E.V. Seymour - The Mephisto Threat

‘So, Mr Miller,’ Ertas said. ‘Would you like to explain exactly what you were doing?’

‘All right,’ Tallis said with a heavy sigh. ‘I admit I followed him. I recognised him from when I was in the café with Mr Morello.’

‘Our Moroccan friend was at the Byzantium?’ Something in Ertas’s expression led Tallis to believe that he already knew the answer to the question.

‘Yes.’

‘Then why didn’t you mention this when we spoke at the station? Why was this not in your statement?’

‘Because I didn’t think it relevant.’

‘But you thought it relevant later.’ There was a cynical note in Ertas’s tone.

‘No, you don’t understand.’ Tallis allowed his voice to notch up a register to simulate frustration. ‘It was only because I saw the guy there in the evening.’

‘When you went back to the café,’ Ertas said, scratching his head.

‘Foolish, I know, but I was hoping to find something important that might help with your inquiry.’

Ertas flashed another tight, disbelieving smile. ‘And then what?’

‘I followed him.’

‘Where?’

‘To the gardens at Topkapi. Then I lost him.’

Ertas glanced up at Koroglu. ‘Ask him what he was planning to do,’ Koroglu ordered in Turkish. Ertas nodded. Obedient, he put the question.

‘I don’t know.’ Tallis shrugged. ‘Talk.’

‘To a stranger, in the middle of the night, in a foreign land? Wasn’t that reckless of you?’

‘I suppose it was. I wasn’t thinking.’ But he was now; he was thinking that the guy standing behind him wasn’t what he seemed at all. He’d assumed Ertas was calling the shots. He was wrong.

‘Did you know he was armed?’ Ertas said, watching Tallis like a crow observed carrion.

‘Certainly not.’

Koroglu spoke again. ‘Tell him that we know he intended to meet the Moroccan. Tell him that he had already contacted him in Britain. Stress that he has already lied and to lie further will only make things worse.’

Tallis did his best not to jump in, to shout and protest his innocence. Ertas, meanwhile, cleared his throat and repeated word for word what Koroglu had said.

‘This is ridiculous. I never met the guy before coming to Turkey. I don’t even know his name.’

‘And your name is?’

Neat move. Tallis didn’t flinch. ‘David Miller. Look, is this a case of mistaken identity or something?’ he said, twisting round. Mistake. Koroglu whipped a ringed hand across his mouth. Tallis registered the distinctive taste of metal and sand as blood dribbled down his chin.

‘Point out that we can keep him here indefinitely if we have to,’ Koroglu said savagely.

Ertas did.

‘I’m a British citizen, for God’s sake. You have no jurisdiction to keep me here.’

‘Tell him to shut up. Ask him about his business interests,’ Koroglu commanded.

Ertas again complied.

‘What? I told you, I’m an IT consultant.’

‘You work from home?’

‘No, I—’

‘Where is home?’

‘Birmingham, West Midlands, UK.’

Ertas glanced up at Koroglu with a significance that made Tallis realise he was sunk.

‘What is your religion, Mr Miller?’ Ertas said, inclining towards him.

‘My religion?’

Koroglu bent over him and with one swift movement grabbed him by the balls.

‘You understand the term?’ Ertas said, scathing.

‘I was brought up a Catholic,’ Tallis gasped, eyes watering. That was true. His Croatian grandmother had insisted on it.

‘And now?’

Once a Catholic, always a Catholic. ‘I’m lapsed,’ Tallis grunted. The pain was searing.

Ertas frowned incomprehensibly. Koroglu explained in Turkish then let Tallis go with a final squeeze of his genitals.

Ertas turned his eyes to Tallis. ‘You have not converted to Islam?’

Jesus, now Tallis knew exactly what they were driving at. After the London bombing of 7/7, many nations, the USA in particular, were critical of Britain for spawning its very own breed of homegrown suicide bombers. Originally termed ‘clean skins’ by the British security services, it had since been revealed that the culprits had already come to the attention of MI5 and were associates of those later convicted of a fertiliser plot that amongst other targets would have had the Bluewater Shopping Centre in Kent blown to smithereens. As much as the British Government was viewed as an important ally, its citizens were regarded with a great deal of suspicion. Tallis had just fallen under that particular cloak of distrust.

‘Look, guys, I already explained. You have this all…’ Tallis shot out of the chair, threw his head back, heard the sickening crunch as it connected with Koroglu then made a grab for Ertas. Knocking the captain to the ground, he made a dive for the door, tore it open and ran.

The level was approximately three hundred metres long with a metal staircase leading down. Tallis ran the full length, took and charged down the steps. Christ knew where he was heading. All he knew was that if he wanted to breathe air again, see the sun, he had to get out. He’d heard too much about places where only the people holding you knew you were there.

The building opened onto another level: gangway to the left; railings on the right. Below was a long row of openbarred cells with men tightly caged together. An alarm sounded, the noise triggering them into action. Immediately, they started shouting abuse, rattling against the bars of their prison, jeering as a group of armed officers speeded past. Tallis kept running, muscles in his legs knotted, bare feet pounding, oblivious to the sound of shouts and clattering feet behind him as he leapt down the next staircase. On hitting the bottom, a guard, younger than the rest, raised his weapon, but Tallis twisted away, the ensuing shot missing him by a whisker.

More men now. More shouts. Tallis zigzagged as much as he could in the confined space, eyes to the front, focused on the end set of doors, wondering how he was going to get through, how to operate the security lock, how…

The doors snapped open. Koroglu stepped out, blackeyed, mean and moody. Didn’t look like a man to bargain with. Tallis put both his hands up in a defensive gesture. ‘All right, let’s be cool about this,’ he said.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Koroglu snarled before delivering a knockout blow.

THE cell in which Tallis surfaced was no improvement on the original. Concussed by the second serious blow to his head in less than twenty-four hours, he still, mercifully, retained a sense of direction. If the previous guest suite was located on the third floor down, he guessed his current quarters were four floors. It stank of human excrement and despair. The single light hanging from the ceiling only further illuminated the hopelessness of his situation. Same old squat hole. Same lack of water. Thin layer of cardboard replaced by a stone plinth for reasons that soon became obvious—his cellmates were a small family of rats. The way his stomach was growling from lack of food, the best thing he could do was kill and eat them. Welcome to the Turkish Hilton, Tallis thought, taking immediate advantage of his new bed.

Resting back, hands tucked behind his head, he replayed Koroglu’s last words. Shut the fuck up! Pure Brooklyn. CIA or FBI, Tallis wondered, or some other covert organisation that the world knew nothing about? He didn’t like to consider the political implications, but he had to. Surely the Americans weren’t conducting their war on terror from the bowels of a Turkish detention centre? He couldn’t envisage the Turkish government allowing it. Yet stranger things had happened. Governments the world over passed off dodgy or ambiguous dealing with regimes not to their taste with phrases like in the national interest, real politic , or the more recently popular in the interests of national security.