The Istanbul Puzzle. Laurence O’Bryan
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again. It was even more insistent this time.
I walked over to the door, put my eye to the viewer. Nothing. Just blackness. Was it broken?
‘Come on, Mr Ryan,’ an officious female voice called out. Someone English.
‘Hold on,’ I replied. I grabbed a fresh T-shirt from my bag and pulled it over my head. An even sharper knock sounded.
Rat-tat-tat-tat.
‘Coming.’ What the hell was the hurry? I pulled on my chinos, pushed my feet into suede moccasins.
Another knock.
RAT TAT-TAT TAT-TAT.
‘Come on!’ She sounded petulant, as if she hadn’t heard my replies, or had heard, but didn’t think I was moving fast enough.
I jerked the door open but held my foot against it, just in case I needed to close it in a hurry.
An attractive-looking woman was standing outside. She was in her late twenties, I guessed, and was wearing a tight high-necked black T-shirt. Her face was symmetrical, her eyes dark green, serious, her black hair pulled back tight. She had a thin gold chain around her neck. Despite her slim frame, she was clearly someone who could look after herself.
And she was holding an identity card in my face. I saw a severe-looking face and an official stamp, a triangle with a crown and the letters EIIR above it, and the words ‘British Consulate’ below. Then the card vanished before I had a chance to read any more. I stood up a little straighter. And then it came to me. This was the woman from one of Alek’s photos.
‘Come with me, Mr Ryan. Now.’ She glanced towards the lifts.
‘There are some people on the way up that you don’t want to meet. They were demanding to know your room number down at reception. You have to come with me. I mean it.’ She looked up and down the corridor, as if expecting to be interrupted at any moment. I heard a metallic thrum as the lift rose towards us. Then there was a creaking noise. It had stopped at a lower floor, maybe the one below us.
I could smell her perfume. It was faint, sweet.
‘Did you know Alek?’
A flicker of hesitation crossed her face.
‘My name’s Isabel Sharp. I was Alek’s liaison officer at the Consulate. Come on, Mr Ryan. If you don’t want to end up like him.’
I felt my back pocket. My wallet was there. I could get another room pass. I was dressed. I had my shoes on.
‘OK.’
She moved quickly. My room door closed behind me with a clunk. She was already halfway to a door down the corridor with an ‘Exit’ sign above it.
She held the door open for me, closed it after I’d passed through.
‘I thought I was gonna be met at the airport?’ I said, still unsure why I was following her.
‘That was a little misunderstanding,’ she said. ‘But I’m here now.’ She started down the carpeted stairs. I followed.
I was going to ask her why she was moving so fast, when I heard a juddering bang above us, as if someone had slammed a door open.
‘They’re coming,’ she said. I barely heard her. A muffled clatter of footsteps echoed from above.
She took the next set of stairs in two jumps.
Someone shouted. Then a crisp popping sound filled the stairwell. It was accompanied by a shrill pinging near me. A rain of concrete chips and dust fell around my head. Something had hit the wall above me!
‘Bastards,’ she said, in a low voice, as if she was talking to herself. I was barely keeping up with her.
My heart was pounding.
Something struck the metal handrail behind me. It squealed. I jerked my hand away from it.
Adrenaline pumped through me, tingling every muscle. The hair on my body stood up straight. My scalp felt tight.
I was taking three steps at a time, sometimes four. I could feel the rough concrete under the thin carpet as I landed on each step. Then Isabel almost fell. I put a hand under her arm, held her up. She regained her footing. We kept going.
The sound of running feet, voices, wasn’t far above us now. They were catching up. I looked behind. All I could see was a shadowy blur coming down.
Isabel’s face was pale.
The backs of my legs were straining. Who the hell were they?
At the bottom of the stairwell I overtook Isabel, barged through the fire exit door, held it open for her. The deafening noise of an alarm rang out above our heads.
Then she was sprinting like an Olympic runner down the deserted concrete laneway in front of us. I went after her, my lungs dragging in air. She was heading for a black Range Rover, a giant cockroach resting on oversized tyres.
The Range Rover’s lights flickered as we came up to it. For a moment I thought there might be someone in it.
‘Get in,’ she roared, jerking open the driver’s door.
As I slammed the passenger door closed, a sense of security enveloped me. Then I heard muffled shouts. I turned, looked through the back window. Two huge guys, one of them bald, had emerged from the fire exit door. The bald guy lifted his arm, pointed a gun at us.
There was a noise like fire crackers snapping.
‘Go!’ I shouted.
The engine of the Range Rover growled. I heard a whoosh, fans starting.
We jumped forward. There was a loud ding. I looked around.
The back window had taken a hit. The glass had a star in it now. Then another. But it didn’t shatter. We had bulletproof glass.
‘Put on your seat belt,’ she shouted.
A brick wall loomed. She swerved.
‘They’ll need a missile to stop us.’ She sounded triumphant.
We slid sideways, tyres squealing, onto an empty street. Exhilaration filled me. I was glad to be alive.
‘These diplomatic cars are worth every penny,’ she said. She was holding the steering wheel so tightly I could see her knuckles protruding through her pale skin.
‘Who they hell were they?’ I shouted.
‘I think a better question is, what the hell have you been up to that they want you so bad?’
‘I have no idea,’ I shouted. I took a deep breath, released my grip on the armrest, peeled my hand slowly from the plastic. I’d been holding it way too tight. I stared out the back window. There was no one coming after us. Isabel squealed around another turn. My shoulder banged against the window.
‘You better thank your guardian angel I didn’t get a taxi tonight,’ she continued.
I settled back in my seat, rubbed my elbow. It throbbed lightly. The inside of the Range Rover was a cocoon of black leather and brushed aluminium. A shiny logo sat at the centre of the polished walnut steering wheel. The vehicle was cavernous and it smelled of leather.
We turned the next corner a lot slower. Then, after examining the rear view mirror, Isabel sat back in her seat.
‘Do you have any idea what a bitch this car is to park?’ she said.
I was still thinking about how close the bastards had come. I looked at Isabel. She had tiny gold studs in her earlobes. They shone as we passed a street light.
She looked as if she’d done this sort of thing before. Only a few hairs had escaped from her ponytail. And they were flying gently in the breeze from the air conditioning.
The Range Rover growled as she changed gears. The steep side street we were on was empty. Pools of darkness