The Mephisto Threat

‘Even respected men are killed,’ Ertas said, with irritation. ‘Besides, if Morello routinely visited the café, he was an easy target.’

‘He says,’ the officer said, jerking his head in the direction of the café owner, ‘that Miller’s reaction was so swift, he must have known the bullet was meant for him.’

Balls, Tallis thought contemptuously as he was hustled into a waiting police car. He simply possessed excellent reflexes and training. But he could hardly mention that to the police.

The Grand Bazaar nearby had its own mosque, bank and police station, but Tallis was taken to Istanbul Police Headquarters. Tallis hoped it wasn’t the next target for a suicide bomber. Not that long ago, police stations had become a terrorist’s dream location.

If there was air-conditioning, it wasn’t switched on. The overwhelming noise came from a flurry of flies buzzing around, either copulating or beating the shit out of each other. It was so hot inside, Tallis thought the concrete walls might crack and explode. At first he was forced to wade his way through several impenetrable layers of administration, lots of hanging around, lots of giving the same information, lots of meeting the tired gaze of disinterested clerks who smoked like troopers. He noticed that his fellow witnesses were detained elsewhere. Lucky them, he thought.

In bureaucratic limbo, he had ample time to consider his position. As traumatic as the sudden turn of events was, it didn’t need to jeopardise his cover. To come clean would only confuse and complicate the issue. Besides, he really didn’t want Asim alerted to the mess he was in. Wouldn’t look very suave on a first outing with his new handler, especially as it might be construed as treading on the Secret Intelligence Service.

As for the café owner’s remark, he reckoned the man had it all wrong. Tallis had witnessed the hit for himself, seen it coming. At no time had he been afraid for his own personal safety. It had been more a diffuse fear of being caught in someone else’s crossfire. Which brought him back to Morello. Who would want him killed? Sure, as a crime correspondent Garry mixed in muddy circles, but he was British, for God’s sake, and British journalists didn’t usually get themselves slotted—unlike their Russian and Turkish counterparts. So, whomever he’d pissed off, or whatever it was he’d stumbled across that meant his life was worth extinguishing, it had to be big.

Ertas turned up an hour and a half after Tallis’s arrival. ‘So sorry to keep you. Much to do,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

‘Have you contacted Mr Morello’s wife?’ Tallis said, his stomach lurching. It was a second marriage for Gayle. She’d lost her first husband in a car accident. What a lousy hand of cards she’d been dealt, Tallis thought grimly.

‘Next of kin have been informed,’ Ertas said in businesslike fashion. ‘Everything to your satisfaction?’ he added, eyeing the clean shirt Tallis was wearing. It wasn’t. The shirt was a half collar size too small.

‘Fine.’

Ertas suggested coffee, an invitation which Tallis gratefully accepted. After giving the order to a junior officer, Ertas took Tallis down the corridor and into an area the size of a doctor’s consulting room. It was cooler in here. The fan actually seemed to work, rather than simply rearranging warm air. There were two chairs either side of a large desk upon which rested a telephone and a number of buff manila folders. In the corner were several filing cabinets.

Closing the door behind them, Ertas indicated for Tallis to sit down. Tallis noticed that Ertas was wearing a ring, a thick gold band inlaid with tiny precious stones. Although jewellery, particularly gold, was sold in abundance at the Grand Bazaar, with only a tiny charge for craftsmanship, it seemed like a strange affectation for such a seemingly precise and ordered man.

‘Before we begin,’ Tallis said, ‘I’d like some legal representation.’ He might know the form in Britain but here he was boxing in the dark.

‘Not necessary, I assure you.’

‘Then I’d like to contact my embassy.’

‘We can arrange this for you.’ Ertas smiled politely. He picked up a phone and, with a flourish, asked to be put through to the British Consulate. Tallis listened in as Ertas explained the situation. As far as he could deduce from Ertas’s side of the conversation, someone was on their way.

The coffee arrived in traditional Turkish coffee cups. Both men took their time stirring in sugar. Tasted good, Tallis thought, taking a sip. Black and strong, it was a hell of an improvement on West Midlands cop coffee. Ertas spent several seconds surveying Tallis and Tallis spent several seconds looking at him. ‘For a man who has suffered a terrible experience, you seem very relaxed, Mr Miller.’

‘Probably shock. I haven’t had time to process it.’ Which was true. He’d witnessed men die in battle, seen the grotesque dance of bodies hit by machine-gun fire. He’d coldly observed the messy aftermath of suicide by shotgun, and the remains of turf wars played out on busy Birmingham streets, yet Garry’s death fell into none of those categories. Unexpected, cruel and apparently without motive, it felt strangely and horribly similar to Belle’s. The only difference: Garry had been a friend, Belle a lover. Tallis gave an involuntary shudder. He should be falling apart, he guessed, but he was too empty to feel anything right now.

‘And do you normally play Rambo?’ Ertas enquired.

Cheeky bastard, Tallis thought. About time Ertas got up to speed on current American heroes. At least he could have chosen someone nearer his age. Sly must be almost double it. He gave a lazy shrug. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever been put in that position before.’

Ertas leaned back in his seat. ‘We are trying to establish Mr Morello’s movements before he went to the Byzantine.’ ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘He said nothing?’

‘We’d hardly had time to exchange much more than a greeting,’ Tallis said.

‘You don’t think he was followed?’

‘And the hit team tipped off?’

Ertas smiled. ‘You use dramatic language.’

‘Killers, then.’ Tallis briefly returned the smile. ‘If he was, I know nothing about it. He certainly didn’t suggest to me that he was being followed.’ Garry probably wouldn’t have known. He had been too preoccupied, Tallis remembered.

‘And how did he seem?’

Restless. ‘Hot.’

‘Troubled?’

‘By the heat, yes.’ He was playing hardball with the guy. He knew it. Ertas knew it. But, then, Ertas knew a lot more than he was letting on, Tallis sensed. We’re both playing masters in the art of deception.

‘We have witnesses who appear to think that you were the intended victim.’

‘Bullshit.’

Ertas smiled again. ‘You are very direct, Mr Miller.’

‘My apologies.’

‘Not at all. I like a man who is straight with me.’

Ditto, Tallis thought, meeting Ertas’s smile with one of his own.

‘So you really think the other witnesses were mistaken?’ Ertas pressed.

‘Others?’ He’d thought only the café owner had expressed a view. Careful, he reminded himself, you’re not supposed to understand the language.

‘Does it make a difference how many?’

‘Not particularly. Like I said, they’re wrong. In the heat of the moment, it’s quite easy to draw flawed conclusions.’ Tallis could have given Ertas a lecture on perceptual distortion, the firearms officer’s nightmare. What the brain couldn’t process, it made up. Wasn’t lying, simply the mind’s natural inclination to join the dots and fill in the blanks. It often explained discrepancies in witness accounts.

‘I’d like you to run through everything that happened,’ Ertas stated, ‘from the time you were seated in the café to the final tragic event.’

Tallis did. Ertas listened. He interrupted only once. ‘You say the gun was a Walther. How do you know?’

Damn, Tallis thought. No way could he bluff this one. Only way to go: tell Ertas the truth. ‘It has a very distinctive finger-extension on the bottom of the magazine, giving a better grip for the hand.’

‘I didn’t know IT consultants were so well versed in firearms.’ Ertas’s dark eyes lasered into Tallis’s.

‘I served in the British army as a youngster.’ It wasn’t a very compelling explanation. The most he’d learned in the army about weapons had been directly connected to theatres of war—SA80s, 30 mm Rarden cannon and 7.62 mm Hughes chain guns—but Ertas gave the impression of accepting his account.

‘And the motorcyclists—did you see their faces?’

‘No.’

‘Think they were men?’

Tallis hesitated. The individual riding the bike had certainly seemed too big and broad to be a woman, but judging by half the female population of the United Kingdom you simply never knew. The pillion passenger had been much smaller and could have been of either sex. He told Ertas this. Then something else flashed through his brain. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he imagined it. Surely not, he thought.

‘And which way did they go?’ Ertas said, breaking into Tallis’s thoughts.

‘Heading for the bridge.’

Ertas asked Tallis to repeat the conversation he’d shared with Morello. Tallis gave an edited account. He wasn’t going to mention Kevin Napier or the Serious and Organised Crime Agency. As far as Ertas was concerned, he and Morello had been two Brits who’d happened to run into each other, chums passing the time of day. Happened all the time.

‘Did Mr Morello have any enemies?’

‘I wouldn’t know but, I guess, in his line of work you can’t rule anything out.’ Tallis remembered the mezeeating Russians. Garry had written a book. Had he pissed someone off? He floated the idea. Ertas seemed to file the information away. Again, Tallis had the sensation that Ertas knew something he didn’t.

‘Whose idea was it to meet at the Byzantine?’

‘Mr Morello’s.’

‘Did you know it’s a hangout for the criminal fraternity?’

‘I didn’t, no.’ So that was it, Tallis thought. Made perfect sense. The cops had already got a line going there. Probably explained why Ertas was so suspicious of him and how the police had got there so quickly. ‘Perhaps there lies your answer.’

Ertas gave him a slow-eyed response. ‘A line of enquiry to follow, certainly. I noticed from your passport that you have spent almost three weeks here.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘In Istanbul?’

‘No.’ Tallis told Ertas about his sailing trip on the gulet and then his week of resort-hopping via taxi to Marmaris and Bodrum and finally the coach ride to Ephesus, one of the greatest ruined cities in the Western world. Images of colonnaded marble streets, intense heat and dust, the threefloored library with its secret passage to the brothel, and the Gate of Hercules, which formed the entrance to Curetes Street, flashed through Tallis’s mind. Everywhere there’d been reminders of Ephesus’s past. It was reputed that if the city’s torches were not lit, Ephesus was in peril.

‘And when are you planning to return?’

When I’ve got what I came for, Tallis thought. ‘Not made my mind up yet.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Bir saniye lutfen.’ Just a moment, please, Ertas said, getting up. ‘So you say you’ve been in the city here for the past week?’

He was really labouring the time factor, Tallis thought. He guessed Ertas appreciated accuracy so he gave it to him.

‘Five days.’

‘Five days,’ Ertas repeated. ‘Where are you staying?’ Ertas asked, opening the door.

‘The Celal Sultan Hotel.’

The skinny police officer with the sallow, sweating features was standing on the threshold. He handed Ertas a note. Ertas took it, thanked the man, closed the door and, thoughtfulness in his expression, sat back down. ‘We will not be releasing the details of this afternoon’s incident,’ he told Tallis. What he meant, Tallis thought, was that they would not be releasing the identity of the victim. If it was suspected that Garry had been the wrong target, the police didn’t want the killers coming back for a second crack at it. Probably a sensible precaution, or…

Something inside him buckled. What if he was wrong? What if someone had got it in for him? He immediately discounted his current connection with Asim, his MI5 handler, as a factor—all he’d done was keep his ear to the ground, visit certain places, clock faces, all low-key. He was playing the original grey man—most intelligence gathering was mundane, quiet and unassuming. He’d done nothing to stir up that kind of violent response, but it was perfectly conceivable that others from his past might bear him a grudge.

‘Are you all right, Mr Miller?’

‘What? Oh sure,’ Tallis replied.

The phone rang. Ertas picked up. ‘Right,’ Ertas said, standing up.

‘That it?’ Tallis said, making a move.

‘For now, but, please, no need to get up. I understand there is someone from the embassy to see you.’

Jeremy Cardew was not Tallis’s idea of an official from the consulate. From the name alone, he’d expected a louchelooking middle-aged individual, dressed in creased linen, with an expanded belly and public-school accent. This bloke was probably not much older than Tallis, whippetthin and, as it turned out, originally from Newcastle, which explained the Geordie accent. He had pale, penetrating eyes that assured Tallis he was a man given to action. After the swift exchange of names, and handshakes, Tallis explained his situation. Cardew’s expression became one of growing concern. He’d barely finished before Cardew started quizzing him as effectively as Ertas then, like a rabid trade-union official of the old school, launched into a low-down on procedure, outlining what he as an embassy official was empowered to do—help with issuing replacement passports, providing local information, assisting individuals with mental illness, helping British victims of crime and, more relevantly Tallis thought, ‘doing all we can should you be detained’.

The list of what they couldn’t do was shorter but of more consequence. ‘Can’t give you legal advice, I’m afraid,’ Cardew pointed out. ‘Neither can we help with getting you out of prison, prevent the local authorities from deporting you after sentence or interfere with criminal proceedings.’

Tallis folded his arms. ‘Looks like I fall outside all the categories.’

‘They’re not keeping you, then?’ Cardew’s expression was not one of disappointment exactly, more surprise.

‘I’m free to go,’ Tallis assured him.

‘And you had no problems with the police?’

‘None at all.’

‘You’ve given a statement?’

It felt like several. ‘Yes.’

‘You’ve clearly been through a most traumatic experience,’ Cardew said, with what felt like genuine concern, ‘but, from what you’re saying, it looks as though you have the situation under control.’

Hardly, Tallis thought. He was having a hard time coming to terms with Garry’s violent death. Inside, he was churning with emotions.

‘Just thought you should be made aware of my circumstances. For my own protection,’ Tallis added.

Cardew’s features fell into a quizzical frown. ‘Turkey’s moved on a lot since Midnight Express.’

A film about an American student arrested in Turkey for carrying hashish, Tallis remembered. The scenes of prison brutality were chilling. ‘I’m sure it has, but—’

‘When the police have finished with you, my advice would be to get the next flight back.’

Tallis met the other man’s eye. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘Then I suggest, Mr Miller,’ Cardew said slowly, his voice tight and strained, ‘stay out of trouble.’

‘Right,’ Tallis said, meeting Cardew’s steely gaze. ‘I’ll try to remember that.’

3

TALLIS returned to the Celal Sultan, a pretty, traditional town house in the old city centre, not far from the Blue Mosque and Topkapi Palace. He took a circuitous route, as he’d done since his arrival, variously taking a cab one way, tram back the other, and finally walking to check for and shake off any possible tail. His fully air-conditioned room, Moroccan in style, was a familiar and welcome relief. Now that he was in the privacy of his own space, he seriously felt in need of a drink. Garry’s death had left him stunned. But, in his heart, he knew that alcohol, far from further deadening his senses, would only bring his emotions roaring to the fore. He couldn’t take that risk. Stripping off, he shaved then took a long, cool shower and considered the day’s events.

He still clung to the thought that, horrible though it was, Garry had been the target rather than himself. Tallis couldn’t think of anyone offhand who bore him a grudge and, even if they did, he believed that if someone were going to kill him, they’d attempt it back in the homeland, not here in Turkey. Why go to the trouble? Only one major spike in that theory: the killers were British.

He turned the shower to cold, feeling a pleasurable cascade of water across his skin, and tested out his theory on the ethnicity of the killers. That shout he’d heard amidst the chaos was as captured in his mind as the memory of Belle’s smile. As sure as he could be, he’d heard the words ‘…fuckin’ out of here’. Not Turkish, not any other nationality, Anglo-Saxon, pure and simple. At least one of those guys was definitely British.

As far as his current activities were concerned, he was simply maintaining a watching brief. Since the new man, a former grammar-school boy, had taken over MI5, there had been a significant change in direction, which meant that people like him could play a role. Some called it privatisation of the security services, and something to be feared and resisted. All he knew was it gave him gainful employment. He wasn’t officially on the books, never would be. He was more mercenary than spook, a necessary evil and, he had no illusions, expendable. He tilted his face up towards the showerhead, opening his eyes wide, thinking about the brief and exploring the suspected link between terrorism and British organised crime. The hardcore terrorist relied more on the spoken word to transmit information than the written, and it was generally carried out person to person rather than via an easily traceable phone line or computer. So far he thought he’d stumbled across nothing significant, but the killing at the café changed everything. Ertas, by his manner, had given the game away.

Tallis turned off the shower, ran a hand through his hair and reached for a towel. He rubbed himself dry, caught sight of his lean, deeply tanned and muscular reflection in the mirror. He was probably in better physical shape than he’d been for a couple of years thanks to some fairly serious working out. Mentally, he still pushed all the buttons. Only the slightly haunted look in his dark eyes spoke of a man who’d lost the very person he needed to live for. Belle, he thought, what I wouldn’t give to see you again, to hear your voice, to hold you. Christ, it’s so damn lonely here on my own.

Dressed again, he took out a hunting knife from underneath the clothes in the bottom of the wardrobe. He’d bought it from a trader, no questions asked, after a memorable visit to Gemiler Island where, long ago, legend spoke of an albino queen who’d lived there. To protect her from the blistering sun, the islanders had built a walkway, hewing out the solid rock so that she could walk freely from the temple at the top of the island down to the sea. Tallis had followed the trail, chipped and crumbling now from the tread of many pairs of feet, and marvelled at such devotion. Tombs embedded on either side gave it a spooky feel.

Back on the gulet once more and only a few metres out to sea, he’d heard the familiar put-put sound of one of the many little boats trading everything from sweet and savoury pancakes and ice cream to rugs and painstakingly embroidered scarves or oyali, and neckerchiefs. Except this boat and its wares were different. The woman, sure enough, was selling legitimate goods. Her gypsy-looking colleague, however, after some minor probing, was in the market for what he called ancient ornamental weapons. Four inches long, with a wide stainless-steel blade ground to a deadly point, the knife was neither ancient nor ornamental but it was more than enough to frighten, maim or kill. Not that Tallis harboured malign intent. Just wanted back-up. He flicked the blade open and closed it again with lightning speed, one-handed. The knife felt solid in his grip yet light to carry. Perfect. With the same minimum of fuss as when he’d made the purchase, he slipped it into the pocket of his chinos, and went down to the dining room where he ate a delicious dinner of karniyarik, stuffed aubergines, followed by grilled trout, and headed back out onto the street.

It was steamy as hell outside, the Turkish night asphalt black and starless. Street lamps lighting his way, he headed away from the main tourist area of Sultanahmet towards Constantine’s Column. From there he took a tram out to the massive covered Grand Bazaar with its painted vaults, and streets studded with booths and shopkeepers as pushy and relentless as any City trader. Here, all manner of commercial human activity was at work. He felt as if he was at the centre of a large ant nest, lots of rushing about, even though most of the actual manufacturing and trading was carried out in the hans or storage depots, tucked away behind gated entrances, shaded and concealed. Finding it hard to get his bearings in spite of the profusion of signposts, he allowed himself to be carried along with the flow, through Feraceciler Sok, passing cafés and restaurants with local diners, and ancient copper and marble fountains dispensing fresh water. He skirted the oldest part of the bazaar, veering left and coming to an Oriental kiosk, which had been built as a coffee house in the seventeenth century but now served as a jewellery shop. Left again, he cruised down a street of carpet and textile shops. Overhead, Turkish flags hung with the familiar crescent moon and stars, a reminder and symbol of national pride. After pushing through a scrum of bargain-hunters, he eventually found himself at the entrance to the largest han in Istanbul, the Valide Hani. Beyond lay the Spice Bazaar, inside this the café and last place he’d seen Garry Morello alive.

By returning to the scene of crime, he didn’t really expect to discover anything, the trip more a means to jog his memory and get things straight in his head. Voyeurs and the naturally curious had gathered outside the spot. Someone, he noticed, had laid flowers at the perimeter. Sealed off by white crime-scene tape, a single boredlooking policeman on duty outside, the café was over-run by Turkish Scenes of Crime Officers, their distinctive forensic suits declaring that they were part of an international club. Christ, he thought, guts turning to water, why did he feel so lashed by memories? Before joining the Forensic Science Unit, Belle had once been a SOCO. It was partly the reason he’d elicited her help in a previous case, that and the fact he hadn’t been able to live without her. He felt a spasm of regret and grief shoot through his body. Perhaps, if he hadn’t involved her, he thought blindly, she’d still be alive.

Tallis turned away, partly to shield his face from an embarrassing tear in his right eye, partly to maintain a low profile. At once, he spotted a familiar countenance. Dark eyes met. You, Tallis thought, watching as the stranger unlocked his gaze and walked purposefully away. Tallis observed the smaller man’s retreating form, waited, counted to ten and dropped into casual step behind him. Only two reasons he could think of to explain why the man who’d left the café so abruptly had suddenly turned up on the scene: curiosity or involvement. Or—Tallis felt something flicker inside—it boiled down to the curved ball theory. He, like Tallis, was simply caught up in someone else’s game. Happened all the time.

They were heading west along Cami Meydani Sok, running parallel to Galata Bridge before breaking off into the sort of quiet and narrow streets where you might get your throat cut. Tallis could tell from the way the man was walking that he knew full well he was being tailed. He seemed to be moving in no specific direction, crossing, recrossing and doubling back, all classic anti-surveillance tactics. The law of averages dictated that he had the advantage. Single tails always carried a high risk of exposure.