The Istanbul Puzzle (9 page)

‘The Labarum was woven with gold thread and embroidered with precious stones. I doubt it has survived man’s greed.’

He stood. The cave felt cold.

‘We will go,’ he said. His voice was shaking. He glared at Peter, then turned to me. ‘We should not talk about these things any more. We have no need for power, for material possessions. That is the way of the demons.’

‘Thank you for your help, Father,’ I said.

‘I will pray for you all.’ He glanced at his assistant.

‘Great,’ said Peter. There was a hint of cynicism in his voice.

Father Gregory turned on him angrily.

‘You unbelievers, you scoff at everything. See those signs on the walls?’ He pointed at the circles, stars and other symbols that ran around the cave’s walls, almost at floor level.

‘They were written when demons were worshipped here. And remember, every era of mankind has an end as well as a beginning. Don’t think you will escape.’ He pointed at the tunnel.

‘We’d better leave,’ said Isabel.

Father Gregory walked towards the tunnel, beckoning us after him.

We followed. I’d been thinking about Alek’s mosaic, where he might have found it. My idea seemed more plausible with every passing second.

I didn’t look back. I was glad to be getting out of that place. We’d walked most of the way back, when suddenly, all the lights in the tunnel went out.

‘Keep going,’ said Father Gregory sternly.

His assistant pulled out a torch, turned it on, shone it ahead of us. We were in almost total darkness as we walked.

So, half stumbling, listening to the echoing sound of shuffling feet, we exited the tunnel. Before we reached the end though, I heard a noise behind us which seemed to come from the cave: a murmur, as if someone was still in there. I looked back but saw nothing. I kept going. It was just the sound of the mountain.

Peter made a phone call as soon as we exited the cave. He jumped into our Hummer as we were about to move off.

‘You should have gone in Father Gregory’s car,’ he said to me. ‘You two were getting on. We haven’t got a lot out of him yet, have we? I’m going to find out where he’s staying. I think we should talk to him some more.’

I didn’t reply. We were the last vehicle in the convoy. Father Gregory’s Toyota was already well ahead of us. The two Hummers that had blocked our path earlier were positioned one in front and one behind his vehicle.

We’d only gone about four miles, we hadn’t even reached the main road, when it happened.

The first thing I knew was a stupendous thud. Then I saw a tall tree bending.

And in half a moment, everything changed.

If you’ve never been near a terrorist explosion or an IED when it goes off, it’s hard to explain the shockwave, the way it hits you all over, the way your chest is pummelled as if from the inside, and your eardrums and skull are buffeted. I’m convinced our Hummer lifted off the ground. And I swear I saw the road buckling. Then something hit the roof of our vehicle as gravel splattered the windows.

‘Shit!’ someone shouted. We’d all instinctively ducked.

We were extremely fortunate.

An IED had been placed in a pothole. And only the fact that we’d maintained a big gap from the vehicle in front saved us from being skewered with shrapnel. Father Gregory’s vehicle wasn’t so lucky. It took the brunt of the blast.

We came to a shuddering stop by a ditch on the left side of the carriageway. Two security guards came out of the vehicle in front of us and aimed their guns in a circular motion. A plume of dust drifted up ahead where Father Gregory’s vehicle had been. My hands were trembling. I felt anger. Then relief. Then sadness. Poor Father Gregory. Could any of them in that vehicle have survived?

One of the guards on the road started waving our vehicle forward frantically, pointing to the side of the road farthest from the dust, where we could pass.

‘We have to keep going,’ said Mark. ‘There could be a follow-up action. We could be under surveillance. They could have RPGs trained on us right now.’ His tone was agitated.

The wheels of our Hummer spun as we took off. My heart was pounding. We passed Father Gregory’s vehicle. Through the dust which was drifting, I saw it had been cracked open, as if someone had taken a can opener to it. I saw flames too.

‘Shouldn’t we stop?’ I shouted. ‘Maybe we can help.’

‘Are you a fireman?’ said Mark, looking straight ahead.

‘No.’

‘The security guards know what they’re doing. You’ll only be in their way.’

We sped on. Two men from the lead vehicle were walking back towards Father Gregory’s car. Each of them was wearing an oxygen mask and carrying a canister that looked like a small fire extinguisher, painted green. Maybe Mark was right, but I still didn’t like the idea of leaving Father Gregory behind.

We were almost unscathed. Our windows hadn’t even been shattered, but a film of dust covered us now, and there were chips and marks on the windows, as if something had been slashing at them. The windscreen wipers cleared some of the dust away.

We drove fast, in silence for a while, the reality of what had happened sinking in. It took a long time for my heartbeat to return to normal. Mark turned on the radio. It was tuned to the BBC World service. All the way back to the airport we listened to Elgar. It helped for a while. Then I hated it. I didn’t want to listen to anything. And I didn’t want it to be quiet either.

I stared out the back window for ages, long after the dust cloud from the explosion couldn’t be seen anymore.

I was lucky to be alive. Father Gregory’s ideas kept whirling around in my head; I couldn’t seem to think of anything else.

Peter said. ‘What a terrible waste. And I was hoping you’d have been able to persuade him to tell us where that mosaic came from.’

‘You think he knew?’ I said.

‘I’m a thousand percent sure of it.’

Henry leaned towards the video screen. He knew the British Embassy in Paris. He’d visited it once in Rue du Faubourg, not far from the Champs-Élysées. Its frontage, in the ornate French Second Empire style, filled his screen, along with the demonstrators surrounding it.

Most of the crowd were simply chanting or waving placards and Islamic flags, but there was a small element who were throwing bottles and cans. The raid on the mosque in London had been portrayed in Islamic online forums as an attack on the right to practise their religion. But the reaction across Europe went far beyond what had been expected.
Why
was the big question. Who was fanning the embers?

It was a question Sergeant Henry Mowlam needed an answer to. The other screen on his desk showed an image of the front of St Paul’s, where two of his targets were being tracked by cameras. They looked like they were reconnoitring the area.

He’d switched to watching the scene in Paris only when the alert had sounded that the situation was escalating there. Now he wanted to concentrate on the images from St Paul’s, his direct area of duty. He knew that the faces in the crowd in Paris would be scanned and put into the database. Images of the small number of individuals stirring things up would be available on Friday, if any of them showed up in London.

Snatch squads of police officers would pick up the dangerous ones, even before they got to St Paul’s. Hopefully before they even left their houses, if the images matched individuals they already had data on. Then they could trace all their connections, online and off, to see if the answers he needed would emerge.

The red warning light blinked on again. He switched to watching the images from Paris. Petrol bombs were hitting the elegant carved doors of the embassy. The petrol was exploding in bright red flames. This was orchestrated. You don’t bring petrol with you, just in case. Someone was stirring things up.

And they had to be stopped. This was not a good time for this to be happening.

Soon after we arrived back at Mosul airport I turned my iPhone on. I’d been warned to turn it off while travelling around Iraq. Something to do with position triangulation if someone wanted to target us. I saw a few missed calls from Dr. Beresford-Ellis. As we waited for someone to check our passports, I rang my voicemail service. In one message Beresford-Ellis said UNESCO had been looking for explanations on what had gone wrong with the project. He wanted a full report on everything that had been happening in Istanbul and he wanted it as quickly as possible. He did not sound happy. His second message was a more urgent version of the first.

One thing was clear to me; I had to go back to Istanbul. I couldn’t just go to London. I had to follow this whole thing through, find out what Alek had been up to.

I thought about telling Peter and Isabel about my hunch. But I held back. What would stop them from checking my theory out before I had a chance to? Nothing. All it would take would be one phone call. Then it would be just like after Irene had died.
Go home, sir. We’ll look into it.

That wasn’t going to happen this time.

I could taste dust in the air as we waited. Then an official came, gave our passports a cursory glance and waved us through. Peter and Isabel told me to board our plane. The plan was to take off as quickly as possible. Peter said we would only be making ourselves a target if we stayed any longer. They hurried off to see if we could get clearance for a quick turnaround. I made a phone call, then stretched out in my seat, dozed. Presumably getting clearance wasn’t as easy as it might be. I drifted off. It was almost one o’clock in the morning.

A sense of foreboding came over me when I woke. I’d only been asleep for maybe twenty minutes.

Memories of Father Gregory, the flames and the pall of dust after the bomb had exploded played in my mind.

It took about an hour for Isabel and Peter to return. I felt shattered.

‘You ready, Sean?’ shouted Peter when he put his head in the cabin. A hum of engine fuel wafted in as he entered. A refuelling truck was driving away.

‘What took you so long?’ I rubbed my eyes.

‘Sorry.’ Isabel gave me a wide smile as if sleeping was something she didn’t need to do.

‘Where are we heading ?’ I said. It was time to tell them.

‘London.’ She sat opposite me.

‘I want to go back to Istanbul,’ I said, confidently.

Peter sat down heavily beside me.

‘Sorry. No can do.’ They looked at each other.

‘You know there’s probably a bounty on your head in Turkey?’ said Isabel.

‘I don’t care.’ The idea that there might be a reward involved hadn’t occurred to me. But other things had. And I’d made that phone call too, while I’d been waiting.

‘We are talking about the people who cut Alek’s head off, Sean.’ She spoke calmly, as if describing a rose bush in her garden that had been cut back.

‘There are things I have to do, Isabel. I called a contact in Istanbul, woke him up. He wasn’t happy. But he forgave me. He’s in the department who commissioned us. He says none of this should disrupt our project, that the media speculation will all blow over. He said if I wanted to come back, he’d see me anytime. So I’m going back to Istanbul, now or later. Why don’t we go that way? You can drop me off.’ I pointed in what I imagined was the general direction of Turkey, though I could have been pointing towards Cairo or Rome.

‘What is your hurry?’ said Peter. He sounded suspicious.

‘I need to see where Alek was working. I can’t do a proper report for the Institute without going there. I have to go back to Istanbul as soon as possible.’

‘I don’t see the urgency,’ said Isabel. She flicked a strand of hair from her face. It was a reasonable observation.

But to answer it I’d have had to tell her how much the project meant to us at the Institute. How much Alek had been looking forward to it. How excited he’d been. How he’d infected us all with his enthusiasm. And how I felt responsible for what had happened. And, more importantly, now that I had a clue as to where he’d taken those photos, how I had to follow it up.

But I wasn’t going to tell them that. ‘I’d better get off here then,’ I said.

‘Very funny,’ said Peter.

‘I don’t see a lot of security. What are you going to do, kidnap me?’ I looked Peter in the eye. ‘My colleague’s been murdered. And now you want to take me prisoner. That’s some help you’re providing. Thanks a lot.’

‘Why is it so important you go back to Istanbul now, Sean? We’re trying to protect you. If we did detain you it would not be kidnapping anyway. We’d be delivering you home. You do live in London.’ Isabel snapped her seat belt closed.

‘Is there something you haven’t told us? Some other reason you want to go back to Istanbul,’ said Peter.

‘I’ve heard enough,’ I said. I undid my seat belt. The plane’s engines had started, but they were just ticking over.

‘Be sensible, Sean,’ said Peter. ‘Your involvement in all this is over. Think clearly. We do have to decide what level of ongoing protection you’ll need back in London. You know I’m concerned about your safety. And you should be too. Now sit down.’ His voice was firm. Threatening people was probably something he was very good at.

‘I’m getting off this plane,’ I said.

‘Would your wife have agreed to your being so reckless?’ said Isabel. She put her hand up to block me.

I put a hand out to push hers away. Her eyes were wide, as if she was amazed at my intransigence.

‘We’ve got very good reasons to be concerned for you,’ she said. ‘Your colleague was murdered for God’s sake. Wake up, Sean. You’re in danger.’

‘You assume I give a flying frack about that.’ I looked in her eyes, saw a flicker of something – empathy maybe. Or perhaps it was pity.

‘Don’t try to stop me.’ I took a step towards the passageway.

Peter rose, half blocking me. I pushed past him before he could do anything.

‘Don’t be stupid Sean,’ said Isabel. ‘You’re a material witness to a terrorist incident. We have powers to detain you.’

I pushed Peter’s shoulder down hard as he grabbed at me. I made it past him to the door and turned the handle. An alarm went off. I pushed the door open. The plane’s engines died. A hundred yards away, illuminated by the bright lights of the airport building, a green-uniformed guard with a gun was looking in our direction.

‘I’m not going back to London,’ I said. ‘I’ll jump out, even if we start moving.’ I looked back at them.

‘You are one stubborn bastard,’ said Peter loudly. But he made no move to get up.

‘All I want is to be taken back to where you picked me up.’

‘Is everything all right?’ a voice called out. I looked around. It was the pilot. He was standing in the doorway to the cockpit.

‘It will be,’ said Peter. Then he sighed, loudly. ‘Maybe we can go back to Istanbul.’ He said it softly, as if he was talking to himself.

Isabel looked surprised. Then her head moved, like a metronome, from side to side. ‘He should go back to London,’ she said, looking at Peter.

‘I will, later,’ I said.

‘Pilot, change of plan. Let’s go back to Istanbul,’ said Peter. He pointed at me. ‘But there’ll be a price to pay, Sean. We’ll stick like glue to you in Istanbul.’

‘I don’t need a babysitter.’

‘We’ll make you stand out like a bandaged thumb, if you don’t cooperate.’

I didn’t reply. I was thinking.

‘How long do you intend to stay there, Sean?’ said Isabel.

‘A few days.’

‘You’ll be staying in my place,’ said Peter.

I stared into his blue, unblinking eyes. If they flew me to London, I could be on the next scheduled flight to Istanbul in hours. Or I could try to get off this plane. But God only knew what the schedule from Mosul to Istanbul was. I might have to go to Baghdad to fly out of this country. Then they’d follow me around as soon as I got to Istanbul anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t even have told them I wanted to go back there. Now it looked like the only choice I had was to work with them.

‘OK, I agree,’ I said. A worried look flashed across Isabel’s face.

‘You don’t want to go back to your quiet life?’ she said.

‘No, I have to do this.’

‘Close the door, and give me your phone, Sean. We’ll put a tracker in it,’ said Peter. ‘We wouldn’t want you getting lost in Istanbul, like your colleague.’

‘We’re flying to Istanbul, no detours?’

‘No detours.’

I passed him my phone.

‘It needs a charge.’

He turned the phone in his hand, examining it.

‘We’ll charge it,’ he said, languidly.

I took my seat.

‘And I want to know everything that you plan to do in Istanbul,’ he said.

‘I’ll make up a list.’ I looked out the window. It was still dark as we taxied to the runway. As we rose high into the sky and turned I saw the dawn far off, a glimmer in the sky beyond the Zagros Mountains like something from a Biblical painting, spreading a golden glow from the east. What time was it back in London? My brain felt too fried to work it out.

Having someone coming around with me was going to make it difficult to do everything I wanted in Istanbul, but maybe it was for the best. I looked at Isabel. She had rescued me from my hotel. I’d probably be lying next to Alek if she hadn’t.

A few minutes later Peter went to the toilet.

Isabel used the tip of her pointed boot to nudge my leg. ‘If there are other reasons you want to go to Istanbul, you have to tell me,’ she said. ‘I’m on your side. I hope you haven’t forgotten that.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘So what’s the rush to get to Istanbul?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’

Her expression became serious. She sat forward in her seat and looked at me. ‘Don’t play games, Sean. If you know anything that could lead to the arrest of any suspects in our investigation, you must reveal that information or you could be charged with obstructing justice.’

‘Why do you assume I won’t tell you?’ I said. ‘And what are you going to do if I don’t, torture me? With your shoe, perhaps?’

I smiled, then went back to staring out the window.

‘You’ve got an idea where Alek took those photos, haven’t you?’

‘Are they all like you where you come from, Miss Sharp?’

‘No. I come from a perfect English village, where floral-dressed women go to summer fetes at this time of year and worry about their cake recipes, not who’s going to die next.’ Her voice broke a little, as she said the word die. She looked unusually vulnerable for a few seconds.

‘You didn’t have an idyllic childhood then,’ I said.

She looked away, then back at me. ‘I did, until it happened.’ She glanced towards the back of the plane.

‘My mother died when I was fifteen. Just when I needed her most. Then my dad cracked up. I had to work two jobs to get through uni. I’ve never had it easy.’

I spoke slowly. ‘Both my parents died in my twenties,’ I said. ‘That was a bad year. Irene got me through it.’

‘She must have been a good person.’

We sat in silence for a minute. Death had affected us both.

‘I used to be able to sense storms coming when I was young,’ said Isabel, softly. ‘I’d get funny prickly feelings. You know I’m getting those now.’ She rubbed her arms. She had goosebumps, pale molehills on her amber skin.

‘Maybe it’s an omen,’ I said.

‘Maybe Peter adjusted the air conditioning,’ she said.

The buffeting of wind on the plane grew stronger suddenly, as we banked, changing direction.

‘I don’t believe in omens,’ she said. She sounded firm, as if she was trying to convince herself.

‘Look.’ I pointed out the window. A Venusian landscape of angry grey clouds lay below us.

Her face was serious.

‘All chummy now, are we?’ said Peter as he sat down again. The stubble on his chin was gone.

‘Do you believe any of that
djinn
stuff Father Gregory was going on about?’ said Isabel, ignoring Peter.

‘People used to believe the world was full of evil spirits,’ I said. ‘They had no other way to explain things they didn’t understand. That’s my explanation for evil spirits. And I’m sticking to it.’

I looked out the window. We had no fighter escort this time. Below us, the huge carpet of brooding clouds stretched endlessly. Above, the sky was china blue. We’d probably already passed into Turkish airspace.

I thought about Father Gregory again. It was hard to stop thinking about what had happened.

‘I managed to make contact with Mark,’ said Peter. It was almost as if he’d read my mind, or maybe my face had given away what I was thinking.

‘Father Gregory is in hospital, in intensive care. His buddy didn’t make it.’

I closed my eyes. I was too tired to take it all in. At least one of them had survived. I needed to sleep. I didn’t want to think any more.

When we reached Istanbul, the sky was still a mass of angry clouds. I imagined we’d brought the bad weather with us, as if some jinx was following us.

Luckily, we didn’t have to wait for our passports to be checked with the other tourists. Peter knocked on a side door in the main passport hall and we passed through a long white corridor to a large white room. There, a bored-looking official at a polished wooden desk stamped our passports after checking them.

We’d agreed that I would meet my contact, Abdal Gokan, the Director of the Laboratory for Conservation, the following day at the time I’d arranged. Isabel would come with me; I’d be tracked. I imagined MI6 operatives talking into their sleeves, trailing us in packs. What transpired was nothing like that.

A door beyond the room where our passports were checked led directly to the public area of the airport. Peter hadn’t given anything away about himself during the whole flight. He was clearly used to deflecting questions, saying a lot while saying nothing. But I had found out that Isabel had worked for the police before joining the Foreign Office.

We were met in the arrivals hall by an unsmiling grey-haired, grey-suited driver. He led us to a Chrysler minivan with blackened windows. We were stared at by three hulking dark-suited characters standing nearby as we climbed in. They looked like they were trying to memorise our faces. Istanbul was hotter, if anything, than when I’d arrived a few days ago, despite the clouds moving slowly over our heads.