The Mephisto Threat. E.V. Seymour
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.
7
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.
At the earliest opportunity, he went to the check-in counter, joining the queue displaying the hand luggage sign. It was extremely busy. When it came to Tallis’s turn, the looks were stony, but he was cleared and given the appropriate accreditation.
Approaching 3.30 p.m., Tallis found himself anxiously watching the terminal’s clock. Still his flight had not been called. A curdled feeling slopped about in the pit of his stomach. What if Koroglu turned up? What if he arrived with a bevy of armed police? What if CIA operatives stalking the airport already had him staked out and in their cross-hairs? What if…?
There was some disturbance down the far end of the lounge. Several armed police officers were on the move. They were making for the departure lounge for British Airways flights. Oh, Jesus, Tallis thought. Koroglu was striding along behind them. Then came an announcement:
‘KLM, flight number 082, originally due to depart at 14.35 hours and departing now at 16.30 hours, will be leaving from terminal…’
Tallis was on his feet, jaw grinding, walking with as controlled a step as he could. He handed his passport and ticket over to a young Dutch woman with milk-white skin and almond-green eyes. He met her steady gaze with a relaxed smile and watched her cheeks flush pale pink. She handed back his belongings. ‘Have a safe journey, Mr Tallis.’ She smiled back.
Amen to that, he thought.
He wasn’t happy until the plane had taken off. Even then he spent the first couple of hours fretting. Only when they finally touched down at Madrid did he start to breathe easily.
The next flight to London left at 7.10 via Iberian Airways. The ticket desk was closed. Already well past midnight, he decided to sit it out at the airport. By the time the desk was open, the flight had already left. Pissed off and exhausted, he eventually caught a flight that arrived at Heathrow, terminal 2, shortly after three in the afternoon. He fully expected to be stopped and searched at Customs, but was waved through, mainly, he suspected, because it was choking with people as a result of delayed flights, understaffing and a lack of screening machines. From Heathrow, he took the tube to Kensington and booked into the Kensington Close Hotel, where he was escorted immediately to the room already allocated to him. Inside, he found a wardrobe of clothes his size. He also found the safe. Entering the code, the door clicked open, yielding one thousand pounds in used notes and a mobile phone. Tallis pocketed the money and punched in the number given to him by Asim. He waited while the call was routed. Asim answered straight away.
‘Paul,’ he said, warmth in his voice. ‘How are you?’
‘Apart from surviving an earthquake, having a gun pulled on me by an a-Q operative and escaping from the clutches of some CIA bastard who took a fancy to my balls, I’m good, thanks.’
8
WHEN Tallis finished, Asim said, ‘Welcome to the club.’
Tallis pointed out dryly that he wasn’t part of anyone’s club.
‘Is that the reason you didn’t reveal your true ID?’
‘What is this? Phone a friend?’ More to the point, whom should he have called? Tallis wondered. As far as MI5 were concerned, he wasn’t officially working for them. He was, without doubt, one of many freelancers, paid for his expertise,