The Istanbul Puzzle. Laurence O’Bryan
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directly ahead, advancing toward me out of the crowd, was a tall pencil-thin man with an almond-brown face, black hair and a thin nose. His hair was slicked back. He looked like someone who wouldn’t put up with too much crap. And he was looking straight at me.
Following the man, about a pace behind, were two other men dressed in pale-blue short-sleeved shirts and navy trousers flapping at the ankles.
The charcoal suit, which the leading man wore, looked expensive. He held out his hand as he closed the gap between us.
‘Merhaba, Mr Ryan. I am Inspector Erdinc.’ He shook my hand. His grip was tight, designed no doubt to make criminals uneasy. There was a smell of tobacco on his breath.
He stared into my eyes, as if I was his quarry.
‘I was expecting someone from the British Consulate,’ I said, looking around.
There were a few people nearby holding up pieces of cardboard with names on them. Unfortunately, none of them was mine.
‘I am with the International Crime Section at the Ministry of the Interior, Mr Ryan.’ He looked over my shoulder, as if checking to see if anyone was with me.
‘I am here to meet you.’ He raised his hands in an open gesture, and gave me a brief smile. ‘You work for the Institute of Applied Research and are here to identify your colleague’s body, yes?’
I nodded. One of his eyebrows shot up. I got the feeling he was assessing me. It wasn’t going to be easy to get away from this guy.
‘You will come with me,’ he said, assuredly. Then, with his head down, like a boxer on his way to a match, he walked away motioning for me to follow him, as if he needed someone to carry his sweat towel. His heels clicked on the marble as he walked.
I looked around. His two assistants were nodding, indicating I should go after the inspector. I sighed, and followed him, with them bringing up the rear. It must have looked, to anyone watching, as if I’d been arrested.
The black S1100R BMW superbike came to a halt at the back entrance of the steel and glass apartment block, its tyres scattering gravel. Its rider, Malach, was, within seconds, heading up in the service elevator to the penthouse apartment with the breathtaking views over the Golden Horn. Its wrap-around balcony had once been used to host a party for a visiting Hollywood star. That evening the balcony was empty.
Arap Anach was in the main marble-floored bedroom. A cocoa-skinned girl was lying on a white rug in front of him, face down.
‘You are a devil,’ he whispered. She moved her hips invitingly, then groaned.
She’d been well trained, and understood English. He made a mental note to use the same contact in the red light district of Mumbai again. This girl was, without doubt, a 10,000 rupee girl, exactly as he’d been promised. He would send the man a bonus. From what he knew had happened to the man’s family, he’d appreciate it.
He fingered one of the gauze-thin veils the girl had discarded. Then he examined her body. A creak sounded from outside the door. He didn’t react. He’d seen what he was looking for.
‘You think threads on your wrist will ward away evil spirits?’ he said.
She moaned. She hadn’t understood the turn this encounter was taking.
He looked at the scar on the back of his hand. Then, reflexively, he glanced around, even though he knew the room was secure, that no camera could be watching them, no microphone listening. He’d done the bug sweep himself.
It was time.
He placed the palm of his hand a hair’s breadth from her back, and traced the contours of her body without touching her.
‘I will be your last,’ he whispered. Would she react? Anticipation and adrenaline coursed through him.
Somewhere inside her there was a shard of anxiety, there had to be, but it was well hidden. She assumed, most probably, that because she’d survived thus far in her career, and had met many men, that the future would be the same as the past.
A tentative knock sounded from the door.
‘Do not move,’ he said firmly. He padded across the room, cracked the door open.
‘There is an envelope. It was sent to the Greek at his hotel,’ a voice whispered. ‘What should we do?’
‘Get it, fool.’ He clicked the door shut, walked back to the rug. As he passed the small table he passed his hand slowly through the flame of the candle burning on it, until he felt its sting.
‘Are you ready?’ he whispered. He kneeled down beside her, put one hand on her back.
She wriggled in anticipation. He reached to his left, slid a steel syringe from under the mattress of the emperor-sized bed. He held the tip near her back, dragging out the moment. Soon she would feel something. Very soon.
Then it would begin.
The heat was like an open-air oven, even though night had fallen. I could hear a plane’s engine revving. The odour of jet fuel filled the air. The inspector was striding towards a gleaming black Renault Espace with darkened windows, which stood beside a ‘No Parking’ sign.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked loudly.
‘You will see,’ was his nonchalant reply. He held the Espace’s door open for me. His colleagues were a few paces behind me. Did they think I was going to run? Did they think I’d done something?
Or had Alek done something outrageously stupid? Was I going to be implicated in something illegal that I knew nothing about?
‘This is quite a welcoming committee,’ I said.
‘Hagia Sophia is one of our national treasures,’ said the inspector, as he put his seat belt on.
‘Anything to do with it involves our national security, especially these days. I’m sure you understand. All deaths there must be fully explained and accounted for.’ He sounded firm, and suspicious. About what I had no idea, but he was not in the least bit ashamed of it.
I belted myself in.
‘How is London?’ he said. ‘I saw you had another riot.’
‘It was good when I left.’
‘I like London. I have a cousin there. Such a great city.’ He tapped the driver on his shoulder. The car moved off with a squeal.
‘I thought you were going to be British, Mr Ryan,’ said the inspector. ‘But your accent is American, I think.’ He looked puzzled.
‘My father was American. My mother was English. We stayed in England until I was ten, then we lived in upstate New York. I’m back in England twelve years now.’
‘An English mother and an American father.’ He repeated what I’d said, as if he found it amusing. If he was trying to annoy me he was doing a good job.
‘That’s what I said. I like Macy’s and Harrods. And I’m proud of it.’ I’d used that line before. And I didn’t mind giving him more from where that came from.
He looked me up and down, then changed the subject. ‘Were you close to your colleague, Mr Ryan?’
‘We were friends.’ I stared back at him. I had nothing to hide.
He stared out the window. Letting me stew, most likely.
The motorway we joined a few minutes later had five lanes. The headlights streaming towards us were like strings of pearls.
The reservations I’d had about coming to Istanbul seemed justified now. What the hell had happened to the contact from