The Mephisto Threat

The man suddenly leapt onto a tram. Thinking he might be heading for Sirkeci station, Tallis clambered into the next car after him. Like all trams, it was clean and fully air-conditioned, a triumph of Turkish engineering and the speediest method to get around in a city like Istanbul. Tallis paid the driver and sat down, keeping his eyes pinned, and rearranged his thinking—thinking that was based on many years’ experience of bad guys. He didn’t doubt that the stranger in the tramcar was probably one of them, up to no good, sure, but not necessarily connected to the hit in the café. So he was taking one hell of a risk by reinserting himself at the scene. He’d have been better off lying low. Tallis smiled to himself. So you are involved somehow, somewhere. More obliquely, he wondered whether this man was also the very type of person he’d come to spy on, one of the many faceless Islamic terrorists, the masterminds, the ghosts, those who had no profile on any security service database.

The tram passed the stop for the station and was continuing in the direction of the Celal Sultan Hotel. Either by accident or design, Tallis felt as if he was coming full circle. Had it been light he would have seen more clearly the painted wooden houses lining the street. As it was, he saw nothing but the glint and glow from sitting rooms and lighted cigarettes. Then the motion of the tram began to change. It was slowing. Sixth sense told him that his man would make a move. Tallis held back, watching and waiting for signs of his quarry. Sure enough, he slipped out and darted through a hole in a hedge and into the outer grounds of Topkapi Palace. Tallis followed him, catching his shirt on a wooded thicket. Cursing as he ripped himself free, he discovered he was standing alone in what looked to be an old rose garden. Shaded by overgrown bushes and plants, the place had a neglected air, making it a perfect rendezvous for lovers or thieves. That he was walking into a trap became a distinct possibility. He looked around him, listened. Pale moonlight sifted down through a sky of banked cloud and suppressed heat, lighting his way.

Then he saw him. No more than twenty metres in front, his man was moving at a slow trot along a designated walkway, towards the palace. Time to change the dynamics, Tallis thought. ‘Merhaba!’ Hello, he called out. The man quickened his step, broke into a run. Tallis kicked off the back foot and sprinted after him, ducking and weaving to avoid being lashed in the face by several overhanging branches. Shorter, the man darted with a quick zip of speed, off the main path and across another piece of woodland, feet pounding the uneven ground, but he didn’t have the staying power, something at which Tallis excelled. He called out again, shouted a reassurance, he only wanted to talk. Still the bloke kept running, jinking through the wooded grounds, giving the strong impression that he knew the place well, that he was heading for a rat run. Then, without warning, he ran back onto the main path, across a square, screeching to a halt, and turned, his face and form illuminated by a shaft of light from a tremulous moon. Hand reaching, face cold as antique marble, lips drawn back in a pale snarl.

Tallis made a rapid calculation. The bloke was carrying. And he was prepared to open fire. Automatically, twisting to one side, Tallis drew out the knife, simultaneously flicking it open, just as the tell-tale glint of gunmetal swung and homed in on him.

His attacker stood no chance. Before he’d even got off a shot, he was falling. The blade had flown through the air, sliced into and stuck fast in his throat.

4

THE man’s death rattle was mercifully short but noisy and terrifying. Tallis glanced around, checking first that he was alone—yes—then searched the body for identification, picking out both a wallet and passport that identified his victim as a Turk by the name of Mehmet Kurt, born in 1977. Next, Tallis looked for a place to conceal the body. He didn’t have great options. All he could do was buy time. Ironically, several metres away lay the Executioner’s Fountain, the place where, long ago, the executioner washed his hands and sword after a public beheading.

Tallis briefly wondered whether he could just ditch the body and run, make the kill look like the bloke was a victim of some assassin with a macabre sense of history. Beyond, there was open ground and the entrance to the Palace. Not a great welcome for the tourists in the morning, Tallis thought, brain spinning like three rows in a fruit machine. That left the Rose Garden, his firm favourite for a shallow grave but too far to cart a body. He gave an urgent glance to his left. There wasn’t much more than a triangle of trees, but it was the best place. The only place.

Dead men were heavy, but Tallis picked the stiff up with relative ease. There was little blood due to the trajectory of the blade—Tallis took care not to disturb or remove it—and though acutely conscious of Lockard’s principle—every contact left a trace—he knew that his DNA was unlikely to be stored on a Turkish database. The British system stood head and shoulders above anything in Europe, which was why fast-track plans to automatically share information were already in place, but that did not include countries bordering the Middle East.

Dumping the body where the trees grew more thickly, Tallis wiped the shaft of the blade. That only left the weapon, which was of professional interest to him. Russian, slim for easy concealment, it was a simple blowback pistol, the PSM, reputed to have remarkable penetrative powers, particularly against body armour. Intended for Russian security forces, it had resurfaced and become available on the black market in Central Europe. Tallis picked it up with a handkerchief and put it next to its owner.

Hugging the side of the path, he retraced his steps back the way he’d come. Once, just once, he felt a shiver of fear that there was someone else in the shadows. He neither stopped, nor looked, but kept on walking. Out onto the street again, he thought about taking a detour to the Cemberlitas Baths near Constantine’s Column. There he could have the equivalent of a steam clean, the best way to rid himself of the odour of death, but it was already fast approaching midnight, the time the baths closed. Adrenalin flooding his nervous system, he strode back the short distance to the hotel.

Back in his room, he ripped off his clothes, threw them into a carrier bag and chucked them into his suitcase. He’d get rid of them in the morning. He showered until his skin stung and put on a clean pair of trousers. After a quick exploration of the mini-bar and coming up empty, he picked up a phone and ordered a bottle of raki, a jug of water, and a pide, a flatbread with salami and cheese. Room service wasn’t part of the package. It was only a three-star hotel. But, in reality, money bought anything.

The food arrived. Tallis offered enough notes to ensure both the porter’s discretion and gratitude. After he’d closed and locked the door, he ate and drank slowly, without pleasure, food and alcohol the best cure for the terrible nausea that followed the taking of a life. While he chewed and drank, his mind brimmed with questions, ranging from burning curiosity about the man he’d killed to how long it would take before the body was discovered. He came to no firm conclusions.

After a fitful night’s sleep, partly as the result of the incredibly high temperature, partly because he was still coming down from his adrenalin fix, Tallis got up, packed up some things and left the hotel shortly before eight in the morning, the carrier bag containing the contaminated clothes swinging idly from his hand.

A saffron-coloured sun beat down hard upon him. Within minutes, his shirt was stuck to his back and perspiration was oozing in a constant trickle from his brow. Heat was doing funny things to his vision. Colours seemed more vivid, shapes less defined. Pavement, buildings, cars looked as though they might burst into flames.

His destination was Eminonu, a port bustling with traders keen to sell goods or offer trips up the Bosphorus. A cooling breeze usually blew in off the water but not today. A small podgy individual with down-turned eyes caught Tallis’s attention. For some reason he had no takers even though the small boat he was chartering looked sturdy enough. Expecting to haggle, Tallis spoke in English and asked how much for a two-hour trip. Predictably, Podgy named his price, which was eye-wateringly high. Tallis immediately offered half. Podgy looked insulted. Tallis shrugged. Podgy broke into a grin, a sign that he considered Tallis a worthy adversary, and offered him a cold drink. Tallis accepted with a gracious smile. All part of the game. He discovered that the little man was called Kerim. ‘Look, Kerim,’ Tallis said, feeling the delicious chill of ice-cold water at the back of his throat, ‘no need to do the full trip. How about you take me as far as the Fortress of Europe and I’ll get the bus back?’

Kerim clutched a hand to his chest as though he was having a heart attack, shook his head, his expression dolorous. ‘Not good. I have expensive wife.’ His Turkish accent was as thick as the coffee.

Tallis let out a laugh. ‘More fool you.’

‘And many, many children,’ Kerim said, face forlorn.

Christ, the bloke could win a BAFTA, Tallis thought. ‘All right,’ he said, feigning sympathy. ‘Full trip, there and back with a twenty-minute stop at the Fortress.’

‘Is better,’ Kerim said, significantly brightening up.

‘And something else,’ Tallis said, lowering his voice.

‘I very quiet,’ Kerim said, pointing to his mouth. ‘I say nothing.’

You’d better not, pal, Tallis thought, jaw grinding at the terrible yet calculated risk he was about to take. Kerim leant in close, allowing Tallis to explain what he wanted the little man to do, that there would be a great deal of money paid if he looked after something he was about to give him, but dire consequences, not only for him but for his family, should he default, then he offered a little more than his original sum for the trip, which, like the good businessman Kerim was, he accepted with a small bow.

Rumeli Hisari was a maze of steep, narrow cobblestone streets leading to tranquil Muslim cemeteries in a fortress setting. Everywhere were reminders of its fifteenth-century past, and the grand plans of Mehmet the Conqueror in his quest to take Constantinople. Much as Tallis adored history, he couldn’t have been less interested. He was looking for a suitable place to get rid of his carrier bag full of clothes. In a little less than ten minutes, he found it. Although most hotel and restaurant lavatories were of the modern flush design, public conveniences remained stubbornly old-fashioned, of the squat-over-the-slot variety. Setting aside any squeamishness, he took out his belongings and thrust them deep into the bowels of the latrine. Nobody in their right mind would try to retrieve them. Ten minutes later, he was back on the boat, allowing his offending arm to trail in the deep and narrow waters of the Bosphorus.

After checking and booking a KLM flight out of Ataturk to Spain, part of a set of precautionary measures following the killing and the previous night’s excitement, he spent the rest of the day lying low, eating a simple meal in the hotel restaurant before retiring to bed early. Deeply asleep, he was suddenly alerted to someone hammering on his door. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, dragging on a pair of boxers, instantly awake. ‘Who is it?’

‘Polis!’

Tallis glanced at his watch. It said two-twenty in the morning. ‘You got ID?’ he called out.

More banging.

He took a deep breath, opened the door a crack, clocking two men in plain clothes flanked by two police officers with firearms. Shit. He opened his mouth to say something. The door burst open. An outstretched fist shot out. Connecting.

Next stop darkness.

5

TALLIS came round feeling muzzy. Half-naked, feet bare, handcuffed, he was lying flat on his back on a piece of thin cardboard. His mouth was dry, as if it were laminated, and his temple throbbed with a viciousness he’d only experienced once before in his life after getting legless, at the age of seventeen, on a bottle of rum. He gingerly ran his cuffed fingers over his body. No broken bones, only bruises.

He looked around. Low-wattage light swinging from the ceiling throwing a nicotine glow on walls the colour of British cement. A hole in the ground signalling a convenience, the malodorous smell and dark cloud of flies buzzing round the entrance further confirmation. A dodgy-looking stain, the colour of dried pig’s blood, on the floor to his right. A steel door, with a slot in it for those outside to see in, remained resolutely shut. So much for Turkish hospitality, he thought dryly. There was no sound of faraway traffic, no human voice, no birdsong, so he guessed he was deep in the bowels of a building. The size of the cell, for that’s what it was, was the human equivalent of a battery hen’s coop. And, Christ, it was hot. His lungs felt as if they were sticking to his ribs. Might as well shove him in an oven, turn it to 200 degrees and roast him.

He staggered to his feet, tried to get his bearings, tried to focus. His watch was missing from his wrist so he had no idea of time. Without natural light he couldn’t even make an estimate. Wherever he’d been taken, he doubted that it was a police station. That worried him.

He retreated to the corner of his cell. Best he could do was conserve his energy, stay upbeat. There was absolutely nothing to connect him to the dead man so it was pointless to speculate about the reason he’d been brought and banged up there—wherever there was. Fear of the unknown was his greatest enemy. He refused to entertain the notion of detention centres and secret police, of places where men were detained without charge or trial, or of ghost prisoners held in legal limbo. He had a high pain threshold, but even seasoned soldiers knew that the mental anticipation and anguish was often worse than the horror itself. As soon as his captors came for him, he decided to play the role of outraged tourist. No heroics. No trying to beat the system. But plain old browned-off from Britain. Oh, and act frightened, he thought. Remember, he repeated to himself, you’re David Miller, boring, lowly IT consultant.

At last, he heard some movement and the scraping sound of metal against metal. The slot in the door drew back. A face with midnight eyes peered in, expressionless, followed by another face, which Tallis immediately recognised. On seeing Ertas, he got up. ‘Captain,’ he began, hope briefly rising. ‘So glad—’ Before he could complete his sentence, the slot slammed shut. Irritated, Tallis hunkered back down on the cardboard. At least he wouldn’t freeze to death.

Hours seemed to pass. He was getting seriously dehydrated, his thinking lacking clarity, becoming muddled. Who was Ertas? Was he part of the administrative police keeping track of foreigners, the judicial police investigating crimes or the dreaded political police who combatted subversives of any denomination? Bound to be crossovers, Tallis thought foggily, or maybe Ertas belonged to none of these groups.

He must have fallen asleep. He woke up with a yell. A guard standing over him had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. Tallis stuck his tongue out, eager to catch a few precious drops. Two other guards were pulling him up, banging his knees along the concrete, dragging him towards the open door. God, he thought, what next? He’d heard about enhanced interrogation techniques. He’d heard they weren’t very nice.

He managed to get up onto his feet. They were taking him at a fast trot down a dingy corridor. He could hear voices now. Men shouting. A gut-wrenching cry of pain tore through the fetid air. Barked orders.

Stairs ahead. One of the guards led the way, the other behind threatening him with a Taser stun gun should he try anything clever. Not that Tallis had any intention of risking 50,000 volts and total muscle paralysis. The noise was growing louder now. More desperate. The unmistakable clamour of violence. In spite of the heat, Tallis felt a chill as cold as a desert night creep deep into his soul.

The corridor opened out. Overhead strip lighting flickered with enough of a strobe effect to induce a fit in an epileptic. Doors off on either side, some of the metal grilles open, sounds of excessive use of force crashing around his ears. He hoped it was staged. If it wasn’t, poor sods, he thought.

They were walking three abreast, Tallis stumbling slightly, not used to walking in bare feet, and feeling off balance with his hands tied together. Finally they came to the end and to what looked like the type of lift you saw in a car park. One of the guards pressed a security keypad and the metal doors drew apart. Tallis was butted through into another corridor, more stairs, more fancy codes and security panels, more shouts of protest. For a brief moment, he thought he heard the strains of classical music and the sound of dripping water. Must be the product of a vivid imagination. Either that, or he was hallucinating. And then all his birthdays came at once. He was standing in an open space, like an atrium, natural light flooding through the barred windows in the ceiling. So delighted by the sight of the sun crashing down on blue, he hardly noticed Ertas, but he did clock the man standing next to him. Deeply tanned, strong-jawed, and sturdy with eyes that were too close together so that it was impossible to detect who or what he was looking at. The man dismissed the two guards with a short command. At once, Tallis could tell that, fluent though the man’s Turkish was, it wasn’t his first language.

‘This way, please,’ Ertas said, coldly remote, indicating that Tallis follow.

Despite feeling a twat, standing there in his underwear, Tallis stood his ground. ‘This how you normally treat visitors to your country?’ he fumed. ‘I demand to know where you are holding me and why. I also insist that I have full legal representation. I want to see Mr Cardew at once.’

‘You make many demands, Mr Miller,’ Ertas said quietly, with disdain.

Thank God for that, Tallis thought. At least his true identity hadn’t been revealed. Could only make things complicated. A quick visual of the building told him that escape was probably out of the question. The atrium appeared to be the highest point of the structure. There were no other windows, only doors off with a staircase leading down at the opposite end. A man in boxer shorts, even in these soaring temperatures, wasn’t exactly likely to go far. ‘Who’s your friend?’ he said, bolshie.

Ertas answered. ‘You may call him Koroglu.’

Strange, why can’t he speak for himself? Tallis thought, eyeing the man suspiciously.

‘Come,’ Ertas said, pivoting on his heel.

Tallis let out a belligerent sigh. He felt less fear now, his outrage building and genuine. Shown into a room not too dissimilar to the one at the police station, he asked first for water then to be untied. Both requests were ignored.

Ertas pulled up a chair for himself. Koroglu took a position behind Tallis. Ertas asked Tallis to sit down.

‘I pro—’ Two firm hands grabbed his shoulders, fingers digging deep into his nerves. Tallis gasped with shock and slumped down, arms half paralysed. He wondered what rank Koroglu held, from which department he hailed. Bastard division, he concluded.

Ertas, who was sitting opposite, showed no emotion. ‘After you left the station, what did you do?’ His voice was soft, coaxing.

Fucking predictable, Tallis thought, straight out of the hard-guy, soft-guy school of police interrogation. Ertas had probably picked that up in the States, too.

‘Not sure exactly when that was,’ Tallis said, leaning forward slightly, wishing he could rub his arms and get the circulation going. A stolen glance at Ertas’s watch told him it was four in the afternoon.

‘Two days ago.’

Right, Tallis thought so now he knew exactly how long he’d been held, which wasn’t very long at all. Just felt that way. ‘I went back to the hotel. I can tell you what I had to eat if you insis—’

The blow came from the left, flat-handed, mediumstrength, precision-aimed. Tallis’s ear rang. He felt temporarily deafened.

‘I will ask the questions,’ Ertas said softly. ‘You will answer.’

Tallis nodded, raised his tied hands, rubbed at his ear and did his best to look stricken. Inside he boiled with rage. In two fluid movements, he could throw his head back against the goon standing behind him, swing his hands round and punch Ertas in the throat, smashing the hyoid bone.

‘And after dinner, what did you do then?’ Ertas continued elegantly.

‘I went for a stroll.’

‘Where?’

‘Not sure I re—’

Another clout on the other side ensured that he did. He told Ertas what he wanted to hear. No point in denying it. These guys already knew where he’d been.

Ertas leant forward with a tight smile. ‘You were observed, Mr Miller, following a man who is of interest to us.’

‘I don’t know wha—’ Tallis flinched, expecting another blow. But it was Ertas who raised his hand in a restraining gesture. Tallis heard Koroglu grunt with frustration at being denied another chance to use him like a punchbag.

‘You deny it?’ Ertas’s expression was hard.

Tallis smiled. ‘Since when was following someone a criminal offence?’

‘So you were following him.’

Checkmate, Tallis thought. Those blows to his head must have addled his thinking.

‘The man in question,’ Ertas continued smoothly, ‘is a Moroccan known to have links with al-Qaeda.’ A Moroccan? Tallis thought, surprised. According to his victim’s passport, he had been a Turk—unless it was false, like his own. ‘He was deported by your own government two years ago,’ Ertas continued, ‘and is of interest to the United States.’

Shit. Tallis baulked. Who the hell did they think he was? More to the point, who were they? In his mind, the USA was synonymous with extraordinary rendition and secret detention centres. Could this be one of them? From what he’d heard, they were more likely to be found in Poland and Romania, but the closed prisons there were reputed to be full and so the States had outsourced and turned their attention to the Horn of Africa. What all this definitely pointed to: Garry Morello had been onto something, and he was deep in the shit. He remained stubborn. ‘I don’t see what this has to do with me.’

‘Because you were the last person to see him alive,’ Ertas said, down-turned eyes meeting Tallis’s.

‘You mean he’s dead,’ Tallis said, sounding aghast.

Ertas picked up the phone, ordered a jug of water and two glasses. Nobody said a word. Tallis was trying to work out what they wanted from him, confession or revelation? The water arrived. Ertas poured out, unlocked Tallis’s cuffs and handed the glass to Tallis who drank it down in one. ‘Thank you.’

‘So, Mr Miller,’ Ertas said. ‘Would you like to explain exactly what you were doing?’

‘All right,’ Tallis said with a heavy sigh. ‘I admit I followed him. I recognised him from when I was in the café with Mr Morello.’

‘Our Moroccan friend was at the Byzantium?’ Something in Ertas’s expression led Tallis to believe that he already knew the answer to the question.

‘Yes.’

‘Then why didn’t you mention this when we spoke at the station? Why was this not in your statement?’

‘Because I didn’t think it relevant.’

‘But you thought it relevant later.’ There was a cynical note in Ertas’s tone.

‘No, you don’t understand.’ Tallis allowed his voice to notch up a register to simulate frustration. ‘It was only because I saw the guy there in the evening.’

‘When you went back to the café,’ Ertas said, scratching his head.

‘Foolish, I know, but I was hoping to find something important that might help with your inquiry.’

Ertas flashed another tight, disbelieving smile. ‘And then what?’