“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I still don’t remember you. I don’t mean to appear impolite, but I really do need to return to my studies.”
Zeki’s voice hardened.
“Let’s stop the pretending. You are no more a priest than I am a student of theology.”
He took off his tinted glasses and continued.
“Look at me again and imagine me with hair. My name is Öztürk. Zeki Öztürk. Do you know me now?”
An I’ll-be-damned look that signaled recognition spread across his face. He had found another piece to the puzzle.
“I thought you might have seen a picture of me in your briefings over the last week.”
Zeki pulled out his cell phone and extended it towards the man.
“The original you came to steal was apparently taken by your beloved leader Fatih Gülben. This is a picture of him taken yesterday standing in this very room.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as he studied the photo and he looked around the room to see if it really had been taken there. He immediately recognized the shelf and window directly in front of him. Zeki continued.
“You probably didn’t know he was in town. I’m sure they kept it very quiet. What I don’t understand though is why they sent you to steal the G.O.B. today. You see, he was the last person to check it out, just yesterday in fact. Now, I can walk over there with you and we can ‘discover’ this fraud together, and your beloved leader will get the public blame for the theft. Or, I can tell them that you are only posing as Father Franchini and give them the real man’s telephone number to confirm it while you wait here for the police, and your beloved leader
still
gets blamed for the theft while you go to jail for using false ID.”
“How do I know anything you say is true? And, how do I know that you have framed us for this?”
Zeki pointed back to the desk where a line had begun to form.
“Put your cell phone on the table, get in line, and go ask to see the sign-in registry. Look at yesterday’s entries. It’s all there.”
The man sat for a moment, processing this sudden turn of events. Zeki put his elbow on the table and placed his chin on the heel of his hand, staring intently into the man’s eyes.
“Don’t even think of leaving the building. If you walk out before my friends receive the ‘all-clear’ signal from me, you’re a dead man.”
The man hesitated.
“I’m not asking you,” Zeki said softly. “I’m telling you. Now, go.”
The man placed his phone on the table, got up and walked over to the check-out desk. Zeki guessed he was thinking of a credible reason for asking the library attendants to let him see the registry. Five minutes later, he sat back down across from Zeki.
“What do you want?”
“I want to kill you,” said Zeki gravely. “But, I’m not going to, at least not yet.”
The man slowly moved one hand under the table.
“You’re not thinking clearly,” said Zeki calmly. “Remember what I said about leaving this building. Now, there is one option I haven’t mentioned. You give me the name of the person who organized this little ruse, put him on the phone right now, and I will make sure the world never finds out that Fatih Gülben, the self-proclaimed preacher of tolerance and interfaith dialogue, stole the Gospel of Barnabas from the National Library of Austria.”
“I don’t know who the architect is. I’m only following instructions.”
“Okay, have it your way.” Zeki began to stand up.
“No, wait,” the man whispered.
“Are you out of London?” asked Zeki.
“Yes.” Zeki could hear the resignation in his voice.
“Who runs the office there?”
The man leaned forward and whispered through his teeth.
“You know I can’t tell you that. They’d kill me. You might as well tell your men outside to knock me off when I leave the building.”
Zeki sighed and shook his head.
“You know, I’m not sure you have the ingenuity and intellect required for this job. It is hardly your fault that I’m here today. Your operations were compromised much higher up. I’m sure you’ll figure out how to put the right spin on everything.”
Zeki paused to let the man think it over. They always needed a minute to think it over, no matter how obvious the choices were. Again, it was Zeki who broke the silence.
“I can see the headlines tomorrow. ‘Leading Islamic Scholar Steals Controversial Gospel.’ And to think that you could have prevented that bad press. I wonder what your boss will say when he learns you didn’t.”
“What do you want to know?”
The game had begun. Now, he could use the information from the key-logger.
“Does Salih run the London office?”
“Yes.”
“But, he’s not the architect?”
“No.”
“His last name?”
“I don’t know. Everything is first name basis only. And that might not even be his real name.”
“How is DC connected to Waqf International Trading Ltd.?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who gives London its orders?” asked Zeki.
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit!” said Zeki. “I want to know who is at the top.”
The man just shook his head and looked straight into Zeki’s eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Is it Ahmet? In Cairo?”
The man’s pupils immediately dilated. The telltale sign of fear and adrenaline.
“I don’t know any Ahmet.”
Zeki sat there processing the man’s body language. By looking into Zeki’s eyes, he was trying to communicate honesty to cover for the lie. The clenched jaw told Zeki the man was digging in. Working with amateurs was so tiresome.
“You’re stone-walling me. I’m sitting here with all the cards and you’re stone-walling me. You’re gambling with your life here. Start talking or I’m walking.”
“I’m telling you the truth. The different teams are isolated for protection.”
Zeki slid the man’s phone over to him.
“Then you need to start making some phone calls. If I don’t speak with the man who had Gilbert O’Brien’s family kidnapped, I walk away and you deal with the fallout.”
CHAPTER
63
I
STANBUL
The phone on the table rang. Gilbert looked at the screen. It was Zeki. He waited for the second ring. It never came.
“That’s our signal,” was all he said.
He punched in Kiyomi’s number. It was 3:30 in the morning there. It rang six times and then went to voice mail.
“Hi Kiyomi, this is Gilbert. Tell them to call me at 90 535 222 5482.”
“So, what do we do now?” asked Gwyn
“We wait. It won’t be long and when they call, we’ll need to be moving, so gather your things.”
The phone rang again. He looked at the number. It was Kiyomi. He was sure the call would be monitored. It was time for him to return some favors.
“Hello, Kiyomi . . . I’m fine, thanks. I just need you to give them this number, so they can contact me . . . No, I can’t tell you what this is about . . . Do you know where I am . . . Good. Do you know what I’m doing? . . . Good. Do you know who is trying to get in touch with me? . . . Good. Kiyomi, I’m sorry you had to be involved at all, but for your own safety, I had to keep you completely out of the loop. If you know nothing, then you will be safe . . . The FBI? . . . So, they’ve involved the office, have they? Well, for your own piece of mind, I did nothing wrong . . . No, I won’t be calling you again. In fact, I need to go. So long, Kiyomi. You were the best . . .”
He hung up the phone and looked around the room.
“All of us need to go. They will be calling me any minute, or maybe they’ll try to triangulate my location. You guys go back to the hotel. I’ll stay mobile and in crowded areas until they call. Don’t use this phone. Use the other one if you have to reach me.”
><><><
C
AIRO
Jabbar watched Ahmet walk into the office. He was late again and the look on his face made everyone who saw him avert their eyes. He was clearly in a foul mood, but Jabbar’s news couldn’t wait. He walked up to his boss and said, “
As-salamu alaykum
. I trust you slept well.”
He obviously hadn’t as he didn’t even return the customary greeting.
“Is it important?” asked Ahmet flatly.
“It’s our contact in the Sudanese Ministry of Internal Affairs, sir. He has called twice this morning asking when the transfer will take place.”
“Has he signed and returned the memorandum of understanding?”
“He says it should arrive today by private courier.”
“What about the guarantees we demanded?”
“The bonds will be delivered with the memorandum.”
“When we receive and confirm the authenticity of the signatures and the bonds, then we will transfer the money and not a minute sooner. Have the call to Gilbert’s secretary ready to go in thirty minutes.”
Ahmet continued towards his office and Jabbar heard him swear under his breath. “The brazen, blackmailing bastards! Fifty million dollars for
us
to improve
their
image with the world. They should be paying us a reputation consultancy fee.”
Ahmet sat down at his desk, turned on his computer and took a sip from the glass of piping hot tea that was always sitting on his desk when he arrived. The computer’s login screen came up. He pulled the first knuckle of his ring finger across the fingerprint scanner, grabbed the TV remote and turned on Al-Jazeera. The lead story was still the bombings in Turkey the day before. He watched for a couple of minutes and then flicked it off, satisfied with what he saw. The spin on the story was exactly what his team had crafted the previous day.
He turned to his email. There were only two messages in his inbox. One was from Gülben’s assistant. He opened it and skimmed the short paragraph, which was merely a request for a status report on their contacts in Sudan and Yemen. He typed out a short summary and hit send. The other was from the bank. He clicked on the email and reached for his tea. But his arm froze with the glass halfway to his mouth as he read the content of the email. It was an electronic notice of transfer on an account belonging to Waqf International Trading Ltd., one of their many holding companies. This particular company had neither employees nor non-cash assets. None of this was strange. He received a notice every time he made a transfer. The problem was he hadn’t made a transfer and certainly not one for sixty-two million dollars. But that is what had just happened. Sixty-two million dollars had been sent to an account in Bermuda just over an hour ago.
A surge of emotions—fear, incredulity, anger and suspicion—flooded his mind, accompanied by a cascade of chemicals that made his heart race even though he was sitting down. He could feel his hand beginning to shake. He set the tea glass down on his desk and took a deep breath. The note said it all.
First installment on life insurance payment for the late Prof. Ian O’Brien.