A Deceit to Die For (9 page)

The most interesting discovery had been a metal safe in the wall of the tunnel under the villa. Bekir and company had made tapes, very revealing tapes of politicians, diplomats and even officials within the security directorate. Blackmail material.
Had Bekir used them?
He didn’t know.

The whole thing made Yusuf sick. The white slave trade was rearing its
ugly head again. Human trafficking by the Turkish mafia had stepped up significantly in the last twenty years. The government had worked with international human rights organizations to put an end to it. The trouble was that it always involved local policemen bought off with money, sex or both. Now, a violent group of religious fanatics had decided they wanted a piece of the action. It was undoubtedly a lucrative business, and they needed cash to fund their operations. Young girls for fascist Arabs, filthy rich with oil revenues. It was an easy source of income.

Only three people even knew the tapes existed. One was Murat and the other was his friend Bülent in Istanbul. He couldn’t afford to use them. The political firestorm it would ignite would certainly cost him his job. It wouldn’t matter that he had simply been tracking a known terrorist and happened to stumble upon them. They might not have him fired, but his career would be over. They would transfer him to some hell hole like Sanliurfa and let the remainder of his natural life serve as purgatory for the sin of exposing the emperor without his clothes. No, he would do his best to keep this evidence out of the prosecutor’s hands.

Yusuf had put the tapes under lock and key, but he couldn’t put the images out of his head. A female Lieutenant had conducted the interviews. Yusuf and Murat had watched from behind a one-way mirror hoping for clues to Bekir’s whereabouts. The tales of brutality, humiliation and cruelty made him sick to his stomach. There was one girl in particular that stood out. She was only seventeen, a wispy blonde with bright blue eyes set like windows looking in on a cloudless soul. She had a dignified aquiline nose sprinkled with freckles. You had to look hard though to see this beauty, past the tears, past the fear that had extinguished her smile. She never stopped crying, a broken, violated and dishonored woman.

The Turkish branch of Hizbullah was not a group to be taken lightly. They had sympathizers inside the Turkish intelligence network. Until the ruthless group was crippled by a large-scale operation in 2000, it had engaged in a protracted intimidation campaign against their ideological enemies, the progressives and liberals in the country. They kidnapped key individuals and tortured them for months before killing and burying them in their own backyards. So many bodies had been dug up that their houses were referred to as “grave houses”. Three reporters who had written about connections between the terrorist group and the state had been murdered on the street in broad daylight and the perpetrators were never found.

The idea popped into Yusuf’s mind so suddenly it took him completely by surprise.
Damn it. Why didn’t I see that before?
He picked up the phone and dialed a friend in Foreign Affairs, but was sent straight to voicemail. “Hakan, this is Yusuf from Counter-Terrorism. Look, when you get a chance, I’d love some detailed reports about the skin-head attacks on Turks in Cologne and Berlin six weeks ago. We have an important development that I think may be connected. Thanks.”

Could Bekir be planning retaliation for the attacks on Turkish communities in Europe?
His gut told him it was a possibility and it seemed reasonable enough given the history of the organization. The attacks by Neo-Nazis had been headline news in Turkey for two weeks straight. Several apartment buildings inhabited by Turks had been set ablaze in the wee hours of the morning in Berlin and Cologne. Over thirty Turks had lost their lives and another seventy-five had been seriously burned. Swastikas and racist epithets had been written on cars in the parking lot. The Turkish government viewed it as a sign of rising xenophobia and an attempt to sabotage Turkey’s bid for EU membership. Needless to say, relations between the governments were extremely tense. High-level diplomats in Germany had spent the last weeks bending over backward to assure Turkey that this was an isolated incident and promising to bring the perpetrators to justice. Turkish diplomats were publically angry while in private, they discussed how to best use the incident to pressure Europe into speeding up membership negotiations.

The Turkish Prime Minister had spent years complaining that the EU was a Christian club. His intent was clear. He wanted to make any rejection of Turkey look like it was religiously and racially motivated. It was psychological propaganda at its finest, a direct strike at the multi-cultural solar plexus of Europe. The continent, which had been plagued by war and intolerance for centuries, was desperately trying to atone for its witch hunts, its religious wars, the Inquisition, and the Holocaust. In spite of this, the Serbian ethnic cleansing of Bosnian Muslims had put yet another stain on Europe’s image. It was only stopped by NATO intervention prompted by the US. It had been a grim reminder to the citizens of Europe and the rest of the world that tolerance was a fragile thing. It only served to strengthen European resolve to achieve its multicultural dream, regardless of the cost, and this helped Turkey tremendously.

Yusuf’s cell phone vibrated on the table.

“Hello.”

“Yusuf, this is Hakan.”

“Hakan, thanks for returning my call. How are Derya and the kids?”

“They are all fine. What’s up?”

Yusuf dove right in. “I’m trying to work out something and have a theory. Yesterday, Bekir Kaya managed to give us the slip in Akçakoca. I am sick over it. We were so close to capturing him.”

“Kaya? You have to be kidding me? I thought it had been years since we had a lead on the guy.”

Yusuf sighed, “We think he has spent most of that time in Egypt and Yemen rallying support and in Chechnya fighting the Russian occupation.”

“So, why would he risk coming back to this country?”

“I’m not sure. We think he boarded a ship on the Black Sea. There were sixteen vessels within one hundred miles of Akçakoca in the 24-hour period before we raided the place he was staying. There was no way for us to effectively track every one of them.”

“And what does this have to do with the attacks on our people in Germany?”

“You know how these religious nuts oppose Turkey’s membership in the EU.”

It was Hakan’s turn to sigh. “Well not all of them, but the more mentally handicapped ones do for sure.”

Yusuf understood the code all too well. There were plenty of devout Muslims who felt like membership in the European Union was the best way to reach that continent with their message, as it provided unrestricted flow of not only ideas, Europe had always been open to those, but also of people, most notably Muslim missionaries.

“The only thing those dimwits don’t oppose,” continued Hakan, “is a return to seventh century Arab culture and a perpetual jihad. In their mind, Western society is a corrupting influence and we would be better off without the “inventions of the infidel,” although I have yet to see one go without TVs and telephones. Nor, do they have a problem using American rocket launchers and surface to air missiles.”

“Well, the timing of Bekir’s arrival in Turkey and his boarding a ship in the Black Sea make me wonder if there could be a connection with what happened in Germany. Maybe he is planning a terrorist attack as a reprisal. It would certainly lead to a deterioration of relations and heightened tension. It might even inspire some of the more radical Turks and Muslims in Europe to conduct copycat attacks. It could spiral out of control very quickly.”

“And it would put the brakes on what they view as an unholy alliance or at least slow down the process of negotiating Turkey’s membership in the EU. Bekir would jump at the chance. Besides, revenge would certainly win them support here at home in some circles.”

Hakan’s stopped for a moment and then said, “How can I help?”

“Well, I know that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is heading up both the investigation and the diplomatic efforts related to the attacks in Europe. A copy of the files would at least give me a starting place.”

“Easy enough. Anything else?”

“Bekir is already being sought on a red notice. I think we should post an additional green notice now too. All of the countries on the Black Sea must be put on the alert through official diplomatic channels. I’m finishing up my report today. It will be on your desk in the morning and you can use that as a basis for any recommendation you want to make to the Minister.”

“That is a pretty bold step. I’m not sure the Minister will agree, but I will look at the report.”

“Look, I know there is a fair amount of conjecture here and this could be put down to coincidence, but, in my line of work, assuming coincidence can get you killed. My job is to prove coincidence, not assume it.”

“I understand, but I may need more than this.”

“Give me some time. Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes.”

“If we could keep a really tight lid on this I would appreciate it. We all know that Hizbullah had people on the inside before we made the big bust in 2000. There may still be sympathizers in intelligence. Plus, underneath the brothel he was using as a safe-house, we recovered video of various officials in what you might call compromising positions. We don’t know if they have been blackmailed and are working with Hizbullah, but we still have to be extra careful.”

“I understand.”

“Then, you’ll understand why you must forget what I just said.”

Hakan understood. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, absolutely deadpan. “The only person I will talk to is the Minister. If he agrees with your plan, though, there will be a lot more people involved.”

Yusuf had already checked and at least this Minister was not on any of the tapes.

“That’s fine, but we need to keep this circle small.”

“I agree, and he will too.”

“Give my greetings and love to your family and my apologies for the weekend interruption.”

“No problem, we’ll talk soon.”

CHAPTER 6

M
ONDAY,
L
ONDON
  
Zeki reached for his cell phone in the dark to turn off the alarm. It hadn’t gone off yet and wouldn’t for another ninety seconds. He wondered why he even bothered to set it anymore. He had spent years in intelligence and had many deeply ingrained habits to show for it. One of these was the ability to allow himself only a certain amount of sleep. Still, he was a cautious man and knew that even when finely tuned, the brain was capable of a lapse, so he dutifully set his alarm any time he was traveling abroad. There was no muezzin to sound the call to prayer here in London, at least not one he would be able to hear from his hotel room, though that was likely to change soon enough. The first day of the conference was going to be busy, but he put all thoughts about his work out of his mind and turned his attention to his morning prayers.

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Ian was walking in what could only be described as Never Never land. A late summer sun shone brightly on grass of emerald green and the desire of his heart ran towards him with arms outstretched. How long had it been since he had seen her looking so fresh and pretty? Patricia’s blue eyes fairly sparkled, accented by the string of pearls that hung around her neck. Her strawberry blonde hair was bouncing on her shoulders with every step. Something told him the white dress was special and he was irritated that he couldn’t place it. He stretched out his arms to receive her when suddenly he saw only grayness, and the clanging sound of a telephone jolted him into a different state of consciousness. The real world. A world without Patricia. As his brain attempted to switch gears and bring him out of the REM-induced stupor, he groped for the wretched thief that had snatched this precious moment away from him. It was not every night he got a visitation from Patricia, but he whispered a silent prayer for one every time his head hit the pillow.

“Good morning.”