had commitments … but this was work. Her tight, gray skirt hugged contours that no artist could paint and a blue satin blouse caressed the upper half of an hourglass. The shirt strained, revealing a cleavage he could happily get lost in. This was a beautiful woman and even her voice carried a lilt – possibly Greek. Additional thoughts made him swallow hard.

“Oh, yes, I’m looking for Adam Mannesh. We have business. I would’ve made an appointment but I need to speak with him urgently.”

“As far as I know, Mister Mannesh is in Icmeler, but I have no way of contacting him.”

“Why do you say, as far as you know?” Mehmet asked softly and crinkled his eyes flirtatiously.

Her demeanor flipped and her answer was almost collaborative. “He doesn’t like anybody being able to pin him down. I don’t know why; I mean import-export. Not as if he’s the Godfather,” she giggled.

Mehmet laughed and leaned in towards her. “Ah, si, cara mia, the Godfather is a very recent movie. You like the films?”

“Of course,” she said, again shifting the long lock of hair, but she also arched her spine slightly with the move, and discreetly pushed her breasts taut against the blue satin.

“Listen, I’m not a man who runs around after women but …”

“Really? You look like you might be.”

She giggled and he smiled appreciatively. “Well, I’m not. If Mannesh is out of town … Look, whatever you might think, I really am out of my comfort zone here. I … Oh, just get on with it, Mehmet. Will you have dinner with me …?”

“Alala,” she answered coyly.

“Alala,” he said, as if reciting a poem. “Alala, I have to get information to Mister Mannesh. Even if I succeed in getting this message to him, I think my job with the company is at risk. You are such a beautiful girl; if you were to have dinner with me it would be the sweetest exit I could wish for.”

She shook her head – he’d overdone it – but no. “Well, if you need to contact him that badly maybe I can get a message through. He does everything so cloak and dagger it’s ridiculous.”

Mehmet’s heart rate increased. “A message? How can you do that if you don’t know where he is?”

“I don’t really know the answer to that. He has some sort of system and has shown me how to use it. I put a telegraph out and it goes off to a teleprinter somewhere. I don’t know how it all works, but wherever he is in the country, he gets the message.”

“And you’re willing to do that for me? Alala, what can I say? Tonight we dine at the finest restaurant in Istanbul, but not before we’ve been to the movies.”

Chapter 44

Akasya Hotel, Marmaris, Turkey

Adam had held the phone to his ear and overheard Sergeant Amoun being terminated by the Russian bitch. He had then dropped the phone back onto its cradle as if it were on fire and moved everything he might need into the suite across the hall. The two penthouse apartments took the complete top floor of the hotel; Adam owned both of them, but had one in a false name and kept it as a safe house. Only he and Hassan knew of it and though only meters away, it was far enough that he could disappear. Who would believe he’d move somewhere so close?

The suite had been fitted out as a command center similar to the seed barn and during his confinement he had kept an overview of the state of his businesses. Beyrek Ozel’s drug empire had gone out of reach for the moment, but his other enterprises were back in his domain. The Ankara coup, which had been lost and regained, had since been lost and regained again. And another takeover attempted by his legit partners in Istanbul had been quelled by Hassan. In many ways they were back where they had started before taking on the drug cartel. No, that wasn’t quite true or why would he be in hiding in the hotel and why would he be reading this telegraph time and again? Alala had put out a message on the network. He had set her up with one of the keys because his communications were too sophisticated to be tracked. Truth was they were simple enough but, like spaghetti, hard to unravel.

A man by the name of Temel, who lived in a remote village near Izmir, made daily checks on a teleprinter; his sole purpose was to provide a central nucleus for Adam. The village where Temel lived had been provided with electricity far in advance of government roll-out plans, thanks to Adam. In return, he got a loyal servant. Adam had printers scattered all over Turkey: main cities, coastal resorts, anywhere there might be business opportunity. Whenever Temel received a message flag he would send out a coded script to every printer in the system. Adam would send a password back from whichever printer he was at, and Temel sent him the message – simple.

Again, he read the telex initiated by Hassan:

In the safety net off the banks of the Golden Horn. Business in Icmeler is giving me problems. If I don’t receive help urgently I lose. Alala, on behalf of staff member.

Hassan had never written such a cryptic message, but neither had they worked separately for so long. And he’d used Alala to send the telegraph from the Istanbul office? How much had gone wrong that he couldn’t send it himself? Or ring him directly come to that? The text was worded so Alala wouldn’t know what it was about, but it was a plea for help. Somehow the Russians must have cornered him. Adam sighed. Their backs hadn’t been against the wall like this since fighting their way up from the streets. But Hassan, what could he do about Hassan? He could phone, but if he was in such big trouble he wouldn’t answer for fear of giving away his whereabouts. Oh, shit! Surely he could cope for a few days in the apartment by himself. But he was his brother – he was having life-threatening trouble with the Russians. He needed him.

He raised himself to his feet as if coming to attention. “No, fuck it!” he said. “I have to go to Istanbul.”

Chapter 45

Eminonu, Istanbul, Turkey

Mehmet went to Hassan’s apartment after Alala had sent the message – well, almost; he knew Adam couldn’t respond that very day, so he wined and dined Alala first. As was usual for him, his nether regions got the better of him and he didn’t actually arrive until the following morning. Alala had convinced him that Adam would receive the telex, but after three days in the apartment he began to doubt it. And if he didn’t make a show soon, it would be over and he would be pulled back to the embassy. To make things worse, Hassan’s rigor had been and gone and the smell around the apartment was rife.

Mehmet had balanced a couple of glasses on top of each other at the base of the entrance door. If Adam came in unexpectedly the glasses would topple and Mehmet would be forewarned; Hassan was supposed to be in hiding, so Adam wouldn’t think anything odd about that. But the idea had shortcomings. Once inside, it would be a bit of a stretch for him to believe Hassan had put the glasses there. The scenario would leave Mehmet having to rush things and that could lead to mistakes.

The evening of the fourth day grew old and Mehmet settled down for the night. Thinking of Alala, guilt jabbed at his sense of decency, or lack of it. He shouldn’t have slept with her. And using the excuse that it was for the sake of the task was … lame. But even now guilt shifted and he was stirred by thoughts of her beauty. How could he be acting like this when he was involved with Nina? He tossed and turned on the hard wooden flooring, but then the elevator cage shuddered into life, and he became alert; the lift hadn’t been used this late since he’d been there. The cage rattled to a stop and Mehmet raced to the door, removed the telltale glasses, and cleared all signs of him having been in the apartment. Easing through the beaded curtains without allowing them to sway, he tucked away inside the cupboard in the lounge. The space between the beads was wide enough for him to see into the room, while obscuring him from view.

A key scraped in the lock and the door opened. “Hassan,” a sing-song voice called out. Movement stopped and Mehmet thought he could hear sniffing. “Hassan! What the fuck is that smell?”

The lounge door creaked fully open.

“Hassan!”

The air fell silent.

“Oh, dear God, no! What have they done to you?”

Mehmet heard a knife scrape from its scabbard and then Adam rushed to the body. “Oh, Hassan, my dear brother, how could the bastards leave you like this? No!”

Brother? Strange term, and they weren’t religious. And he was sobbing; they were closer than Mehmet had imagined.

Adam’s head jolted back and he moved stealthily around the room, slowly absorbing the surroundings. And then his shoulders slumped, the knife fell from his hand, and he staggered to the body. Falling to his knees, he scooped the stench-ridden cadaver up into his arms while crying uncontrollably. How could he do that? Mehmet thought. Hassan’s facial muscles had let go and skin slippage was evident. And the smell was disgusting. How could he do that? But Adam kept calling Hassan his brother and Mehmet suddenly realized it wasn’t a figure of speech; Hassan was his brother.

He clutched the silenced Makarov in his fist. Michel wanted Mannesh alive, so he needed a good wounding shot – as if that was possible. As Yuri kept telling him, he couldn’t hit a barn door. But he had to try. He aimed the gun through the curtain without disturbing the beading. He had a line, but then he shuffled his position and back-heeled a box. Adam stiffened, Mehmet’s aim wandered, and then he froze.

Adam stared at the beading and Mehmet pushed away and into the corner, kicking some piece of crock or other. The clatter drew instant response. Adam scurried across the floor towards the knife he’d dropped. Mehmet had to act quickly. He poked the pistol through the curtain and fired a shot. The bullet missed by a country mile, ricocheted off the floor, and whumped into Hassan’s dead body.

Adam reached a hand to his jacket. Mehmet clasped his pistol in both hands and steadied his aim as best he could. The muzzle roamed at will and then Mehmet thought of what Yuri was always telling him: center mass, shoot at the centre mass. He steadied and then gently squeezed the trigger. The barrel lifted and the bullet went through Adam’s blue fez, spinning him away before he crashed to the floor where he lay unmoving.

A bizarre shot and the lack of blood was even weirder. But Mehmet wasn’t about to question the outcome; he was only too happy to see this man dead, whether Michel would agree with him was another story. He came from the cupboard, moved in on his prey, and kicked the body. No response. He picked up the gun Adam had withdrawn and subsequently dropped, put it on the coffee table with his own gun, and took out his knife; he felt safer with a knife in his hand. To find out why there had been no blood, Mehmet pulled at the fez with his free hand, but it was clipped to Adam’s hair. He shifted the knife to the crook of his hand between thumb and forefinger, and used both hands to release the fasteners. But as he pulled the fez away, Adam sprang, rearing up like a raging bull, grabbed his arm, and threw him against a wall. Mehmet crashed to the floor and found himself gazing into a fez with a steel skullcap inside.

Adam was up on his knees, but still looked dazed. Then his eyes widened as he stared at the pistols on the coffee table. He scampered across the floor and grabbed one as Mehmet rolled in the direction of his knife. He grabbed it by the handle, but at the same time heard the gun’s hammer click back. He skittered across the floor, went into a roll, and then an imbalance shuddered the air as the pistol boomed out. The wall that took the bullet also stopped Mehmet’s progress when he crashed into it. He was an easy target as things stood, so he got halfway to his feet and threw himself across the floor, rolled up into a sitting position, and threw his dagger. The blade sunk into Adam’s chest and he cursed … but that was all he did. Mehmet was expert with a throwing knife and had hit the target exactly right, but it hadn’t been enough to stop his enemy. The hammer clicked again and Mehmet scrambled back on his hands and bottom, through the bead curtain and around to one side of the doorway. Another two rounds clunked into the wall next to where he sat. But then silence took over.

Mehmet stayed still for what seemed an eternity, but he knew he couldn’t spend the rest of his life in a cupboard and would have to take a chance at some point. At first he flapped the bead curtain to draw Adam’s fire, but still there was no reaction. Tentatively, he peered around the opening and saw Adam sitting back on bent legs. The gun was in his hand, but it seemed too heavy for him to lift. Mehmet came from the cupboard and Adam looked up lazily through hooded eyes that wandered drowsily. He struggled to raise the weapon, his arm wobbled, and then dropped by his side. The fight was gone.

Without compassion, Mehmet pulled the knife from Adam’s chest, causing blood to blub gently in its wake.

“Michel has ordered me to keep him alive for interrogation.” The thought troubled him.

“And when they are finished with me, I will kill you,” Adam cut in with a croak.

“What …? Oh, no, I was speaking to myself. After what you did to Yuri I’m not sure I could live with you negotiating your way to freedom.”

“You wouldn’t d–”

Mehmet felt no emotion as he plunged the dagger into Adam’s heart three times in quick succession. Adam’s features gaped and then he looked down to witness his own demise unfold. Mehmet watched for some moments, and then satisfaction came to bear. His nemesis was finished. He kicked the dead man over and left.

*

The Russian Embassy, Yenikapi, Istanbul

In a room on the top floor of the embassy building, six people sat swamped by an enormous conference table. Jez was with Anna, Pavel with Mehmet, and, unbelievably, Jez thought, Sergeant Afanasiy from the Lubyanka Smersh Unit was next to him. General Petrichova was at the head of the table and everyone, other than Afanasiy, had outlined their most recent escapades.

The general kicked off again. “Okay, we’re up to speed with each of your individual successes. I want to summarize what we’ve done as a group and discuss where we’re going from here.” He shuffled a pile of papers into some sort of meaningful order. “The line of command has been broken. From the time Jez investigated a flesh trafficking trade beginning in Moscow and terminating here in Turkey, we had an idea that General Irishka was heading illicit operations. As it turned out his sphere of activity was much broader than first anticipated. From your efforts we’ve broken his core and have him on the run. I’ve heard from all of you, but I know you for one, Jez, will be wondering what our friend is doing here.” He opened a palm towards Afanasiy.

Jez said nothing, but anger somehow tightened the collar of his shirt.

“Lieutenant Afanasiy has played a major role in bringing Irishka down and has earned his place at this table.”

Jez raised his eyebrows towards Pavel – lieutenant? – while Michel outlined Afanasiy’s role in the operation.

Michel went on, “The follow-up news isn’t so good. By the time Afanasiy had brought in the evidence, someone had tipped off Irishka. He fled and his accomplices with him. To crown it, we have no leads as to where they might be.” He spoke the words without emotion. “Right, I want Pavel and Afanasiy to stay here. The rest of you have a couple of days to kill before you go back to the marina. It seems the only footprint we have now that might set us back on the trail of Irishka is the Hasid who delivers the heroin. Lieutenant Afanasiy has already made contact with him and made a Semtex exchange to keep the opportunities alive, so our next steps will be to capture the Hasid and see where that takes us.”

The meeting came to a natural conclusion, and Afanasiy and Pavel stayed in the embassy. Jez, Anna, and Mehmet left and walked to the seafront together.

“I won’t be able to show you around, I’m afraid. I have to square a few things with a girl I know,” Mehmet said, and Anna grinned in response. Mehmet nodded and walked off in the direction of Eminonu.

“Mehmet and his girlfriends,” Anna said. “They’ll be the death of him.”

Jez nodded. “So, now our tourist guide has deserted us, what can we possibly do with ourselves?” he said, trying to appear at a loss.

Linking both arms around one of his, she snuggled her face into his shoulder. “I think we should find a room,” she replied.

Epilogue

The Russian Embassy, Yenikapi, Istanbul

The window at the end of the corridor was wide and ran from floor to ceiling. Yuri sat in a comfortable chair there and let the warm sunbeams stream onto his face as he enjoyed the familiar views over the Sea of Marmara. His rescue from the seed barn had taken him to Istanbul, but an immediate airlift from there terminated in Moscow. Not sure if he had been a guinea pig or a patient, the medical staff pumped a host of drugs into his veins. But experiment or otherwise, rational thought returned and all he could think of was getting back to Istanbul, or more specifically, to Pinar Yeter. Now, he was in the embassy hospital wing in Yenikapi with the dark void of fear he had been subjected to tucked away to the back of his mind, hopefully for all time.

The lift cables creaked and a slight judder ran through the floor. Excitement rushed over him in waves. The mesh doors clicked and Yuri kept his silence, wondered if she would notice him before going to his room. Childish thrill and enthusiasm made him want to laugh out. And then he heard footsteps creep up behind him, but he wasn’t afraid. Arms wrapped around his neck. “How are you today, my love?” Pinar whispered softly into his ear.

The sweetness of her perfume filled his nostrils and the joy in his chest was overwhelming. “Each day I have with you pales all else into insignificance,” he answered with sincerity.

She came around to face him. “It’s wonderful to see you smiling again,” she said, and her face glowed. She leaned over, took his face between her hands and kissed his lips gently.

He lifted his hand to her cheek and his eyes moistened. “Pinar, my Pinar.”

The End

Follow Rik on Twitter: @stone_rik, FB: https://www.facebook.com/rik.stone2 or visit him on his website: www.rik-stone.com

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Thank you

Rik Stone

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Birth of an Assassin

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

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Epilogue

1

2

The Turkish Connection

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright Page

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

The Man in the Blue Fez

Title Page

Copyright Page

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

Epilogue