Authors: Will Adams
‘No,’ she said.
He pushed her down in the sand, rummaged through her pack. A water bottle and some energy bars, her silencer, a hunting knife and a spare torch, but three dozen extra bullets too. ‘You lie pretty well,’ he said, zipping her pouches back up. ‘Were you lying about your boyfriend too? What man of honour would lead a coup against his own government?’
‘They started it,’ she scowled furiously. ‘They wanted all the power for themselves and so they deliberately destroyed good men. They called them traitors. They called my father a traitor!
My father!
All he’d ever done was serve his country and yet …’ She shook her head, blinked back tears. ‘They asked for everything they’re going to get tonight, believe me. Tonight is
justice
.’
Iain frowned. There was something too emphatic about her words. That was when he realized. ‘You’re going after the Prime Minister himself, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Assassinate him and maybe his cabinet too, then declare a state of emergency and step in. Arrest all your enemies and stop the bombing and everyone will hail you as saviours.’
‘We
are
saviours.’
‘Sure,’ scoffed Iain. ‘They’ll write songs.’
‘We didn’t start this,’ she said.
Iain nodded. Their minute was up. He jerked his head at the passage. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Fuck off.’
She didn’t hesitate, she scrabbled away his crude barrier then crawled off up the passage. ‘Don’t shoot,’ she shouted, her soles a pale flicker in the darkness. ‘It’s me. It’s me. I’m coming.’
‘Your turn now,’ called out Iain. ‘Get out of here.’
‘We’re leaving,’ said Yilmaz.
There were grunts and scrabbling noises, but they quickly faded into silence. ‘I don’t believe it,’ muttered Georges. ‘They’ve really gone.’
‘For the moment,’ said Iain.
‘You think they’ll be back?’ asked Karin.
He shook his head. ‘I know men like Yilmaz. They’ll tell you solemnly that honour means everything to them. And so it will, until it actually threatens to cost them something real.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying he picked his words carefully. He promised to leave us here unharmed. He said he had no interest in all this old stuff. But he never said we’d be free to go ourselves, or to take these artefacts away with us. And why is he even here tonight? I’ll bet you anything he came here to seal this place up before it could get rumbled. And nothing he just said would stop him from sealing it up with us still inside.’
A few beats of silence. It was all too horribly plausible. ‘Then why the fuck did you let her go?’ demanded Georges.
‘Because he’d have come for us if we hadn’t. We’d have been screwed, trust me.’
‘We’re screwed now.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe not.’
‘Maybe not?’ asked Butros.
Iain allowed himself a faint smile, calibrated to give them hope, though not too much. ‘I sneaked one of your cell radios into Asena’s pack while I was rootling around in there. With a bit of luck, once she’s up top again, we’ll get our satellite link back.’
The front door of the Prime Minister’s residence opened and aides came out to check the podium, microphones, lighting and other arrangements. A sure sign, apparently, that the man himself would be out any moment. Haroon knew he should wait until he was, but suddenly he’d had enough of this cramped darkness so he gave the word to his companions and they opened the rear doors from within and climbed down.
It was late and dark and there was no one else in sight. None of them had been here before but they’d all watched hours of reconnaissance footage, and knew exactly where they were and which way to head. They stretched their cramped limbs and shared words of exhortation and encouragement as they checked their own and their buddy’s weaponry and other equipment one final time.
They were ready.
On the radio, the Prime Minister’s front door opened again. Only this time he did come out, followed by several senior ministers. He made his way to the podium and began to talk. Haroon took out his earpiece and his radio. He wouldn’t be needing those any more. They set the timers running on the incendiary charges in the cab and beneath the false floor of the horse-box, partly to deprive investigators of easy clues about their methods and associates, but mostly to burn their own bridges so that none of them would weaken and turn back.
‘Head shots, remember,’ said Haroon, for every security officer between here and their destination would be wearing body-armour as standard.
‘We know what we’re doing,’ said Erol.
They set off. A year before, this whole government quarter had been open to the public and so there’d have been armed police on every corner. But since they’d encased it in its new ring of steel, there’d been less need for heavy security inside. There was just one checkpoint, therefore, between them and the Prime Minister’s offices, outside which he was currently talking to the media. They reached a corner. Haroon lay on the pavement and looked around it, scoping it out through his night-sight. Six armed policemen were standing in front of a pair of heavy-duty security gates. Only two of the six were on full alert, however; the other four were watching the ongoing press conference through gaps in the gate, cracking jokes about it amongst themselves. He let Erol, Mehmet and Samir each take a look, then he gave orders as to who would take out who. They concealed their assault rifles for the time being then fitted silencers to their handguns and tucked them into their belts. Then they made their way briskly but without menace around the corner and out onto the street.
They were a hundred metres away before the first policeman noticed them. He alerted his comrades and they all turned to look. Haroon waved cheerfully to them and they recognized their uniforms, and they relaxed again. Haroon and Mehmet walked shoulder to shoulder in front, giving Erol and Samir, their best marksmen, the cover they needed to take out and raise their handguns unseen behind them. When they were close enough, Samir gave the word and they stepped abruptly to the side. The suppressors worked so efficiently that the first two guards were down and dead before the others even realized the danger they were in. By which time, of course, it was too late for them too.
They dragged their bodies into shadow, retrieved their assault rifles. On the other side of the security gate, the Prime Minister was assuring the nation that the day had been an aberration, a one-off; that Turks could go to bed that night confident that morning would bring the restoration of order. Haroon allowed himself the smallest of smiles. For the first time since his life had been torn apart that harrowing day in his Aleppo hospital, he felt something approaching peace.
Andreas was losing too much blood to move again so Iain gave him one of their two remaining cell radios and instructions on the story he needed to tell. Then he set Butros and Karin to clear the doors while he and Georges headed back up to the banqueting hall with the other radio, to make a relay of it and so maximize their chances of a signal.
The last of Yilmaz’s soldiers were climbing up out of the site when they arrived. The rope ladder snaked upwards after them, marooning them inside. Iain’s heart sank, though it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Arc-lamps sprang on around the shaft mouth, throwing a halo of bright white light upon what looked almost like snow on the rubble mound. Iain cautiously edged forwards, looked upwards. The shaft had been significantly widened; the snow was freshly drilled cement dust. A fat yellow pipe now wriggled like some grotesque maggot down through the mouth, then a second and a third. Engines started, making the roof thrum. The maggots cleared their throats and coughed out spatters of thin grey slurry. Then they began to vomit in earnest, torrents of watery cement thundering down onto the mound, splashing down its sides and spreading quickly around the chamber.
Iain checked the radio. No signal. He moved closer to the shaft but there was still nothing. The concrete was already washing around his calves. They didn’t have time to waste. He stepped out into the circle of light, though he knew he was putting himself into possible lines of fire. The hint of a signal at last, but it vanished as quickly as it had come. He needed to get higher up. He began climbing the hummock, fighting his way through the heavy waterfalls of slurry. He reached the top and held the cell radio above his head.
Muzzle flashes up top. Automatic gunfire churned the ground beside him. He lost his footing as he tried to get away and fell hard, was swept down the mound in a deluge of concrete. His elbow hit a rock; the radio spilled from his grasp. He fumbled frantically for it but it was swallowed by the slurry and further bursts of gunfire chased him from the circle of light before he could retrieve it.
‘What now?’ asked Georges, coming to help him to his feet.
Iain looked around. The concrete was already almost up to their knees; they had no time to fetch or find another radio. And unless they could find some way to stop it here, it would quickly stream down to the antechamber, where it would catch Karin, Butros and Andreas utterly defenceless.
A marble column fallen across a passage mouth gave them something to work with. They built a barrier of rock and stone upon it, packing the gaps with sand and earth, racing against the bath of concrete filling so rapidly on the other side. They completed their makeshift dam just moments before it would have been over-topped. The pressure, however, was so great that almost at once it began to bulge. Cracks appeared and started dribbling slurry. They patched it as best they could, added ballast to thicken it, though both of them knew in their hearts that their frantic labour wouldn’t save them; that even if they somehow held the concrete at bay, all they were actually doing was walling up their own tomb from within.
Katerina had fallen asleep on the sofa with her head on Zehra’s lap. It felt good to have her lying there and Zehra couldn’t tear herself away from the spectacle of Turkey on fire, not with a new story breaking every few minutes and now the Prime Minister himself at the podium.
Something beeped. She looked around but saw nothing so she put it from her mind. It beeped again, then for a third time before she realized what it must be. She carefully lifted up Katerina’s head and set a cushion beneath it. Then she went into the kitchen. Katerina had earlier set up her son’s mobile phone to alert her to any tweets from Andreas. She’d left it here when she’d done the washing up. But now it was buzzing and its fascia was alight and she picked it up and read the message on its screen:
Chief of the General Staff Kemal Yilmaz is planning a coup against the Turkish government tonight
#stopthecoup
She read it again, in disbelief. Then the next one and the ones after it.
He intends to assassinate Prime Minister Deniz Ba
ş
türk and other members of the cabinet
#stopthecoup
He will use these assassinations as a pretext to declare a state of emergency and take charge
#stopthecoup
He will arrest anyone who protests and accuse them of being behind the assassinations, bombings and unrest
#stopthecoup
But in fact he and his associates are behind all of it, including Daphne and today’s violence and riots
#stopthecoup
He is in Varosha, right now, trying to kill me and my associates so that we can’t get this news out
#stopthecoup
But I have documents and photographs to prove all these allegations, and more. I will publish links to them beginning now
#stopthecoup
Please retweet this as widely as possible and alert everyone you know who can help
#stopthecoup
Zehra stared at the small screen, the accusations, the links to evidence. For a moment or two, she felt completely numb, as though her nervous system didn’t quite know how to process it all. But then an intense, illicit, sick, sweet thrill ran right through her, like how she’d always imagined adultery must feel.
She went back through to the sitting room, shook Katerina by the shoulder until she woke, yawning and rubbing her eyes. ‘What is it, Grandma?’ she asked.
‘I need to retweet something to your father’s friends,’ Zehra told her. ‘Show me how.’
The noise around the square was extraordinary, what with the generators, cement mixers and pumps all working flat out, plus the rumble of emptied trucks and tankers heading off to be refilled. Asena and Yilmaz had to walk off a little way to find privacy and relative quiet in which to talk. She longed to embrace him, to thank him properly for risking so much to rescue her from Black and his friends, and thus proving in the most categorical way possible his steadfastness and love; but his men were everywhere, leaning against walls, smoking and drinking from water bottles; and while they were fiercely loyal, many were also staunchly conservative in their social outlook and disapproved of open displays of affection, especially on an operation like this. So she held herself back.
They had access to the Internet via a tablet computer and a mobile communications mast. They found a quiet courtyard in which to watch the Prime Minister spouting his usual platitudes. ‘I told you it was all he had,’ smiled Yilmaz.
‘Yes,’ agreed Asena. She slipped her hand into his. Their breathing fell into rhythm as they watched. All these long years of planning. All these long years of sacrifice, hardship and loneliness.
Any moment now.
Any moment.
Yasemin Omari, star political reporter for Channel 5, ever on the lookout for the killer question. It was how you made your name in this business, making the great and good stumble and look foolish. On days as chaotic as this, the best tripwire was news too fresh for them even to know about, which was why she ignored the Prime Minister’s bromides and kept checking her twitter-feed instead, even while jostling for position to be called on for the first question.
A new topic was trending crazy fast:
#stopthecoup
. She scrolled quickly through the backlog of tweets and the links to all the photographs and other evidence. Her eyes widened as she read; her mouth fell further and further open.