E.V. Seymour - The Mephisto Threat

They were in a vault. Light was limited, the air filled with ancient dirt. Tallis covered his mouth, trying not to breathe in the choking atmosphere, but what he could see through narrowed eyes was quite beautiful in its design. Gazing at the most exquisitely engraved columns of stone, he remembered that for a century, after the Ottoman conquest, the victors had known nothing of the original cistern’s existence. Perhaps this was a part of the old structure. Sound for thousands of years, would it hold up in the wake of an onslaught by Mother Nature? As if she’d heard and wished to remind them of her power, another tremor shook the ground. Tallis and the others stood stock-still, breath held, listening in terror as the walls around them crunched and crackled. Without warning, there was a terrible noise of tearing metal followed by the far worse sound of men screaming and falling to their deaths. As Tallis glanced behind him, he saw that the stairs, the only route to freedom, were gone.

They were moving urgently forwards again. Ahead, an archway and the entrance to a stone staircase like those seen in ancient castles. It led up. Koroglu had stepped aside as if counting his men in. Tallis fell in behind Hikmet, adjusted the cap he’d stolen so that it fell down a little more over his face and shuffled forwards. In line with Koroglu, near enough to smell his breath, the earth shook once more. Hikmet and the others threw themselves forwards, surging ahead, bounding up the stone steps as if it were their last snatch at freedom. Tallis followed. He didn’t look back to see whether Koroglu had joined the flight. Up and up, they went, until at last, dizzy and disorientated, they were disgorged into a stinking alleyway.

Tallis took a deep breath of dusty air, thinking it had never felt so good. Looking up to a sulphurous-looking sun, he estimated it was roughly around five-thirty in the morning, maybe earlier. He’d never seen the city look so busy at that time before. Everywhere were people out of their homes and shops, staring nervously at the sky, as if it, too, were about to fall in on them. He guessed men had been doing the same since time began. You didn’t have to be religious to require an explanation for a sudden act of God. Bang on cue, he heard the haunting call of the clerics to the faithful, encouraging the devout to attend the first of the prayer times as laid out in the Koran. Not all Turkish Muslims were quite so dutiful, but Tallis reckoned today the mosques would be full.

He turned at the sudden sight of a man wandering past, the shirt torn from off his back exposing burns to his skin. Tallis didn’t know if he was a local resident or one of the prisoners. Glancing furtively around him, he saw Koroglu striding away. Probably heading for the American embassy, or a safe house. Tallis didn’t care. He had no intention of following him. Hikmet turned and thanked him.

‘For what?’ Tallis said, perplexed.

‘For witnessing my brother’s passing.’

Tallis hung his head, feeling terribly ashamed. Didn’t Hikmet realise that he was wearing the clothes of the dead? ‘I’m truly sorry,’ was all he could manage.

‘I must go and find my family,’ Hikmet said simply.

Both men hugged each other as strangers did when thrown together in extraordinary times. Tallis wished him well.

While others also went in search of loved ones, Tallis set about finding his way onto a street he could recognise. Quick examination of his pockets yielded Rezul’s wallet. Tallis opened it. Inside he found an ID card, a photograph of Rezul’s girl and money. He was tempted to run after Hikmet, but it would be too dangerous to explain. Besides, he needed the loot.

At last, he found himself walking down a main thoroughfare, heading towards Sirkeci station. Most buildings there looked unaffected. Those that had collapsed had been of inferior build and situated in narrow alleys. As usual the poor and less well off copped for it. Many were standing around, some blank-faced. Others, more sanguine, sat outside in the open, drinking coffee. Word on the street was that an even bigger quake was on its way. A police car crawled slowly past, an officer hanging out of the passenger side with a loudhailer to his mouth, instructing people in both Turkish and English to head for an open area. Many were heading for Gulhane Park. Tallis didn’t join them. He’d learnt his lesson. Never revisit the scene of a crime. In fact, he knew exactly where he was destined. And it wasn’t the station. He only hoped that Kerim would be there.

THERE were no more tremors. By six-thirty, Tallis had bathed, bought shorts and shirt, dumped the guard’s uniform and purchased a rucksack. Two days of not shaving ensured a growth of stubble. The swelling around his mouth had gone down a little. Any visible wounds he could blame on the quake. At least it made him look less recognisable.

He’d already been to the ferry terminal at Eminonu. Kerim’s boat was there but of Kerim there was no sign. Tallis was not unduly worried. Yet. His flight from the airport didn’t leave until 2.35 p.m. By then, he hoped that air travel would be operating normally, though he realised there might be congestion and long delays because of the ground conditions. He was also acutely aware that once Koroglu had recovered his equilibrium, he’d be issuing strict orders for his arrest. Tallis smiled. Koroglu would be looking for David Miller. He’d also be searching the flight manifests for passengers heading for Britain, not Spain.

Tallis took advantage of the Turk’s natural inclination to make the most of every commercial opportunity. Enterprising young men selling cans of Coke and bottled water, stuffed vegetables, mezes and Turkish bread were milling about, doing their bit to feed the city in its hour of need. Tallis paid top dollar. Worth every luscious mouthful, he thought. It had been over twenty-four hours since he’d last eaten.

An hour later, he’d bought enough convincing clutter to stuff in his rucksack to trick the most astute customs officer. Half an hour after that, Tallis’s patience was rewarded. Kerim, his podgy frame distinct amongst the crowds, went over to his boat and jumped aboard. Tallis jumped in after him. At first Kerim’s face expressed alarm, but as his mind made the connections he broke into a beaming smile. ‘Friend,’ he said, clapping Tallis on the back. ‘You come. You are safe. Praise Allah!’

Good, Tallis thought, Kerim wants his money. ‘And you,’ Tallis said, reciprocating with a hearty slap that made Kerim cough, ‘your family is also safe, all those children?’

‘Indeed. All is good. Very good,’ Kerim said expectantly, drawing the small parcel from the pocket of his trousers. ‘I brought as you said. I bring every day in case you come.’

‘Good man,’ Tallis said, taking the package and opening it. Inside was the Turkish equivalent of five hundred pounds in sterling. He gave two hundred to Kerim, keeping the rest for extra expenditure. Of more interest was the passport he’d secreted inside. It belonged to none other than Paul Tallis.

Using up the bulk of Rezul’s money, he took an expensive cab ride to Ataturk Airport. Spacious and modern, the arrivals hall was crawling with people. There he made his way straight to the international terminal. He went to the desk for reserved tickets, showed his passport. After brief enquiry, he discovered that his KLM flight was delayed, predicted to leave at 4.30 p.m. Tallis tried not to look too disconsolate. With a stopover, he wouldn’t arrive until 2.30 a.m. Pocketing his economy-class airline ticket, he glanced at the clock in the airport lounge. He had almost four hours to kill.

He spent the intervening time trying to stay out of trouble. He bought a stash of magazines and newspapers, including the Turkish News , and topped up his calories. Whenever he saw a police officer, he resisted the temptation to either turn away or run. Instead, he tuned out, acted the part of tourist, just another traveller bumming his way round the Med.