City of the Lost Read online

  ‘A young Dutch woman. Now you’re talking.’

  ‘She’s to be a bargaining chip, so hold her somewhere safe until I can get there.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  It was five more minutes before the Lion called. She talked him through last night’s débâcle. When she was done, he was silent for half a minute. Like many great men, he had problems with his temper; but his voice was calm when at last he spoke. ‘Will Black go public with this?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not as long as he’s worried about Visser.’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘No.’

  Another silence. She knew what he was thinking. When plots like this started to unravel, you couldn’t stop them, you could only buy yourself time; and not always very much of that. ‘We’ll have to bring it forward,’ he said.

  ‘How far?’

  ‘All the way. We go today.’

  ‘Today? Is that even possible?’

  ‘You’ve no idea how our three scandals have stirred things up,’ he told her. ‘The Day of Action is going to be huge. Our men are everywhere. We have the perfect cover. Give us enough mayhem to work with, and we can do the rest, I promise you.’

  It was Asena’s turn to fall quiet. Her Grey Wolf packs were all primed and ready to go. A single coded message to her dozen top commanders would initiate a cascade of carnage and chaos across the country. Yet the suddenness of it, after these years of toil and planning; it didn’t seem possible somehow. ‘How much?’ she asked doubtfully.

  ‘Everything,’ he said.

  ‘The marches? The department stores? The train stations?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Even the four horsemen? But what if he doesn’t hold a press conference?’

  The Lion grunted. ‘He’ll hold a press conference. Trust me. It’s all he has.’

  A deep breath. For better or for worse, by this time tomorrow their fates would be sealed. ‘Very well,’ said Asena. ‘I’ll issue the orders now.’

  ‘The Lion and the Wolf,’ he said.

  ‘The Lion and the Wolf.’

  III

  Karin was barely through the doors of the Société Genève when the branch manager came out of his office to greet her, almost as though he’d been watching for her. He was wearing a girdle beneath his cotton shirt this morning, she could tell, and he smelled pungently of cologne. She immediately relaxed a little. This was going to be a breeze.

  ‘Miss Visser,’ he said, shaking her warmly by the hand.

  ‘Well?’ she said, giving her smile just a hint of the flirts. ‘Did I pass your tests, or should I run for it while I still have the chance?’

  ‘Of course you passed,’ he beamed. ‘Welcome to our bank. Do you wish to see the vault now?’

  ‘If I may. My flight, you know.’

  ‘I’ll get the keys.’ He led her to an empty office, opened a wall cabinet and pocketed a selection of keys hanging from hooks inside. A fire-door at the rear of the branch led to an internal stairwell. They went down. The basement was shabby and cluttered compared to the plush space above. The vault had a steel door fitted with lock and keypad. She turned her back so that he could tap in his code. He heaved the door open and ushered her inside ahead of him. It was smaller and less impressive than she’d expected, and one of the strip-lights kept breaking into fluttery spasms. The boxes were ranged around three walls. There was a plain pine table in the middle and a stepladder against the wall, presumably for reaching the highest boxes. Those were, sensibly enough, the smallest, and they grew progressively larger as they neared the floor. Each had two keyholes and a unique serial number. Karin looked around for 16a and was glad to find it on the bottom row, where the biggest boxes were.

  The manager fished his keys from his pocket. Most had green rims and serial numbers, just like Rick’s. But one had a red rim and no number. He selected this and one of the greens, then looked around for the corresponding box. He inserted and turned both keys, pulled the steel safety-deposit box inside all the way out. It was deeper than she’d expected, the best part of a metre long. He set it on the table, lifted its lid to show her that it was empty. Then he replaced it and relocked it. He held up both keys. ‘This green one will be yours to take away,’ he said. ‘But the red one never leaves the bank. That way, even should someone steal your key, they still couldn’t get at your belongings, not without first passing our identity checks.’

  ‘May I see one of your bigger boxes?’ she asked. He checked through his keys, selected one, opened one of the bottom boxes. It slid out on rails, like a filing cabinet drawer. He lifted its lid for her. She was surprised by how roomy it was inside. She could just imagine it filled with banknotes. ‘Perfect,’ she said.

  ‘Then you’ll take one?’

  ‘Grandmother had a lot of stuff,’ she told him sweetly. ‘I rather think I’m going to need two.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  I

  Taksim Square, heart of Istanbul. The city’s main congregation point, large enough to accommodate huge crowds, easily accessible on foot, by Metro and passenger ferry, and therefore the natural place for rallies. Yet that wasn’t the only reason for holding today’s main rally here.

  Taksim Square had history.

  It was here that the Gezi Park protests had started, leading to the nationwide marches, demonstrations and clashes with the police that had so roiled the previous administration. But it went back far further and deeper than that.

  On 1 May 1977, half a million people had gathered here, undeterred by rumours of likely trouble. Most had been union members, their families, friends and other sympathizers, but there’d been more belligerent elements too: anarchists and Maoists and members of the banned Turkish Communist Party. Everything had been going smoothly until reports had started spreading of snipers on surrounding roofs. Shots had been fired; the vast crowd had panicked. Fortunately, security forces had been there in huge numbers. Unfortunately, their crude use of sirens, armoured vehicles, rubber bullets and water canon had only made matters worse. In the ensuing stampedes, thirty-four people were crushed to death or otherwise killed. Yet only demonstrators were ever arrested, prosecuted or jailed, while the investigation into the botched policing was slow-pedalled so effectively that the statute of limitations passed before a single charge was brought.

  As for the rooftop snipers, everyone on the street knew the truth of that. The Grey Wolves had been responsible. The Grey Wolves and the CIA.

  II

  Iain arrived at the airport intent primarily on getting out of Egypt before Asena could find a way to finger him for the murdered taxi-driver. But luck was with him, for there was a flight leaving for Larnaca in Cyprus in a little over an hour. He bought himself a ticket then found a payphone and called London. No one was in the office yet so he left a message for Maria to contact Karin Visser at the Nicosia Grand Hotel and warn her that she was in serious danger and to lie low until he could get to her. Then he made his way through security and to his gate.

  The plane was old and had no on-board phones. His ankles, wrists, stomach and thighs began to stiffen and throb from the chaffing and bashing they’d taken last night, so he walked up and down the aisle to stop them stiffening. The pacing made him fretful. The Grey Wolves had been notoriously well represented among the large community of Turkish army veterans who’d relocated to Northern Cyprus after partition. If Asena really was their leader, a single phone call from her could put Karin in terrible jeopardy. He remembered, suddenly and painfully, his MI6 handler breaking the news about his wife and son. The numbness of that loss, his sky turned black by storm. He was first up on landing, first through the gate. He looked around in case Asena had anticipated his move and sent a welcoming committee, but saw nothing to alarm him. He called London again. Maria was in. She hadn’t been able to get hold of Karin, she told him, but she’d left a message for her at her hotel’s front desk. He headed out the main doors, waved over a taxi. The driver tossed away his unfilt
ered cigarette. ‘Where to?’ he asked.

  ‘The Nicosia Grand,’ he said. ‘How long?’

  ‘An hour,’ grunted the driver. ‘Best part of.’

  ‘Ten extra euros for every minute under fifty,’ said Iain.

  The driver grinned and plugged in his seatbelt. ‘You’re on,’ he said.

  III

  They’d had to clear the SUV of weapons before crossing the border into the Republic of Cyprus. Unfortunately, that meant arriving empty-handed for the job. Emre pulled up across the street from the Nicosia Grand Hotel then went into a supermarket to see what he could improvise. Tape for her mouth, a plastic bag for a hood, rope for her hands and feet, a selection of kitchen knives to make her docile. Plus a packet of Polos for himself. He paid with cash, went back out to the car. ‘Any sign?’ he asked.

  ‘Nah,’ said Rageh. ‘But I’ve got us a better picture.’ He turned his laptop around to show him a photograph of her modelling some pitted old sword for the camera.

  ‘Not bad,’ nodded Emre. ‘I’d do her.’

  ‘After me, you would,’ said Yasar.

  ‘Fuck yourself. But I’ll let you watch, if you’re good.’ He called the hotel switchboard, had them put him through to Visser’s room. It rang six times then switched him to voicemail. She was out. He sucked noisily on his mint as he looked around. The street was too busy for an easy snatch. If she was considerate enough to go walkabout, they could tail her and pick her up the moment she left herself vulnerable, hold her in the SUV. But what if she returned to the hotel? He rapped the window for Yasar’s attention, nodded at the Nicosia Grand. ‘Go get us a room,’ he told him. ‘Somewhere to keep this cow until Asena gets here.’

  Yasar shrugged. ‘Why not hold her in her own room?’

  ‘Because that’s the first fucking place people will look when she goes missing, you idiot.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Yasar.

  ‘And get one with a double bed. Might as well have some fun while we’re waiting.’ He popped another mint then looked around once more, enjoying the sunshine on his face. Lights changed at a junction ahead. Traffic slowed and stopped. Across the street, a tall young woman with straw-coloured hair and a bulky red bag between her feet was watching a bank branch a couple of doors down from him. He turned back to Rageh. ‘Give us another look at that picture,’ he said. Rageh tapped a key and held up his laptop. Emre looked from the screen to the woman and back to the screen again. Then he grinned broadly.

  No question. No question at all.

  Bitch was here.

  IV

  The car was different this morning, a white Renault sedan. As best Zehra could tell, the men were different too, though she didn’t get close enough to make certain. But there could be no doubt they were part of the same enterprise, whatever that might be.

  She shuffled past them to the end of the road, turned right. Then she went in search of a payphone. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, when the woman answered. ‘There’s something terrible going on.’

  ‘Your name, please.’

  ‘They’re breaking in right now,’ said Zehra. ‘They’ve been sitting outside his home for three days already, but now they’re breaking in. That poor old man. I dread to think what they’ll do to him.’ She talked over the woman’s questions, describing the car and giving the address before putting down the phone. Then she found herself a vantage point from which to watch.

  Turkish Cyprus being what it was, there had to be a chance that these men were official in some way. This at least should answer that for her. The three squad cars took five minutes to arrive. They approached at pace from both directions, pulling up either side of the Renault to box it in. Doors flew open. Everyone got out. She could see the Renault’s occupants angrily protesting their innocence. One of them went chest to chest with a policeman. Pushed himself, he pushed back. A mistake. At once, he and his two companions were spun around and frisked and cuffed, then bundled into two of the police cars and driven away.

  The third car drove up to the house. The two officers pounded on the door, cupped hands to peer through windows. They conferred briefly then got on their car radio. One of them fetched a crowbar from the trunk, pried open the front door. They went inside for a minute or so, came back out shaking their heads and laughing. One called in a report on the car radio while his colleague did his best to fix the jamb. They wrote a note of explanation or apology then got into their car and drove off.

  Dust settled. Silence returned. Minutes passed.

  Zehra circled around to the citrus grove, half expecting at every moment to be challenged, then made her way up to the house.

  THIRTY

  I

  Karin’s gentle flirtation with the branch manager of the Société Genève had caused her a minor headache. Not only did she suspect he now was watching out for her, he also knew the serial numbers of the two boxes she’d rented. She therefore waited across the road until she saw him emerge from his office to welcome a prosperous-looking couple and take them off for a private consultation. The moment his door closed again, she hoisted her red vinyl bag to her shoulder and hurried across.

  Two cashiers were free: a cocksure young man with gelled hair who started chewing phantom gum when he saw her, presumably because he thought it made him look cool; and a woman with pendant gold earrings and kindly eyes. An easy choice. ‘Miss Visser, isn’t it?’ said the woman. ‘Marcus told us you might be in.’

  ‘Is he around?’

  ‘He’s with customers right now, I’m afraid. You could wait for him. Or I could take you down myself?’

  ‘Could you? That would be great.’

  They went to the office with the keys. The woman took out a register. ‘What number, please?’

  ‘Seven A,’ said Karin. She showed her key then handed over her passport. The cashier filled out the register then turned it for Karin to sign. They went downstairs together. ‘I hope this will all fit in one box,’ said Karin, patting her bag. ‘I did rent two, but I want to save the other one for my next load.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the woman. They went inside, opened 7a. The cashier removed her master key. ‘I’ll leave you now,’ she said. ‘Call me when you’re finished.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She waited for the door to close then set the bag down, unzipped it. Inside were cheap paintings and china swaddled in bubble-wrap that she’d bought that morning to simulate an inheritance. She transferred most of it to her box but kept a painting and a fruit bowl back. She zipped her bag up again, closed the lid of her safety-deposit box, then slid it most – but not quite all – of the way in.

  She went across to Rick’s box, number 16a. She crouched before it and placed her palm upon it, like an expectant parent feeling for the kick. How much would this particular baby be worth? Half a million euros? A million? Her heart suddenly began beating uncomfortably fast, her mouth went dry. She stood back up, took several deep, long breaths and walked around the table until she was calm again. She double-checked her pockets. In her left was Rick’s key. In her right was her own second key, for box 13a. You can do this, she told herself. She went to the door, knocked on it. ‘Excuse me,’ she called out. ‘Could you please come back in a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’ The door opened. The cashier smiled. ‘Yes?’

  Karin gestured at her bag, the tell-tale lumps of the painting and the fruit bowl visible in it. ‘I feel like such a fool,’ she said. ‘It won’t all fit. I’m going to need to use my second box.’

  ‘No problem.’ She held up her master key. ‘What number?’

  The moment was upon her. The exact situation she’d hoped to engineer. Open Rick’s box and wait for the woman to leave then simply switch its contents with those in her own, still-open box. Then come back at any time to take the whole lot away. But a strange thing happened as she took hold of Rick’s key in her pocket. Her shoulder muscles went weak on her; she felt nauseous. She became starkly aware of consequences: the shame her mother would feel; the disappointment of her father.
The certainty of jail and the ruin of her prospects.

  ‘Madam?’ asked the cashier anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’

  Karin’s body knew before her mind did. Her heart-rate slowed; her hands began shaking slightly with the release of tension. She couldn’t do it. And not because she was too moral. No. It was because she simply lacked the guts. She let go of Rick’s key and took out her own second key instead, held it up. ‘Thirteen A,’ she said.

  The cashier smiled quizzically. They unlocked the second box. Karin waited until she was alone again then went down on her haunches. The knowledge that she was both more venal and less courageous than she’d imagined was dismaying yet perversely also a relief. She put the remaining items and the red vinyl bag itself into her second box, closed them both. Then she allowed herself another minute to compose herself before returning to the door and asking to be let out.

  II

  The coded messages sent out by Asena were received by senior Grey Wolf commanders around the country. They, in turn, passed the word on to their local units. In apartment buildings and lock-ups all across Turkey, small groups of tough young men gathered, joking excitedly about the adventures ahead. They pulled on T-shirts with ridiculous socialist slogans, and filled their day-packs with banners and balaclavas, with cans of spray-paint and rocks and other missiles, then set off in jubilant spirits to join their local rallies.

  A more senior cadre of Grey Wolves had tougher tasks. Over the preceding few weeks, they’d visited local shops and department stores looking for those with large stocks of flammable goods and no sprinkler systems. They’d bought bulky boxed goods from these, had carefully opened their cellophane wrappings and replaced their contents with home-made incendiary devices. Now they took them back to where they’d bought them, surreptitiously replacing them on the shelves. No one checked your bags on the way in, after all; only on the way out.