“It certainly looks that way, sir.”
“Get a warrant,” snapped McIntosh. “I want him in my office this afternoon.”
CHAPTER
81
Professor Brown fumbled for half a minute, trying to line the key up with the keyhole, before realizing that he had the key upside down. This was when he noticed his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He flipped the key over, slid it into the keyhole and turned the lock. When the door did not immediately respond, he felt a moment of alarm, which quickly subsided. It was only the deadbolt. Seconds later, he had found the proper key. When the door finally swung open, he slipped into his apartment, locked the door, and leaned back on it with a sigh of relief, glad to be off the street where he had felt naked and exposed.
His anxiety was understandable. Cairo had called half an hour ago to inform him of the raid on Salih’s office and told him to go to a safe house in Newham. They didn’t say anything about the explosion. They didn’t have to. He knew what protocol was. It was what they didn’t say that bothered him. Nothing was said about how Salih had been compromised or why they thought he might be in danger. He held up his hand up to see if it was still shaking. It was.
Then, he remembered the security alarm, turned to his right and swung the picture of Tariq ibn Ziyad away from the wall. There was no blinking light to indicate that the alarm was armed, but he never noticed that anyway. A prickly chill ran down his spine, raising goose bumps on a balmy August afternoon. He was staring at a sticky note over the keypad with two short handwritten lines:
Why Hüdavendigar?
Is MS 9653 real?
“Holy shit!” he said, reaching for the note.
A voice came from the study behind him.
“Turn around slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Brown jumped in fright and spun around to find Zeki Öztürk standing sideways in the doorway of the study. He closed his eyes and said, “Allah help us,” as he raised his hands.
“You look a bit distraught, Professor.”
Brown struggled to regain composure.
“How did you get in here?”
“The door.”
“If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police.”
“That is the one thing I’m quite sure you will not do.”
“That’s preposterous,” said Brown, lowering his hands to retrieve his cell phone from his pocket.
Zeki raised the Vintorez sniper rifle concealed at his side, slipped off the safety and pointed it directly at the man’s chest.
“Hands in the air! I won’t say it again. The next time you reach for a phone, the only thing your downstairs neighbor will hear is the thud of your dead corpse hitting the floor.”
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on here. Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
“But, I asked my questions first.”
“I beg your pardon . . .”
“Why Hüdavendigar?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“The
tugra
at the bottom of the document Professor O’Brien found, the center piece of the calligraphy display on the wall in your study. The seal of Murad I. Why does your group use that symbol?”
“My group? Listen, if you’d only put down that gun, I’m sure we can sort this out. There must be some mix-up.”
“Stop playing games with me, Dr. Brown. You know who I am. You’ve seen pictures of me in your briefings. The new bald look may have been a surprise, but I’m confident you see past that. There is one thing, though, that you may not have learned about me. I’m an impatient man, especially with liars and cowards. I’d rather shoot you than listen to your sniveling denials.”
Zeki paused to give the man time to process the warning and then continued.
“Though Fate has ordained that I should be your executioner, you get to decide how quick and painless it will be, and that is no small thing.”
“My executioner?” returned Brown with dismay. “I had nothing to do with Professor O’Brien’s death.”
Zeki sighed, “You also seem to have forgotten that I was with Turkish intelligence before the Europeans interfered with all their nonsense about human rights and how ineffective torture is. I might be a little rusty, but it’s like riding a bike. You never forget how to break somebody.”
Zeki stepped away from the study door and motioned with the barrel of the gun.
“Into the office.”
“You have to believe me. I’m innocent. Can’t we just talk about this in a civilized manner?”
Brown’s attempt to mask his fear with a calm tone failed. His voice cracked.
“I like that suggestion. I’ll ask the questions and you answer, fully and as calmly as you are able.”
“You’re making a mistake,” protested Brown.
“It wouldn’t be the first time, though it would be unfortunate for you.”
Brown walked into his study to find his chair had been moved to the front of the desk.
“There is one zip tie in the chair,” said Zeki. “Sit down and secure it tightly around both feet. There is another loosely attached to each armrest. Slide one arm through and tighten it with the other hand. Then, slip the other arm through the loop and tighten it with your teeth.”
Brown stood for a moment with his back to Zeki. Then, he walked over to the chair, turned around and sat down with a look of defiance.
“I’ll answer your questions, but I’m not going to restrain myself.”
Zeki pointed the gun between the man’s legs, squeezed the trigger and sprayed several bullets into the wood floor. The sound of splintering oak was much louder than the whisper of the rounds being fired.
“Subsonic 9 mm rounds,” said Zeki matter-of-factly. “I could shoot you in a crowd and no one would even know a shot had been fired. Next time, I’ll put a round in both shoulder joints.”
Without a word, Brown did as Zeki had instructed him. When he was finished, Zeki pulled up a simple wooden chair he had brought from the kitchen and sat down in front of Brown.
“Now, why do you have the seal of
Hüdavendigar
featured so prominently in the display on that wall?” Zeki asked, pointing at the large center piece.
“I don’t understand why it matters,” returned Brown dryly.
“Because, like you, I’m a scholar and inquiring minds want to know.”
Brown said nothing. Zeki cleared his throat.
“Do you know how Professor O’Brien was killed?”
“I told you I don’t know anything about that.”
“But, what you
mean
is that you weren’t there when it happened, which is different from not knowing anything.”
Brown was silent. Zeki stood up, walked to the desk behind him and continued.
“Professor O’Brien suffocated from a fluid buildup in his lungs caused by an adverse reaction. The sodium thiopental your people gave him proved to be lethal when combined with his prescription medication.”
“That sounds like an accidental death, not murder,” replied Brown, straining to see what Zeki was doing behind him.
“Don’t be antsy, Professor. I assure there will be no accidents here.”
Suddenly and without warning, Zeki pulled a clear plastic bag down over Brown’s face. He placed his hands on top the man’s head and slid them down, squeezing out any air pockets and then twisted it tightly at the back of his neck. Brown struggled violently, a wild look of terror in his eyes. Zeki held Brown’s head back against the chair and silently counted to forty. Brown swung his legs back and forth and rocked the chair in an attempt to knock it over, but Zeki held him tight. Then, he bent down close to Brown’s ear and said:
“This, Professor, is similar to what my friend Ian was feeling in his last moments, fighting for air, just like you are doing now, but unable to get any. I’m only going to take this bag off one time. If you don’t start talking to the point, it goes back on to stay. Are we clear?”
Brown nodded his head vigorously. Zeki removed the bag, walked back to his chair and sat down, leaving Brown bent over in the chair, gasping for breath.
“I started with the easy question and will not go on until I’ve received an answer. Why Hüdavendigar?”
“You know as well as I,” said Brown laboring for breath.
“I can guess. To know, I need you to confirm my suspicions.”
“Consider them confirmed.”
“Isn’t that interesting? I am here to avenge the death of Ian O’Brien, who was murdered because your group is still avenging the death, seven hundred years ago, of a Turkish Sultan. Vicious cycle, isn’t it?”
“It was treachery. The Serbian infidel feigned allegiance.”
“Apparently, he was fighting according to your rules!” responded Zeki, his voice dripping sarcasm.
“It was
Iblis,
who goaded the Christian to take the life of Allah’s warrior on the field of victory. Sultan Murat I symbolizes who we are. He was the founder of the empire, the first sultan, a visionary who longed for the emancipation of Europe from superstition and idolatry.”
“You mean a tyrant who taxed his Christian subjects in gold and blood, taking their brightest and healthiest children and raising them as Muslim soldiers or harem decorations.”
“It was a magnanimous policy that elevated them to many high positions they would have never have achieved without Islam.”
“I doubt their parents viewed being the Sultan’s whore as upward mobility. Nor do I suppose it pleased them that their sons were the Janissary forces used to crush dissent and expand the empire.”
“They were proud of their sovereign and faithful to his religion. You speak like an infidel!”
Zeki shrugged off the slur.
“All dreams of empire end because day breaks in the hearts of the slaves used to build it. What about Manuscript 9653?”
Brown held his tongue.
“Was the plot hatched in Tunis or Istanbul?” asked Zeki.
“I don’t know. No one does.”
“That was the point, wasn’t it?
Erase every trace . . .
Oh well, tell me about your London organization.”
“I have only one contact.”
“Phone number?”
Brown looked at the plastic bag in Zeki’s hand and wished it were the gun instead.
“07714 652222.”
Zeki removed a slip of paper from his shirt pocket.
“Let me check that,” he responded coolly, unfolding the paper and dropping the plastic bag to retrieve the pen from his pocket as well. “You see, I can verify much of what I’m asking. Yes, that number is correct. Keep going. I want to know everything.”
“I know very little. Everyone in the order is insulated from the others for security. The only man I ever spoke with or met was Salih. That was his telephone number.”
“What else?” said Zeki patiently.
“I maintained three blogs under different aliases. Coded messages were left in the comments.”
Zeki wrote down the names of the websites as Brown coded them out.