Laurence O’Bryan - The Istanbul Puzzle

The Istanbul Puzzle

Laurence O’Bryan

Copyright

Avon

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2011

Copyright © Laurence O’Bryan 2011

Laurence O’Bryan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847562883

Ebook Edition © August 2013 ISBN: 9780007453269

Version: 2018-07-23

Dedication Dedication Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Epilogue A day in old Istanbul Acknowledgements About the Author About the Publisher

‘We may our ends, by our beginnings know.’

JOHN DENHAM, 1615–69

Contents

Title Page The Istanbul Puzzle Laurence O’Bryan

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Epilogue

A day in old Istanbul

Acknowledgements

About the Author

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Chapter 1

Icy sweat streamed from Alek’s pores. He’d been optimistic. Way too optimistic. Kidnapping in the Islamic world was almost always a form of extortion – so he’d been told. But the appearance of the knife, big enough to gut a bear, had changed everything.

He shook his head in disbelief. Only an hour ago he’d been happy in his hotel room, a place that was now as unreachable as a childhood dream.

His heart banged against his ribs as if it wanted out. He looked around. Was there someone else in the pillared hall he could appeal to?

The bead like eye of the video camera blinked on. Alek’s arms and legs jerked, straining at the orange nylon rope binding him to the smooth pillar. Musty air filled his nostrils. He was trembling, as if he had a fever.

When the two men had entered his room, he’d gone with them quietly. How stupid he’d been. Why hadn’t he shouted, roared, jumped for the window? He’d seen the look in this bastard’s eyes, as hard as stone. Now it was too late.

‘Let me go,’ he screamed.

His voice echoed. A hand held his shoulder. He threw his head from side to side, straining his neck. The rope around his ankles, knees and chest held him tight. His pulse thumped against it.

The knife glistened in the air like falling water. Only the prayer his mother had taught him could help him now.

Agios o Theos, agios ischyros, agios athanatos, eleison imas!

Holy God, Holy and Mighty, Holy and Immortal, have mercy on us!

He closed his eyes. Iciness hit his neck. Then a hot torrent fell on his chest. Warmth gushed down his legs, soaking him. A foul smell rose around him.

An eerie calm descended.

He looked around the ancient hall, taking in its forest like rows of pillars. The entrance he’d found must have been sealed up over five hundred years ago, before the ancient city of Constantinople above him fell to a Muslim army and its name was changed to Istanbul. There were treasures down here any museum director in the world would beg for. But he wished he’d never found the place.

He stared at the aluminium tables nearby. What he’d seen on those tables had terrified him.

A black mist rushed towards him. Would Sean find out what had happened?

Agios o Theos, agios …

A minute later the two fountains of blood, two foot high at their peak, from the left and right arteries emerging from Alek’s chest, bubbled like cooling coffee percolators. The flesh around them shone with a silky gleam. But Alek’s eyes were closed and his face was peaceful.

Chapter 2

Glass fell into the street. The four-storey frontage of the new American electronics store was collapsing. An animal rumble passed under me. Alarms sprang to life in a chorus.

I’d been on my way home. It was a Friday night in August. London was hot, sticky. I’d been crossing Oxford Street when I stopped, mid step.

Coming towards me, that glass behind them, was a mass of fists, hooded faces, rage. Every muscle tightened inside me. Was the city going up in flames again?

I saw an entrance to a brick-lined alley, broke into a jog. A girl with a pink afro, white stilettos and a lime green tube top was standing in the middle of the street, her mouth open, her arms at her side. I veered towards her.

‘Come on,’ I shouted.

She looked at me as if I was a ghost, but came with me. I didn’t have to turn my head to know the mob was almost on us. We barely made it. We turned together and watched them pass. For one frozen moment I thought they might turn on us, that I’d have to defend my new friend. But they moved on, chanting a drum-beat rhythm of slogans I could barely understand. That’s a sound I’ll never forget. Because this lot weren’t just looting. These bastards had found a cause.