E.V. Seymour - The Mephisto Threat

Any of the above usually involved obscene heaps of money, sometimes armaments, often the granting of power and influence. Poor old Turkey had been stonewalled by the Europeans for so long, why be surprised if they looked to America to win them some grace and favour? That the Americans used their considerable funds to oil the wheels of various intelligence services throughout the world, Pakistan being one of them, was common knowledge. Like Pakistan, Turkey was also open season to religious fundamentalism. Lately, the political situation had grown considerably worse.

He let out a knackered sigh. And where did all this leave him, apart from being stuck in this rodent-infested gulag? They, whoever they were, obviously thought he was someone he wasn’t, which was true, but not the someone they thought he was. He very much doubted his cover was shot. If so, they’d have come out and said so. What worried him far more was their mistaken intelligence about his connection to the dead Moroccan. They clearly didn’t think he’d killed him. If the bloke had been that serious a threat, and they suspected him of being involved in his death, why not treat him like an ordinary criminal, or even someone who’d done them a favour? No, they had him down for an associate.

He rolled over, tried to get comfortable, finding it virtually impossible. The skin on his back felt sandpapered from being dragged unceremoniously along the concrete floor. Escape seemed less possible now. His only hope was that when they took him away to do God knew what, he’d be presented with another opportunity. He wasn’t overly optimistic. In the absence of having any better ideas, he decided to try and sleep.

Napier, Morello, Ertas, Koroglu, all puppets and players in his dreams, clamoured for his attention, each morphing into another in such a cacophony of sound and vision he wasn’t sure whether his waking thoughts were part of his subconscious or the here and now. Gingerly opening one eye, he swore the walls were shaking. A deep rumbling sound appeared to be coming from the centre of the earth. He sat bolt upright. The light above his head flashed, jittered and cut out. Then followed a thunderous noise, which shook the entire cell, followed by popping, not like gunfire, but as if the planet was splitting. Tallis threw himself under the bed. The rats had the same idea. The walls were really shaking now, the earth shuddering. Lights flashed back on, as if a generator was kicking in. Before his eyes he could see the floor near the makeshift latrine begin to lift and tear, then open.

The cell resembled a house of moving floors like he’d seen at a fairground when he’d been a kid.

No doubt about it, this was an earthquake. Gripping the side of the stone plinth, he hung on, determined not to be lost to Mother Earth, his greatest fear being buried alive. Nothing felt fixed and what little there was in the cell was moving. Everything that had seemed quiet was dancing with noise. Shouts and screams rent the air. Tallis rolled himself into a ball, mute, every sinew in his body tensed for action. When the wall nearest the door started to yaw, crumble and disintegrate, he seized the opportunity and lunged through the gap.

Out into the corridor, Tallis saw a vision of chaos. Two officers were lying on the ground, their heads mashed in by fallen masonry. Tallis checked their pulses. Both dead. Either a bomb had gone off or, as he’d originally suspected, there’d been an earthquake. If the latter, it seemed to have lessened in potency. Aftershocks, however, could prove as powerful and devastating to already weakened structures. He needed to get out. Now. Problem was he knew he wouldn’t escape without a credible disguise.

He turned to the largest of the two dead men, stripped off the man’s uniform, put it on then dragged off socks and boots from the feet of the other dead officer, who looked to be nearer his size, and put those on too. A quick search yielded a cap. Tallis dusted it down on his sleeve and slapped it on his head, pulling it down hard over his eyes, then headed for the remains of the staircase. Badly damaged, there was a yawning gap, revealing a vault three feet wide.

He suddenly realised the significance of the sound of running water. He must be near the Basilica Cistern, a popular and most unusual tourist spot. A vast underground water cistern dating back to 532, the roof held up by three hundred and thirty-six columns, each over eight metres high, only two-thirds of the original structure was visible, the rest bricked up in the nineteenth century, but had it remained so? What if it had been redeveloped? Where better to hide something as sinister as this place than right under the noses of the general public?

Tallis backtracked six steps, took the staircase at a run, leapt high and sure, adrenalin aiding his flight. His next obstacle was the automatic security door, which was shut. Not knowing the code, he banged on it, praying he’d be heard and hoping that in the mayhem protocol would be relaxed. Sure enough, the door drew open, a guard appearing. He was young, probably no more than twenty. He had frightened eyes.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Tallis said in Turkish, touching the young man’s arm in gratitude.

‘No problem. You all right?’

‘Sure, but don’t go back that way,’ Tallis said, gesturing vaguely behind him. ‘It’s completely annihilated. Was it a bomb, or what?’

‘Earthquake,’ the guard confirmed, eyes wet with terror. ‘Rezul came this way. Did you see him?’

‘Cok uzgunum.’ Sorry.

‘You mean?’ The guard’s eyes widened.

‘There’s nothing you can do for him now.’

The young man looked stunned. He looked as if he might breach the gap, investigate for himself. Tallis had to stop him at all costs. ‘What’s it like up there?’ he said, inclining his head, drawing the man’s attention away.

‘It’s bad. Many have been killed. Some of the prisoners have already escaped.’

Good, Tallis thought. ‘Come, we must get out.’

‘But Rezul,’ the guard said plaintively, trying to look past Tallis. ‘My brother.’

Tallis clamped a hand on his shoulder. ‘He has already gone to Allah.’

Tallis quickly discovered that his rescuer’s name was Hikmet. Above was exactly as Hikmet described: death and destruction. As always, the Grim Reaper had made no distinction. Bodies of prisoners and officers alike lay where they’d been crushed. The wounded, most of them beyond help, moaned where they fell. Tallis blocked out the sound of screams and the cries of those alive beneath the rubble.

He fell into step beside Hikmet, two buddies together, as far as anyone who counted was concerned. The guts of the building had been devastated. Structures twisted. Columns shattered. Water poured in. Electrics flashing. Still some tilt and sway with aftershocks. Both of them headed for the remains of a metal staircase, the only way, Hikmet assured him, of reaching safety. But they were not the only ones intent on saving their skins. Prisoners desperate for freedom, some of them armed, were massing in large numbers. As Tallis surged forwards, a fight broke out behind him. He quickened his pace, keen not to get caught up in the brawl, and saw Koroglu up ahead. Barking orders, he was trying to stem the tide of rising panic in the small number of officers at his side. Christ, is that how many survived? Tallis silently asked himself until it dawned on him that, rather than signifying the strength of the quake, the actual number of guards was probably very small, a classic schematic in detention centres. The fewer the people who knew what was going on, the less chance of word getting out.

Thick and dusty air coated his mouth. Shouts and yells bounced off and reverberated around the walls. Tallis could feel the tide of humanity threatening to crush and overwhelm him. It felt as if he was in the middle of a football crowd on the rampage. People were jostling on all sides, desperate to get onto the rickety staircase, which he feared would collapse underneath the volume of men. He and Hikmet leapt on together, steaming up the stairs, brutally punching away those who tried to obstruct them, glad to get to the next level.