E.V. Seymour - The Mephisto Threat

Tallis checked his watch: after noon. Garry was late. He refocused his gaze on the Russian contingent. A popular holiday destination for many Russians, Istanbul was a particular favourite, though Tallis decided from a snatch of overheard conversation that tourism was not uppermost in the Muscovites’ minds. He idly wondered whether these hefty-looking guys with flat, sawn-off features were Mafiya, a breed who favoured no room for error killing—cut throats, crushed lungs and bashed-in skulls. Job done.

‘Paul, good to see you,’ Garry Morello said, slumping down in the chair next to him. A heavyset man with dark features that spoke of Italian blood, he took out a handkerchief and mopped his profusely sweating brow. ‘Christ, this heat is insane.’

Tallis agreed. For the past hour, perspiration had been consistently leaking from his hairline and plastering his short dark hair to his brow.

‘Good holiday?’ Garry said.

‘Most enjoyable.’ After bumping into Garry at Dalaman Airport, he’d travelled by taxi on a blood-pressure-raising journey through the mountains to Fethiye, a working town with a Crusader castle. There he’d treated himself to a Turkish bath, full hot and cold and slapped flesh, and, as a means to build up his cover, joined a gulet , a traditional Turkish wooden sailing vessel. Apart from the four-man crew, there were six others on board—four Brits, two Australians. The destination was Kalkan, originally a fishing village with winding, paved streets, recently transformed into a cosmopolitan marina of sophisticated but unspoilt charm. Apart from swimming and fishing off the boat, he’d spent the first week zombied out in what felt like a narcotic-induced sleep. He guessed it was his body and mind’s way of recovering. He’d experienced something similar after engaging in battle. There was a particular type of lethargy that set in with exhaustion, especially when the fight was so unequal, when your enemy were half-starved boys and old men. But his most recent battle had involved neither guns nor grenades. His battle had been with grief and sorrow. He still felt raw from losing Belle. When it had finally sunk in that he would never see her again, he hadn’t really believed that he’d ever recover.

‘Drink?’ Tallis smiled.

‘Beer, thanks.’

Tallis ordered the locally brewed Efes Pilsen, leant back in his chair, waited for Garry to set the pace. There was a restlessness about him, Tallis thought. The Russians paid their bill and left the table, noisily scraping back the chairs as they went. Tallis briefly wondered if they were the reason Garry had chosen the venue. He inclined his head towards the departing diners. Garry followed his gaze. ‘Mafiya,’ he said neutrally. ‘Wrote a book on the subject last year.’

Yesterday’s news, then, Tallis thought.

The beer arrived. Garry took a long draught then glanced over his shoulder. His expression was uncertain. To help him out, Tallis kept his mouth shut. Most people couldn’t bear silences. Garry was no exception. He craned forward. Tallis wasn’t certain whether it was to block out the din from the neighbouring streets or because he wished to speak in confidence. ‘Know a guy called Kevin Napier?’

‘Not “nearly took out one of his own side” Napier?’ Tallis said dryly.

‘Care to enlighten me?’

‘ If we’re talking about the same guy…’

‘Suspect we are. Napier was a tank commander during the first Gulf War and left to join the police same time as you.’

Tallis pushed his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose. After leaving school at sixteen, he’d joined the army and served with the First Battalion, the Staffordshire Regiment. Eight years later he’d joined West Midlands police.

‘Am I right?’ Garry said.

‘Napier served with the 7th Armoured Brigade.’

Garry flashed him another expectant look.

‘He shot at one of our vehicles by mistake,’ Tallis said, ‘and doused the occupants with machine-gun fire, injuring a couple of British officers.’

‘Not a very smart move.’

‘Proved no obstacle to his career path.’ Tallis shrugged. It had rightly caused an almighty stink at the time, he remembered. The Brits were used to the Americans accidentally firing on them but not one of their own.

‘Did you know he’s with the Serious and Organised Crime Agency?’

Tallis resisted the temptation to react. ‘I’d heard along the grapevine he’d applied.’ So the bastard got in, he thought. Possibly not the smartest move. It was reputed that SOCA, with its high ideal of taking on the Mr Bigs, had fallen rather short of its remit. Experienced officers were leaving in droves either to retire or return to policing. Word on the ground implied SOCA was hamstrung by an unwieldy and top-heavy management system, crammed with analysts, but with no clear brief or expertise in processing data and intelligence. He wondered how Garry knew about Napier. ‘What about him?’

‘I’ll come to that in a moment. Thing is, Birmingham’s your patch, right?’

‘Used to be.’ It was almost two years since he’d worked as a firearms officer. After handing in his notice, he’d temporarily worked as a security guard in a warehouse before being recruited to work off the books for MI5. It hadn’t been one of those ‘apply, endure a host of interviews under the gaze of humourless experts, we’ll get back to you’ type appointments. His was more ‘we want you, we need you, you’ve got the job’ arrangement.

‘But you still know the movers and shakers in the criminal world?’

‘Not exactly up to date.’ This time Tallis had to lean forward. The noise from the street had suddenly grown in intensity and penetrated the thickened atmospherics. Sounded like the Dolphin Police, a rapid response motorcycle unit, but when he glanced round, trying to source the din, he saw a Ducati hacking down the narrow street, zipping in and out, driver and pillion passenger clobbered up in leathers and helmets. They must be cooking, Tallis thought.

‘Reason I ask…’

But Tallis wasn’t listening. He’d turned back. Something was off. Couldn’t quite work it out, but his sixth sense was suddenly on full alert. The air throbbed. Street hawkers continued to ply their wares but the chatter of conversation receded like someone had turned down the volume control. He felt that nip in the pit of his stomach, part fear, almost sexual, like when he’d been going into a firearms incident. Everything that happened next followed in slow motion. The driver ground to a halt, one foot resting on the pavement, bike tilting at an angle, the engine still running and revving. Garry glanced to his right but, unperturbed, continued to talk. Too late, Tallis saw the pillion passenger reach into his jacket. Fuck, too late, he saw the gun, the outer reaches of his mind processing that the weapon was a Walther PPK. Tallis shouted out, and dived for cover as three shots rang out and hit Garry in the chest.

Chaos broke out. Someone shouted. Everyone hit the deck. Tables overturned. Glass and crockery smashed. The British girl was screaming her lungs out, as were several passers-by. Blood was pumping out of Garry’s chest like an open faucet and although Tallis ripped off his shirt and tried to staunch the flow, it was no use, no fucking use at all. Blood. Blood everywhere.

‘Bir ambulans cagrin! Polis cagrin!’ the café owner screamed. Get an ambulance. Call the police.

‘Report,’ Garry rasped, his face fast draining of colour, becoming pale as old snow.

‘Take it easy, mate,’ Tallis said, applying as much pressure as he could to the wound, appalled at the speed with which Garry’s body was going into shock.

‘Report,’ Garry said again, his breath laboured, expression contorted, life-blood filling his mouth and spurting out between his teeth.