Stephen Leather - The Hunting

‘Are you okay, Mr Van der Sandt?’ asked Falkner.

Van der Sandt shook his head but didn’t say anything. He took out his mobile phone and called his wife. It went straight through to voicemail. All his children had phones and he called them one by one. First Lucy, then Sophie, and then Karl. All three went through to voicemail.

He looked back at the television. A terrorism expert was being interviewed by an anchorman. The expert was an American in his fifties, grey-haired and peering through horn-rimmed spectacles. He was explaining that the attack was an example of ISIS changing its tactics now that it had been virtually defeated militarily. The terrorist group was now attacking westerners, and in particular Christians, around the world. There was now nowhere that could be considered safe.

The headline at the bottom of the page now read: ‘ISIS ATTACK IN NORTHERN CYPRUS KILLS 118 HOLIDAYMAKERS’.

‘Mr Van der Sandt?’ said Falkner.

Van der Sandt held up a hand. ‘My family are at that hotel,’ he said quietly.

‘Oh my God,’ said Falkner. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Van der Sandt’s private jet was at Francistown International Airport, some sixty kilometres from the game farm. The two pilots and the flight attendant were in a hotel in the city. He phoned Toni Cooke, the senior of the pilots, and told her that they needed to leave within the next couple of hours. ‘Where to, Mr Van der Sandt?’

‘Cyprus,’ he said.

‘Are we collecting your family?’

Van der Sandt ended the call without answering her question.

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ asked Falkner.

Van der Sandt shook his head. ‘Just get me a car to the airport.’

‘I’ll arrange that now,’ said the guide. ‘I’ll get the trophies prepared and we’ll store them until you’re ready to take delivery. Don’t worry about the payments, we’ll sort everything out down the line.’

Van der Sandt stood up and drained his glass. He turned to leave but then waved at the barman. ‘Maybe one for the road,’ he said. ‘Fuck it, make it a double.’

CHAPTER 5

By the time Van der Sandt’s Gulfstream jet had landed at Ercan International Airport in Northern Cyprus, the local police had confirmed the death toll at one hundred and twenty-six. Van der Sandt had received the devastating phone call, confirming his worst fears about his family, just before he had boarded the plane. They taxied to the general aviation terminal and Van der Sandt waited on board until an immigration official arrived. He was accompanied by Rauf Konuk, who ran a security company in Nicosia, about fifteen kilometres from the airport. Konuk was a former cop who had moved into the private sector a decade earlier. He was in his early fifties, broad-shouldered and shaven-headed, and he was wearing a Hugo Boss suit and a gold Cartier watch. Konuk’s company was partly cerebral – running due diligence for companies doing business in Cyprus and Turkey – and partly physical, offering close protection services for visiting VIPs. The corporate intelligence part of the business meant that he had a network of agents around the world supplying him with information, and on some issues he was better informed than many government leaders. Van der Sandt had invested several million dollars in Northern Cyprus and Konuk’s intelligence had been invaluable.

Konuk stayed at the door to the plane while the immigration official dealt with Van der Sandt’s passport and the passports of his flight crew. As the official left, Konuk slipped him a brown envelope which quickly disappeared inside the man’s jacket.

Konuk approached Van der Sandt and forced a nervous smile. ‘I am so sorry for your loss, Mr Van der Sandt,’ he said. ‘Your wife was a lovely lady, and your children …’ He shook his head. ‘I am so, so, sorry.’

‘Thank you, Rauf,’ said Van der Sandt. He held out his hand and Konuk shook it, but Konuk’s grip had no strength to it.

‘I hold myself responsible,’ said Konuk. ‘I should have had men with them, I should have taken better care of your family.’

Van der Sandt held up his hand to silence the man. ‘Rauf, no, stop right there,’ he said. ‘My wife insisted that there be no security with her or the children at the resort. She was adamant about that. Your brief was to collect them from the plane and deliver them to the resort, and that you did. None of this is on you.’

‘But if my men had been there …’ He looked down at the floor.

‘There’s nothing to be gained from “ifs” or “buts”. What happened, happened. We have to deal with that. My wife said that the resort was the safest place on the island, and I agreed with her. It was our decision, hers and mine, so I’ll hear no more of this.’

Konuk nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

Van der Sandt patted the man on the shoulder. ‘Can you take me to my family?’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Konuk.

He stepped aside to allow Van der Sandt to leave first and followed him down the steps. There was a white Mercedes with tinted windows waiting next to the plane, and the driver opened the rear door as Van der Sandt and Konuk approached. They climbed into the back.

‘So what happened at the resort?’ asked Van der Sandt as they drove out of the airport.

Konuk explained what had happened, his voice a dull monotone. Eight terrorists had arrived on jet skis from a small village around the coast. The police had found the hotel they were using as their base but that had not yet been released to the media. There was CCTV at the hotel and that was being studied. Almost all the dead were tourists; the terrorists had gone out of their way to avoid killing hotel employees or locals. Having killed almost everyone on the beach they had moved into the hotel. A dozen died in the lobby, and then the killers made their way up the stairs to the first floor and then the second. The attack only seemed to come to an end when the terrorists began to run low on ammunition. They carried spare magazines in backpacks and kept reloading. By the time they were running back to the beach, the floors of the hotel were littered with thousands of empty casings and dozens of empty magazines. The men had rushed over to their jet skis and headed out to sea. By the time the first police arrived on the scene, the jet skis were long gone. When Konuk had finished he smiled apologetically as if it was somehow all his fault.

‘How far is the nearest police station from the resort?’

‘Ten minutes’ drive.’

‘Do you know why it took them so long to get there?’

Konuk shrugged. ‘The police in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus are not the world’s most efficient.’

‘Even so – with reports of a mass shooting, you’d expect a faster response.’

‘I shall ask around,’ said Konuk.

‘What will happen investigation-wise?’

‘A team from the Directorate General for Police in Nicosia will be handling the enquiries, but this is not a crime to be solved, Mr Van der Sandt. ISIS have already admitted responsibility. The perpetrators will already be in Turkey or Syria. The police will probably identify them from the CCTV, but what then? The killers will be back in the ISIS fold, they will be unreachable.’

Van der Sandt sighed.

‘The police role will be to identify the dead and injured and to produce a report on what happened,’ continued Konuk. ‘Yes, they will carry out a forensic examination of the scene but that will be for the sake of appearances.’

‘The authorities won’t do anything?’

‘Mr Van der Sandt, there is nothing they can do,’ said Konuk. ‘The police here have no authority in Turkey or Syria. And because Northern Cyprus is not recognised by any other country other than Turkey, they do not have access to the resources of Europol or Interpol. We can expect strong statements condemning the attacks, and I have no doubt they will release names and nationalities once they have them, but they won’t be taking any action.’