to Cumhuriyet ? Instead, he’d had to set his fucking alarm for half past three in the morning, show himself at the precinct at four, then sit around in the van for an hour with that weight in his head, the numb fatigue of no sleep, his muscles and his brain feeling soft and slow. Burak got tetchy when he was like that. Anybody did anything to rile him, said something he didn’t like, if there was a delay in the raid or any kind of problem—he’d snap them off at the knees. Food didn’t help, tea neither. It wasn’t a blood sugar thing. He just resented having to haul his arse out of bed when the rest of Istanbul was still fast asleep.
“Time?” said Adnan. He was sitting in the driver’s seat, too lazy even to look at a clock.
“Five,” said Burak, because he wanted to get on with it.
“Ten to,” said Metin. Burak shot him a look.
“Fuck it,” said Adnan. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The first Ebru knew of the raid was a noise very close to her face, which she later realized was the sound of the bedroom door being kicked in. She sat up in bed—she was naked—and screamed, because she thought a gang of men were going to rape her. She had been dreaming of her father, of her two young nephews, but now three men were in her cramped bedroom, throwing clothes at her, shouting at her to get dressed, calling her a “fucking terrorist.”
She knew what it was. She had dreaded this moment. They all did. They all censored their words, chose their stories carefully, because a line out of place, an inference here, a suggestion there, was enough to land you in prison. Modern Turkey. Democratic Turkey. Still a police state. Always had been. Always would be.
One of them was dragging her now, saying she was being too slow. To Ebru’s shame, she began to cry. What had she done wrong? What had she written? It occurred to her, as she covered herself, pulled on some knickers, buttoned up her jeans, that Ryan would help. Ryan had money and influence and would do what he could to save her.
“Leave it,” one of them barked. She had tried to grab her phone. She saw the surname on the cop’s lapel badge: TURAN .
“I want a lawyer,” she screamed.
Burak shook his head. “No lawyer is going to help you,” he said. “Now put on a fucking shirt.”
LONDON, THREE WEEKS LATER
3
Thomas Kell had only been standing at the bar for a few seconds when the landlady turned to him, winked, and said: “The usual, Tom?”
The usual. It was a bad sign. He was spending four nights out of seven at the Ladbroke Arms, four nights out of seven drinking pints of Adnams Ghost Ship with only the Times quick crossword and a packet of Winston Lights for company. Perhaps there was no alternative for disgraced spooks. Cold shouldered by the Secret Intelligence Service eighteen months earlier, Kell had been in a state of suspended animation ever since. He wasn’t out, but he wasn’t in. His part in saving the life of Amelia Levene’s son, François Malot, was known only to a select band of high priests at Vauxhall Cross. To the rest of the staff at MI6, Thomas Kell was still “Witness X,” the officer who had been present at the aggressive CIA interrogation of a British national in Kabul and who had failed to prevent the suspect’s subsequent rendition to a black prison in Cairo, and on to the gulag of Guantanamo.
“Thanks, Kathy,” he said, and planted a five-pound note on the bar. A well-financed German was standing beside him, flicking through the pages of the FT Weekend and picking at a bowl of wasabi peas. Kell collected his change, walked outside, and sat at a picnic table under the fierce heat of a standing gas fire. It was dusk on a damp Easter Sunday, the pub—like the rest of Notting Hill—almost empty. Kell had the terrace to himself. Most of the local residents appeared to be out of town, doubtless at Gloucestershire second homes or skiing lodges in the Swiss Alps. Even the well-tended police station
“Time?” said Adnan. He was sitting in the driver’s seat, too lazy even to look at a clock.
“Five,” said Burak, because he wanted to get on with it.
“Ten to,” said Metin. Burak shot him a look.
“Fuck it,” said Adnan. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The first Ebru knew of the raid was a noise very close to her face, which she later realized was the sound of the bedroom door being kicked in. She sat up in bed—she was naked—and screamed, because she thought a gang of men were going to rape her. She had been dreaming of her father, of her two young nephews, but now three men were in her cramped bedroom, throwing clothes at her, shouting at her to get dressed, calling her a “fucking terrorist.”
She knew what it was. She had dreaded this moment. They all did. They all censored their words, chose their stories carefully, because a line out of place, an inference here, a suggestion there, was enough to land you in prison. Modern Turkey. Democratic Turkey. Still a police state. Always had been. Always would be.
One of them was dragging her now, saying she was being too slow. To Ebru’s shame, she began to cry. What had she done wrong? What had she written? It occurred to her, as she covered herself, pulled on some knickers, buttoned up her jeans, that Ryan would help. Ryan had money and influence and would do what he could to save her.
“Leave it,” one of them barked. She had tried to grab her phone. She saw the surname on the cop’s lapel badge: TURAN .
“I want a lawyer,” she screamed.
Burak shook his head. “No lawyer is going to help you,” he said. “Now put on a fucking shirt.”
LONDON, THREE WEEKS LATER
3
Thomas Kell had only been standing at the bar for a few seconds when the landlady turned to him, winked, and said: “The usual, Tom?”
The usual. It was a bad sign. He was spending four nights out of seven at the Ladbroke Arms, four nights out of seven drinking pints of Adnams Ghost Ship with only the Times quick crossword and a packet of Winston Lights for company. Perhaps there was no alternative for disgraced spooks. Cold shouldered by the Secret Intelligence Service eighteen months earlier, Kell had been in a state of suspended animation ever since. He wasn’t out, but he wasn’t in. His part in saving the life of Amelia Levene’s son, François Malot, was known only to a select band of high priests at Vauxhall Cross. To the rest of the staff at MI6, Thomas Kell was still “Witness X,” the officer who had been present at the aggressive CIA interrogation of a British national in Kabul and who had failed to prevent the suspect’s subsequent rendition to a black prison in Cairo, and on to the gulag of Guantanamo.
“Thanks, Kathy,” he said, and planted a five-pound note on the bar. A well-financed German was standing beside him, flicking through the pages of the FT Weekend and picking at a bowl of wasabi peas. Kell collected his change, walked outside, and sat at a picnic table under the fierce heat of a standing gas fire. It was dusk on a damp Easter Sunday, the pub—like the rest of Notting Hill—almost empty. Kell had the terrace to himself. Most of the local residents appeared to be out of town, doubtless at Gloucestershire second homes or skiing lodges in the Swiss Alps. Even the well-tended police station