The Ottoman Conspiracy, page 4
part #3 of Jeff Bradley Series
Barry typed with one finger: Bus hijacked. Heading for Syrian border. Need help. Forty passengers. Aussies and Kiwis. Two Yank women. Four men dressed as Turkish cops. Two of the cops Albanian. One civilian with them. Civilian shot driver. Right now halfway between Gallipoli and Istanbul.
Bethany nudged him in the side. She sat upright.
A bead of cold sweat dribbled down the back of Barry’s neck. The Sheriff was looking directly at him. Bethany put her hand on Barry’s thigh and patted it gently. Her stroking usually soothed him. Not this time. He risked a glance at the phone screen. The message needed to be sent, but he dared not make any movement. Then The Sheriff turned away and Barry, still not daring to breathe, tapped the Send icon. He switched the phone off and slid it back down his leg. He placed it in the pouch and refastened the Velcro.
Bethany snuggled into him. She kissed him on the cheek.
“My hero,” she whispered in his ear.
Barry didn’t feel like a hero. He wanted to pass out. He put his arm around her. There was nothing more to be done. It was now up to Jeff.
CHAPTER SIX
The only furniture in the room was a table and four chairs. On the tabletop, a notepad and a ballpoint pen. An interview room, Jeff assumed. It could serve no other purpose. He had been brought the back way to the Bari Police Station – or at least he thought it was the police station. The vehicle he’d been shoved into at the fish markets had driven through the streets and into the rear of a building. There had been no signage to indicate it was a police station. There were no police or personnel of any kind other than the men who had brought him.
They only spoke Italian. Jeff had asked for an interpreter, to see a senior officer, a lawyer, but the only response he received was a touch of the lips, and a shrug to let him know they did not understand him. He decided they either could not speak English for real or they were under instructions not to communicate with him. No fingerprints or photographs were taken. The question Jeff tossed around in his head was, why was he the only one arrested? Had he been arrested? They relieved him of his meagre possessions, then walked him to the interview room. And there he had been left.
The walls had recently been painted a light-pink colour. The faintest odour of fresh paint still hung in the air. He stretched out his legs, his hands behind his head. After a few minutes, bored, he fiddled with the pad. He pushed the point of the pen under the cover and flicked it open: blank pages. He reversed the pen in his hand and started tapping the tabletop. Jeff wasn’t certain how many hours passed. They had taken his watch. The small window high on the wall told him daylight had faded and his grumbling stomach told him it was way past dinner time. And his bladder told him he needed to pee.
The door was pushed open and an overweight man entered. He was wearing a crumpled black suit and a knotted red tie that hung loose round the collar of his unbuttoned white shirt. He walked round the table and sat in the chair opposite.
“I am Captain Balboni,” the man said.
Jeff relaxed a little. Captain Balboni’s mannerisms suggested a friendly demeanour. Whatever was about to happen, it would not be an Italian form of torture. He noted the skin under Captain Balboni’s eyes had sagged. His overall appearance was of resignation not tiredness, which was a look Jeff had seen in older cops who every day fought a never-ending battle against crime and had learned to live with the lack of success.
The Captain said, “You almost committed a serious offence in Italy today, Mr Bradley. If you had done so, I might not have been able to help you.”
Jeff raised an eyebrow.
“I’m arrested because I might have committed a crime? Isn’t that over the top? Even for Italy?”
“Yes, I agree, it would be over the top if an arrest had taken place, but this did not happen. You were taken into protective custody. Not arrested.”
Jeff scratched the side of his face, confused and uncertain how to respond.
“The men at the markets were intent on killing you, were they not? Yes, it may have appeared you had the upper hand, but in Bari, Marius has soldiers everywhere. I know his gang well. Eventually, you would have lost. And if you killed one of them, you would lose again. I would have to charge you with murder. If you want to kill someone in Italy, at least do it in an alley and not in front of dozens of witnesses.”
The Captain reached for the pad and pen. He folded back the cover and made as if to write something, but didn’t. He tapped on the blank page instead.
“What did you do to aggravate Marius and his men?”
Jeff surmised that as Balboni had sent cars to his rescue, the Captain already knew the answer. But the Captain wanted to play games, and Jeff had little choice but to play along if he wanted to leave the station tonight.
“I was contacted in New Zealand by one of Marius’s men. He said they had information on the whereabouts of a Kosovan Albanian named Avni Leka. Leka is a wanted international terrorist. He’s responsible for bombings in Europe and recently New Zealand, and who knows where else.”
The Captain nodded. “I am aware of the bombings in New Zealand. I saw them on television. Someone tried to blow up an American submarine. It was all over the news. And you say this man Leka was responsible?”
“Yes.”
“And he is here in Bari?”
Jeff shrugged. “I don’t know if he is even in Italy. I was contacted and told Marius had information on how to find him. The meeting today was to give me details. I walked into a trap.”
“And if you found this Avni Leka, what did you intend doing to him?”
Jeff drummed the tabletop with his fingers.
The Captain said, “You do know it is illegal to visit foreign countries and murder people, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Just so you don’t think us complete fools, we are aware of Avni Leka and we have been looking for him as well. Also, your presence in Italy has been known to us from the time you entered this country. And I have had men follow you from the time you arrived in Bari.”
Jeff leaned back and his eyes narrowed. The revelation of a police tail surprised him. Was he on an international watch list? The Captain, perhaps thinking he doubted his words, stood, walked round his desk and opened the door. He rattled off orders in Italian and two men quickly appeared in the doorway. Jeff recognised them from the café at the port entrance.
The Captain said, “You know these two men?”
Jeff nodded.
The Captain waved the men away, closed the door and returned to his seat.
Jeff rubbed the back of his neck.
“I guess the obvious question, Captain, is why were you following me? And why have you not arrested Marius?”
Balboni threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender and grinned lopsidedly.
“To arrest a criminal like Marius is never easy, especially in the Apulian region. Organised crime has much influence. Money talks; especially when it is paid to corrupt public officials.”
Balboni tilted his head on to the palm of his hand, his elbow resting on the table. He picked up a pen and drew a circle on a piece of paper.
“The circle represents organised crime in this region.” He stabbed a dot in the centre of the circle. “The dot is me and my men. As you can see, we need many dots to fill the circle. It is hopeless, I know, but we have small wins and we try to satisfy ourselves with these nominal victories. It is enough to get me out of bed each morning.”
Balboni dropped the pen and sat upright.
“And how is it you knew I was in town?” Jeff asked.
Jeff could sense the debate going on in Balboni’s head. Should he be on the level, or keep the truth to himself?
Balboni dropped his two hands on to the table. He shrugged. “I guess it does not hurt for you to know. Someone from an American security intelligence service made contact with my bosses.”
Jeff’s eyes opened wide, and then Lee Caldwell came to mind. It had to be him.
“The Americans worried you might do something silly, and they wanted us to keep you safe. Not stop you, mind. It seems everyone wants Avni Leka. They, the Americans, think of you as a bloodhound. Is this how it is with you, Mr Bradley: once you have the scent you don’t let it go?”
Jeff scratched his chin again.
“I don’t see myself that way, but I can understand why the Americans do. And Marius?” Jeff asked. “How does he fit into this?”
Balboni said, “Marius is a small-time hood trying to become a big-time criminal.” His eyes narrowed. “A peacock wanting to be an eagle, and this makes him dangerous.”
Jeff nodded.
“As far as we know, Marius has no family and no known relatives in Italy. However, he might have changed his identity long ago and is using a false passport. Who knows? And, quite frankly, I don’t care. The Marius of long ago does not concern me. He started out the way of all career criminals. Petty crime: breaking into houses, muggings, stolen cars, snatching purses off old ladies and tourists. The police arrested him many times, but he never spent more than a few nights in jail. It happens. No witnesses come forward, so many of these guys walk. But what worries me is recently our intelligence units have no record of him committing a crime. Not even a parking ticket.”
Jeff raised his eyebrows. “And this worries you?”
“Yes. It might be he has climbed the ladder; only a step, but a move all the same. If he has been accepted into one of the families, it means he has committed a major crime. Murder or worse, if there is anything worse than murder? These crimes are like signing a contract for life. Now he is protected from people like me, so for you, if this has happened, Bari has become a very dangerous city.”
Captain Balboni pushed a large brown envelope across the desk. “Your personal effects. I ordered for them not to be taken. What can I say? If my own men will not listen to me, why would Marius?” He chuckled at his humour. Then his eyes fixed on Jeff. “My advice: leave Bari.”
Jeff placed his passport, mobile phone and wallet into his jacket pocket. He strapped his watch to his wrist.
Balboni said, “My men and I are a special unit within the Carabinieri. Our job is to fight organised crime in the Apulian region.” He took a business card from his jacket pocket and pushed it across the table. “Next time you come to town, call me.”
The two men who had followed him to the café delivered Jeff back to the small park by the fish markets. Marius had long gone, they told Jeff. Sulla was still there though, leaning against his cousin’s taxi. A beaming grin lit his face when he saw Jeff.
“How long were you going to leave it before you came to the station looking for me?” Jeff grumbled.
Sulla shrugged. “Only a few days. Remember, I am a Kosovan Albanian. Because of men like Avni Leka, the police are suspicious of all of us. But don’t worry.” Sulla slapped Jeff on the back. “Eventually, I would have come.”
Jeff pulled out his phone and turned it on. The Text icon was covered by a large number three. He opened the first two texts, and they were from the phone company offering him free messaging for a special rate. The last message had no caller ID. He tapped it open and read the text. He read it again.
“Shit.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The bus entered the outskirts of Istanbul. Twenty minutes later, it turned off the main highway into an industrial zone. No bridges had been crossed. That meant they were still on the European side of the great city. Somewhere near the airport would be Barry’s best guess, give or take a few kilometres. The factory/warehouse they stopped in front of was behind an uncut hedgerow. From his vantage point, Barry could not see the whole building, only the second floor of the administration block. One of the bogus cops aimed a remote at a square concrete-block pillar on the left-hand side of the driveway. An iron gate on two small wheels rolled sideways.
The bus drove into the compound.
Large blue and white letters were on a sign above the front entrance of the building. The words were in Turkish. Barry had no idea what they said, but presumed they were the name of a company. A flag hung limp on a pole protruding from the ground amidst an entanglement of weeds and flowers. From the street, in the fading light, it appeared the building’s exterior walls were cream, but as the bus drew closer Barry saw the colour was light green. The building needed a repaint. Roof tiles had sagged where the framing underneath had collapsed, and the windows running the length of the wall beneath the eaves were all broken. This was an unkempt property waiting for a new tenant, a description that could be applied to many of the buildings they had only just now driven past. He bit the inside of his mouth as he searched for a more useful identifying marker. He saw none.
The bus moved down the driveway that ran past the side of the building and on to the car park at the rear. It half circled and stopped in front of a roller door. The driver gave two honks of his horn. A door in the left bottom corner opened. A head popped out. The man gave a wave and disappeared back inside. After a few seconds, the roller door rose. Before it reached full height, the bus drove under it and into the warehouse. Barry turned in his seat and looked back through the rear window. The roller door had already reversed and fallen. His gut churned when he heard the clunk of the metallic roller hitting the ground. Like birds flying into an aviary, the cage door had slammed shut and there was no escape. The outside world, and any hope of rescue, were gone.
He gulped when he saw armed men encircle the bus.
A big man in a dark suit waved his arms and rattled off orders. He was overweight, and the black satin waistcoat tight across his gut threatened to pop buttons. He spoke in a language Barry assumed to be Turkish, but could have been any language that wasn’t English; Barry didn’t have a clue. Not true – he could tell between French and German; not understand the words, but he knew the phonetic variations.
The bus door opened. Barry swallowed, and Bethany’s hand returned to his arm. Her nails dug into his flesh. Not as hard as last time, but still hard enough for him to want to rip back her fingers. He would let her have her panic attack and rub the welts once she released her grip.
The four men in police uniform climbed off the bus first. The Sheriff followed. He gave no instruction to the passengers. No orders to obey. There was no need; everyone stayed in their seats. No one spoke. Even so it surprised Barry no last warnings were issued. A fearful silence pervaded the bus. Barry had little doubt his companions were contemplating their immediate future and, like him, had concluded prospects were grim. But they weren’t dead yet, and he wasn’t about to act like it. The Sheriff said earlier they were free to wander and talk to each other. From Barry’s perspective, that meant he could do what he liked. He took a quick look out the window. Why The Sheriff need not concern himself over his captives was obvious. The armed men encircling the bus meant escape was impossible.
The killer of the bus driver walked over to the fat man in the waistcoat. The big man flashed a half-smile and, as he moved forward to greet his guest, he ran a hand over his greasy black hair. There was no embrace or warm greeting of any kind. Whoever The Sheriff was, he was important, but not a long-lost buddy.
Bethany leaned against Barry, to better see into the warehouse. Her body was taut, but her hands had at least stopped trembling.
“What will happen to us, Barry?”
“For now, I don’t know. But we will get through this, I promise,” he lied.
Bethany rolled away from Barry and, closing her eyes, slumped into her seat. Barry could see his words of comfort had not worked. He decided against adding more lies to his original lie. What else could he say? He glanced across the aisle. Graeme Beattie had hardly moved. His wife sat rigid, hands on thighs.
Taking hold of the armrests, Barry lifted himself higher in his seat and cast an eye over his fellow travellers. As soon as he became visible, heads turned in his direction; like small children looking towards a teacher for help. They were seeking leadership, his leadership. Who did they think he was, the captain of a ship? What could he tell them? He gently pulled Bethany’s legs to the side, enough to get past, and stepped into the aisle.
“Can everyone hear me?” he said, his tone a touch above a whisper, but loud enough, he hoped, for all to hear. At the back of the bus, Mildred, the wife of an elderly ex-soldier, a hint of defiance in her firmed chin, gave him a thumbs-up. “Good. For the moment, I think there is nothing to worry about. Just do as you’re told. Nothing silly.”
He eyed Graeme Beattie.
“Graeme, no heroics.” Without lifting his head, Beattie nodded. “For those of you who don’t know me well, I experienced a hostage drama not so long ago. I survived that, and we will survive this,” Barry said. “Remember: keep calm.”
He sat back down. He heard whispering. Good. They were now talking amongst themselves. Relieving the tension. Barry turned his attention back to the activity in the warehouse. A more relaxed Bethany leaned on his shoulder. She kissed the side of his neck. Barry reached out, placed his hand on her thigh and gave a squeeze in response. The head cop was in conversation with the big man. More than once, the big man ceased speaking, turned and snapped an order. Men obeyed without hesitation.
Bethany pushed her mouth near his ear. “That man giving the orders – he spoke to one of the policemen in Albanian,” she said.
Barry studied the fat man in charge. He looked familiar. He couldn’t yet place where they might have met, but he would. He was good with faces. Memories stored were images never lost. The boss man waved a hand at the cops standing a short distance away, and three of them walked towards the rear of the bus, then disappeared from sight. A few minutes of further discussion took place between the fat man, the police spokesman and The Sheriff. There was a lot of nodding of heads. The Sheriff walked back to the bus and re-boarded.
With the killer’s presence, the whispering died and the oppressive blanket of dread returned.
The Sheriff offered his captives a reassuring smile.
He reminded Barry of a cat he once owned. The cat had a habit of tormenting the half-dead birds it caught, leaping in the air with joy; once he grew bored with the game, he killed them. The Sheriff was that cat. He had absolute control, and the callous manner in which he killed the driver showed he had no compassion. In Barry’s judgement, The Sheriff was playing with his prisoners and loving every minute of it. What was going to happen to them when The Sheriff grew bored?
