Читать книгу Double Blindside - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

London

Tak Kumad had just shot two men and was on his way to kill a third.

His agenda was firmly set out. It was to clean up matters relating to Özgürlük to make certain nothing could be traced back to the organization and hinder the progress of the operation. His orders had been specific; and Tak Kumad followed his orders for the client he was working for.

It was his job.

He was an assassin. His current assignment was to locate and eliminate the three men who had turned against Özgürlük and betrayed the organization.

Kumad had already visited the apartment where two of the men had been staying. He’d caught them both and placed 9 mm slugs in their skulls before they’d been able to do a thing to prevent it.

With that part of his assignment over, Kumad moved on.

Aziz Makar was Özgürlük’s banker. He handled all the money the group used and collected. And, as with a number of terrorist organization bankers, he was based in London.

Makar had decided to go into business for himself by cheating Özgürlük out of millions of dollars. To add to Hakan Kaplan’s problems, two of his trusted lieutenants had also joined forces with Makar to work a deal that would give them the chance to fleece the organization out of even more money.

Kaplan’s betrayal by Egemen Binice and Bora Terzel had been a bitter blow. He had championed the pair since they had first joined the organization, not realizing their enthusiasm and dedication to Özgürlük had been false from the start.

Binice and Terzel were cousins. In their late twenties, they were minor criminals, having spent most of their teen years committing small crimes for little reward. They considered themselves smart, a cut above the lower Turkish criminal element, and they possessed sharp minds always on the lookout for a chance to make a score. Unfortunately they always seemed to miss the best opportunities.

Until they’d learned about Özgürlük. A drinking friend, himself on the criminal fringe, had made mention of the organization in passing. Binice and Terzel had listened to what he’d had to say, and when they were on their own again, decided it was worth looking into.

They’d picked up on one of the public meetings in the city, went along and afterward made contact with the man they soon found out to be Hakan Kaplan.

Now, one of the many talents the cousins possessed was the ability to be extremely persuasive and willing to commit to a cause. They’d learned about Özgürlük and its aims, though at that stage they were not privy to the underlying intentions of the group. They were willing and eager recruits, listening to the party line and proving themselves by performing the tasks offered to them. Over a few months the cousins had insinuated themselves deeper into Özgürlük.

Anyone who had come in contact with them and listened to their talk had been convinced of their usefulness to the organization.

Whenever they were in the presence of Özgürlük’s people higher up the ladder, they performed as expected, and because they showed their compliance with the policy, their involvement became deeper.

While Binice and Terzel professed commitment to Özgürlük, they were, in truth, simply looking for opportunities to make money.

It hadn’t taken them long to see how Özgürlük put cash out to anyone who showed genuine interest. They’d realized the organization was pretty well loaded. The top man, Kadir Polat, had money in spades, to say nothing of the money being donated by sympathizers. It hadn’t taken the pair long to learn about the man, his business holdings that raked in millions, his property, cars and planes—even a luxury cruiser he used like a floating HQ.

While maintaining an interest in the organization, the pair had been gathering intelligence, watching and listening at every opportunity. Hakan Kaplan had taken a liking to the young recruits and had offered them more and more responsibility as the weeks went by.

They’d been assigned to Polat’s cruiser on a number of occasions. Their duties consisted of making sure guests were supplied with food and drink, and keeping things running smoothly. Their service offered them a chance to pick up snippets of information as drink often loosened mouths and they learned valuable details.

It was about this time that Hakan Kaplan, convinced the pair was genuinely part of Özgürlük, had taken them aside and, in the presence of Polat, filled them in on the organization’s long-term plan. Not to simply create unrest and agitation, but to do something that would throw the country into confusion and, as the main thrust of the plot, to damage the American presence in Turkey.

Their indoctrination took a couple of weeks and Binice and Terzel, realizing it was becoming deeply involving, had upped their act and made it clear they were on board.

When Kaplan had eventually broached the real reason, despite their act, Binice and Terzel were almost caught off guard.

Polat and Kaplan were proposing to blackmail the Americans by threatening to detonate nuclear devices. One at Incirlik. The other to be transported to America.

After the revelation, Binice and Terzel had readily endorsed and volunteered any and all assistance; they had realized an opportunity presented itself. Hakan Kaplan, by this time convinced of their loyalty to Özgürlük, had enlisted their help in taking control of the nuclear devices being delivered by the Russian, Gennadi Antonov.

This encounter had brought them into contact with Aziz Makar, the moneyman, and the pair, spotting the man’s discontent at having to handle so much money, quickly moved in.

Makar might have been in charge of the Özgürlük finances, but he was not personally wealthy. His skill with money had brought him little for himself. Binice and Terzel had spent their lives assessing and playing other people’s emotions. And that was how they’d manipulated Aziz Makar.

Their persuasive manner had drawn him in. He’d worked a few small withdrawals, and his new partners had taken it and used it to feed a new account, well out of the reach of Özgürlük. The ease of the operation encouraged Makar and he’d devised other ways to move and lose donated amounts. With each success Makar began to increase the amounts. Polat and Kaplan were so involved in the main operation they had little time, or opportunity, to be aware of what was happening. Money was coming in and going out on a daily basis, and only Makar, safe in his London office, had any real grasp of how things were. The thousands became hundreds of thousands and then Makar, flushed by his success, had made his major error when he’d earmarked a couple of million for siphoning.

Unbeknown to the duplicitous trio, their scheme to take Özgürlük’s money had been discovered and the information passed on to Hakan Kaplan.

Kaplan had initially refused to accept the news, but his source was impeccable. A bank teller loyal to Özgürlük had discovered the cash movements and checked it out. When the discovery was verified, Kaplan was informed. The bank official initiated a full trace and the extent of the theft was revealed. The trail led to accounts opened by Binice, Terzel and Makar. Following disbelief and embarrassment that he had been taken in by the three men, Kaplan had the information kept quiet so he could deal with the three. Loyalty to the cause had taken a backseat, smothered by deceit and pure greed. Ignoring the reason behind Özgürlük’s existence, the trio had given in to their base emotions.

Having been put in the picture, Kaplan took control and made the decision that the traitors would not be allowed to escape. He set in motion the means by which he would exact his revenge.

Revenge. Retribution. It had to be done. Betrayal required closure. Allow people to steal from you and it diminished your standing. The scales had to be balanced. With all that was going on, Özgürlük’s reputation needed to be put on firm ground—and allowing a pair of petty crooks to sully that reputation was unthinkable.

* * *

KAPLAN HAD MET Tak Kumad in a busy Istanbul café. They’d sat at a table, outside, the sun high overhead. They could have been any Turkish customers, drinking small cups of aromatic coffee and discussing anything.

But they were discussing something far deadlier than the price of food or the results of the international football match that had taken place the previous night.

They were arranging how Binice and Terzel would pay for their treachery. The moneyman, Makar, would be dealt with as a separate matter.

“This must be painful for them before the final bullet,” Kaplan said. “I am not normally a vengeful man, but those two have manipulated me. Made me look a fool. So my heart seeks a way to make them suffer.”

“As God looks down on me, I promise you suffering for them both,” Kumad, the assassin, said. “By the end they will welcome my final bullet.”

“Should I ask how you will achieve this?”

“Do you recall Alexander Litvinenko? Former Russian SSB officer. He left Russia to avoid being prosecuted for his stand against the Russian Secret Service. He was given asylum in the UK and continued as a journalist writing about the behavior of the Russians. He wrote books condemning their actions. He became ill in November 2006 and died three weeks later. It was confirmed later that he had died from being poisoned by polonium-210. A very lethal radioactive compound. Most likely put in his tea. It is undetectable in that condition, but works very well on the immune system, or so I have been told.”

“Is this what you would propose for our friends?”

“I have been able to obtain some. Only a small amount,” Kumad said. “That is all it will take.”

Kaplan thought it an ideal way to repay Binice and Terzel.

“They would not die immediately?”

Kumad smiled. “No. The full effects would run over a few weeks. But initially they would become extremely ill. Skin affected. Loss of hair. General lassitude.”

“How would you give it to them?” Kaplan asked, his interest piqued.

“In a similar fashion,” Kumad said. “I have spoken to a friend in the business and he has instructed me how to do this.” He smiled at the thought. “A very smart man who has been in the business for a long time.”

“And has he used this polonium-210 himself?”

Kumad nodded. “Oh, yes.”

When Kaplan picked up his coffee again he hesitated. “It would be as simple as putting it in a cup like this?”

“Don’t be concerned. I did not bring a sample with me.”

“I want this done quickly.”

“Then all I need from you is a timetable of where Binice and Terzel can be found. Once I have that, I can make my arrangements.”

They concluded their meeting after finance details were completed.

Kaplan felt satisfied. He had cleared the way for a matter of honor, Turkish-style, to be carried out. With Binice and Terzel dealt with, the episode could be forgotten and he could concentrate on the Özgürlük campaign.

* * *

TEN DAYS LATER Kumad received a call from Kaplan.

“It has been reported to me that Makar is becoming a nervous man,” Kaplan said. “I believe he may be regretting his involvement with Binice and Terzel. Remember he knows a great deal about Özgürlük. As banker he has been responsible for moving around money. Most important, the payment for the devices from the Russian. We cannot risk anything going wrong at this stage. It’s time he was retired. Better that way than risk additional problems. Deal with him but make sure you bring his computer back with you. Understood? Above everything, that computer must be returned into our safekeeping.”

“Understood.” Kumad brought up the other business he was involved with. “Did you know Binice and Terzel are in London? At one of our emergency apartments?”

“Yes. I sent them there to keep them away from everything here. They believe they are being given a reward for the work they have been doing for the cause. I told them I needed them to oversee a project that is coming off in London. Their arrogance is amazing. They truly believe that while they have stolen money from us I am rewarding their loyalty. I told them to take a break while the project is being set up. Your treatment seems to be working well. In the last week they have started to look unwell but have said nothing because they have no idea what is happening. Tak, as much as I would like to have them suffer even more, I think it is time to cut short their suffering. We have enough on our hands with other, more important matters. Would you agree?”

“It would complete our deal and close it nicely.”

“See to it.”

* * *

KUMAD KNEW LONDON WELL. He visited often. He enjoyed the rush of the big city, the busy pace. The fact that for the most part he could come and go as he pleased. Anonymity was a useful thing for someone in his profession. Although security, as in any large city, had been increased, London was still an easy place to get around. The busy streets, full of people going about their business, were comparatively safe. Armed police were in evidence, but with such crowds it was easy to lose himself. He was, on the surface, simply a citizen going about his business. He posed no threat to the watchful eye.

With Binice and Terzel taken care of, all that remained was for him to handle the banker. Kumad saw no problems there. Makar would not offer any kind of resistance. He was just a money mover. Not a trained gunman.

Sitting in a small café that served real Turkish coffee, Kumad considered his options. Makar would not be in his office until morning. It was just after nine o’clock in the evening, so he would have to wait until the man came to his office for the next day’s business. As he drained his cup, Kumad decided he may as well return to his hotel and get some sleep. Nothing was going to happen until the next day.

At his small hotel in Bayswater he had a shower, cleaned his pistol and made sure the magazine was fully loaded. Then he went to bed and got a solid night’s untroubled sleep. He knew that Makar never opened his office before nine thirty.

He was in another café across the street from Makar’s building, having breakfast and keeping an eye out for the man, when Makar stepped out of a London cab, paid the driver and went into his building. He carried an attaché case that would most likely contain his laptop. Kumad finished his food and coffee, paid and left the café.

He walked along the street before he crossed it and eased into the alley a few doors along from Makar’s building. The rear area was quiet and Kumad made his way to the wooden gate that would lead him to the back of Makar’s property. He had been here before and knew all the access and exit points. There was a brick wall with a timber gate. Kumad pulled on a pair of latex gloves, slipped the latch and stepped through, closing the gate behind him. There was a small yard leading to the metal stairs, which in turn led to the upper floor. At the top was a metal door that gave access to the interior. From earlier visits, Kumad knew that Makar kept the door unlocked during the day; the man had a fear of being trapped inside a locked building and turned the key when he arrived each morning. He didn’t worry about anyone breaking in to steal because there was never money on the premises. Everything Makar did was via his computer; he brought his expensive laptop with him each day and took it home at night. The office setup was nothing more than a front for Özgürlük.

The door in front of him let Kumad take the short passage to Makar’s office. He took out his sound-suppressed pistol and eased off the safety. He could hear Makar on the phone and waited until the man finished his call. The moment Makar replaced the receiver, Kumad pushed open the door and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and walked across the room to stand at the desk, extending his arm, the pistol inches from Makar.

Makar stared at the black muzzle, then at Kumad.

“Who are you?” He had never met Kuman before and would have no idea he worked for Özgürlük. “What do you want?”

“I’m here to close your account. The same as I’ve done for your two partners,” Kumad said and pulled the trigger.

It was a close shot, the skin around the wound peppered with powder and scorch burns. The back of Makar’s head blew open, depositing brain and skull matter on the high seat back. Makar’s head bounced against the seat, then forward. The phone rang at that moment. The sound startled Kumad for a second. He recovered, putting away his pistol. He closed the laptop and disconnected the cables. He turned and disturbed items in the office to make it appear as though someone had broken in. He didn’t believe the actions would fool the authorities for long but it was no more than a distraction.

The phone stopped ringing

With the laptop under his arm he pulled the office door almost shut, made his way out of the building the way he had come in. A couple of minutes later he slipped back onto the street, walking calmly, and merged with the pedestrians on the sidewalk. He had already removed the latex gloves by then.

Kumad returned to his hotel, packed his carryall, with the laptop under his clothes, and made a quick call.

“Your appointments went well?” Kaplan said. “No difficulties?”

“None.”

“You found the laptop?”

“Of course.”

“Then I will see you when you return.”

“Yes.”

Downstairs, Kumad checked out, paying his account in cash, and walked to the nearby multistory car park where his rental sat. He took a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them on before he unlocked the vehicle, placed his bag in the trunk and slid behind the wheel. He was always careful not to leave any prints behind. There were too many ways to be identified these days, so covering his tracks was something he did as a matter of course.

He started the engine.

And that was when it came to him as he stared at his hands gripping the wheel.

The shell casing.

He had not picked up the spent bullet casing from the floor of Makar’s office. The ringing of the phone had distracted him and his mind had been occupied with other matters.

The casing.

A small item in itself, but one that could become important if it was found. Because there would most likely be a print on it from when he had loaded the pistol’s magazine. When he loaded his magazines he used bare hands. In the past he had found using latex gloves to be a problem; twice the thin latex had been snagged by the loading slot of a magazine, tearing off a piece of the rubber and becoming jammed in the spring mechanism. Something as small as that could have interfered with the action of the magazine, causing a misfire. Since then, he had always worked barehanded—he compensated for that by never, ever, leaving behind a spent bullet casing.

Until today.

A stupid error on his part. One that could have repercussions if it was found.

Kumad considered the implications of identification that would place him at the scene, making him the number one suspect. He valued his anonymity, but he was not stupid enough to believe he was not on a database on some computer. And via that identification came the possibility he could be linked to Özgürlük.

He sat in the car and considered his options. Foremost in his thoughts was protecting his identity. In his line of work, remaining anonymous was vitally important. He needed that status to stay as it was. If he was identified as the man who had assassinated Makar, then his usefulness in the future would be compromised.

Kumad turned off the engine and took a fresh pair of latex gloves from the glove box. He climbed out and locked the car. He exited the car park and began the return journey to Makar’s office building. It would take him about a half hour. He did not hurry.

First he would check out the area. See if there seemed to be any unusual activity around the building. If the police were there he would walk away. By then it would be too late for him to recover the casing and he would need to leave London as he had planned, and as quickly as possible.

He realized there was no other way he could handle this. If the police found the casing, which they undoubtedly would, the process would begin. It would take time, and during that time Kumad needed to get as far from the UK as he could. There were many places he could go. Give himself time to cover his tracks and establish a new identity. He had the money to do it; his profession paid him well, and Kumad had always been prudent when it came to spending the contract fees he gathered. With money he could purchase any of the documents he needed. Some minor cosmetic enhancement would also help. His fingerprints were another matter—but that was something he had been thinking about for some time. He could not change them but he could have them removed so that problems such as this would not occur again.

There were so many ways the authorities could check out evidence nowadays. A fingerprint, any small piece of evidence, could be passed from country to country, logged into electronic search engines. Cooperation between law-enforcement agencies extended globally. A single item could be passed around quickly, checked and rechecked, throwing up answers in a short time.

Kumad needed to retrieve his bullet casing before it was found.

When he walked by the alley to Makar’s establishment he didn’t stop. He carried on until he was satisfied it was safe. Observation of the street showed no unusual presence in the area. It was a busy London high street, lined with stores and populated by large numbers of people, somewhere unusual activity would be noticeable. And a uniformed police presence would be almost impossible to conceal.

He realized the longer he delayed the more likely Makar’s body could be discovered. If he was going to retrieve the shell casing it had to be now. He was aware of the risk but in reality he had no other choice. If the police found the shell casing and a check for fingerprints proved positive, the matter could escalate. Kumad did not underestimate the skill of police procedures. And he could not allow any investigation to tie him to the Turkish organization.

He turned around and calmly walked back to the alley, moving quickly and making for the access stairs to Makar’s building. He pulled on the latex gloves as he headed to the stairway.

At the top of the access stairs he opened the door and stepped inside the building.

He moved into the corridor where Makar’s office was situated.

And that was when it all went wrong.