Birth of an Assassin Page 32

  He cleared his throat and paced the width of the bed.

  “Of course, you’re under no obligations. You’ve been declared dead, and I’ve been informed you have quite a lot of money behind you. I’m going to leave you with your thoughts for a few days. You need time to come to terms with what’s happened.”

  The general grimaced and left – at last with a smile.

  The softness of Anna’s cheek warmed his. “I don’t want to be part of the decision making. The future starts here and whatever it is you want to do, we’ll do it together.”

  Weakly, he lifted an arm and embraced her. He loved her and it was important for him to make the right choice – for both of them. But what would that be? It would be easy to slip away and never be seen again. Working undercover currently left a sour taste in his mouth. He hated it.

  He tossed it around in his brain and the odds were heavily weighted to take the money and run. However, the same odds seemed to be leaning just that bit too much, and he felt a rational decision should wait until sometime in the future – when he had a fairer mindset. But with that rationale, he realized his decision had probably already been made, and his face scrunched as he started thinking of the new road he’d decided to take.

  THE END

  I hope you had a great time reading this work. The following pages highlight two more books in this series that you might be interested in having a closer look at.

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  The Man in the Blue Fez

  From a former death camp in the snowy mountains of 1973, Jez Kord is sent into the freezing wastelands to prove himself fit. Pavel Rostislav has orders to hinder his progress and follows closely behind. The training ends and they unite, but as they return to camp, the sky fills with helicopter gunships. A venomous assault ends with the flaming liquid of napalm bombs swallowing up the entire complex. The pair make a run for it, but a unit of Spetsnaz elitists are hot on their heels.

  Anna Kord is on assignment in Turkey with two other agents. Adam Mannesh and his twisted band of misfits have designs on a drug empire that Anna and the unit have been tasked to take down. Adam comes to their assistance, but then betrays them. Now their only chance of survival hangs on Jez and Pavel evading the Siberian pursuit.

  Excerpt

  Northern Russia, January 1973

  Noon, the sun had begun its descent towards the western horizon and the promise of warmth was sinking with it. Gold and pink rays glancing off mountaintops spread as one over the frozen lake below. Midway up a mountain slope overlooking the lake and not too far from where the Urals trailed off into the wasteland, Pavel Rostislav lay in wait. A light wind whispered across the incline, bringing cold that found a way through his winter gear and set him shivering. He snuggled into the hollow cut from the compacted snow as far as he dared, but knew there could be no respite. He had to hold his vigil.

  With teeth gritted, he raised the standard issue field glasses to his eyes and scoped the fishing hole in the ice lake while trying to ignore the freezing barbs that spiked at his bones. Time pressed on and he took a moment of it to glance at the thermometer on the backpack by his side, shuddering to see the temperature had dropped to minus fifty. Mist clouds would be visible to an enemy, so he expelled his breath against the chinstrap on his snowsuit, but then small ice crystals bunched up there and he exhaled in exasperation, irritation nipping at his spirit.

  The sun dropped below the peaks and the ice lake turned bluish grey while the sky on the eastern horizon reflected mauve tiers on snow-knuckled mountains. Snow flurries lifted from drifts nearby and snaked down into the basin, dancing like ashes blown from a dead fire. Pavel’s goggles took the color down a notch further and his heart sank. All he wanted now was to get this thing done and return to camp. However, just as he began feeling that his blood might turn to an icy sludge or his body may be only moments away from paralysis, a blur on the landscape took human shape and his spirits lifted. Shrouded in a heavy arctic snowsuit, the man moved slowly yet gracefully towards the fishing pole sticking up from the ice. The garment he wore should have been brilliant white, but it had turned a dull bluish grey, same as everything else. He wore traditional Siberian snowshoes – same as Pavel’s – large teardrop-shaped hardwood frames with rawhide lacing crisscrossed into a strong latticework. Not a big man and because of that, and his deftness, he hardly left a print as the meter-long constructs dabbed and glided gently over the snow. Any imprints he might have made were swiftly covered as clouds of blue flakes curled around his ankles and stole all signs of his presence.

  After clearing newly formed ice from the fishing hole, he pulled on the cord attached to the pole and hauled in his catch. Four fish, equally spaced along the line, flapped on the ice. He cut the smallest free and cast it back into the water. Pavel felt that old excitement bubble up and adrenalin ran hot around his gut. His patience had endured long enough. It was time to end the task. His gloves fumbled as he unzipped the leather sleeve and took out the Dragunov sniper rifle within. The deep scar next to his left eye itched as it always did when the thrill of the chase got the better of him. He ran a finger along the crevice to ease the irritation and then tucked the hollow stock of the gun into the softer flesh under his shoulder. Resting his face on the gun’s cheek pad, he slipped his gloved finger inside the Arctic trigger guard, scoped the target through the range finder and smiled. This was all so easy. Almost too easy; for a rifle like the Dragunov, six hundred meters was an effortless distance. The crosshair settled on an elbow and he slowly panned the weapon until his aim was centered where the man’s temple would be. “Bang, you’re dead,” he whispered, and gently squeezed the trigger.

  To find out more about this book, click HERE for Amazon US or HERE for Amazon UK

  The Turkish Connection

  Mehmet battles for daily survival in the murky Istanbul of 1951 while being forced to learn the craft of theft and violence alongside the other street children. Come evening he curls up under a stinking jetty in a waterway off the Bosporus Strait. Desperation fills him as he yearns to break free from the life inflicted on him by his drunken, womanizing father, little knowing that his rotting body lies at the bottom of those same waters.

  Adulthood comes before Mehmet finds out that it wasn't fate that had taken control when he was a boy, but a very real nemesis. But is it too late? Can he yet turn things around and get his life back?

  Excerpt

  Galata,Istanbul, 1951

  Levent Pasha gazed mournfully over the Golden Horn, a natural waterway off the Bosporus Strait. Time had moved on but nothing could ease the pain of losing Emel. On the opposite bank, minarets surrounded the Suleymaniye Mosque and a blue haze shrouded the domes and towers in mystique. The mainstream carried ferryboats and light freighters between Asia and Europe, cries wailed out tunefully as the muezzin called the faithful to prayer, boats blew klaxons or horns and bells rang out along jetties. A myriad of activity, but neither the mayhem nor the exotic vistas made an impression on him. His wife was dead.

  In his heart, Levent believed Emel had died because he’d taken contaminated water from the fountain instead of the standpipe, only a few steps beyond. Images of the funeral flashed through his mind: bearers lifting Emel from her coffin, lowering her shrouded body into the sandy, sterile ground. His breath caught and he dropped his head, sobbin
g. When Emel died, Levent became lost in despair, but then Beyrek Ozel told him something and an idea centring on Beyrek’s apartment in the Sultanahmet Quarter grew into a plan. If the idea was successful, Levent could leave Istanbul and start a new life with his eight-year-old son, Mehmet, look after him the way he always should have.

  Levent had sat on the bank for hours without moving; the chill of the northeast wind – or nervousness – shook his body. He should go. Buttoning his jacket, he pulled on the peak of his cap, pushed his hands into his pockets and wandered towards the Galata floating bridge. He’d walk to the other side and hopefully find his friend Yuri Aleksii. If everything went to plan, Yuri would be his escape route. Arriving at the opposite bank, he saw people on the lower jetty gathering around vendors grilling kebabs or peddlers roasting chestnuts and, of course, there was the normal glut of fish stalls. Small ferries had rafted up against the landing upstream and ferrymen sat under tattered awnings near a bar.

  A bar. Levent had always allowed alcohol to control his actions: unfulfilled promises, women, gambling. But today thoughts of alcohol had been far from his mind… So why the sudden urge? His throat became parched and his mouth dry. He could do with a drink, just the one to calm his nerves. Coming from the bar holding a glass of Raki, he sat amongst the ferrymen and pondered his decision. Beyrek Ozel had always taken Levent for a fool, always showed off and told him things. But this time he’d told him too much. Apparently, Beyrek had struck up a relationship with a Russian and they were about to open a club together. Yesterday, he’d gone to Icmeler on the Aegean Coast to set up the deal.

  Thoughts of the man who had once been his best friend caused Levent’s mind to drift to when they were boys. “I tell you, Levent, one day I’ll be the richest man in Istanbul. You watch, you’ll see,” Beyrek had told him.

  “Beyrek, we live in the shittiest part of Galata. I don’t think so,” Levent answered.

  Beyrek stopped at a nearby stall, grabbed an orange from it, chewed off a bit of peel and spat it at the vendor. The man reached over and tried to grab him, but Beyrek turned aggressively, pulling a knife. The stallholder cowered back while grumbling into his chest. Levent laughed and Beyrek said, “See, there are ways…” And he had been right. He became rich in a very short time.

  Levent’s thoughts moved on to when he turned twenty and Beyrek took him to a nightclub.

  “Tonight, the place is yours,” he said, but his attention was taken elsewhere before he finished talking. “Oh, will you look at that.”

  Three young girls had sidled up to the bar on the opposite side of the dance floor. All attractive, but only one grabbed Levent’s attention. Shorter than her friends, her head was covered with a pale-blue chiffon scarf that she’d pulled together with a hand at chest level. She looked so demure. But then she stared at Levent across the dance floor and he was absorbed by her eyes: dark yet with a bright twinkle that enchanted him. He had to meet her. He left Beyrek standing and walked across the hall towards the girl, only to be caught by his friend who soon matched him stride for stride. They looked at each other, grinned and broke into a race.

  Beyrek got to the girls first and introduced himself. “I was just saying to my friend Levent here, if three beautiful women happen to wander in, I’ll buy drinks for them all evening. So, what are you having, girls?” he said, slightly out of breath. Levent came alongside and Beyrek put a hand on his shoulder to steady himself. Surprisingly to Levent, it was the smallest of the three that Beyrek centred his attention on, but she just smiled modestly at him before turning her gaze to Levent. “I’ll have a Pepsi Cola, thank you.”

  Beyrek looked a bit put out, but he forced a smile and ordered the drinks. As he did, the girl spoke to Levent. “Hello, my name is Emel…” At the end of the evening, Levent walked Emel home and a relationship began, but Beyrek couldn’t accept it. The competition had seemed friendly enough to Levent, but in winning Emel’s heart, he won Beyrek’s hatred.

  Yuri Aleksii pulled Levent away from the memories as he motored under the bridge and pulled in against the pier. “Levent!” the big man shouted. “Get me vodka while I secure the boat.”

  Levent gave a weak smile and went to the bar.

  He liked Yuri, but he was a bit of a mystery: supposedly, a Russian dissident disenchanted with the inequality of the so-called federation of equality, but Levent couldn’t picture Yuri as a dissident. He had more of a military bearing: tall, heavy physique, broad shoulders tapering to slender hips, muscles that bulged out all over the place and a rugged face that gave the impression that anyone entering his space did so at their own risk. A military man, maybe a deserter, but why…? Levent stopped in mid-thought. Nearly everybody he knew had something to hide; why should Yuri be different? Levent left the bar with the vodka and another Raki, and found Yuri at the small wooden table, idly swilling the last of Levent’s drink around the bottom of the glass.

  “I don’t know how you drink this shit,” he said. “The smell of aniseed alone makes me want to vomit.”

  Levent gave him a feeble smile. “To each his own,” he said and handed him the vodka.

  Yuri took a small gulp – “Ah, that’s better” – and gave his attention to Levent. “How’re you coping with life now, my friend?”

  “It goes on.”

  “Have you been waiting for me?”

  “I wanted to speak with you, yes,” Levent said. “I have a job for you.”

  “No, no, I don’t think so, Levent,” Yuri answered, hands up defensively. “Sorry, but I can’t be caught doing anything illegal.”

  “The offer couldn’t get you in trouble. I have something to do and when it’s done, I need transport for me and Mehmet.”

  Yuri sighed heavily. “What is it you want?”

  “Beyrek’s safe is stacked to bursting with money. I know. I’ve seen it. And I also know he won’t be at his apartment for days.”

  “And he just told you that?”

  “I know, he hates me, but he tells me about his success to rub my nose in it. You see, he’s gone to Icmeler to meet with a Russian, a man who’s part of some kind of military unit. Anyway, they’re going into business together, setting up a club on the coast.”

  Yuri’s eyes narrowed and he sat back, linked hands over the back of his head.

  “Military unit, you say. How’d you know that?”

  “I told you, Beyrek likes nothing better than to show me what a big man he is.”

  “Exactly what is it you’re hoping I’ll do?”

  “You wouldn’t be part of the robbery, Yuri. All I need is for you to stay here and when the job’s done, we’ll cross the Golden Horn in the boat, pick Mehmet up and then you can take us across the Marmara Sea to Tekirdag; Beyrek won’t be able to track me that way. If I’m caught, I swear to God I’ll tell no one about you. Yuri, I ask you because you’re my friend.” There was a pause. “I’ll pay you well.”

  Yuri grinned. “Pay me? Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” He roared out a belly laugh and held up a hand. “No, I don’t want your money. But I would be interested if you were to make an extra search of the apartment. See whether you can find the identity of Beyrek’s new partner. If you’ll do that, I’ll give you your ride.”

  Mystified, Levent bit his lip to stop himself asking why. “Deal,” he said and stretched out a hand.

  “Beyrek might well be out of town,” Yuri said, gripping Levent’s hand a little too hard, “but you’re not a safe-cracker. How will you open it?”

  “Beyrek treats me like goat turd, to the point that he doesn’t respect me enough to hide things from me. I know the combination.”

  *

  Levent shaded his eyes and stared from the street towards the three-storey building where Beyrek lived. But his gaze veered and a glint from the low sun caught his eye. Dry pain coursed through his head. He cursed. He shouldn’t have drunk that fourth Raki. The throbbing increased when a couple of duelling motorists honked horns
and shouted abuse through rolled-down windows. A narrow street, too much heat, too much noise: he needed to get indoors.

  The lobby was high ceilinged and refreshingly cool. A hall porter sat at a small table next to a glossed sidewall with his head lost between the sheets of the Aksam newspaper. He lowered the paper and smiled. “He’s away on business. There isn’t anyone up there.”

  “I have to pick something up,” Levent answered, rattling his pocket.

  The porter nodded and returned his attention to the newssheet.

  Levent climbed the stairs. Only three flights, but at the top he was again reminded of the Raki. Up on the large landing, he took a breather while studying the lock on Beyrek’s front door: a three-pin tumbler. He took out the lock picks he’d rattled at the porter and sifted through them. Any other time, he might have laughed at the irony: Beyrek had supplied the tools.

  Inside, a long passageway ran half the length of the building, but it was the nearest door that was of interest: the sitting room – and more specifically, the safe within.

  The lounge had a single unit of cabinets against the far wall. Other than a small space for photographs, expensively bound books filled the middle shelf. One picture was of Beyrek’s wife and sons. His wife, Gizem, had the right features, but she wasn’t an attractive woman: thin lips underscored an unforgiving face.