The Ottoman Conspiracy, page 9
part #3 of Jeff Bradley Series
“What is your interest in him?”
“That I cannot tell you.”
“Then why tell me any of this at all?”
“I promised I would keep you informed.”
“No, there is something else. I’m nobody. You don’t owe me anything.”
Reason grinned. “Lee Caldwell said that to protect your friends you would bulldoze a mountain. I need you to back off.”
“Why?”
“There are two American women on the bus. You know this already.”
Jeff nodded.
“The US has an embassy in Ankara, and a consul in Istanbul, Stan Greenberg. One of the women is his daughter, and the other her friend visiting from the States. Nice kids. And Stan’s a great guy. Hell, I’ve had dinner with them.”
Jeff pointed his finger steeple at Reason.
“The hijackers have been in communication, haven’t they?”
Reason nodded.
Sulla’s heart missed a beat when he saw Marius talking with two men. He knew the face, but from Bari not Istanbul, and it had confused him at first. But when it clicked where he knew him from, warning bells rang in his head. Why was Marius in Turkey? To finish the job he’d failed to complete at the fish markets was the obvious answer. If Marius looked through the store window he might recognise him. Sulla turned his back and continued to watch the Italian in the mirror on the back wall. Marius pointed at something further along the street. The two men left him and walked on. Marius waited a few minutes then followed without giving the gallery a second glance.
Sulla rushed to the door.
One of the two men had positioned himself behind a car, his arm stretched out across the vehicle’s roof, a gun aimed at the café Jeff had entered. The second man had crossed the street and now made his way to the café door. Gun in hand, but hidden inside his jacket. Further along, Marius stood in a doorway, watching. He had hired himself some local hoods, and Sulla assessed the assassins weren’t professionals. If they were professionals, both men would have entered the café and blasted Jeff to hell. These men didn’t have those kind of balls. One was about to enter the café and shoot at Jeff, the other would give covering fire from behind the car. And from the distance Marius was keeping, it appeared he didn’t have much faith in his gunmen either. Whatever the outcome, he was making sure he didn’t get caught up in it.
Sulla reached into his jacket. He cursed. No gun. He had had to discard it before he crossed the Turkish border.
“The hijackers have been very talkative,” Reason said. “The bus is heading for the Kurdistan, Turkish, Iraqi or Syrian border. Nothing definitive as yet, but I guess their intention is to keep the final destination secret until the last moment. But I’d say the plan is to join up with PKK rebels. They have asked for a clear passage. They have even given the route they will take to enable the Turkish authorities to keep the roads clear. They are taking their time. They will make three overnight stops. Today they are driving to Ankara and then tomorrow to Goreme in the Cappadocia region. And then to Mardin. From Mardin, it is only a few kilometres to a border. Iraq or Syria.”
“And?” Jeff asked.
“They intend to spend the night at each destination. They want food and liquid provided to feed the hostages, and mobile toilets.”
“And?”
“There are explosives planted in the baggage compartments in the front and the rear of the bus. They say any attempt to rescue the passengers and it will be blown. The Sheriff has said he is prepared to martyr himself for the cause. A new leader is waiting in the wings, but he will only be named to the world on The Sheriff’s death. The new leader would have The Sheriff’s blessing and should be treated as if he were The Sheriff. This statement has been circulated to the media.”
Jeff said, “The Sheriff does have a good public relations team. But why all the publicity? Why make so much noise? Why take so much time to get to the border? None of it makes sense. And why go to all this trouble and then blow yourself up?”
Jeff rubbed his forehead. He was missing something. He glanced up. Reason’s eyes were fixed on him. They shifted a touch. He saw the movement. She was hiding something.
Jeff straightened and said, “Why don’t we cut the crap and you tell me what you’re trying to avoid telling me?”
Reason glanced sideways. No one was close. She leaned forward.
“The Turkish government does not want any more conflict in the region. They do not want any more of their police and soldiers killed. It is their belief if The Sheriff is not stopped, many more people will die. They are not only concerned for the safety of their people, but the fragile economy, especially tourism, would be greatly affected. Jeff, there are those in the Turkish government who will never allow that bus to leave Turkey.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The waiter placed two bottles of water on the table. “Anything else?”
“Not right now,” Jeff said.
The waiter produced a cloth to wipe the table. Jeff caught his eye. “Find somewhere else to clean, will you? My friend and I would like some privacy.”
The waiter raised his chin, thrust his cloth into his pocket and limped away like a petulant child. Jeff turned his attention back to Reason.
“Are you serious? Turkey is closing its border,” Jeff said. His raised voice caused heads to turn at nearby tables. He softened his tone. “What if these idiots are serious and The Sheriff really does believe there are seventy virgins waiting for him in heaven?”
Reason shrugged. “When crunch time comes, I don’t know for certain what they will do.”
Jeff nodded, grim-faced.
“I think that pretty much sums up the state of play,” Reason said in a soothing tone.
Jeff sat back in his seat. His facial muscles tightened. His jaw set and eyes narrowed.
“I guess I have to find some way of getting the hostages off that bus myself if I’m to save Barry and Bethany.”
Reason raised an eyebrow. “After what Lee Caldwell told me about you, I expected this response. Jeff, I don’t want this bus blown up any more than you do, but I think right now the best way to stop that from happening is to back off.”
“And if I don’t?”
Reason shrugged.
Jeff was about to ask her what that shrug meant. The limping waiter approached the table, cleaning cloth at the ready. Jeff now regretted leaving him a generous tip on the last visit. He had enough on his mind and didn’t need the intrusion. The waiter was pissing him off. Jeff scowled in the waiter’s direction and drummed his fingers on the table. The waiter ignored Jeff’s attempt at intimidation. Finally, Jeff held his hands up and surrendered. He didn’t see any point in wringing the man’s neck; better to let him get on with it. A white cotton shirtsleeve reached across for Jeff’s cup. The waiter’s head turned to Jeff. A grin. Jeff saw it as a victory smile and it irked him. Annoyed, Jeff drew in a deep breath. He was certain he heard Reason laugh. He almost laughed himself. Bullied by a waiter. What next?
He opened his mouth to say something. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the café door smash against the wall as it was flung open. A figure filled the doorway.
The waiter’s head exploded.
Blood and brain splattered across the front of Jeff’s shirt. The waiter’s body slumped on to the table. It upended. Cups, water bottles and a small bowl holding sugar sachets were flung into the air.
“Get down!” Jeff yelled.
He dived to the floor. More bullets slammed into the wall and ceiling. Powdered plaster trickled down like a dusting of new snow. Reason had thrown herself sideways.
Shots exploded close to Jeff’s ear.
His head spun left. Reason Johanson was shooting back. The street-front window shattered as bullets smashed into the giant pane. Glass flew through the air like diamonds fired from a shotgun.
Jeff looked through the now-glassless window frame. He was flat to the floor and it was impossible to see into the street; a metre-high wall beneath the window framing blocked his view. More bullets buzzed over his head and thudded into the wall behind. The man he had seen in the doorway had disappeared. Had he gone across the street? He didn’t think so. More likely he had a partner.
“There are at least two,” he yelled to Reason.
“No kidding,” she called back.
Other customers screamed. There was the sound of scraping chairs and smashing cups as they scrambled for safety. An elderly couple lay under their table. The man cast a glance in Jeff’s direction. Jeff gestured with his hand like he was patting a child on the head. “Stay down,” Jeff mouthed at the same time. The old man nodded.
Reason had nothing to shoot at. Her visual would be as bad as his. The shots were to let whoever was outside know that she was armed; clever girl. Without the return fire from Reason, right now the gunman or gunmen would have stormed the café to finish the job. An armed defender would force them to hold off and re-plan. Not for long. Jeff figured they had a few minutes. How long before the police arrived? Not soon enough, was Jeff’s best guess. Istanbul traffic was hopeless at the best of times. The police response would be too late.
Jeff crawled across to Reason.
“Have you another one of those?”
She shook her head. “Who have you pissed off, Jeff?”
“Why do you think they’re shooting at me? Why couldn’t they be shooting at you?”
“Call it a gut feeling. Lee Caldwell said someone is always trying to blast your ass off. He warned me not to sit too close.”
Two shots slammed into the upturned table. Splintered wood ricocheted off the top of Jeff’s head. He brushed his hand over his hair, and as a belated thought, checked his fingers for blood. There was none. The shooters were firing blind and couldn’t see their targets any more than he and Reason could see them. Good. He scanned his surroundings. A man behind him held a string of brownish beads in his fingers, praying. A few others scuttled across the floor like crabs and into the kitchen. Did it lead to an alley?
He leaned against Reason’s ear.
“I’m going into the kitchen. I think it might have a rear entrance. If it has, I’ll try to get behind them.”
Reason turned on him, alarmed. “Don’t be foolish. You’re not armed.”
“I’ll find something to use as a weapon. Keep them busy.”
Jeff didn’t wait for Reason to respond. Like the others, he crawled across the floor until he had passed beyond the swing doors.
The kitchen was empty. No cooks and no café patrons. He saw the open rear door. He hesitated. Should he alert Reason? They could both escape. He dismissed it. Whoever was shooting might have the rear covered. At least where she was, and armed, was more secure than what might lie in wait for him beyond the door.
Jeff made his way between the gas cookers to his left and the stainless steel benches and serving shelves to his right. Plates of food sat on the serveries. The gas cookers had been turned off, but a giant skewered lamb doner kebab continued to rotate on its spit; freshly hacked chunks of meat lay in a heaped pile on a stainless steel tray beneath. The aroma of spices filled the space and reminded Jeff he was hungry. He stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth. An array of varying-sized pots hung from hooks next to ladles, large serving spoons and forks. None caught Jeff’s eye as a potential weapon. He saw what he had been looking for on the furthest bench: a chef’s knife. If the chef was true to his craft, it would be honed sharp enough to cut through bone. As Jeff dashed past he picked it up. It had good weight and balance. The blade was not as long as he would have liked, but it was long enough to kill, and that was all he needed.
The door exited into a narrow lane. Directly opposite was a line of tables and chairs with people sat drinking coffee in the shade. The coffee drinkers, alerted and alarmed by the fleeing customers and staff from the café, were watching the door. Confused expressions turned to looks of horror when Jeff made his exit with the knife in his right hand. They remained seated, uncertain, immobile with fear and incredulity, watching on, like an audience in a theatre. Jeff had seen it before in Afghanistan, when the fruit markets had been bombed. In the first instance, passers-by denied to themselves the horror they were witnessing had taken place.
A small crowd had gathered at the end of the lane. None of the spectators had dared to step out into the main street. Instead, some were leaning forward to peer round the corner. Jeff sidestepped a motor scooter and nudged his way through the onlookers. A man standing in front of a trestle table, stacked high with shirts and trousers, saw the knife in Jeff’s hand and stepped back. He yelled something in Turkish, and others turned then backed away. Whatever the man had yelled was good enough for Jeff. No one tried to stop him. He moved past the stall to the corner. Fabric rolls leaning against the wall provided enough of a hide for him to see through a gap into the main street without being seen.
There were two shooters. One hidden behind a silver Toyota sedan. The other was beside a sloping wooden board displaying beads and other trinkets. He was crouched down just a few metres from the café door. Reason would be caught in a crossfire. The shooter behind the car kept her pinned down. Once the second man got close enough he would be through the doorway and have emptied his magazine into her before she ever saw the danger.
The crouching gunman inched forward. The man behind the car was setting himself. At any moment, he would let loose a fusillade of covering fire for his friend. Jeff pulled out his mobile and tapped on the contact number for Reason. She answered.
“It’s Jeff Bradley. Are you okay?”
“Never better.”
“I’m in place. When I say shoot, stick your head up and target the car opposite.”
“Okay,” Reason’s soft voice, almost a whisper, replied.
“Three, two, now . . .”
Jeff dropped his phone into his pocket. Reason opened fire, and he ran from his cover. The sound of gunfire muffled his footsteps, but the man he was stalking must have sensed someone behind him. A hesitant look over his shoulder. His eyes widened with fear when he saw Jeff. He tried to swing his gun arm around, but it was too late. Jeff was upon him. His lips parted, and he screamed as Jeff drove his knife into the assassin’s throat. Before the dying man hit the pavement, Jeff seized the weapon from his hand, and in one motion, dived to the ground swinging the handgun towards the car as he did so.
The top of the shooter’s head could not be seen. This told him Reason’s shooting had forced the assailant to keep down. It would not be for long and Jeff was out in the open. Too easy a target. He crawled into the doorway of the carpet shop next to the trinket board. Two rolls of thick carpet leaned against the wall. An invoice pinned to one; ready for delivery. My lucky day, Jeff mused. Both rolls were almost a half-metre thick. No bullet would penetrate that many tightly wound fibres. He turned the confiscated weapon towards the car shielding the second man and fired. The bullet slammed into the mudguard. He wanted to direct the shooter’s attention away from the café. It worked. Jeff could see Reason had crawled forward and was lying across the doorway, her gun hand outstretched. Her poise impressed him.
A plan developed.
Jeff shouted and waved to get Reason’s attention. She looked his way. He pointed at her, then to his eyes with two fingers before stabbing the fingers towards the car. He aimed his handgun in the car’s direction. Then he pointed at himself, upturned his hand and moved his two fingers to show walking.
Reason gave him a thumbs-up; she understood he wanted covering fire.
Jeff checked the stolen weapon. He recognised it as a Sig-Sauer P250. He had fired one on the range. It looked old and a little worse for wear. He would guess it had been bought on the black market. His concern was how reliable it was. He had fired a shot, but now he needed for it to fire many shots for what he was about to do. The man he had killed had fired shots into the café. It hadn’t jammed. He removed the magazine, had a quick look: 9mm rounds. With his thumb he pushed on the top bullet. It depressed easily enough. Half full, at a guess. The Sig magazine held fifteen rounds. Half a magazine and one in the spout gave him about eight rounds. He would need to make them count. Like a Glock, the Sig had no safety; instead, it had a cocking mechanism. If it wasn’t cocked, it could be thrown on the ground and would not accidentally discharge. Easy to use: just aim and pull the trigger. Jeff dropped his gun hand to his side. He crouched like an athlete ready to run a hundred-metre race.
He still could not see the head of the shooter. His companion dead, he was probably taking stock. The odds were no longer in his favour. Jeff waved at Reason. She began firing at the car. Jeff sprinted towards it. He was reluctant to move too far to the right. If the gunman was still there Jeff would make an easy target. He dived across the bonnet, his weapon aimed at where the man should be, and as he slid off the vehicle on to the pavement he squeezed on the trigger, then released.
The gunman had gone.
Sulla had a clear view of the café. With the front window glass missing he could see inside, but could not see Jeff or the woman. He was not going to accept that an asshole like Marius had got the better of Jeff. Jeff and the woman must be lying on the floor. The sound of shots fired from within the café surprised him. Had Jeff found a weapon from somewhere?
Sulla stepped back into the gallery. Rushing the gunmen without a weapon would be suicidal. Dead, he would be of no use to Jeff; and armed, Jeff could more than hold his own against Marius’s hoods. He shuffled about, weighing his options. As long as Jeff was shooting, he was alive. To help him, he must remain patient and be ready when the opportunity presented itself. The gunman who had fired from the doorway had been forced to take cover from the shots fired from inside. Sulla watched as the killer positioned himself and waved to his companion. Seeking guidance, no doubt. Marius kept his distance. He was not going to get involved. The gunman behind the car gave a thumbs-up. Anytime soon, he would lay down covering fire and the second man would rush to the doorway and shoot into the café.
