The Ottoman Conspiracy, page 19
part #3 of Jeff Bradley Series
“What is the next step?” Reason asked.
“I think I need to get to Erbil, the Kurdistan capital of Northern Iraq, and find some PKK members to have a chat with, see if they can’t point me in The Sheriff’s direction. I wish I had an SAS team here. This is what we’re trained to do. Track the enemy for hundreds of kilometres into no-man’s-land without being seen. Observe and destroy. Well, okay, it’s not quite like that. We find the enemy, radio through the coordinates and get someone else to destroy them – same thing.”
It was Reason’s turn to smile. A twinkle in her eye.
Jeff looked at her, eyebrows raised, waiting. “What is it?”
“I can tell you that some of your old SAS buddies are here. Staying at a five-star hotel: the Marriott.”
“Really? How the hell would you know that?”
Reason said, “The CIA tracks all ex-Special Forces personnel. Sometimes they change sides. As soon as the passports show up on a terminal, it links to a computer somewhere. I made an enquiry at our embassy. I expected you might look for a comrade or two.”
Reason passed Jeff a slip of paper. He glanced at it.
“I don’t recognise any of the names on this list,” Jeff said. He shrugged. “No matter. Once you join the squadron, you never leave.”
“A brotherhood of men,” Reason said.
Jeff grinned.
“Well, I too can leap tall buildings,” Reason said. “At least, climb up fire escape ladders and leap from crashing hot air balloons. You better not keep your brothers in arms waiting.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The silver Alfa Romeo sedan pulled to a stop in the centre of the courtyard. Two men rushed to open the door. Leka watched the arrival from his balcony. He had no intention of rushing downstairs to greet his visitor. If wishes could come true, Gashi would be at the bottom of the Adriatic Sea with the bodies of the immigrants he had dumped from his boat. Within a week, he had lost the warehouse, the smuggling route, Marius the assassin sent to kill Jeff Bradley and the confidence of the Puglia crime family. He paid a lot of money to the Italians to provide his security, and that included payment to the Rome crime families. They kept the authorities from his door. Pietro Gallo had failed to kill Bradley, but the smuggling routes were Leka’s responsibility, and now Gashi had brought it all crashing down. Could he find an alternative source of income to compensate? Of all his enterprises smuggling was the most lucrative. It brought in millions. The Italians would not be happy.
What was he to do?
Leka heard footsteps at the top of the stairwell, and then the slow lumbering thuds of Gashi walking along the hallway. He opened the drawer to his cabinet and pulled out a bottle of cognac. He banged the bottle on his desk and took two glasses from his drawer. Gashi would demand a drink because he loved to drink. Leka would have a drink because the bumbling buffoon was driving him to drink.
Osman Gashi appeared in the doorway.
Leka filled two glasses. He took one for himself, and sat in his chair behind the desk. Gashi pushed aside the steel-framed chair Leka had placed for him, and, uplifting his glass, stepped across to the burgundy-coloured leather sofa and flopped into it. He raised his glass.
“Gazeur.”
“All right, Osman, you lose the warehouse, you lose your immigrants and the second payment along with them. Marius is dead. And the smuggling has come to a halt. I now have disgruntled Puglia gangsters to deal with. Have you been in contact with The Sheriff?”
“Yes, he is safely in Iraq.”
“Well, that is something. What happened in Istanbul?”
“Some bad luck, that’s all. Shit happens. We will recover.”
Gashi gulped down his cognac. He hauled himself out of his chair, reached for the bottle on Avni’s desk and refilled it. This time, to the top. He slopped a few drops on to the front of his shirt as he fell back into his seat. Avni breathed in deeply, but exhaled softly. There was little point upsetting himself over Gashi; the man was a slob, but he needed him.
“You can’t go back to Turkey, can you?” Leka asked.
“Not right away, but the cops will lose interest eventually. A few bodies in a warehouse filled with illegal weapons. They have some men to bring charges against, and they have a haul of weapons. This will make them happy. And illegal immigrants drowning at sea? Who cares? The West has no interest. In the meantime, I need to stay out of sight for a few weeks. Keep a low profile.”
Leka almost laughed. The man was the size of a small mountain. Keeping him unseen would be impossible. It would be like a hippo hiding behind a blade of grass.
“I suppose you could stay here?”
“I’m not staying, Avni. There have been developments in Bari that need attending to.”
Leka raised an eyebrow.
“Really? What developments?”
“Marius came to see me. He wanted protection. His boss had had enough of him, and Marius believed the old man had decided to get rid of him. Easy to understand; it’s what I would have done.”
“I gather for your protection he had something to offer.”
Gashi nodded. “He told me the Apulian crime boss was set to go to war against my men in Bari. Wipe us out.”
“I see,” Leka said. “So much for agreements. It is becoming difficult to find anyone to trust.”
The comment made both men smile.
“Lucky we have each other, Avni,” Gashi said.
Leka had taken a mouthful of drink and almost spat the contents across the table. He managed to keep his jaw locked. He took a moment to compose himself before he continued the conversation.
“What do you have in mind for our friends in Bari?”
“They want to go to war. We must attack first.”
Avni Leka nodded. As much as he disliked Osman Gashi, he had also come to admire him. Gashi did not get flustered. He was a survivor, and he survived by striking his enemy first, or retreating to fight another day.
“Tell me your plan.”
Avni stood on his balcony and watched as the Alfa Romeo drove Osman Gashi from his courtyard. He contemplated the state of events. The smuggling operations were held up for the time being, but Gashi assured him not for long. There was to be a war in Bari, and this might cause him problems. He relied on Gallo for security. Gallo had influence in Rome. Gashi did not. At least Project The Sheriff was going according to plan. In a few more days, The Sheriff would be the world’s most infamous freedom fighter. When he released the hostages, the world press would be all over the story. All would know how the Kurdish PKK leader had made fools of the Western authorities, how he had made his escape under their noses and shown his humanity by freeing the hostages. The only casualties would be put down to botched Western rescue attempts. The Sheriff would be idolised by those Leka needed to idolise him the most, and the tribal rebel leaders that controlled his smuggling corridor through to Asia would bow to his will.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Marriott Hotel Sisli was in the city centre on the European side of Istanbul. It was a five-star luxury hotel, and with all the glass, chrome and deep lush carpets, it looked it. Jeff’s boots tapped out a steady staccato as he strode across the polished marble floor to the reception desk.
The concierge directed him to The Dish Room Terrace Bar.
“Your friends are always to be found there,” the hotel man commented.
Jeff noted the disapproving tone. Soldiers were known to let their hair down after ops. Had there been a few all-night drinking sessions? He found The Dish Room easily enough. From the doorway, he searched the tables in close proximity and did not see a group of men that would fit the SAS mould. A wood-panelled bar stood in the centre. Surrounding it, unoccupied bar stools were pushed in under the ledge of the bar top. The bartender, wiping a glass, gave him a quick once-over, but his eyes didn’t send any signals of welcome. Clearly, five-star hotel staff weren’t enthused by men in jeans and T-shirts.
Jeff entered. Now he could see throughout the whole room. Circular tables and chairs covered the lounge floor, and at the rear there were more comfortable settees. And behind the white settees, three men lounged in purple-coloured, egg-shaped seats round a square table. One look told Jeff these were the men he was looking for. The jackets and loose-fitting shirts could not hide the bulky upper bodies; biceps the size of a normal man’s thigh. Eyes, set back in faces hardened by sun and sand, flickered around the room like an airport radar scanner. Although they looked casual and relaxed and lolling about like they had just eaten Christmas dinner, Jeff knew that each man sat taut, like a piece of bent willow, ready to explode with deadly force should the need arise. Like members of the police, soldiers on active service were never off duty.
Reason had given him intel on the group. They were contract security men working in one of the most dangerous regions on earth. The Middle East was a killing field, and the men he now walked towards were the iron safety wall that stood between killers and the wealthy families they were contracted to protect.
Without invitation, Jeff sat in the spare egg chair. Three sets of eyes gauged the uninvited guest. Curiosity, not hostility. These men feared few, and the sight of Jeff was not going to send them running, no matter if he was big and looked handy.
“Hi, guys,” Jeff said. “We need to talk. If one of you is the boss, can I ask who that might be?”
The man opposite Jeff laughed. He shook his head. “That would be me. You can call me Jonno.”
“Jeff Bradley, Jonno.”
“Let me give you a friendly warning, Jeff. Next time you want to sit at our table, wait for an invitation.”
It was Jeff’s turn to laugh.
Jonno’s eyebrows raised. He sat back in his chair, studied Jeff and then leaned forward. “There is a story I heard from my military days in New Zealand of a Jeff Bradley. He punched out a certain Captain Brian Cunningham on active duty in Afghanistan.”
A wry smile from Jeff. “You know what rumours are like in the forces, guys: over-exaggerated and to be listened to with a huge dollop of scepticism. Even if there was truth to the rumour, it’s classified and I can’t talk about it.”
Jonno leaned forward. “And you’re the same Bradley who tangled with terrorists in Kosovo and not so long ago in New Zealand.”
Again Jeff nodded. “I’m impressed you guys have time to read newspapers.”
Jonno scratched under his chin. He sideways glanced to his companions. They both shrugged.
“Seems these two are giving you a nod of approval, so fine, Jeff, you’ve earned the right to sit at our table. Ex-squadron makes us family. Meet Ginger, and the asshole on the end is Aussie. Born in Australia and trained with the Aussie SAS, but he saw the light and migrated to New Zealand.”
“He’s bullshitting you, Jeff. I only signed on with him because he needed to beef up his company profile with an Australian flag on his business card.”
“Good to meet you, guys.” They shook hands. Jonno looked over his shoulder and waved to the waiter. “You’ll have a beer, Jeff?”
“Yes, whatever you’re having.”
Jeff gave the waiter the order.
Jonno said, “Right then. I take it you haven’t tracked us because you’re short of friends, or you’re looking for free beer? So what is it you want?”
“My sources tell me you’re out of work.”
Three sets of eyes widened. Jonno and his comrades exchanged glances.
“Are we under investigation?” Friendliness had gone from his tone.
“Relax. You are not under investigation by anyone, as far as I’m aware. But I have friends with influence, and did some checking before I came here. You must know international organisations have you on their radar. Your last stint was Abu Dhabi. My connections tell me you got dumped out of your contract. Can I ask you why?”
“What’s this about, Jeff? Why the twenty questions?”
The waiter arrived with the beers.
“I want to offer you a job. But first, I want to know who I’m dealing with. What happened in Abu Dhabi?”
Jonno twisted the ring on his left hand as he scrutinised Jeff. Jeff knew the mental debate taking place right now. These guys didn’t know him, and their business was confidential. Even if stories of wrongdoing abounded in the public domain, there were always two sides to a story, and in many circumstances the stories were only gossip. But groups like Jonno and his mates could not defend themselves because their work was secretive. He was asking them to let him into their private world where the business of security contracting lived and died on discretion and reputation. For all they knew, he could work for a journalist or, worse, an opposition company.
Jonno stopped fiddling with his ring and a slow nod followed.
“Well, in this case it’s no big secret, and the damage to our name is already done. A sheikh offered us a bag of cash to stop his kid running off and joining up with ISIS. The little shit gave us the slip. A maid drove him out of the compound in the boot of her car. She lost her job, but the kid had already given her enough money so she would never have to worry about working again. Made us look like amateur assholes, and daddy was pissed off and sent us packing. Abu Dhabi is a small place and daddy had us blacklisted. So here we are, licking our wounds, enjoying some R&R and waiting for a new job.”
Jeff sipped his beer. “What you guys need is good old-fashioned SAS work.”
“No way,” Ginger moaned. “Getting shot at is not how we make a living these days. Look around, Jeff: five-star accommodation, soft beds and plenty of booze, and not far from here, beautiful women too. Our only worry is making sure we don’t get too fat.”
“Ginger is right, Jeff,” Aussie said. “We left that military crap behind with our berets and boots. We’re gentlemen now. Stay in nice hotels and protect wealthy clients in luxury homes. No eating sand or camel dung.”
Jeff sat back in his seat and waited until they had said their pieces. Let them grumble and bemoan military life. He understood the men he sat with. He had been one of them. Safety was not a lifestyle they could ever adjust to. Despite their words, he knew that to them adrenalin was like cocaine to a drug addict. The longer away from it the more they craved a snort.
“You said you had a job, Jeff. Is this a paying job, or are you looking for a favour?” Jonno asked.
“A bit of both. I will pay your usual fee, whatever that is, but the catch is the mission is dangerous: lots of risk and a good chance you might get your heads blown off.”
Jonno laughed. “You sure know how to woo a guy. Do you use that line on women? Okay, just for curiosity’s sake, what type of shit do you want to dump us into?”
Jeff looked over his shoulder. No one was within listening distance.
“You will have been following the news broadcasts of the bus loaded with Australians, New Zealanders and two American women hijacked at Gallipoli.”
Three grim faces.
Jonno said, “Yes, real bad shit. We watched that play out on the news. Saw the explosion. What is it you want to do, Jeff, go after the killers? A little payback for killing some ANZACs? We aren’t in the revenge business. If we were, we’d never work again.”
“No, this is not about revenge.” Jeff leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Many died on the bus in Goreme, but none of them were Kiwis or Aussies. The hostages were miles away on another bus, and that bus is now somewhere across the Iraqi border. I’m going there to rescue the hostages, and I need you guys to come with me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Barry stretched before climbing to his feet, careful not to disturb Bethany. Their new surroundings were not up to the standard of the warehouse in Istanbul. The bathrooms were filthy. A search through cupboards found some bottles of cleaning fluid. There were three toilets, two showers and two basins. Barry drew up a roster for the showers, and the rule for the toilets was knock on the door and make sure the cubicle was empty. The doors had no locks.
Their captors provided blankets and mattresses and a steady supply of simple food: bread and cuts of meat and cheese, instant coffee, herbal tea and sugar. For anyone who wanted a cold drink there was no milk or fruit juice on offer, only water. The drinking water came in plastic bottles and looked as if it came from an outside tap. Barry asked the guards to fill the water bottles daily. One night would be long enough for microbes to contaminate it. He warned everyone not to drink from the taps in the toilet area. The water might not come from a treated source – it was not worth the risk. No one argued. After the murders of Mildred and Reg they all knew the consequences if they became ill.
When he thought it through, he realised the bottled water probably came from the same source as the water in the bathrooms, but he took comfort from not knowing for sure. At first, the guards had refused the fresh water request, but when Barry explained that if all the passengers became ill with dysentery there would be a bad smell and the guards would be the ones cleaning up, they got the message, and fresh bottles of water came daily.
For a prison it was comfortable enough. As in Istanbul, they had been left to themselves. Earlier that day, the guards had returned the bags stored in the bus luggage compartments. The benevolent manner of their captors continued to puzzle Barry. Why were they being so decent? It made little sense.
They had driven for many hours. The signal on his phone had faded en route, and the battery had died after the last message to Jeff. Bethany carried a spare in her bag, along with another SIM card. When he replaced the battery and inserted Bethany’s SIM card with roaming, a signal returned, confirming they were in a new country. That worried him. Where the hell were they?
He had sent a message to Jeff. He left the phone turned on for thirty minutes. The message from Jeff saying that he was organising a rescue was heartening for himself and Bethany. They could not share the news with the others, but he would make sure he did nothing to antagonise The Sheriff.
It was time to retrieve the phone and send a new message. The next text would be to tell Jeff he would turn the phone on every two hours for ten minutes. He needed to save the battery. Ten minutes should be enough for the signal to be tracked. If it needed to be more, Jeff would tell him. He had hidden the phone under a stack of wooden pallets pushed up against the wall. None of the other passengers were aware he had the phone, and he needed to be careful no one found out. The Sheriff’s threat to shoot anyone hiding a phone would still be fixed in their minds. Barry wasn’t certain what the group’s reaction might be if they found he had one. It was best no one knew.
