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  ‘Your hands,’ he gestured with the gun. He spoke in Arabic, in an accent that Makana could not recognise. Makana held out his hands and from his pocket the man produced a thick white plastic zip tie fashioned in a loop. He slipped the band over Makana’s wrists and pulled it tight enough to make him wince. At least it was his wrists and not his neck. Cause for optimism perhaps. Also his hands were tied in front of him rather than behind.

  Satisfied that Makana was secure, the man sat back. He removed his dark glasses and rubbed a hand over his shaven skull. He resembled a cross between a champion wrestler and the village idiot. Both options offered their own possibilities.

  There were no windows in the sides of the van. Makana tried to work out which direction they were going in from the turns they made and the sounds he could hear. They had returned to the square, he was pretty sure of that. The noise of the traffic, even the cooing of pigeons. A newspaper vendor who had been standing by the taxi rank. The cobblestones under the wheels. Then, with a screech, they turned again and began to accelerate. He tried to pay attention to the noise of the engine and the echo of the streets they drove through. He heard vehicles hooting, drivers protesting, police whistles. They lurched into a busy thoroughfare and began to move more quickly along a fast road. They exited onto a slip road that twisted round on itself and began to slow. Then they were moving uphill, and Makana guessed they were in the narrow streets of Eyüp. More horns, the sound of voices, people brushing against the sides of the car, speaking as they went. The creaking wheel of a pushcart, stallholders calling out offers, music and smells, too. The roasting of meat, the spicy kokoreçi he had tried with Koçak. By now the car was moving at walking pace.

  It took another fifteen minutes before they slowed to a halt. The shaven-headed man leaned forward.

  ‘Don’t try anything,’ he warned, tapping Makana’s shoulder with the barrel of the automatic. He pressed the newspaper into Makana’s hands so that it covered the plastic tie, then slid open the side door.

  It was now almost dark outside. They were parked in a narrow sidestreet lined with low, rundown houses. A row of streetlamps came on at that moment like a string of pearls leading down through the gap between the houses. There were no street signs, nothing to indicate exactly where they were. When they reached the corner Makana looked back through the gap between the houses and tried to fix the angle in his mind. Across the Golden Horn to the high-rise buildings in Taksim and down to the sea, shimmering in all its dark glory, the running lights of ships threading the void like constellations in an uncharted universe. They crossed the street with the man leading Makana by the arm. Producing a key from his jacket, he unlocked a battered door. The hallway was dark and smelt of woodsmoke. Three steps led up and a second key brought them into a courtyard. Ahead of them was a long room with a simple veranda. With a word to his colleague to remain outside, the shaven-headed man led him in through another door to their left.

  Inside it was quiet. The room was big and long, dark save for a faint glow that filtered through windows covered with sheets of newspaper. Other than that it was bare of furniture except for a scarred table and three rickety chairs. One corner was taken up with what looked like abandoned junk: heaps of yellow newspaper tied with string, a television set with a cracked screen, a fruit crate filled with used tins of paint.

  ‘Sit,’ said the man. Makana sat down on one of the creaky chairs, a window onto the street to his right, to his left the door they had just come through. That was it. There was a long silence. The man remained by the door. From his pocket he produced a switchblade that he snapped open before using the tip to clean under his nails. Then he came forwards, flipping the knife in his hands. Makana held up his wrists.

  ‘Perhaps you could remove these.’

  The man’s face remained impassive. He stared at Makana but said nothing. Instead he stabbed the knife into the scarred tabletop and then grabbed hold of the back of Makana’s chair and dragged it over to the wall behind him, tipping it over until it was balanced on the two rear legs, the other two left suspended in midair. Off balance, Makana couldn’t move without risking falling on his side.

  ‘Where did you learn your Arabic?’

  ‘Where?’ The shaven-headed man frowned as if he hadn’t expected the question. ‘Where else? Your home. Al Khartoum.’ He chuckled. ‘What a shithole. No wonder you left.’

  ‘You were there? When?’

  ‘Where? When? So many questions.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘What I was doing?’ The man leaned closer. Now Makana could see the bristles that sprouted from the shaven head were silvery grey. ‘I was fighting. Jihad.’

  ‘You must have been very young.’

  ‘No choice,’ he said dismissively. ‘I grow up in Bosnia. When war is over I go Chechnya, but is bad. Russians are crazy. So, we go to Africa.’

  A poor man’s holy war. Travelling the globe in search of a battle to win. Makana cast his mind back to the 1990s. Bosnian jihadis had travelled to Sudan to fight on the side of the god-fearing, turning civil war into holy war.

  ‘Were you in the South?’

  ‘South shithole, more than Khartoum.’

  Makana wondered what kind of war zone the young jihadi had had in mind. Somewhere with a beach terrace perhaps? A poolside residence with room service thrown in? There was something about his accent that was odd. At first, Makana had thought it was the product of having picked the language up on his travels. Mixing with Arab jihadis from all over the place, he might have picked up different accents that way. Now, however, Makana was beginning to question that assumption. He suspected that the Bosnian’s mannerisms, and his accent, were more carefully constructed than they appeared.

  ‘So you know Khartoum well?’ Makana asked.

  ‘Why? You miss it? I told you, is a shithole. You couldn’t pay me to go back.’

  ‘Where were you staying?’

  ‘Hey!’ The Bosnian grabbed Makana’s lapels and pulled him up and then threw him back against the wall, knocking the air out of his lungs and banging his head. ‘I ask the questions, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Makana gasped, his head ringing. ‘Have it your way.’

  The shaven-headed man reached back to the table and freed the blade from the wood. He ran his thumb over the tip.

  ‘Where is Nizari?’

  ‘Who?’

  This time he punched Makana in the throat. It was hard enough to make him choke, soft enough not to kill him. Whoever he was, he knew his business.

  ‘We try again. Where is Ayman Nizari?’

  Makana coughed and tried to heave air into his lungs. ‘I don’t know who that is,’ he managed.

  For that he received a backhanded slap across the mouth. He tasted blood.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You know who I am,’ Makana said.

  ‘No.’ The Bosnian shook his head before repeating his question. ‘Who are you?’ Makana watched the tip of the blade as it came closer. ‘Are you Abu Hilal?’

  ‘What?’ The question came as a surprise.

  ‘You will tell me. Or you will stay here until you tell me.’

  The tip of the knife dug into Makana’s left shoulder. He felt the threads of his jacket parting and the first prick of the blade into his skin. The Bosnian leaned on it, digging the knife in deeper. Makana felt a burning pain. He tried to shift away but that only seemed to increase the pain. He didn’t have much leverage and he was off balance.

  Desperately, he lifted his right leg and kicked hard at the Bosnian’s left knee. The blow glanced off but spun Makana further to one side, the chair swivelling on one leg beneath him. The Bosnian stumbled back as Makana crashed down, hitting the floor with his right shoulder. The Bosnian cursed and rubbed his knee before advancing towards him. The look on his face suggested he was determined to do some damage.

  Makana wriggled away, backwards across the floor. The Bosnian followed, still rubbing his knee and waving the knife. He
seemed to be enjoying himself. The blade flashed forward. Makana felt it snag in his trousers and heard the cloth rip. He kicked out blindly and his foot was caught in a firm grip. Jerking free, he twisted over onto his stomach, scrabbling for a purchase. His outstretched hand caught the wooden crate and it slid towards him as he was yanked backwards. There was something farcical about the situation. He grabbed at the crate again and felt the brittle side crack under pressure. It tipped on its side spilling out its contents. The smell of paint hit him and his hand touched something wet. He realised he was holding the handle of an old-fashioned oil lamp. Without thinking he swung it behind him and heard the Bosnian’s scream of agony. He staggered backwards desperately rubbing his eyes, which were now filled with kerosene. Makana caught a glimpse of his bloody face before the man turned, crashed into the door and then threw himself out of it. Grabbing the knife the Bosnian had dropped, Makana stabbed it into the floorboard and sawed his hands free.

  There was only one way out of the room, and that brought him into the courtyard. There was no sign of either of the men. The double door into the long room to his left was open. A light was on, and he could hear a commotion within. Through the papered-over windows he could see figures moving around. Makana ducked out into the alleyway next to the house. If he went to his right he would bump into the van and driver. He turned left.

  His head was ringing and he felt blood running down his arm. At the next corner he turned right. Many of the houses here were made of wood. Some were unoccupied and dark. He heard more voices behind him, men shouting, only it wasn’t in Arabic. He dived in through a broken door that brought him into a cobbled courtyard. It looked like the kind of place in which they might once have kept horses or cattle. He went straight across and into what looked like a barn on the other side.

  He was in total darkness, but he could make out a crack of light which turned out to be a boarded-up window. The wood was rotten and the planks came away in his hands with little effort. Squeezing through the gap he saw more lights ahead of him and cars moving at high speed. He crossed a patch of waste ground and then climbed over a concrete barrier to find himself on a slip road. A taxi was coming towards him. Makana stepped into the road and raised both arms.

  Haluk spied him as he came through the door of the hotel and rushed around the counter, intercepting him as he wearily climbed the steps past the huge plaque of famous names.

  ‘Mr Amin Bey, how wonderful to see you! I was hoping to have a word.’ The diminutive receptionist was an anxious stork hopping from step to step. He fell silent as he surveyed Makana and noted with some distress the state of his clothes, which were dirty and torn, with a streak of paint down one sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘Another attack, Amin Bey! I can’t tell you how sorry I am on behalf of the city.’ Haluk shuffled alongside him, wringing his hands.

  ‘It looks worse than it is,’ Makana managed. Even as he spoke he realised that the look on the receptionist’s face told him this wasn’t particularly reassuring.

  ‘It is urgent that I speak to you on a matter of great importance.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘My most sincere apologies, but no, I’m afraid not.’ Haluk blinked earnestly as he tried to step in front of Makana to block his path.

  ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  ‘As you know, we pride ourselves on our discretion. Our guests can sleep peacefully knowing that their confidences are safe with us.’ Haluk mimed zipping his mouth shut. Makana pulled up.

  ‘What exactly are you talking about?’

  ‘Of course, we fully understand that our guests might desire companionship. And considering the honourable nature of your good self, I would be most happy under the circumstances to make an exception, but we cannot allow women, of, shall we say, questionable reputation to be alone in the room of a guest. It is unwise.’

  ‘I still do not follow.’

  ‘It concerns the young lady.’

  Makana recalled the woman who had shared the lift with him the previous evening, but something told him this was not who Haluk was referring to.

  ‘Aysun?’

  Haluk glanced up and down the hallway. ‘Not Aysun.’

  ‘Another woman?’

  ‘I’m afraid I asked her to leave.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately she refused to heed my request.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She insisted on going up to your room to wait for you. Forgive me, Amin Bey, but we have our reputation to think of.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ Makana thanked him and was about to turn away when a thought occurred to him. ‘This woman, can you describe her?’

  ‘Describe?’ Haluk seemed confused for a second, but a good receptionist clearly took everything in their stride. He drew himself up, slipped a finger between his collar and neck as if he felt too warm. ‘Young. Tall. Dark and very beautiful.’

  ‘Dark? You mean she had dark hair?’

  ‘No, sorry, I mean dark like you. The skin?’ He smiled and then bowed apologetically and beat a swift retreat.

  The lift operator was asleep, sitting on his fold-down stool, his head leaning on the lever. Makana decided to leave him to it and turned to climb the stairs. Everyone deserved whatever rest they could get in this world. He regretted his decision almost at once, feeling the pain all over his body.

  Outside his door he paused, wondering what he might find. This was the moment when the Yavuz might have been useful, but it was locked away in the safe. As he put his hand out the door swung softly open before him. The interior was dark, cut only by the faint glow of reflected light filtering up through the windows from the hotel’s exterior.

  The image of Nadir Sulayman lying on the floor of his office with his tongue hanging out was still fresh enough to instil caution. He stepped aside, close to the wall, aware that a silhouette in a doorway makes a perfect target.

  Immediately he noted the faint smell in the air. A perfume that was both strange and yet familiar. It stopped him in his tracks. He pushed the bathroom door open. It was empty. He moved further inside, towards the main room. The doors to the balcony were open. A soft breeze stirred the curtains and the sound of the traffic in the street below could be heard.

  Marty Shaw was sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room. His head was tilted back and he wasn’t wearing his hat. The pink shirt had two small holes in it, on the left-hand side, just above the heart. On the floor next to him was a pillow with burn marks on it, and next to that, the Yavuz.

  The wardrobe door was slightly ajar. Makana slid it back. The safe was open. The money was gone. Makana stepped back to take another look at Marty Shaw. Two shots from close up. The noise muffled by the pillow. There was less blood than you might expect, but the heart would have stopped pumping instantly.

  What was Shaw doing here? Haluk had only mentioned a woman, which meant that Shaw had managed to enter the hotel without raising suspicions. Makana stepped out onto the balcony. To get over from the next room entailed a simple hop over a railing. A child could have forced the French windows. The distant sound of approaching sirens broke into his thoughts. Whoever had planted this problem in his room was probably not leaving anything to chance. There wasn’t much point in waiting around here for the police to arrive. The chances of explaining the situation to Inspector Serkan, or worse, his sidekick Sergeant Berat, were slim at best.

  Makana took one more look around the room. As he turned to leave he noticed the bedside table. The photograph he’d left standing there was gone. Through the open door he could hear the sound of the lift jerking into motion, grinding its way slowly up through the building. He walked quickly to the top of the stairs, only to hear voices coming up from below. Moving back along the corridor, Makana knew he was trapped.

  ‘We meet again.’

  Makana turned to see the woman from the elevator. Aysun. She was straightening the hem of her dress.

  ‘Perhaps you have
reconsidered.’

  ‘Some other time, I’m afraid,’ said Makana. He made to move on and then stopped. ‘You don’t know if there is a back way out of here.’

  Aysun examined him with a cool gaze for a moment.

  ‘There’s always another way.’ She led the way through an unmarked door to a service corridor. She smiled over her shoulder. ‘I use this from time to time. Sometimes one must be discreet, don’t you find?’

  ‘More often than I’d care to admit,’ said Makana.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Istanbul Day Five

  The Koça Mustafa was an unassuming little place that stayed open all night and didn’t seem to mind who came and went through its battered doors. In the early hours of the morning it was inhabited by a selection of the city’s nocturnal creatures. They swam through the bank of blue smoke that enveloped the place, faces looming in and out of focus as if in a recurring dream. On the wall above the bar a picture of the Grand Vizier, after whom the place was named, sat alongside one of Atatürk in a manner that made the latter look like an upstart. There were other contenders occupying lopsided frames up on the wall, along with Turkish flags, Galatasaray shirts and photographs clipped from magazines of football players who had long since faded from the public imagination.

  Through the layer of smoke the air hummed electric in the white neon glow. The stark light cast a garish mood over the interior. Many of them looked like regulars; taxi drivers who yelled to one another in a familiar way. They drank coffee and raki and watched the television with the sound turned down. A radio behind the counter played a grinding series of what Makana assumed were popular classics. The gurgling voices and swirling strings cast their own spell over proceedings. It was a long way from the Blue Ozan where he had met Kara Deniz.

  Makana sat alone in the corner drinking tea. Nobody paid him much attention, and he was too caught up in his own thoughts to care much about the occasional curious glance. The situation was spinning rapidly out of his control. He had hoped Marty Shaw might provide another way out of the labyrinth he seemed to have walked into. His doubts about Winslow, coupled with the loss of Nadir Sulayman, left him in a vulnerable position. Having a dead British agent in his hotel room was not the way Makana had expected this little venture to go.