The Ottoman Conspiracy, page 8
part #3 of Jeff Bradley Series
Marius hadn’t cared. He made money, and lots of it.
The smuggling operation he ran with Osman Gashi was lucrative even after paying a tribute to Gallo. He had made his reputation and made everyone money, and other family members gave him the respect he was due. But now and then, like at this moment, the boss had to let him know his place. In the tone and delivery of the message the underlying threat was clear, and Marius was not foolish enough to ignore it. If he wished, he could reach across the table and strangle the worthless piece of shit with one hand. But he could never outrun the rest of the family. They had tentacles all across Europe, east and west.
The old man hunched over the table, leaning on elbows for support. His head lifted. Red eyes fixed on Marius.
“I have been paid a great deal of money to have this Bradley man killed. You tell me you are capable of taking care of this matter for me. I pass the contract on to you. The job was not to scare him off, not to give him a ticket so he can return to his country and visit his mother. I wanted him dead. Which part of our agreement did you not understand?”
“Okay, okay, I’ve got it,” Marius said.
“Really, Marius? Have you got it? I have taken my client’s money, and your answer to me is that he will not bother me anymore. He never bothered me before.” The cadaver dribbled spit out the side of his mouth. “You have made me and my family look very bad. It is our reputation that keeps us in business. If our clients believe we cannot carry out our contracts, they will not give us any money. And if our enemies think we have become pussies, what do you think will happen? Tell me that.” The old man spat out these words, then pushed himself up from his seat. His face reddened and he emitted a gurgling sound caused by the exertion of the movement. “Should I look elsewhere?” the old man whispered. Marius grew cold inside.
“I will take care of it,” Marius said. “I get it. No need to look elsewhere. One of my men followed Bradley from the police station. He went back to his hotel, collected his belongings and went straight to the airport. He caught a plane to Istanbul, via Rome.”
The cadaver raised his eyebrows. “We have a depot in Istanbul. Could he know about it?”
Marius shook his head. “No. It is not possible.” But a shadow of uncertainty from Marius brought a frown from his boss. A quick rack of his brain led Marius to dismiss Bradley’s ability to know anything of his Eurasian/Balkan smuggling operation. “And besides, why would he even be interested? He was only here chasing after the Kosovan, Leka. And wherever the hell he is, I have no idea. Outside of that, Bradley has no interest in Bari.”
The boss nodded. Satisfied, he relaxed and his relaxed manner relaxed Marius. But why had Bradley gone to Turkey? At any rate, what did it matter?
“Are you going to take care of Bradley for me?” the boss asked.
“I will send two of my best men, today.”
“Make sure you do. But I want you to go with them. Make sure the job gets done. Whatever it is Bradley is up to in Turkey, I am certain once he has finished he will return to Bari and continue looking into matters of no concern to him. This would upset my client, and I do not want this to happen. I don’t want him leaving Turkey.”
Marius nodded. “I have a consignment coming through in the next day or so. Should I wait until after that?”
“You have men who can handle receiving the goods. Bradley is your priority, make it so.”
Marius said, “My informant within the police station has said Bradley met with a member of the Carabinieri, Captain Balboni – the cop who heads up the anti-organised crime squad. He and Bradley had a friendly chat. Like comrades, I am told, and not like a policeman talking to a prisoner. I think Bradley has made a powerful ally within the Carabinieri.”
“Another reason it is better he is taken care of in Turkey,” Gallo emphasised. “I want this done quickly. The wedding of my granddaughter is about to take place. You are to be my guest. This is a great honour for you, Marius. The family has shown you great respect with this invitation. In return, please respect me and my family. Do not leave this matter hanging.”
“Don’t worry,” Marius said. “Bradley will never leave Turkey alive.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jeff had showered and was drying off. The hotel room phone rang.
“Mr Bradley, it’s Reason Johanson. I have news. Meet me at the café we met at yesterday.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Sulla Bogdani arrived in Istanbul. He parked his car in a secure lock-up and climbed into his friend’s taxi. When Serbia invaded Kosovo, many Kosovans fled. The exodus of refugees flooded the neighbouring countries and after the war many returned to Kosovo, but there were those, like his friend, who started new lives in new countries. Sulla had re-established connections with many old acquaintances from his school days and with friends from his village now living in the various countries of the Balkans; a network of contacts for his business enterprises. He was thankful many of his friends drove cabs.
He didn’t know his way around Istanbul, and it might be he needed to get somewhere in a hurry. His friend Zef was best suited to the task. Zef and he had lived on the same street in Kosovo and walked to school together. Sulla had witnessed Zef’s parents being dragged from their house and shot, and the torching of their home. His friend would never return to Kosovo.
Jeff had sent a text to Sulla with his contact details should he need to get in touch. Zef knew the hotel, and as they arrived they saw Jeff getting into a yellow taxi and driving off. Sulla decided to follow and not to bother trying to flag him down. Now was not the time to get into an argument about why he had come to Istanbul; they could fight it out later.
He hated having deceived Jeff, but after returning to Kosovo he made the decision it was important he keep an eye on his friend. In Turkey, as it was with other countries of the region and as it was in Kosovo, many bad men lived in the shadows, and Jeff was vulnerable if he was alone. This was foreign territory to the man from New Zealand, and to find his way amongst the locals he needed to understand the mentality of the locals. This could not be learned in a few hours. The staff at the vineyard were capable and could look after business matters well enough without Sulla’s input. The drive through Macedonia, Bulgaria and into Turkey had taken most of the night. Once across the Turkish border, he had pulled over and grabbed a few hours’ sleep before continuing on to Istanbul.
Jeff’s taxi stopped near Istiklal Avenue, and he continued on foot. Cars were not allowed on to the avenue. A small van blocked Zef. Sulla tapped his friend on the shoulder and jumped out of the idling vehicle and chased after the New Zealander. Jeff was walking at a fast pace and when he disappeared around a corner Sulla had to run to keep him in sight. By the time he made the bend, Jeff had crossed Istiklal and was walking up a side street. Sulla crossed to the opposite side of the street. When he saw Jeff enter a café he slowed until he was facing the window of the café. He was tossing up if he should approach Jeff now and explain why he was in Istanbul when he saw his friend sit at a table with a woman. He made the decision to keep his distance. If Jeff was romancing, who was he to interfere? He would wait until the liaison had finished. His attention drifted to a small gallery. It sold paintings and ceramics. Through the window Sulla eyed a large vase that looked the right size for the small table in his new apartment. The colours were the same as the leaves in autumn, his favourite season. At least it would blend in with his brown carpet. He entered to have a closer look. From inside the gallery he could easily keep watch on the café.
Then he saw Marius.
Jeff entered the café, and the limping waiter with the scarred face followed him to the table. The big tip left on the last visit had worked wonders. Instead of a cock-eyed, glassy glare and belligerent manner, the waiter was now all smiles and over-the-top attentiveness. Reason Johanson, grim-faced, tilted her head towards the empty chair. Jeff ordered a coffee and sat.
Waking early, he had decided his body needed a workout. Over the years, he had developed an exercise regimen suited to the confined space of a hotel room. It was partly learned through PT training in the military and a few adopted moves from various gyms he had joined. He couldn’t afford to lose his edge. In New Zealand, he ran a few kilometres most days and swam a few kilometres every other day. Twice a week, he went to the gym for boxing practice. The boxing he enjoyed. It was a good defence skill to have, and the training used almost every muscle in his body. Each session exhausted him, and his trainer Manny made sure of it. Manny said he could have made it as a boxer, but Jeff had never been in the ring, and never intended to. He was only interested in the fitness. “You could never go fifteen rounds moving like that,” Manny would yell when he began to tire from smashing his fists into the punching bag, and he would increase the tempo.
Reason was wearing another charcoal trouser suit. This time, under the jacket, she had worn a plain white T-shirt. Her lips looked redder, a hint of lipstick.
“What do you have to tell me?” Jeff asked.
“The bus has been found, and it’s on the move. The bus GPS flicked on again about an hour ago. Signals from a few of the phones have also been tracked. Wherever the bus has been for the last day, either the bus GPS and phones have been turned off or the signals have been jammed.”
Jeff said, “My vote goes with the jammer. My reasoning: why turn them off and turn them on? It makes no sense.” It suddenly occurred to him: if the phones were now active, why hadn’t Barry sent him a text? Or had he? Jeff opened his phone. “I’ll check if there is a message from Barry.” There were no numbers on the Text icon. “Nothing.” He closed his phone and put it into his jacket pocket. “Where is the bus now?”
“It’s approximately fifty kilometres the other side of Istanbul.”
“I need to get ahead of it. Where can I hire a chopper?” Jeff asked.
He made to stand.
Reason held up her hand. “Hold your horses, cowboy, there’s more.”
Jeff eased back into his seat.
Reason took a photo from her jacket pocket and slid it across the table.
“This man is known as ‘The Sheriff’. I told you a man had been broken out of prison and it might be him and his rescuers who hijacked the bus. It turns out I was right. And the description your friend gave of the hijackers – four policemen and a civilian – confirms it. The Sheriff is a dangerous man. He is a key military leader in the PKK movement. You have heard of the PKK?”
Jeff nodded. “A Kurdistan rebel group wanting to establish a Kurdish homeland.”
“You’ve got it in one. This man is said to have used landmines against Turkish military transport convoys, set off bombs in the border towns, and within the last year ambushed and killed a squad of Turkish soldiers near the Syrian border. More recently, two bombs in Istanbul shopping malls and a marketplace in Ankara have been tagged to his name. The police said they hadn’t confirmed the malls and market in Ankara are The Sheriff’s work, but until they know one way or the other, he wears it.”
Jeff picked up the photo and studied it.
Reason continued, “Turkish border guards captured him trying to cross into Turkey from Bulgaria. The Turks claim he was in Europe raising funds. Whether that’s true or not, I can’t say. He had no money when they arrested him. I’m assured by the police they want him bad, and they will do everything they can to get him back. They are worried if he makes it to the Kurdistan strongholds he will disappear again and start another round of violence. My intelligence reports on the Kurds are not that up to date. Views on The Sheriff vary; the more conservative Kurds say he is not so much a respected leader as he is a feared gangster. The young guns and the extremists worship him like a god, and believe he is the man who will deliver them their promised land.”
“Could he do that?”
Reason shrugged. “Anything is possible, but I very much doubt it. Kurdistan has no real borders and is spread across Turkey, Iran, Iraq, Syria, and maybe some of Armenia. I don’t know the boundaries for certain; I don’t think anyone does. Anyway, to achieve a homeland, it would need all these countries to cede them territory, and in my opinion that isn’t going to happen.”
“So we could have a few civil wars start up,” Jeff said.
“That is the likely outcome, but there have been moves made to placate the Kurds that seem to be working. Turkey has offered to discuss an autonomous province, and Iraq has already established autonomous Kurdish territory. So far this seems to be working, and many Kurds are happy with the outcome. But the PKK want it all, and are happy to carry on fighting until they get it.”
“I’ve met rebels in other countries. Some have fought all their lives. Starting out as boy soldiers. They keep fighting even when they don’t need to keep fighting because they only know how to be fighters. Eventually, if they aren’t killed they age and tire of conflict. There must be members of the PKK who fit into that category, who would like to go sit in a café and have a cold beer or cognac and not get shot at?”
There was the hint of a smile from Reason.
“You may be right. There have been fractures within the group. The Turks have dropped a few bombs on Kurdish villages. Attitudes are changing. And recently the PKK were labelled terrorists and Turkey has been given a green light from America and NATO to go stomp on them wherever they may be. Turkey still needs to take care. Any overreaction leading to a whole bunch of innocent Kurds being killed could see a hardening of Western attitudes. But overall this has influenced many Kurds to look for a peaceful solution.”
Jeff nodded.
“And the thinking is that The Sheriff might tip the scales against the conservative Kurds and lead them into starting a new civil war?” Jeff said.
“What can I say? The Sheriff is a long-time fighter, with a fearless reputation.”
“And now he’s on a bus and going home. I have to ask, why is he called The Sheriff?”
Red lips widened as Reason smiled. Nice. Jeff liked the sparkle in her eyes that accompanied it.
“He’s called The Sheriff because he likes watching westerns – you know, movies about cowboys. Wyatt Earp is his favourite character.”
Jeff grinned and slowly shook his head.
Reason continued, “Amongst his own people his reputation has grown. There is money; lots of it. Dollars splashed in his name across the regions of Kurdistan like confetti. Cash given to schools, hospitals, food for the poor. My sources monitoring Kurdistan tell me the word is that The Sheriff has organised the cash, but no one has any idea where he got it from.”
Jeff was thoughtful. “Robbing banks?”
“Who knows? The distribution of cash has been followed up by a pretty snappy media campaign. This guy has become an iconic figure within the Kurdish community, the equivalent of a saint. Even the neutrals believe he might be the man that can lead them to the promised land.”
Jeff sipped his coffee as he mulled over the information. The more he heard, the more he worried. Nothing Reason had told him alleviated his concerns for Barry and Bethany. In fact, it was having the opposite effect.
“Okay,” Jeff said. “This guy is placed on a pedestal, but even so, how much influence can he hope to achieve in the end? Surely amongst all Kurds there is the reality of the Turkish military and their armaments? Kalashnikovs can’t shoot down fighter jets.”
Reason nodded. “There is a legend that has floated about Turkey for many decades that a new caliph will emerge out of the remnants of the old Ottoman Empire. This is the banner someone is waving, and it has carried some weight because The Sheriff was in fact born in Turkey, and therefore it is right to think he might be this new Islamic leader.”
Jeff laughed. “You’ve got to be joking. Every new looney Islamic leader calls himself a caliph. ISIS leaders have. They’re becoming a dime a dozen.”
“Many Kurds are uneducated village people. Superstitions and legends are part of their daily life. Throw in a few million disaffected and disillusioned young men who are ready to follow anyone. Like a rock and roll band, The Sheriff knows how to play the right music. The Kurds want a homeland. The Sheriff is promising to give it to them. And remember, Turkish politics are not all that stable. In fact, few of the countries surrounding the proposed Kurdistan state are stable. None of them needs The Sheriff throwing petrol on the sparks of discontent and turning it into a goddamn forest fire.”
Jeff’s eyes widened.
Reason raised her hands. “Okay, a little over the top, but I think you get the point.”
“And Iraq?” Jeff asked.
“Northern Iraq is a little different. The Kurds are well established. They have a capital and a growing administrative infrastructure. Their own police and military, and the economy is growing. Northern Iraq is the exception. But it is all so fragile. Stability in the Middle East in general cannot be taken for granted. If Iraq ever gets its act together, it might decide it doesn’t want the Kurds owning a big chunk of its country anymore.”
Jeff was thoughtful. The history lesson was helpful and informative. But something was not right. His suspicions put him on to alert mode.
“You know a lot about The Sheriff, Reason. The detail and observations you’ve just made needed digging up. I’ve worked intel in the SAS. It takes time. I don’t think the Turkish police sat round a table with you over the last few hours and filled you in on the history of Kurdistan, the PKK and The Sheriff. What’s going on here? How come you know so much, and why?”
“Let’s just say I have been following The Sheriff and his activities for some months. I am in Turkey because my investigations involving The Sheriff brought me to Istanbul. I was to interview him in a few days, but he escaped.”
Jeff, both elbows on the table, put his hands together, his fingers forming a steeple. He rested his chin on the steeple top.
