To the Turkish people
in grateful appreciation
for the warm hospitality and love shown
to a wandering stranger in their land.
F A C T:
All references to historical events in this novel are accurate. The 16th century conspiracy which inspired the novel is true in its entirety. It has been preserved for posterity in a single complete manuscript currently safeguarded in Vienna at Österreichische Nationalbibliothek (The Austrian National Library).
in grateful appreciation
for the warm hospitality and love shown
to a wandering stranger in their land.
F A C T:
All references to historical events in this novel are accurate. The 16th century conspiracy which inspired the novel is true in its entirety. It has been preserved for posterity in a single complete manuscript currently safeguarded in Vienna at Österreichische Nationalbibliothek (The Austrian National Library).
The Beginning
Ibrahim twisted violently, straining every last sinew in a desperate, but futile effort to free his arms and legs from the battle-hardened hands of the two burly Spanish soldiers who had pinned him down on the floor of the blacksmith’s shop. A third soldier grabbed the hilt of a sword from the glowing coals and straddled Ibrahim’s body stretched out on the floor. The stench of wine, rancid sweat and pig fat was so nauseating Ibrahim began to retch uncontrollably, but nothing came up. The Spanish soldier cackled like a jackal and with all the hatred and malice of a servant of Satan, he said,
“This is the last time you will ever speak Arabic, you filthy traitor. If the Inquisition had been run by soldiers instead of priests, this Morisco problem would have been solved long ago. I’m going to cut out your heretical tongue and brand your lips. For you, speech will be no more intelligible than the snorting of an old sow.”
In a split second, faster than the soldier could react, the words Ibrahim valued above any earthly thing, the sacred confession of the oneness of God came rushing from his mouth,
“La ilaha illa Allah…”
And, they were then cut short by searing, insufferable pain, and the smell of burning flesh…
Ibrahim woke to a muffled scream only to find that the hand covering his mouth was his own. He gasped for breath. Another nightmare. Every night brought a fresh horror provoked by the hatred his people endured daily.
Rolling over on the hard ground, he looked at his grandfather sleeping just a few yards away. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked down at the pitiful rack of skin and bones clutching a tattered wool blanket beside the cold remains of last night’s campfire. His white beard was stained again with fresh blood. For the last two days of their forced march to the coast, the withered old man had been so beset with coughing fits they had barely managed to keep up.
Ibrahim looked at the company of Spanish soldiers just beginning to stir in their camp a mere fifty yards away and his jaw hardened in anger. Why? Why do they hate us? He had been asking the question for months now. A Spanish cook was already making his rounds with a cup and a flask of wine. If it weren’t for the unforgiving Toledo blades they all wore at their sides, he would’ve gladly rushed them with stones and a sling shot. Sentries on the outskirts of the camp gave three blasts on their horns, a signal to the ragtag group of exiles that camp would soon be struck.
The ordeal had begun two years ago in Valencia with the edict of expulsion, but now in every village and town they passed through, the decree of Phillip III was read publicly, ordering the Moriscos to depart from their beloved Spain. He knew every word by heart:
Firstly, all the Morsicos of this Kingdom, men and women with their children, must within three days of the proclamation of this edict in their place of residence, leave their houses and embark from wherever the Commissar orders them. They may take with them whatever goods and possessions they are able to carry and embark on the ships prepared to take them to North Africa, where they will be landed without suffering, either in their own persons or in what they are carrying with them. Any ill treatment or harm by word or by deed…
Another coughing fit seized his grandfather, and when it was over, he rolled towards the fire, almost too weak to expel the blood which had filled his mouth. The old man spit as forcefully as he could. Some of it still dribbled down into his beard. Ibrahim pulled a dirty rag from his sack to wipe it off, but his grandfather protested.
“That rag hasn’t been washed in days. I can’t stand the smell. Come and sit down. We must talk.”
Ibrahim sat cross-legged in the dirt, careful to keep the soles of his feet away from his grandfather.
“My son, today you will continue your journey to the sea. The port is only a two-day march. There, you will board a ship for the lands of Islam. You will start a new life under the protection of the Caliph. If Allah wills, you will find peace. I am happy for you.”
He paused to take a breath, which only triggered another round of violent coughing and more blood. Ibrahim waited patiently for his grandfather to catch his breath and he prayed. His grandfather spit more bright red blood on the ground and then continued.
“I remember how my own grandfather spent the last fifteen years of his life bemoaning the fact that his father had not thrown in his lot with the Jews in 1492 when they were expelled from the Kingdom by Ferdinand and Isabella. He always said no Muslim should have been naïve enough to trust a Catholic promise of religious freedom. He was right.” Ibrahim nodded his head. He had heard the story many times and was in no mood to hear it again. His stomach growled with hunger, and he was eager to get their things packed before Spanish soldiers came prodding them with lances. His grandfather noticed.
“My son, I have lived in the House of War all of my life. We had hoped that Allah would restore Andalusia to the House of Islam, the house of Peace. For seventy years, we have hoped and prayed that God would strengthen the hand of the Turkish Sultan to restore our fortunes. Our prayers have gone unanswered, but Andalusia is still my home. I cannot survive the voyage and am too old to start a new life. I would rather be buried here in good earth where my fathers before me fought, married, farmed and were themselves buried than to be dumped overboard at sea. You must go on alone. ”
“No,” cried Ibrahim with a look of terror in his eyes “No, Grandfather. You're all I have. Please!” The desperation in the young boy's face grieved the old man, who stretched out his hand and put it on his head.
“If I am all you have, then you are poor indeed. Allah is your guide. I have spoken with your aunt Fatma. She has agreed to care for you.”
“But, the soldiers will kill you if you refuse to march,” protested Ibrahim. “The edict is very clear. Disobedience will be punished by death.”
“I’m already dead. Better to die a martyr in glory than a sick old man in exile.”
Ibrahim fought back the tears. His grandfather was the only family he had. Both parents had died in the fighting that broke out in Valencia two years earlier when the edict of expulsion was first proclaimed. At the time, he had been with his grandfather in Castile, and he never saw them again. His younger brothers and sister had been taken by the church and placed with Catholic families because they had been baptized at birth and were therefore considered Christians.
“Listen, my son, you must be strong. I have several things I must give you. One is especially precious. You must guard it with your life.”
Another horn blast shook the frosty morning air. Any minute now, the soldiers would be rounding them up. He pulled a leather string out from beneath his undergarment. Attached to it was a leather bag.
“Take it. It is all the gold I managed to hide from the soldiers. And this,” he said, removing a bundle from the folds of his robe and extending it towards Ibrahim, “was entrusted to me by a holy man, a mujahedeen from Granada ten years ago. When he came to our village, he was leading a small band of warriors. They were organizing a revolt against the Crown with help from the Huguenots, the Dutch and the Caliph. Their common bond was a hatred of all things Catholic, who either burn them at the stake for being heretics or launch crusades to displace our people.”
Ibrahim took the bundle and held it reverently. It was quite thick and wrapped in fine oiled sheepskin. His grandfather continued,
“We heard two weeks later that this mujahedeen had been arrested and taken before the Holy Office of the Inquisition. He was tortured for information and then burned alive. May Allah remember his sacrifice with favor. Like the other secret books circulated by our local imam, this too is written in Spanish with Arabic letters. The old man closed his eyes and rolled over onto his back.
“I can’t read. What it is I do not know, but it must be very important, or the holy man would not have been so anxious for its safety. He told me that if anything happened to him, I must give it to a Muslim merchant with orders to deliver it to the sultan. This is a most sacred trust. He gave me the gold to ensure delivery. He said there was only one other copy and that it had been taken to the Netherlands.”
Ibrahim had heard the stories for years now. The Netherlands were in open revolt against Spain for its idolatry. The Protestants were holding their own against the Church and moving closer to a pure religion that worshipped Allah and did not commit blasphemy by claiming that God had a mother. The Sultan had lent assistance to those in Hungary and Holland. The Dutch had even minted crescent-shaped coins bearing an inscription that read Rather the Turk than the Pope. This had given everyone hope. Hope that proved illusory. Hope that soured into bitterness. The descendants of the Muslim rulers of Spain were now being deported en masse. They faced starvation and servitude wherever they landed as they were forced to leave their lands and fortunes behind.
The old man looked at Ibrahim and his thin clothes.
“In my bag, you will find a robe I made just for you. Keep the manuscript concealed in the pocket I have sewn in the folds. The gold must be kept around your neck. The soldiers may search your bags before allowing you to embark.”
Ibrahim opened the pack and quickly put on the robe his grandfather had prepared. It was made of fine wool and hung perfectly about his shoulders with large folds of fabric flowing down to the top of his ankle. Next, he put the leather string around his neck, tucked the bag under his shirt, and pulled out a packet of dried apricots for his grandfather, who gently pushed his hand aside.
“I shall not eat today. Prayer is the only sustenance I need right now.”
Ibrahim pulled the prayer rug out of his bag and spread it on the ground facing east southeast. As near as he could tell, this was the direction of Mecca. His grandfather was now sitting up, and Ibrahim poured water into his hands so that he could wash before his prayers. The ice-cold water seemed to revive the old man, and he began muttering the Arabic prayers he had never understood, but had been taught from birth. When he was finished, he stood in front of the rug, crossed his hands in front of him, and began his prayers.
Several groups of people had already passed along the road looking nervously at the ritual ablution. Groups of soldiers were yelling at everyone to get moving. One noticed the old man doing his prayers and came striding towards him like a bull elephant.
“You heard the horn! There is no time for prayer. Get moving!”
The old man turned towards Mecca and kneeled on his prayer rug. This infuriated the soldier even more.
“Get off your knees, old man. You will be able to practice your heresy freely soon enough.”
Still, the old man refused to acknowledge the fact that he was being addressed, but he turned his head ever so slightly towards Ibrahim and pointed with his eyebrows to the road. Grabbing his bag, Ibrahim ran to the road and mingled with a large group of the Morisco exiles. They had seen what was happening and opened up to embrace him. The soldier was shouting now.
“Get up! Get up, you dog! Get up and go home.” He kicked the old man violently in the ribs, knocking him off the prayer rug. Ibrahim did not want to watch; he couldn’t bear it and yet he was transfixed by respect. He could not turn his back on his grandfather in this his greatest hour. He would bear solemn witness to the testimony of the man’s faith.
Soldiers and travelers alike watched the scene unfold. Coughing and out of breath, his lips stained with blood, the old man slowly pulled himself erect before the soldier.
“I am an Andalusian,” he said proudly. “This is my home.”
“Not anymore,” jeered the Spaniard. This land belongs to the Crown and to the Church, not to Catholic pretenders who practice their witchcraft in secret.”
“The Crown cannot take away my birthright. I am a son of Andalusian soil as much as you are,” he replied. “I am not leaving.”
“Not leaving?” The soldier retorted with a sneer. “Your schemes to convince the Ottoman Sultan to launch an invasion will come to nothing. And, whatever the case, you won't be here to join him if he does. Our spies have intercepted more than one of the desperate pleas your people have sent to the Port for assistance. Now move it!”
“I’m not going,” the old man repeated softly, “I have decided to stay.”
“Decided to stay, eh?” He turned to the people standing around watching. “Did you hear that? The old man has decided to stay.” He turned back and looked with disgust on the blood-stained beard, the sickly frame.
“Well, then I guess you have decided to die,” said the soldier with the glint of bloodlust in his eye. The newly risen sun flashed on a blade of Toledo steel, as it was suddenly whipped from its scabbard. The soldier placed the tip over the old man’s heart.”
“Move!” he fairly screamed.
The old man only smiled and said,
“May Allah bless you, my son.”
The soldier put his hand on the man’s shoulder and with a quick shove thrust the tip home. His body jerked. The soldier twisted the blade. The man stood unmoving. Blood began to trickle from his nose and he whispered,
“La ilaha illa Allah…”
Ibrahim could not hear the words, but he could read his lips and knew his grandfather was reciting the confession of faith. A violent shove sent the old man reeling backwards, and the soldier removed his blood-stained sword with a jerk. Ibrahim clutched his bundle even tighter as he watched his grandfather collapse in a heap on the sacred land of his fathers.
SATURDAY – Northern coast of Turkey
Chapter 1
Yusuf stood on a steep cliff in the pre-dawn stillness surrounded by hazelnut orchards overlooking the Black Sea. It was quiet, a quietness he knew would succumb to rowdy crews of Kurds hired out of the East by the locals to bring in the harvest. Yusuf had waited a long time for this day and never imagined the final operation would go down in a setting like this. For some reason, he had always pictured it happening in a ghetto quarter of Istanbul in the basement of a historic mosque, an urban shoot-out requiring that a whole block be cordoned off by the police.
His mind flashed back over the ten years of investigation - the sleepless nights, the weeks away from home, the near misses, the false leads and dead ends, and most of all he thought of the colleagues he had lost in this ideological struggle. The struggle to keep faith from being used as an instrument of oppression. His face was grim. He had on his game face, but inside he flirted with the idea of hope. He and his men were preparing to raid the villa that Bekir Kaya had reportedly entered upon his arrival in this small town. Yusuf thought it was a strange place to find the most wanted terrorist in Turkey, but then again this was probably how he had eluded capture for so long. Doing what no one expected him to do.
A stiff breeze from the north had brought relief from the August heat. In the distance, he could see several drilling platforms flaring off natural gas. It was still dark, but the eastern sky showed the faintest hint of approaching dawn as the earth rotated to expose its uppermost crust to a blazing summer sun. Until recently, the small sleepy town of Akçakoca had been primarily a vacation destination for the middle-class residents of Ankara, who had built summer homes on the steep slopes overlooking the Black Sea. The town boasted the closest beach to the capital city and so naturally it had attracted investment early on. The population doubled to more than seventy thousand in the summer months and became a bustling magnet for domestic tourists, but the tourist season was short.
The cool waters of the Black Sea were only warm enough to swim for two and a half months from mid-June to late August, so for nine and a half months, Akçakoca was practically a ghost town. That had changed slightly with the discovery of natural gas off the coast. There had been an influx of technical personnel working on the platforms and natural gas pipelines and this had brought new life to the city. All of these developments had been positive and welcomed by the residents, but now there was an evil in their midst that most knew nothing about.
A full moon danced on the silent waters below and Yusuf could just make out the villas and small multi-family residences built into the steep hillside. The policeman at his side pointed to a magnificent villa and though Yusuf could not see them, he knew that there were at least twenty plainclothes policemen and counter terrorism agents hiding in the hazelnut orchards surrounding the building. He looked at his watch. In fifteen minutes, they would raid this building. The policeman began to lead him through the orchard to his position.
The capture of Bekir Kaya, one of the masterminds behind the Turkish arm of Hizbullah, would be the biggest break they had had since 1999 when Abdullah Öcalan, the leader of the PKK, the left-leaning Kurdish separatist group that had plagued Turkey for almost thirty years, was captured in Kenya. This time, their lucky break had come from an undercover agent working at the Harem bus-station in Istanbul, who had told them just last night that he had made positive identification of their quarry.
Yusuf had been tracking this man ever since the organization was crippled by a series of operations in 2000. One of the leaders, Hüseyin Velioğlu, had been killed in a police raid in Beykoz that led to the recovery of forty-one computer hard disks. However, twenty-four of these had been effectively destroyed since they were riddled with bullets during the ensuing firefight. However[LF1] , the Turkish government finally requested assistance from the FBI and eventually a significant amount of information was reclaimed. What they learned was shocking. Certain members of the intelligence community and the government had been working with Hizbullah to use its fanatical religious ideology against the leftist PKK.
Yusuf had known before he signed up to work in counter-terrorism that in Turkey it was an especially dirty business, but after his older brother was killed by the PKK in an ambush while doing his mandatory military service, he swore to his father that he would devote his life to the eradication of terrorism in their beloved homeland. Twenty years later, he wondered if it had been worth it, especially after learning how the state had itself founded or funded some of these terrorist groups either to create opposition to another group or to further its own interests through non-state actors. Like Joseph, his namesake of old, had found favor in the eyes of Pharaoh, Yusuf had found somehow managed to rise in the ranks of one corrupt government after another. The reason was simple. He was a man of honor and virtue and even the most corrupt were in need of men with character. The real miracle was that he had remained untainted and uncompromised after all these years.
Yusuf looked down at his watch. It was time. The leaders of each team were fitted with an ear-piece and they all heard him give the command.
“Ok, boys. I know you want to see this lowlife swinging from the end of a rope, but do your best to take Bekir alive. This does not apply to his comrades. In fact, he will probably be more willing to cooperate if he sees some of their brain matter splattered on the wall. Now, go!”
Yusuf heard a tiny explosion blow the lock on the front door and then it was pandemonium. His men burst through the door shouting, “Down, down, everybody down!” Before he even entered the building, the first thing he noticed was the screams of women. What the hell is going on here? The big open room of the villa was empty. He headed for one of the side rooms. It was full of scantily clad young women, some speaking Russian, but others speaking languages he did not know. They were all screaming so that he could not even hear his men. He told them to shut up in Turkish. This did no good. He went back into the main room and saw his men moving in pairs from room to room, weapons at the ready and one team was moving up the stairs. It was over in less than 3 minutes. Every room in the villa had been searched and there was not a man in the place much less the terrorist they sought. Yusuf felt himself begin to lose control. Curses flowed like red-hot lava from his mouth. None of the team leaders dared to look at him. He spun around looking for the local police sergeant,
“Son, did you bring me all the way from Ankara to raid a brothel? What in the hell is going on here?”
“Captain Yıldız, I can assure you that we saw Bekir enter this villa and no one has entered or left since then.”
“Then, why isn’t he here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. Well, you had damned well better find out!”
Yusuf turned to his lieutenant.
“Move all of the women into the main room. Have you checked the attic and the basement?”
“We have checked the attic and as far as we can tell there is no basement.”
“Really? That is odd. So, why are all of these women here with no guards? They may be here for pleasure but it is not their pleasure that keeps them here.”
“Sir, all the windows are custom-designed with key locks on them.”
Yusuf looked around the room. The young women were all crowded into the main room. They were clearly from several different countries and spoke different languages but they had one thing in common. They were all drop-dead gorgeous. None of them looked older than twenty-five and several looked like they might even be teenagers. Most were crying, some were trying to communicate in broken Turkish, but they all had a look of desperation in their eyes. Yusuf raised his voice and asked in Turkish,
“Where are the men who were guarding you?”
There was no response. Then he tried in Russian, “Где находятся люди, которые за вами наблюдают?”
Several of the women began speaking so rapidly he could barely follow. He silenced them with a wave of his hand and said, “Говорите, но не все сразу.”
A tall, brunette stepped forward. She looked intelligent and when she spoke it was slowly and deliberately as if to make sure that he could easily follow what she was saying. He listened for a moment, asked one question and then began barking orders and walking toward a corner bedroom with the woman in tow. Most of the bedrooms were quite plain. White curtains on the windows, no paintings on the walls or decorations of any kind, a double-bed with large pillows and a small table beside the bed. This one, however, was much more opulent. The curtains were thick, green velvet. At the center of the room was a tall, four-poster bed, draped with beautiful tapestries. There was a long, but low chest of drawers opposite the bed with a huge mirror that covered most of the wall hanging above it. A gigantic Persian rug that looked like it might be hand-woven silk covered almost the entire floor.
The young lady pointed to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. It was an ominous piece of walnut furniture and was unusually wide. He ordered two of his men to move it, but the tall brunette walked up to the door, opened it and pointed to the floor. Yusuf followed her finger down to a steel trapdoor. The wardrobe itself was completely empty. In a low voice, Yusuf immediately ordered everyone out of the room. He left one man at the door to keep watch and walked back into the room where all the women had been gathered. He spoke briefly with the young woman who had directed them to the bedroom and then walked out of the building with his lieutenant and two sergeants.
“If that son-of-a-donkey is hiding underneath that door, there is almost no chance of us taking him alive. If we blow the door, then we are likely to kill whoever is down there and if we try to cut through it with a torch, then they are likely to blow the whole place up and kill themselves and a few of us.”
He felt trapped. He felt cheated. His lieutenant broke the silence.
“Sir, I know you want him alive, but if dead is the only option then we will have to settle for that.”
“Believe me, I want him dead more than I do alive.”
The lieutenant nodded in agreement. “But, since those are not our orders, your only option is to get a torch and cut the hinges off. I’m sure there are internal bolts turned by the lock so it will be faster to work on the hinges.”
Yusuf quickly weighed his options.
“I suppose you are right. Get a welder down here. Do we have anyone who can operate an acetylene torch?”
“Yes sir. Several of us can.”
Yusuf managed a weak smile.
“Then, make sure you are not the one doing it. I can’t afford to lose you. In the meantime, let’s put up a few floodlights and make sure the perimeter stays tight. No one in or out without our knowledge. And, get a bullhorn in here so we can tell this walking dead man he is surrounded and he must surrender.”
It was the lieutenant’s turn to smile.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll come right out with his hands behind his head.”
“That would be too bad,” said Yusuf coldly, “Because then we couldn’t shoot the bastard.”
Yusuf watched his lieutenant as he walked towards the men. He was glad to be working with Murat again. They had met in university and taken Russian together. Transfers had kept them apart more than together. Fortunately, his rise in the ranks had given him the right to have a hand in shaping his own team and his first decision had been to bring in Murat.
He turned back to the villa and noticed that the local police chief had just driven up. He hated dealing with officers in these small towns. They were usually pompous idiots, but he had to be professional, so he immediately walked up and greeted the man.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Captain. So, the man you were looking for wasn’t there?”
“Well, we think he may be hiding in a basement.”
The police chief looked surprised.
“Does the villa have a basement? The plans we obtained from the zoning office show it to be a simple two-storey building with no underground structure.”
“Well, we found a steel trap door in the floor so I assume it leads somewhere. We are bringing in a torch now to cut off the hinges so we can open the door.”
“I see. What in the world are all of these women doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same question. You’re the law in this town.”
The police chief faked a look of innocent ignorance.
“We’ve heard rumors of foreign prostitutes plying their trade here, but this is the first time we have actually had more than rumor to go on.”
Yusuf struggled to control the anger he felt rushing into his brain. You lying bastard. Over twenty foreign women held against their will, forced into prostitution, and you know nothing about it in a town this size?
“Well, I think you need to see the situation for yourself,” said Yusuf.
“Actually, I have asked one of my lieutenants to handle these women. I assume they are all here illegally and without work visas, but we will need to document everything carefully. It’s immoral sluts like these that corrupt our youth. They encourage drug use and spread STDs. This whole sordid affair will require an extensive investigation.”
“Which is exactly why I think you should come inside and see the situation for yourself,” insisted Yusuf again.
“I would love to, Captain,” responded the police chief, “But, the governor of Düzce will be here shortly for a ribbon-cutting ceremony at the new pipe factory, and I am going to be personally overseeing security for his visit, so I really don't have the time.”
He paused and then added with a jerk of his head towards the women.
“It is sad really that the Europeans cannot keep their women.”
“What do you mean?” asked Yusuf, fully aware of the direction the conversation was about to take.
“Well, you know what they say around here,” continued the police chief, “‘Keep a child in their stomach and a rod on their back.’ That’s the only way to keep a woman in submission.”
Now, Yusuf was at the boiling point.
“Can you give me just a moment, Chief?”
“Of course.”
Yusuf looked back at his men and saw Murat was still there. He shouted something in Russian to him and turned back to the police chief.
“Well, for my report, why don’t you tell me briefly what specific instructions were given to the team guarding the house after you received word from my office.”
Yusuf already knew what had happened because he had talked to both of the sergeants in charge, but he needed to keep the police chief here a few more minutes. He feigned interest as the police chief droned on about how seriously they had taken the orders from Ankara and about how they had followed standard protocol in setting up the watch. He was clearly concerned as he knew that any incompetence on his part in an operation as important as this one could cost him his job. Yusuf heard Murat address him in Russian from the front door and turned to see him standing there with the tall brunette and two other women. The police chief, however, kept talking and was facing away from the front door to the villa. Yusuf put his head down as if in thought and took several steps towards the villa. Then, he interrupted the police chief and asked,
“Now, who did you say was on the team you sent?”
The police chief turned and followed him and Yusuf looked up at the lieutenant standing in the doorway some twenty yards away. He saw two of the three women shake their heads vigorously. It was enough. He stopped and put his hand on the police chief’s shoulder.
“I will be sure to put it all in the report. Thank you for your time. I know that you have had a busy day today.”
“I wasn’t quite finished.”
“Of course, but the report doesn't need to have all the details, does it? Give my regards to the governor.”
“Do you know him?”
“He was my classmate in high school.”
“Then, I will be sure to convey your greetings.”
Yusuf continued walking towards the villa and took the lieutenant back into the main room.
“So, they’re sure?”
“Yes, two of them. Were absolutely positive.”
“Fine. Call Özer in Ereğli and tell him we want a bus, and we need it immediately.”
He looked through the open door of the villa to see his men unloading oxygen tanks and torch equipment. He wanted these women out of the building. It might not be safe. He walked over to the couch and stood on it so everyone could see him and then, in Russian, he said,
“We believe there is a terrorist hiding in the basement of this building. He may be armed, and he may have explosives. I need all of you to dress warmly and move outside. My men will assist you.” It wasn’t cold out, but he couldn't remember the word for "modest" and he didn’t want to expose them to the hungry stares of dozens of men.
Murat had brought in the torch, and his men were moving the acetylene tanks into the back bedroom.
He moved towards the men and said, “Remember, I only want three people in the room with me, one operating the torch, one with his gun trained on that door and one to help remove the trap door once the hinges are off. Put your headlamps on high-beam. If they are down there in the dark and don't blow us all to kingdom come when the door opens, they will be momentarily blinded when the door is jerked off and our light floods the basement. When I start talking into the bullhorn, you start cutting. I won't stop until you have cut off both hinges. With any luck, they won't be able to hear the torch over the bullhorn, and it will give us a tiny edge when we open the door.”
They entered the room quietly. He took a deep breath, turned the volume on the bullhorn all the way up and nodded. Yılmaz lit the torch and Yusuf began what sounded like a sincere attempt to persuade the terrorist to surrender. It was not as difficult as he imagined it might be to keep the words flowing. He just kept talking about how escape was impossible and how cooperation and surrender were the best course of action. They had estimated it would take four minutes to cut through both hinges. It turned out to be about three and a half. Yusuf drew his sidearm, a Ghost TR01, and trained it on the door. The man at his side had a fully automatic H&K G3 pointed at what was about to be a cavernous black hole. Yusuf gave the signal and the other two men, lifted the door and jerked it aside.
Yusuf had expected shouts of Allahüekber, gunshots or an explosion, but they were greeted with silence, and their headlamps revealed only a steel ladder leading down into blackness. Yusuf continued talking through the bullhorn, telling Bekir and his men to lay down their arms while one of the men threw a canister of teargas through the door.
“It’s a bloody tunnel not a basement.”
Yusuf shouted for Murat while the three men pulled on their gas masks. They waited forty-five seconds and then descended the ladder. Murat rushed into the room.
“What is it, Captain?”
“It's a damn tunnel. That's what it is. I have a bad feeling about this. Call the Navy base in Ereğli. See if they have a chopper they can spare for us.”
“A chopper?”
“Yeah, and a coast guard cutter.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, this tunnel either comes out down by the shore or in a grove of trees somewhere. We need to have some eyes in the air as soon as the sun comes up and that means we have to hurry. I don’t know if these low-life scumbags are on land or at sea, but they damn sure aren't underground.”
“Right away, Sir”
“And get a team up here to sweep the room for DNA samples. I want to know if Bekir was in this room.”
Yusuf walked out into the main room and was about to sit down on one of the couches when he heard one of his men arguing with a local policeman. He wearily changed course and headed for the front door. When he walked out the door, there were several uniformed policeman trying to herd the women unto buses and one of his men was arguing with the police lieutenant.
“Good morning, Lieutenant. Would you mind telling me what the hell you think you are doing?” asked Yusuf.
“Good morning, Captain,” replied the lieutenant, “I have orders to take all of these prostitutes down to the station for identification and questioning.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen,” said Yusuf matter-of-factly.
The lieutenant was a heavy-set man with a huge nose. His accent told Yusuf he was probably from the Aegean region, either Uşak or Denizli.
“Sir, with all due respect, you are the captain of a counter-terrorism unit. Your job is to capture terrorists. Our job is to deal with petty crimes and misdemeanors. Let us do our job. We have dealt with whores like these before. We will handle these sluts, and they will pay dearly for seducing our young men and corrupting our family values.”
Yusuf felt his blood pressure rising again.
“These women may have valuable evidence regarding the whereabouts of our suspect. They will be transported to Ankara for questioning and issues regarding residency and work permits can be dealt with there.”
The lieutenant acted shocked.
“Sir, you can’t be serious.”
“About what?”
“About trusting an infidel, much less a prostitute to give you accurate information.”
“Lieutenant, last time I checked, Turkey was still a secular republic that prohibited discrimination based on race, gender or religion. These people are human beings. They have rights and I have reason to believe that they were held here against their will.”
The lieutenant bristled. He was clearly unaccustomed to dealing with people like Yusuf.
“Captain, with all due respect, you know how loose and promiscuous these foreigners are, especially the women. They have no honor. It is a shame that they are allowed to enter the country at all. Just look at what they do?”
Yusuf lost it.
“‘Look at what they do’, you say? Who are they fornicating with, Lieutenant? Themselves? Every province in the country has at least one state-run brothel. How many have you visited?”
“A couple. Before I was married.” He said it without any shame.
“And how many of those women were named Fatma, Ayşe, Ebru or Selin?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then tell me, you self-righteous, jackass, how many of them were foreigners?”
The lieutenant looked down at the ground. Yusuf moved closer and fairly screamed in his ear.
“How many were foreigners?”
The lieutenant shifted his weight uncomfortably and continued staring at the ground. In a flash, Yusuf drew his revolver, chambered a round and put it to the lieutenant’s head. Several policemen drew their weapons and shouted at the captain to lower his weapon. Yusuf ignored them as he did the pleas from his own men.
“Answer me right now, or so help me God, I will blow your brains out.”
“One. I only saw one foreigner.”
“And did you sleep with her?”
The lieutenant was shaking now and started babbling a prayer in Arabic, which infuriated Yusuf all the more.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time. Did you sleep with her?”
“No. She was too expensive.”
“So, you were banging a good Muslim girl, ey? I thought it was these foreign women who had no morals. You know, the problem with people like you is your sense of honor is restricted to your own mother, wife and daughters. Lieutenant, it is people like you who give Allah a bad reputation and if there is a hell, I expect your little corner is particularly hot.”
Yusuf lowered his weapon, leaned close to the lieutenant’s ear and whispered.
“Two of these prostitutes have already identified your police chief as a regular customer. So, tell your boys to back off, load them up and go home right now, or Ankara and my friends in the army are going to make the torture of Laurence of Arabia look like foreplay by comparison. As for that lying son-of-a-donkey you call a police chief, tell him I hope he enjoyed his time with the girls because I am going to see to it that he is surrounded by nothing but boys for the next ten years in a state penitentiary. Abuse of power and abetting organized crime are not going to sit well with a jury of good Muslims.”
The lieutenant turned to his men and addressed them in a shaky tone,
“It’s alright, men. The captain has had a stressful day. No harm done. Leave the women. They are material witnesses in the case. We’ll let counter-terrorism take them back to Ankara.”
The men grumbled but put their weapons down. In two minutes, they had all loaded up in their white and blue mini-vans and were driving away. Yusuf turned back towards the villa just in time to see the first rays of the sun rising over the mountain.
“Murat!”
“Yes sir.”
“What did the men find in that tunnel?”
“Sir, it comes out near the beach. The exit was very cleverly disguised as a culvert. There are footprints leading down to the beach and into the water. It looks like they may have boarded a boat.”
“I'm not taking any chances. Any word from the Navy base?”
“There’s a chopper on the way, and they have sent two boats. Özer says that the bus for the women should be here within fifteen to twenty minutes.”
“Call the governors of Zonguldak and Düzce. I want roadblocks on every highway and have them send Bekir’s picture to every roadblock team.”
*******************
Twenty-five nautical miles north of Turkey’s Black Sea coast, the sun rose on a small boat carrying eight men who pulled alongside a container ship under the flag of Qatar. The FAL rifles slung on their backs, the grenades on their belts and the wetsuits made them look like a team of commandos. A ladder was lowered over the side and one by one the men climbed up.
“As-salamu alaykum.”
“Wa Alaykum As-salam. Thanks for picking us up ahead of schedule.”
“My pleasure, Bekir. Run into a little trouble?”
“Yes, but with Allah’s favor we gave them the slip.”
“The favor and protection of Allah is the only thing that can explain why you’re still alive.”
“Alhamdulillah. May Allah be praised.”
“So, what are our orders, Bekir? Do we head straight for Moldavia?”
“Yes. Can your crew be trusted?”
“All of the grunts are Gagauz Turks who graduated from our schools in Moldavia.”
“So, they are all converts?”
“Yes. Our schools are tremendous evangelical tools.”
Bekir smiled. “Every idea’s time comes sooner or later. It’s our turn now.”
Read Chapter Two ...
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