I finished by appointing Finbar Hanrahan, counsel-at-law of Park Avenue, and James Balthazar Grosvenor, President of the United States, as executors. I figured if I was going to die for my country it was the least he could do.
I called down to the front desk, heard the young duty manager’s sleep-addled voice and asked him to come to my room. Without letting him see the content of the document, I had him witness my signature and I then sealed it in an envelope and addressed it to Finbar.
I put that envelope inside another, scrawled Ben’s name on it and a note: ‘In the event of my death, please deliver the enclosed letter by hand when you return to New York.’
I slipped it under the door of Ben’s darkened room and went back to my own. I locked the door, kicked off my shoes and lay fully clothed on the bed. In the stillness of the night, two lines from an old poem whose name or author I couldn’t remember drifted into my head:
I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
I woke, and found that life was duty.
Life was duty. Like any soldier going into battle, I thought of the conflict that lay ahead. To be honest, I didn’t hope for success or glory. I just hoped that I would acquit myself with honour and courage.
Chapter Twenty-eight
ELEVEN O’CLOCK IN the morning, barely a cloud in the sky, unseasonably warm for that time of year, and Cumali arrived right on time.
I was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, dressed in trainers, a pair of chinos and a summery shirt flapping loose – a perfect look for a picnic, I thought. The Beretta was tucked into the back of my trousers, but it was there purely for decoration, part of the legend of an unwitting covert agent: I knew it couldn’t save me and that I would lose it the moment I got jumped. The chinos had deep pockets, and that was why I had chosen them – the real weapon was in one of them and, by slouching forward, acting relaxed, hands buried in my pockets, I could keep my hand on it.
The black Fiat pulled to a stop and I saw that Cumali was alone. If I needed any confirmation about what was really happening, she had just given it to me. Smiling warmly, I went to open the front passenger’s door. It was locked, and she indicated the rear seat. Apparently it was okay for a Muslim woman to lead a man to his death but not to share the front seat with him.
I opened the rear door and climbed in. ‘Where’s the little guy?’ I asked.
‘It’s a field trip for kids from the school,’ she replied, ‘and he’s been allowed to go along. We’ll be joining them for the picnic – he wants to show off his American friend.’
As an actress, she was a good cop – she had thought too much about the lines and they came out stilted.
‘What sort of field trip?’ I asked, carrying on like everything was fine.
‘Archaeology – “dumb ruins”, as the kids say.’ She laughed, and it seemed to ease her anxiety. ‘An interesting place – I think you’ll enjoy it.’
Somehow I doubted that. ‘Is it far?’
‘A fair distance by car,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got a share in a half-cabin cruiser. If you don’t mind being deckhand, it’s quicker and a more spectacular sight. Then we can bring my son back the same way – he loves the boat.’
Somebody knew what they were doing. It was easy to tail a car, but a boat was almost impossible – the field of vision was too expansive and there was no traffic to hide amidst. They were making certain I didn’t have help following me.
‘Sounds cool,’ I said.
I wasn’t feeling it. Despite my years of training, despite the plans I had laid, I felt the tendrils of fear unfurl and tighten around my throat: it isn’t an easy thing to do, to walk knowingly into harm’s way.
Cumali turned the wheel and headed down into a hidden cove with an old jetty and a few dozen small boats at anchor. Because I was sitting in the back, I hadn’t been able to see whether she had brought with her the one piece of equipment that was crucial to my plan. If she hadn’t, I was going to have to abort. ‘Have you got your phone?’ I asked.
‘Why?’ she replied, alert, looking into the rear-view mirror, scanning my face.
I shrugged. ‘We don’t want to be on a sinking boat waving for help, do we?’
She smiled as the anxiety receded. ‘Of course.’ She fumbled at the waistband of her jeans and held it up.
The mission was on: there was no turning back now.
She pulled into a parking spot and I unbuckled my seatbelt. ‘Anything to unload?’
‘There’s a picnic basket in the trunk. I don’t drink alcohol, but I brought some beer and there’s plenty of food – help yourself.’
The condemned man ate a hearty meal, I thought, and almost laughed. I realized the stress and fear were starting to get the better of me and made myself lock it down. I pulled the picnic basket out of the trunk and turned to follow Cumali on to the jetty. She was crouching to cast off the mooring line from a little half-cabin launch, old and wooden-hulled but well-maintained. I wondered how much it had cost them to rent it for the day.
She stood up and, unaware that she was being observed, paused to stare at the small cove. It was beautiful in the morning light – the turquoise water, the deserted beach, the whitewashed houses – and in a moment of epiphany I realized that she was imprinting it on her memory, saying goodbye. I had wondered earlier if I had panicked her enough, and I saw now that the threat of Bright Light and a Bulgarian orphanage had terrified her. I figured that she and the little guy would be leaving very soon with her brother, probably driving hard for the border with Iraq or Syria. Thinking about it more, I understood that, if I went missing, she would be the prime suspect, and that left her little alternative. For all of us, our time in Bodrum was coming to an end.
She broke free of her thoughts and stepped down into the launch’s cabin. By the time I got on board and stowed the hamper she had started the engine, powered up a small VHS radio next to the wheel and was talking in Turkish into the mic. She put it back on the cradle and turned.
‘Just letting the harbour master know where we’re going, what our route is,’ she said.
It was a nice touch, but she wasn’t talking to the harbour master, she was speaking to her brother and whoever was with him, letting them know that we were on our way. I had already worked out our destination, of course.
Chapter Twenty-nine
THE RUINS OF the drowned city clung to the cliff, the old steps followed their eternal path into the sea and the Door to Nowhere was a silhouette under the harsh noonday sun.
Cumali had slowed down as we approached, allowing me to view the ruins in all their glory, and I had reacted with appropriate wonder, as if I had never seen them before.
The cliff face and the parking area on top were as deserted as ever, and the only sound as we passed the sunken dance platform was the wailing of a few circling gulls. Their mournful cry seemed a fitting accompaniment as Cumali steered the little cruiser up to the rotting jetty.
I grabbed the mooring line, swung off the deck and made the boat secure. On the beach, host to clots of tar and the bodies of two dead gulls, hordes of crabs ran for cover like roaches in a tenement kitchen. I hated the place.
Cumali came to my side, carrying the picnic basket, and I took it from her, indicating our surroundings. ‘It doesn’t look like much of a spot for a picnic.’
She laughed, more relaxed now that she had got me to the designated place and her part in the plan was almost over.
‘We’re not picnicking here. There’s a tunnel that leads into a Roman amphitheatre – the experts say it’s the best example in the world after the Colosseum.’
I did my best impression of being pleased. ‘Sounds great. Where are the kids?’
She had obviously thought of it – or her brother had. ‘Already here,’ she said easily. ‘They came by bus; there’s a path that comes down into it from the road.’
I knew it wasn’t true – the area had been reconnoitred when the hit on Finlay Finlay was being planned, and Control
had warned us that, if things went wrong, not to shoot open the gate on the tunnel and try to find refuge in the ruin. It was a dead end; there was absolutely no way out.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing the little guy,’ I said as we picked our way across kelp-strewn rocks.
‘He’s so excited,’ she said. ‘I could barely get him to eat his breakfast.’
We found a rough path that led towards a dark opening located in the side of the cliff just above the beach.
‘It’s the start of the tunnel,’ she said. ‘The dignitaries and generals used to arrive by barge. Accompanied by fanfares, they walked down it and into the amphitheatre.’
‘I would have thought the place would be better known, there’d be more tourists,’ I suggested.
‘Years ago, it was packed, but they did so much damage it’s just for archaeologists and school groups now.’ The lies were coming more easily to her.
‘What’s the amphitheatre called?’ I asked.
She said something in Turkish, which, of course, I didn’t understand.
‘In English?’
‘I don’t think there’s a direct translation for it, I’m not sure what it means.’
I guessed she didn’t think it was a good idea to tell me I was about to enter a place called the Theatre of Death.
We stopped at the mouth of the tunnel and I saw, half hidden in the gloom, a gate made of heavy, rusted bars. If it had ever been chained and padlocked, it wasn’t now. ‘They don’t keep it locked?’ I said.
‘The only access is by boat, and hardly anyone knows about it. It hasn’t been locked for years,’ she said.
That was their first mistake. I could just make out marks in the rust where a chain had been pulled free, probably cut through a few hours ago. It didn’t help me, but I found it reassuring – it meant they were hurrying and overlooking details. Experience told me that would be an advantage.
Cumali pushed the gate open and was about to step inside when I stopped her. ‘Here, let me go first,’ I said, acting like a perfect gentleman.
I think good manners are very important when you are being led to your death. It also meant that, if everything went to hell, I would have a clear field of fire in front of me.
I walked through the gate, headed into the darkness and felt the sweat start to pool around the Beretta nestled in the small of my back. I knew that at the other end of the tunnel the Saracen was waiting.
Chapter Thirty
BRADLEY HADN’T ENCOUNTERED any difficulty in finding the right house. As planned, he had left the hotel five minutes after I was picked up by Cumali and, using a detailed map I had drawn for him, walked straight to Bodrum’s best-stocked store for boating supplies.
Three minutes later he left the store carrying a plastic shopping bag holding the one item he had purchased and, once again following my map, headed south-west. After eleven minutes he turned into the street he was looking for and saw, halfway along it, the Coca-Cola distribution warehouse. He approached it, crossed the street and stopped in front of a small dwelling.
After checking its appearance and recalling six items about it, he was certain he had located the correct property. He opened the gate, passed the garden gnomes and knocked at the door. The time was 11.25: he was right on schedule. A few seconds later he heard a woman’s voice from inside calling in Turkish and, though he didn’t understand the language, he was sure that she was asking: ‘Who is it?’
He said nothing in reply, just letting the silence boil and, as most people do in such a situation, the woman, the little guy’s nanny, opened the door. Bradley’s plan had been to push hard once the door was off the lock, step inside, slam it behind him and confront the woman in the privacy of the house.
It didn’t work. In discussing it with Bradley, I had failed to take into account the fact that the woman was severely obese. When Bradley pushed hard on the door it hit the stationary bulk of her and stopped. It gave the surprised young woman just enough time to push back hard and start yelling. It looked for a moment as if Bradley was going to be locked out and the whole plan would founder. Reacting fast – thank God – the cop pulled out his pistol, rammed it through the gap straight at the terrified nanny’s teeth and yelled at her to step back.
She didn’t recognize all the words, but she got the message. She retreated a step, Bradley scrambled inside and, still pointing the gun at her, slammed the door behind him. The woman was too scared to scream and that gave Bradley the chance to pull a curtain aside and look out of a narrow window. To his relief, nothing was moving outside, and he realized that three Coke trucks manoeuvring into the warehouse, engines roaring, had swallowed her cries.
He turned back, saw that fear had really taken hold and she was shaking hard. Before he could say anything, a face appeared out of the doorway at the back of the house and looked down the hallway at them. It was the little guy.
Bradley’s gun was obscured by the bulk of the woman, and he lowered it so that it was out of sight and smiled at the child. That was all the boy needed. He walked forward, grinning back, talking away in Turkish.
The nanny moved to take hold of him, protective, and that – combined with Bradley’s grin – seemed to calm her, and the shaking turned into a tremor rather than a full-on quake.
‘What is he saying?’ Bradley asked, indicating the little guy, making his voice sound as friendly as possible.
The nanny swallowed, trying to moisten her throat, and forced her mind to summon up the limited English she had acquired working for different families over the years.
‘He say – you American?’ she managed to get out.
Bradley smiled at the little guy. ‘Yeah – New York.’
The nanny translated for the boy, still holding him tight. ‘He ask – you friend of bowing man?’ she said.
Bradley looked confused – bowing man? What the hell was that? But the nanny came to the rescue. ‘He mean FBI man.’
‘Ah,’ Bradley responded. ‘Brodie Wilson. Yeah, he’s my friend.’
The little guy said something, and the nanny translated for him: ‘Where is the bowing man?’
‘He’s with your mom,’ Bradley replied.
‘Where they go?’ the nanny translated for the little guy.
Bradley didn’t want to alarm the child and had what he thought was a good idea. ‘They went on a picnic,’ he said.
As soon as it was translated, the boy dissolved into tears, seemingly inconsolable. Bradley had no way of knowing that it was the boy’s dearest dream – to go on a picnic with his American friend – and now they had left him behind.
Bradley stared, confused. Through the child’s tears and grief, the nanny managed to understand what the problem was and explained it for Bradley’s benefit.
The cop bent down, kept the gun out of sight and told the boy that everything was okay, his mom would be coming to get him soon, but first they had to play a little game.
As soon as the nanny had translated it, the boy smiled at Bradley, reassured, and gave the cop one of his best bows.
Ben and Marcie had never had any kids, so Ben considered children pretty much an alien race, but he couldn’t help being deeply affected by the child’s desperate longing for something as simple as a picnic. He felt the revulsion well up, sickened by the prospect of what he had to do, but he also knew he had no choice. One kid’s suffering was nothing compared with the carnage of smallpox, and he motioned for the nanny to lead the way down the hall.
In the kitchen he immediately drew the blinds and locked the back door. Only then did he turn his attention to its architecture. It was a traditional Bodrum house, and the kitchen, like most of its kind, had a very high, steeply raked roof to help dissipate the heat. In the middle, high above, a light hung from a beam. It was supported by a heavy brass bolt and Bradley knew it would be perfect.
He turned to the nanny, demanded her cellphone and attached it to the charger lying on the kitchen counter. It was good thinking – if the phone ran out of
juice at a critical moment, everything would fail.
Speaking slowly and clearly, he told the nanny it was his absolute intention that both she and the boy would get out alive. ‘It won’t happen, though,’ he said, ‘if you try to escape, answer the door or touch the phone. You will do everything I say, understand?’
She nodded and, with that, Bradley sat down with his gun within instant reach, opened up the plastic shopping bag and took out a large coil of thick rope.
The little guy – intrigued – came and sat beside him. Together, they started to make the noose.
Chapter Thirty-one
I LED CUMALI deeper into the tunnel, the walls decorated with fragments of ancient mosaics, huge cracks bisecting the vaulted roof from centuries of quakes, the silence pressing down on us.
On either side were the ruins of what were called the hypogeum, the underground vaults and cells which housed slaves and animals used in wild-beast hunts, and I felt the deep melancholy of the place surrounding me. It was as if misery had taken root in the stone.
Cumali pointed at the barred pens, talking a little too fast, a little too nervously. ‘The cells would only hold a few hundred people,’ she explained. ‘The huge spectacles and naval battles, which would often kill thousands of prisoners or slaves, were almost exclusive to the Colosseum.
‘Here in the provinces, without the wealth of a Caesar, it was mostly gladiators and the re-creation of famous myths. Of course, those stories were wildly popular too – lots of violence and killing, but not much plot.’