E.V. Seymour - The Mephisto Threat

They were heading west along Cami Meydani Sok, running parallel to Galata Bridge before breaking off into the sort of quiet and narrow streets where you might get your throat cut. Tallis could tell from the way the man was walking that he knew full well he was being tailed. He seemed to be moving in no specific direction, crossing, recrossing and doubling back, all classic anti-surveillance tactics. The law of averages dictated that he had the advantage. Single tails always carried a high risk of exposure.

The man suddenly leapt onto a tram. Thinking he might be heading for Sirkeci station, Tallis clambered into the next car after him. Like all trams, it was clean and fully air-conditioned, a triumph of Turkish engineering and the speediest method to get around in a city like Istanbul. Tallis paid the driver and sat down, keeping his eyes pinned, and rearranged his thinking—thinking that was based on many years’ experience of bad guys. He didn’t doubt that the stranger in the tramcar was probably one of them, up to no good, sure, but not necessarily connected to the hit in the café. So he was taking one hell of a risk by reinserting himself at the scene. He’d have been better off lying low. Tallis smiled to himself. So you are involved somehow, somewhere. More obliquely, he wondered whether this man was also the very type of person he’d come to spy on, one of the many faceless Islamic terrorists, the masterminds, the ghosts, those who had no profile on any security service database.

The tram passed the stop for the station and was continuing in the direction of the Celal Sultan Hotel. Either by accident or design, Tallis felt as if he was coming full circle. Had it been light he would have seen more clearly the painted wooden houses lining the street. As it was, he saw nothing but the glint and glow from sitting rooms and lighted cigarettes. Then the motion of the tram began to change. It was slowing. Sixth sense told him that his man would make a move. Tallis held back, watching and waiting for signs of his quarry. Sure enough, he slipped out and darted through a hole in a hedge and into the outer grounds of Topkapi Palace. Tallis followed him, catching his shirt on a wooded thicket. Cursing as he ripped himself free, he discovered he was standing alone in what looked to be an old rose garden. Shaded by overgrown bushes and plants, the place had a neglected air, making it a perfect rendezvous for lovers or thieves. That he was walking into a trap became a distinct possibility. He looked around him, listened. Pale moonlight sifted down through a sky of banked cloud and suppressed heat, lighting his way.

Then he saw him. No more than twenty metres in front, his man was moving at a slow trot along a designated walkway, towards the palace. Time to change the dynamics, Tallis thought. ‘Merhaba!’ Hello , he called out. The man quickened his step, broke into a run. Tallis kicked off the back foot and sprinted after him, ducking and weaving to avoid being lashed in the face by several overhanging branches. Shorter, the man darted with a quick zip of speed, off the main path and across another piece of woodland, feet pounding the uneven ground, but he didn’t have the staying power, something at which Tallis excelled. He called out again, shouted a reassurance, he only wanted to talk. Still the bloke kept running, jinking through the wooded grounds, giving the strong impression that he knew the place well, that he was heading for a rat run. Then, without warning, he ran back onto the main path, across a square, screeching to a halt, and turned, his face and form illuminated by a shaft of light from a tremulous moon. Hand reaching, face cold as antique marble, lips drawn back in a pale snarl.

Tallis made a rapid calculation. The bloke was carrying. And he was prepared to open fire. Automatically, twisting to one side, Tallis drew out the knife, simultaneously flicking it open, just as the tell-tale glint of gunmetal swung and homed in on him.

His attacker stood no chance. Before he’d even got off a shot, he was falling. The blade had flown through the air, sliced into and stuck fast in his throat.

THE man’s death rattle was mercifully short but noisy and terrifying. Tallis glanced around, checking first that he was alone— yes —then searched the body for identification, picking out both a wallet and passport that identified his victim as a Turk by the name of Mehmet Kurt, born in 1977. Next, Tallis looked for a place to conceal the body. He didn’t have great options. All he could do was buy time. Ironically, several metres away lay the Executioner’s Fountain, the place where, long ago, the executioner washed his hands and sword after a public beheading.

Tallis briefly wondered whether he could just ditch the body and run, make the kill look like the bloke was a victim of some assassin with a macabre sense of history. Beyond, there was open ground and the entrance to the Palace. Not a great welcome for the tourists in the morning, Tallis thought, brain spinning like three rows in a fruit machine. That left the Rose Garden, his firm favourite for a shallow grave but too far to cart a body. He gave an urgent glance to his left. There wasn’t much more than a triangle of trees, but it was the best place. The only place.

Dead men were heavy, but Tallis picked the stiff up with relative ease. There was little blood due to the trajectory of the blade—Tallis took care not to disturb or remove it—and though acutely conscious of Lockard’s principle—every contact left a trace—he knew that his DNA was unlikely to be stored on a Turkish database. The British system stood head and shoulders above anything in Europe, which was why fast-track plans to automatically share information were already in place, but that did not include countries bordering the Middle East.

Dumping the body where the trees grew more thickly, Tallis wiped the shaft of the blade. That only left the weapon, which was of professional interest to him. Russian, slim for easy concealment, it was a simple blowback pistol, the PSM, reputed to have remarkable penetrative powers, particularly against body armour. Intended for Russian security forces, it had resurfaced and become available on the black market in Central Europe. Tallis picked it up with a handkerchief and put it next to its owner.

Hugging the side of the path, he retraced his steps back the way he’d come. Once, just once, he felt a shiver of fear that there was someone else in the shadows. He neither stopped, nor looked, but kept on walking. Out onto the street again, he thought about taking a detour to the Cemberlitas Baths near Constantine’s Column. There he could have the equivalent of a steam clean, the best way to rid himself of the odour of death, but it was already fast approaching midnight, the time the baths closed. Adrenalin flooding his nervous system, he strode back the short distance to the hotel.

Back in his room, he ripped off his clothes, threw them into a carrier bag and chucked them into his suitcase. He’d get rid of them in the morning. He showered until his skin stung and put on a clean pair of trousers. After a quick exploration of the mini-bar and coming up empty, he picked up a phone and ordered a bottle of raki, a jug of water, and a pide , a flatbread with salami and cheese. Room service wasn’t part of the package. It was only a three-star hotel. But, in reality, money bought anything.

The food arrived. Tallis offered enough notes to ensure both the porter’s discretion and gratitude. After he’d closed and locked the door, he ate and drank slowly, without pleasure, food and alcohol the best cure for the terrible nausea that followed the taking of a life. While he chewed and drank, his mind brimmed with questions, ranging from burning curiosity about the man he’d killed to how long it would take before the body was discovered. He came to no firm conclusions.