The Istanbul Puzzle (12 page)

‘Sean, what have you been up to?’ he said, a moment later.

I told him about Isabel not showing up, about Bulent and about Hagia Eirene. Almost everything, in fact. I only kept one piece of information to myself, and even that I nearly told him, but something held me back.

Isabel not showing up was still annoying me, but he didn’t seem worried about it at all.

‘We can take it from here, Sean,’ he said condescendingly, when I finished my story.

I stared back at him, glad I hadn’t told him everything. What a total dick. I’d figured out where Alek had taken those photos, and it seemed like all this guy wanted to do was get rid of me.

Then, abruptly, he excused himself. As I waited for him to come back, I thought about what I should do next.

‘You weren’t thinking of going to Hagia Eirene by yourself, were you?’ he said, when he rejoined me a few minutes later.

Going to Hagia Eirene was exactly what I’d been planning to do.

‘I thought Isabel might like to come along.’

‘We’ve a lot of experienced people out here, Sean. They’re trained for this sort of thing. You really don’t have to get involved with this. If these are the buggers who killed your colleague, we’ll find them. Be sure of that.’ He put his hands together, turned his fingers into a steeple, then touched his forefingers to his lips and stared at me. ‘You’ve done enough.’

‘What’s happened to Isabel?’ I said.

‘Don’t worry about Isabel. She’ll be alright.’ His expression remained unreadable.

He just wanted me to walk away from it all.

‘Do you know anything else that might be useful to us, Sean?’ Had he guessed I was holding something back?

‘No.’ I kept my voice flat.

He didn’t break eye contact. ‘Then leave this to us. I’ll organise your flight home.’ He folded his arms as if he’d made my decision for me. Then he gave me one of his perfect fake smiles.

‘You’re not getting rid of me that easy,’ I replied. ‘I came here to find out what happened to Alek, and I still don’t know. If I go back to London, you guys will never tell me anything.’

‘You really must think of your safety first, Sean. You’ve found out a lot already. You’ve done well. There’s really nothing more you can do now. It’s time for the professionals to take over.’

‘You can’t stop me from going to Hagia Eirene. I want to see these people for myself. And you can’t change my mind, so don’t even try.’

There was no way I was going to give up. All that sorry sir, we’ll keep you informed sir bullshit. I knew the routine. I’d hear nothing for weeks. Then months. Then before I knew it a year would have passed and the case would be ancient history. If I was lucky, I’d receive the odd letter regretting things, telling me they were still working on the case. Maybe I’d get a brief meeting, if I pressed hard for it, with the same end result.

I had nothing to lose any more – no family, and my best friend was dead. ‘I’ll be going to Hagia Eirene this afternoon. I’ll see you there, if you can make it.’ I forced a smile.

He looked surprised, or maybe he was faking it. I didn’t give a damn.

‘I suppose I should credit you for perseverance,’ he said. ‘What do you plan to do?’

I kept my voice level. The heat was getting to me. This was the hottest day by far since I’d arrived. It felt almost as hot as northern Iraq had been.

‘I want to see these people for myself. That’s it.’

‘Well, if you insist, we’ll take you there, no problem at all.’

‘But,’ he paused. The catch was coming, ‘you’ll do what you’re told, no more, no less, or we will not be responsible for what happens to you. Don’t forget how your colleague died.’ His tone was measured, his words cold.

He turned his head. His man was standing by the door to the corridor that led to the outside world. He nodded at him.

‘I think it’s time for lunch,’ he said.

‘Stupid bloody demonstrators. They’ve got a cheek,’ said Lord Bidoner, as he wobbled up the wet granite steps leading to the shiny black door. ‘We’re at war. Don’t they know it?’ He sniffed. ‘Good to see you could make it, Arap. Just in time too.’

‘Good to see you too, sir,’ said Arap Anach. His limousine driver was holding a cavernous black umbrella above his head. He waited for Lord Bidoner to move up the steps.

The pavement was deserted. At the end of the street, traffic inched past along Haymarket heading towards Trafalgar Square.

Above them, monsoon-like August rain streamed down the creamy plaster frontage of the elegant London mansion. When Bidoner reached the top of the stairs the gleaming door set between white pillars opened. The red eye of a security camera stared down at them from a bronze lion’s head, set above the door. An expanse of hall, floored in white marble, beckoned beyond the doorway.

Gilt-framed portraits of people in wigs or top hats dominated the walls. A black marble staircase, which would not have been out of place in an old Hollywood musical with Fred Astaire, led up to the gallery level.

You could smell tradition and money. It wasn’t just the lavender perfumed polish, like a whiff of expensive aftershave, or the scrubbed servants or the hush that descended as the front door closed behind them, it was everything together. And Arap liked it. This was his world.

The double doors on the far side of the entrance hall creaked as they opened. A head peeked out, then pushed the doors wide. They passed inside.

The room was a long hall with white pillars along each side. Well-dressed people in dark suits filled rows of plush, red-upholstered chairs facing a podium. Beside the podium, on a stand, stood a large, thin LCD TV. The room buzzed with chatter. Arap moved to a free seat near the front and sat down.

Lord Bidoner moved to the podium. After a minute spent talking quietly with an elderly gentleman who was standing next to him, he tapped the microphone.

‘Today,’ he began, dispensing with any opening pleasantries, ‘the Muslim faith is the fastest growing of all Europe’s religions. By some projections, within some of your lifetimes, it will be the faith of the majority, given the comparative birth rates. An Islamic Europe may not aspire to tolerance, either. It may well be fundamentalist. And they don’t usually take kindly to dissent. When they offer your granddaughter a
burqa
, she may have to put it on.’

Arap had heard it all before, but he sat through it. Lord Bidoner was the only man he trusted in England. And he had personally vouched for each person in the room.

‘So what are our plans, you ask me?’ Lord Bidoner paused, and scanned his audience.

‘Some of you ask about population control. You tell me that mother nature will inevitably check the explosive growth of humanity. But it is our job to ensure an orderly reduction.’ He coughed.

‘We cannot allow our country to be destroyed. And we will not, I promise you.’ He wagged a finger at the group before him. It was as explicit as he got, which pleased Arap. Only the inner circle could know more. Everyone else would just have to content themselves with believing in coincidences and bad luck.

When the speech was over, applause broke out. It lasted for two minutes, at least. The queue of people waiting to talk to the speaker diminished slowly. Malach waited, standing to the side.

‘A well crafted speech, sir,’ he said, when everyone had gone.

‘Let’s go for our little meeting, Arap.’

He nodded. Within minutes he, Lord Bidoner, and three others were sitting around an emerald-green baize card table in an adjoining oak-panelled room.

Lord Bidoner was the first to speak.

‘You know we can trust this chap.’ He nodded towards Arap. ‘He’s proven that. The advance notice he gave you all about those riots last week was spot on. I vote we give him what he asked for the last time he came here.’ He turned to Arap.

‘You have something to tell us?’

Arap’s expression was rock steady. ‘I do, Lord Bidoner. My view, as you all know, is that a resurgence of pneumonic plague is likely to break out soon.’ Everyone looked at him expectantly. These men wanted to know what was going to happen, but they also wanted to be kept at arm’s length. They weren’t a big group, but they were influential. And their objectives were the same as his.

‘I expect that mass protests and overcrowded transport systems will result in the virus spreading fast. As for outcomes, in Fiji, in 1875, one untreatable measles outbreak killed 25 percent of all Fijians. 80 percent of Hawaii natives were killed by similarly untreatable epidemics. Modern man thinks such things are in the past. But antibiotics are losing their potency. Untreatable epidemics can produce similar mortality rates in western populations, focused mainly on the groups in which the infection will arise.’

‘You and yours will be safe, gentlemen, but it’s time to head for the country.’ The faces around him were gloomy, but determined.

‘I have only one more thing to say, Lord Bidoner,’ said Arap.

‘Yes?’ Lord Bidoner’s tone was flat.

‘If things go as expected, we will all have a lot to thank you for.’ Arap smiled, like a pike in front of its prey.

The others nodded.

A new country would emerge, Arap knew, when the crisis was over. Great changes had occurred the last time the plague devastated England. They would happen this time too. New leaders would be needed. And the changes at the very top in the UK would be mirrored elsewhere. The men in this room had plans for when the time came. Plans that would introduce a new system, without the ridiculous compassion of the past.

There could be no turning back now. Malach would tie up the loose ends in Istanbul with his usual precision and soon nobody would care about a few people losing their lives. Access to a working vaccine would be all that people cared about. He took the box of white vials from his satchel and began handing them around.

‘Your oaths of silence will soon be rewarded,’ he said.

‘The change is finally coming.’

‘Shouldn’t we be going?’

It was five after three. The lunch plates hadn’t even been cleared yet. The salads had been delicious, lemony and sweet, but all I’d done was pick at mine. Peter was acting as if this was a normal day.

I looked at my watch.

‘You are such a worrier.’ Peter smirked.

I wanted to shout at him. But I didn’t. It would probably have amused him.

‘Do remember, if you feel you want to, at any time, you can always go home.’

‘You wish. I don’t run away that easy.’

A few minutes later he stood up, motioned for me to follow him.

We climbed in the back of the Range Rover parked in front of Peter’s house. There were two men dressed like tourists, wearing flowery shirts and brightly-coloured shorts in the front seats. A shiny sat nav screen glowed on the console serving the back seats.

I leaned against a leather armrest. The vehicle was similar to the one Isabel had driven, but better equipped. On the front it had a large bull bar, which extended about a foot above the hood line.

‘We’re going to stick out like an elephant at a wedding in this,’ I said.

‘Not a bit. A lot of locals drive these as soon as they can afford them. You’d be surprised who likes these.’

‘Are you going to put a British flag on each corner?’

Peter ignored me. He exchanged some indecipherable comments with the men in front. Then he turned back to me.

‘There’s been a demonstration in Taksim Square against the mosque raids in Europe. Nothing to bother us, though. We’ll be going in another way.’

‘Great.’ I felt calm, ready for anything.

Peter was looking at me funnily, as if he thought I wasn’t taking the demonstrations seriously enough.

‘You do know what happened in London last Saturday?’ he said.

‘I couldn’t have been closer to it.’

His gaze flickered as if being anywhere near that riot implicated me in some way.

‘Bastards ruined my night,’ I said.

We sat in silence as we crossed a wide bridge over the Golden Horn. There were long banners on the railings on each side welcoming us to Istanbul in English, German and French. Similar banners hung from lampposts.

‘What’s with all the banners?’ I said.

‘Turkey loves its tourists,’ said Peter.

The people on the streets seemed poorer in this older part of the city. I scanned faces. Many were permanently grooved with wrinkles from the sun.

‘Nearly there,’ said Peter. He peered at the sat nav system. It showed a 3D map of our location, the buildings boxy and yellow on each side of the street. A tiny red dot was blinking in the middle of the screen.

‘We can track anything with this,’ he said smugly, pointing at the sat nav. The red dot was moving. He pressed one of the keys. The dot became a block of pixels as we zoomed in. The pixels became the black roof of our Range Rover.

I could see people moving around the car. The image was clearer than any commercial sat nav system I’d ever seen.

‘This city is bursting at the seams,’ he said. ‘I swear you can feel the explosion of the worldwide Muslim population through this city, as if it was a pulse point. You know Istanbul has a larger influx of immigrants each year now than New York?’

I didn’t say anything. Some people thought I’d end up hating Islam, after what had happened to Irene in Afghanistan, but I’d just ended up wanting to know more about it, to understand it.

I could see the dome and minarets of Hagia Sophia up ahead now. Clusters of tourists were making their way up the hill towards it, fanning themselves in the heat, looking pink, par-boiled. Shops selling carpets, blue-patterned tiles, postcards and sweating Turk Kola bottles lined the street. A high sun-bleached brick wall came into view. The road was cobbles now, so worn they were shiny. This part of Istanbul had a medieval feel, side streets zig-zagging between worn-out four-and-five-storey buildings, all leaning against each other, like rows of geriatrics lining up for a photo.

We turned into a steep narrow lane with restaurants and an art gallery. The outer wall of Topkapi Palace was on our left. It must have been at least forty foot high. It was made of bleached stones set in layers: first larger ones, boulders really; then long bricks; then more boulders; then a layer of shale; then bricks again; then a crenelated top. For almost four hundred years generation after generation of sultans had ruled most of the Muslim world from the palace beyond this wall.

We were at a junction with a side road to our right. The road ahead was blocked by two-foot-high white iron bollards. A security guard in a blue uniform with VP Security in white lettering above the breast pocket came towards us. Our driver rolled down his window and waved at him. The security guard waved back and moved the bollards so we could pass.

On the right side of the lane there was a white iron railing set into a low wall. Beyond it loomed massive stone piers reaching towards the sky, the back shoulders of Hagia Sophia.

On our left there was a row of three-storey houses all of the same style, reminiscent of clapboard houses in America. I caught a glimpse of an ash-coloured dome, surmounted by a spike with a golden crescent on top. It looked like a jewelled cocktail stick coming out the top of a faded cherry. It was Hagia Eirene.

I looked at my watch. 3:45 PM. We had fifteen minutes to get to the other side of Hagia Eirene. Plenty of time. As long as the gates through the walls of Topkapi Palace were open.

The gateway we need to go through was the Bab-i Humayun, the Imperial Gate. It was constructed by Mehmed the Conqueror six years after he conquered the city. It had a large Arabic-script panel above its arched entrance, and it jutted out from the palace wall in a gatehouse block that was as deep as it was tall. The heads of those who defied the sultan used to be displayed there, to discourage rebellion.

When we arrived at the gate, an ultra-modern bus was plugging the entrance, like a bread roll stuck in the jaws of an over-eager dog. We were losing precious time.

We were hoping to follow the bus through the gateway. But it didn’t move. This was bad news.

‘Let’s see what’s happening on the other side,’ said Peter, tapping at the sat nav screen. ‘This gate isn’t supposed to be used by buses. But it is wide enough for them to get through. I’ve seen them do it. We shouldn’t be here long.’

The sat nav screen showed the front part of the bus poking through the gate, and the tree-filled open area beyond where people were milling about.

Peter tapped at the screen again and dragged his finger across it. The image we were watching, of spindly treetops and white paths moved to the right, then forwards. The dun-tiled roof of a building appeared. The building moved down the screen. I saw a courtyard and immediately recognised the entrance to the Laboratory for Conservation and Restoration that I’d visited that morning. It was getting very close to 4:00 PM.

‘There’s gotta be another way in,’ I said. ‘That courtyard’s only two minutes from here.’ I needed to see those people, to verify what Bulent had told me with my own eyes.

‘Don’t panic,’ said Peter. ‘You won’t miss anything.’

Now knots of unhappy tourists were milling nearby too. Not only could no vehicles get through the gate into Topkapi Palace, pedestrian traffic, which used the same arch, was blocked too.

‘Why the hell are they going in that way?’ I asked no one in particular.

‘Perhaps we should go round to another gate,’ said Peter calmly.

‘Christ, you could have damn well suggested that five minutes ago. We’ve probably missed them now.’

‘I don’t think so.’ He jabbed a finger at the screen. ‘They can’t hide from this. The weather in Istanbul makes real-time satellite surveillance easy. Believe me, I can track every beggar their PM gives alms to after visiting his mosque on a Friday if I want to.’

I didn’t feel comforted by his little speech.

‘Hold on,’ said Peter. ‘Look at them. I’ll bet that’s our lot.’

Two small dark shapes, like planets with rings, were moving on the sat nav screen. They were crossing the courtyard, and had come from one corner, exactly as Bulent had described. Each of them seemed to be carrying something.

These had to be the bastards we were waiting for. And I’d missed them.

‘This is a total disaster,’ I said.

‘Not yet,’ replied Peter confidently.

He tapped at the screen, moved the cursor that appeared with the tip of his finger and tapped one of the shapes. The screen focused on the slowly moving object.

Then the image was obscured by what looked like the tops of trees, but after a moment’s hesitation it continued tracking the object as it moved.

‘They’re the people we’re looking for,’ said Peter.

He tapped the screen again. It zoomed in on the shapes. My mouth was dry. The coldness in my stomach had returned and was hardening into a ball. The hair on my arms were standing up. The shapes on the screen were clearer now.

I could distinguish shoulders. Were those dust-coloured overalls they were wearing?

Whoever they were, they were heading along the path that led directly towards the gate we were stuck at. They were coming towards us! Would they wait, pass close to us when the bus eventually got moving? I glanced at it, willing it to move.

‘Pull out,’ said Peter abruptly. ‘That way.’ He pointed to the right.

Our driver, whose head was smooth and pink and almost bald, manoeuvred us with a jerk towards the road that ran alongside the high stone wall of Topkapi Palace and down towards the Bosphorus. A silken sheen of blue water sparkled in the distance.

‘Where are we going?’ I said. I peered at the sat nav. Suddenly I knew why we were moving. The two people we were tracking were heading down a tree-lined road. They were heading away from the blocked main gate, moving parallel to us, but on the other side of the Topkapi Palace wall.

But we were moving slower than them. The cars ahead of us were inching along. Then, about a hundred yards on, we stopped at a junction. The traffic was ridiculous.

Peter was sitting back, almost uninterested now. Our air conditioning seemed to be struggling to cope. From the street I heard a shout. We stopped again.

I could feel my frustration getting to me. Peter was so laid-back, not only about following these bastards, but about everything.

We moved forward another inch.

‘You don’t give a damn about what’s just happened, do you?’ I said.

He looked at me, his disdain barely disguised. ‘That’s not true.’

‘These guys could be anyone.’ I pointed at the screen, trying to keep my voice even.

‘Let’s just follow them and see where they’re going.’ He tapped a button on the side of the sat nav. The resolution on the screen improved. Then the image broke into blocky digital squares before becoming smooth again.

We watched as the pair turned left into a bus park with white-roofed buses in one corner, like dead larvae lined up in a row. The men passed though the bus park and continued down another tree-lined avenue. Did Peter have people on the ground inside that part of Topkapi waiting for them? Was that why he was so nonchalant?

We reached the bottom of the hill where we had to wait in line at a T-junction that led onto a dual carriageway. It ran alongside the Bosphorus, glittering in front of us. Peter instructed our driver to turn left, towards the Golden Horn. It amazed me how bored he sounded.

Then the sat nav screen went blocky again. Peter pressed a button on the bottom edge.

The screen went completely blank.

I raised my hands in disbelief. ‘We’re going to lose them!’

Peter pressed another button on the sat nav. The screen stayed dead.

Then he pressed a third button on the top. The screen lit up with a menu. It took him over a minute to refocus the screen on the bus park. By that time, there was no sign of the two men. We’d lost them and we were still stuck in traffic.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. He didn’t seem one frigging bit sorry.

I sat back, my fist pressed against the door. The Range Rover inched forward again, then stopped.

‘You should throw that system in the garbage.’

‘We’re following up on a lot of leads regarding your colleague’s death. This is only one of them, Sean. You need to be patient. It’s no good getting emotional. We can’t go rushing around like headless idiots.’ He paused, then continued more slowly, as if he wanted to drive home a point. ‘Why don’t you go back to London? This really isn’t your business any more. I’ll keep you informed, I promise.’

I gripped the door handle.

‘Don’t promise,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard too many promises.’ The driver looked at Peter in the rear-view mirror. His hand was moving towards a button on the dash.

I knew what was going on. They were going to detain me, maybe take me straight to the airport, send me back to London. I yanked at my door handle. It moved. The door opened. I heard a click. Just in time.

Peter looked at me disdainfully.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said. He reached towards me.

I pushed his hand away roughly. His expression changed. I’d done two years of martial arts in college. I was rusty, but I knew what to do. The most important thing was to move fast. It wasn’t rocket science; you just had to take your chances. And this was mine. The car wasn’t moving.

I rolled sideways, pushed the door open, jumped out of the Range Rover. A wall of roasting air hit me

I raced around the truck that stood right next to us and ran for an alley. When I reached the end of it, I glanced back, my heart pumping all the way up into my neck. The guy who’d sat quietly next to Peter’s driver, observing everything, was in the alley coming after me fast. I wasn’t that far ahead of him, but a surge of confidence shot through me. If there was one thing I was good at, it was running.

I turned to the right, crossed a road and sprinted into another alley. It was a long one. I put my head down, ran, then crossed over to the next alley. Someone shouted at me in Turkish. A car horn beeped. I ran on. At the next junction I turned, stopped running, crossed the road and walked straight into a café.