The Ottoman Conspiracy, page 7
part #3 of Jeff Bradley Series
Reason gave her head a slight tilt.
“As I said, it is only a theory, but your friend said they had been kidnapped. And you are assuming the jail-breakers ran out of the station and waited at the bus stop, as you put it. What if it wasn’t like that? What if the bus was part of the escape plan from the beginning?”
Jeff was about to respond, but hesitated; he leaned back in his chair and interlocked the fingers of his hands behind his head. The waiter placed the two bottles of water on the table. Jeff took up his bottle and twisted the cap off; Reason ignored hers.
“I think the bus being part of the escape plan could be considered a logical assumption,” she said.
Jeff nodded. “I don’t disagree there is a certain logic to how you have set it out. But if what you say is true, I’m thinking there is something else going on. I mean, why not steal an SUV or something faster? They could have been in Bulgaria before the alarm was raised and, given the amount of elapsed time, now, well hidden somewhere in Eastern Europe. But they chose not to do this; they chose instead to kidnap a busload of tourists. That means they are preparing for a standoff with the police or the military, or whoever.”
“It looks that way,” Reason said. “On the positive side, the Turkish government will not be happy. If these men have taken the bus, the authorities will be as keen to find it as you are. But for the moment, it is all conjecture.”
“Not conjecture,” Jeff said. “Barry sent the text and they have been kidnapped. Until I hear different, I will assume the men who helped the prisoner escape in Sarkoy have taken it.”
Reason nodded. “Nothing wrong with theorising.”
“I was thinking,” Jeff continued. “The phones have trackers, do they not? Do you have access to the technology? Maybe we can get a fix. Pinpoint where they are?”
“I can tell you it was the first step taken by the Turkish police. They checked for a phone signal from the mobile number you gave your embassy. And the bus has a GPS system, but there was no response from either the phone or the bus GPS. Wherever the bus is right now, no signals are being emitted. My advice,” Reason said. “Go back to your hotel. I will contact you when I have news.”
Jeff took a swig of his water. He kept his eyes on Reason Johanson, searching for a flicker of a sign she might be holding back information. He saw none. His thoughts switched to Barry and Bethany. Where were they, and were they still alive? And what the hell was going on?
CHAPTER TWELVE
The section of the warehouse that had become a temporary prison for Barry and the rest of the passengers matched the shabby exterior. Exposed beams were visible where suspended ceiling panels had fallen away. Some hung from wires, other panels had disappeared. It was cold and the air damp. But there was light, and because they had worn clothing to stave off the cold at Gallipoli everyone was comfortable enough. As promised by The Sheriff, the food and hot drinks provided also helped to ward off the cold and lift spirits a little. Their confinement area, including the bathroom facilities and beds and bedding, could have housed up to a hundred people. Barry’s initial thoughts were it might have been an army barracks of some sort. But he dismissed the idea. The quarters looked too sloppy and disorganised to be military. It was more like a school dormitory without the cleaners.
Barry made a trip to the toilet every half hour. It concerned him making so many visits might attract attention, but there was no cause for worry. The guards had no interest in anything the hostages did, and the other tour group members were too distressed to have any interest in anything Barry did either. Each time, he tried sending a text, but there was still no signal. The battery level on the mobile phone had reduced. Not yet to a level where he risked losing it altogether, but he would need to be careful to keep it switched off. The only reason he could think of for the lack of signal was the hijackers had installed jammer devices. He had seen them used in Kosovo. Jammers weren’t big, and they were cheap. Two or three would be enough to blanket the warehouse.
The treatment of himself and the other passengers had puzzled Barry. He had seen videos of hostages held by Islamic terrorists just like everyone else had done. Usually the captives were tied up and bags placed over their heads. But this had not happened. So why not? Why hadn’t they been strip-searched and the women’s handbags and the carry-on luggage emptied and checked? Barry had thought them lax, but he knew they were smart. So what was their agenda? At the same time, he was not about to complain. They had shown how ruthless they were; they had shot the driver. Thankfully, a day had passed, and to everyone’s relief there had been no further violence.
Even though the uncertain future kept everyone on edge, the paralysing dread had waned. Some of the passengers had begun to look upon the hijacking as an adventure with a few hardships. One couple had discussed how much money a television station might pay for their story when it was over. But mostly everyone sat, and clung to a partner where a partner existed, and whenever the outer warehouse door opened, lips trembled and faces turned ashen.
Two guards stayed in the room at all times, but they kept their distance. They chatted and smoked cigarettes that smelled like camel dung. From time to time, shifty eyes gave the passengers the once-over before returning to their conversation.
An exhausted Bethany lay asleep on one of the bunks.
The two American women sat on a bed in the corner, arm in arm, nervous eyes staring into space. One rested her head on her friend’s shoulder. They weren’t much older than twenty. Barry imagined they were thinking that, when it came to hostage-taking in the Middle East, the Americans always drew the short straw. Barry decided he would chat with the two women. Comfort them, if needed. He walked across. His movement caught their eye. Two pale faces watched him sink down on to his haunches.
“Hi, I’m Barry,” he said. He received a small flick of the hand as a welcoming wave. “Are you guys okay? It’s bad enough being kidnapped, but being stuck here with a bunch of boring Kiwis and Aussies makes it worse.”
This brought a smile.
“I’m Marcia, and this is my friend, Catalina,” Marcia said.
“Call me Cat,” Catalina responded.
Marcia had cropped blonde hair. Catalina had the same short hairstyle, but her hair was red. The two friends were dressed almost identically in jeans, green woollen pullovers and white running shoes.
Marcia leaned forward. “Are they Islamic extremists? We’ve seen the beheading videos. Are we going to be beheaded?”
Her jaw was firm but her eyes moist; a gutsy young woman. Cat pushed closer to her friend, fearful of Barry’s answer, but like Marcia her head tilted, defiant. They would face whatever adversity awaited them together and with courage.
Barry gave a vigorous shake of his head. “No, of course not. That is not going to happen.” The two women weren’t convinced. “The man who calls himself The Sheriff might be an Islamic extremist, but two of the men dressed up as cops are Albanians. I’m thinking some of the other guards are as well. I know their boss. They’ll be in it more for the money, not religion. We aren’t dead yet, which I think means their job is to keep us alive. At any rate, extremists don’t treat their captives the way we’ve been treated, do they?”
Marcia and Catalina shook their heads.
“So no, I think for the moment we’re okay. But, it is important to keep calm and not antagonise them. And if you need anything or want to talk, come get me. Okay?”
Two heads nodded. Barry stood up.
He made his way back to Bethany. Graeme Beattie watched him walk past. It crossed his mind he should speak with him. As he half turned, a glare from Beattie’s wife was a clear message to stay away. Shaking his head, Barry continued on towards Bethany. Screw them.
A small group, gathered near the entrance to the showers, caught his attention. Barry sighed. His first thought was someone had discovered a heroic spark and was assembling a group to confront The Sheriff en masse. That would be suicide. He would need to talk them out of it. A few steps towards them and he could see between legs a shape on the ground.
He squeezed his way to the front.
Reg sat on the floor, his legs out in front of him. Mildred, his wife and the oldest member of the group, had her head resting on his thigh. Mildred was moaning and in pain. Her face was as white as a sheet, and a throaty, gasping, gurgling sound escaped between slightly parted lips.
Barry liked them both. Reg was an old digger and had fought in a war somewhere. Barry still had to find out where. Their son had been killed in Vietnam. Remembering soldiers lost in war made ANZAC Day special for them. At Gallipoli, they had separated from the group. They wanted to be alone to remember their son, and everyone had respected their privacy. When the hijackers took the bus, Mildred had shown spunk. A younger Mildred might have let The Sheriff have a piece of her mind. Barry was thankful she hadn’t.
“What is it, Reg?” Barry asked, a hand on Reg’s shoulder.
“I don’t know for certain, Barry. She said she had a pain in her arm and her head was spinning. She grabbed at her chest and I caught her as she collapsed. Her skin is all clammy. It’s bad, Barry. She needs a doctor.”
Barry knelt beside them. He reached out and touched her hand.
“Easy there, Mildred. You hang on. I’m going to get you a doctor. Okay?”
Mildred’s eyes didn’t open. She squeezed Barry’s hand.
He stood up. “I’ll get help.”
Those gathered round parted to let Barry through. The guards watched as he approached. One waved him back. When Barry kept walking, two Kalashnikovs pointed at him. Both barrels aimed at his chest. He stopped and raised his hands.
“Easy, guys. Keep cool. Do either one of you speak English?”
One of the guards nodded. “I do. What do you want? You are not to come near us. This is the rule.”
Barry pointed towards Mildred. “One of our group is having a heart attack. She needs a doctor.”
The guard nodded. “Go back there and wait. I will go for help.”
“Thank you.”
Barry returned to Mildred’s side and knelt beside her. He stroked her arm. Reg looked at him, hopeful. “The guard has gone to get help.”
“Thank God,” Reg said. “The pain is getting worse. She needs to be in hospital.”
Barry knew that was unlikely to happen. Heads turned as the door was flung open and The Sheriff entered the room. The guard pulled the door shut behind him. Both guards took up positions with their backs against the wall and their weapons at the ready. The passengers stepped aside to allow The Sheriff through. Barry stayed kneeling next to Mildred. Bethany caught Barry’s eye and gave a slight shake of the head. She didn’t need to worry; he was not about to do anything silly. Mildred’s breathing was now in sharp gasps; her eyes stayed closed, her hands still clutching at her chest, and low moans followed the spasms of heavy breathing.
“What is happening here?” The Sheriff asked.
“My wife is having a heart attack,” Reg blurted out, still cradling Mildred’s head. “She needs a doctor and to be in hospital.” His tone was pleading, his eyes watering.
“I am sorry for your wife. She is your wife?”
Reg nodded.
“Then yes, I am sorry for your wife, but a hospital is out of the question, and none of my men are doctors. There is nothing I can do.”
Reg said, “She is in pain; please help her. She can’t be left like this. Please.”
“Yes, you are right. She cannot be left to suffer. I will help. Do not worry,” The Sheriff said.
Reg bowed his head at The Sheriff’s words, his shoulders slumped, relieved. He stroked Mildred’s brow. Barry was as concerned for Reg as he was for Mildred. The colour had drained from the old man’s face. It would be no surprise to Barry if Reg had a heart attack of his own at any moment. Most of the passengers maintained a sympathetic vigil over the elderly couple, but the others, Barry included, watched The Sheriff walk to one of the guards. Hands covered mouths to stifle gasps when The Sheriff snatched the Kalashnikov from the guard’s grasp. The Sheriff pulled back the cocking mechanism. A 7.62 bullet flew through the air and another was pulled from the magazine and loaded into the breech. His hand on the pistol grip, and the butt on his hip, he made his way back. Barry climbed to his feet. The group of passengers crowding around Mildred clung to the nearest arm and eyes widened in horror at the realisation of what was about to happen. For an instant, Barry froze, disbelieving, but he knew what he must do. He made to step in front of The Sheriff, confront him. Barry felt a tug at his jacket sleeve. He tried again. Bethany held his sleeve tighter. With no fanfare, The Sheriff aimed the Kalashnikov and pulled the trigger.
Three bullets slammed into Mildred’s chest.
“Fuck!” Barry blurted out.
Passengers screamed and fell to their knees. Eerie wailing bounced off the walls of the enclosure. Agonised sounds like wounded animals. Some sobbed; others were struck dumb and stood silent. Faces the colour of snow. Barry turned on Bethany, still trying to shake his arm free of her. She clung on. Their eyes met. He saw the determination. She was not about to let him do anything that might get him killed.
Barry looked down at Mildred. Her eyes sprang open and mouth widened. A gurgling sound from deep within rattled up through her lifeless body, a final spasm as death engulfed her, and then, her head, still in Reg’s arms, slumped to the side. Accusing eyes stared at Barry. Reg, dumbfounded, looked down at his dead wife’s bloodied chest. He slowly raised his head, and his eyes, alight with hate, fixed on The Sheriff. Barry noticed Reg had moved Mildred’s head from his thigh to the floor. His fists tightened and his eyes narrowed. The Sheriff also watched Reg’s reaction, and waited as the old man struggled to raise his arthritis-riddled body. Mildred’s killer pushed the barrel of the Kalashnikov against Reg’s forehead and pulled the trigger. Reg fell forward across Mildred’s chest.
The Sheriff turned on his terrified audience. Those closest backed away a few paces. “I know what you are thinking: that I am a generous man. First I help the wife when she is in pain, and now she no longer suffers. The husband is angry at me; this is understandable, but mostly he is an old man and the loss of his wife leaves a big hole in his heart.” The Sheriff tapped at his own chest to emphasise his point. “Now they are together. Allah will be good to them.”
Barry made to step forward. Bethany’s hold on his arm remained steadfast. He looked over his shoulder. She shook her head. Barry stayed still, held his tongue. Bethany was right. Now was not the time for a pointless display of heroism. The American women, Marcia and Catalina, had remained on the bed, still huddled together. So much for his assuring them there would be no beheading, no more violence. What was he thinking?
The Sheriff tossed the Kalashnikov back to the guard and strode out of the room, the door shutting behind him with a solid slam.
Barry went to the beds, pulled off two blankets and covered the bodies. Beyond the blankets a pool of blood continued to spread across the warehouse floor. Bethany, holding the cross at her neck, uttered a prayer. Other passengers stood beside her, exchanging words of comfort.
On the other side of the partition wall, a roar as a bus engine ignited into life. The time of solace cut short by noise, and the smell of fumes.
The door opened.
Weary heads swung towards the door, and frightened eyes watched the policeman who had done all the talking on the bus journey enter the room. Barry had dubbed him The Sheriff’s second in command. The two guards stood to the side with their Kalashnikovs at the ready. There was a stiffness to the policeman’s demeanour that made Barry straighten. The man’s gait as he walked to the centre of the room was that of a reluctant messenger bearing bad news for the king.
“Time to leave,” the policeman said quietly.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
You promised me Bradley would be dead. Why does he still walk about? I have had reports. You had all your men with you at the fish markets and could not kill this lone man.”
“He had help. He is smart.”
“Well, Marius, now you know he is smart. And smarter than you, it seems. What do you plan to do about it? You have been paid a great deal of money to get rid of this man, and you have failed to deliver. Not only that, you have embarrassed me. I give you this opportunity because you say you are ready. But look what you have done. You have made me question my judgement. And if I question my judgement, others might too. They will say my brain is not as sharp as it could be. That I have become weak.”
Marius bit at his lip.
“Should I find someone else? Is this task too big for you?”
“No, of course not,” Marius said. “The New Zealander got lucky. It happens. The police arrived and saved him. But he will not be lucky all the time. Besides, he has gone for now. Maybe he won’t come back. No more snooping. You have nothing to worry about.”
Pietro Gallo slowly shook his head.
Marius was watchful of the old man. He needed to be cautious. This ancient, cadaverous human being, with sunken, blood-red eyes and tufts of grey hair clinging to a leathery scalp, held power over one of the largest crime families in the southern Italian region. The heel of the boot on the map of Italy belonged to the Gallo family. A snap of his skeletal finger and thumb and Marius knew he would be tossed into the trunk of a vehicle and driven into the hills and shot, his body left for wild dogs to eat.
The crime boss had built an army of two thousand men, mostly family members and extended family. Their empire spread from the region of Foggia down to Lecce and included the ports of Bari and Brindisi. Smuggling, drugs, weapons, extortion, prostitution, murder, money laundering operated with impunity. Nobody dared cross the Gallo family. Officials and police were well paid to look the other way. When Marius had been invited into the organisation, it was always understood he could run his own team, and he was given a certain amount of leeway, but as an outsider he would never rise in the ranks. The organisation belonged to the cadaver and his family.
