shower stall.
There were no windows, of course.
Yuri and Vlad placed the unconscious girl on the cot, covered her with a blanket, and left the room. Vlad locked the door and motioned for Eli to follow him into one of the other rooms.
“You did good,” he said. “I have your money.”
The middle room was both an office and a bedroom, as it contained another cot along with a desk and phone. Yuri stood in the doorway and watched as Vlad opened a drawer and removed a large white envelope. He tossed it to Eli, who opened it and glanced inside.
“It’s all there,” Vlad said. “But you can count it if it will make you feel better.”
Eli wanted to do just that, but he thought it would make him look weak. He didn’t want to appear weak in front of these guys.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he said. “How did… how did the other thing go?”
“What other thing?”
“That guy Blaine?”
“Oh, Blaine,” Yuri said. “That went… very well.”
Eli nodded. “Well, I guess your people are pretty happy, then. I think everything I found out from her”—he gestured with his head toward the next room—“will be accurate. Her father is the one you’re looking for.”
Vlad spoke again. “Like I said, you did good. Now, we’ve made you a nice cozy place to sleep in the loft in there. Sorry, but there are no more vacancies back here. Yuri sleeps in the next room, I have this one, and our guest has the other one.”
“I know,” Eli said. “I’ll be all right.”
“How about the girl’s friend?” Yuri asked.
Eli shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to Noel. He got her in the car and drove away. I assume everything is fine. By the way, don’t you think you should move your cars?”
“We were going to do that,” Yuri replied. “We’ll put ’em in the back and cover them with a tarp. You should do the same.”
The three men left the warehouse, moved their vehicles, and met back in the little office.
“Good,” Yuri said. “Let’s get some sleep, boys.” He held out his hand to Eli. Eli shook it, and then he grasped Vlad’s hand. He nodded and left the room, following the corridor back to the warehouse. He ascended the wooden stairs leading to the loft and found the sleeping bag in the back corner.
As he undressed and climbed into the bedroll, Eli wondered if he was going to hell.
18
Southeastern Turkey is beautiful, but it’s a bitch to travel through. It’s extremely rugged terrain. I’m afraid that Reza’s Pazhan doesn’t have the
Another thing that distinguishes the region from the rest of the country is that eastern Turkey is more “Asian” than “European.” As it was once upper Mesopotamia, the land and people still retain remnants of that long- lost culture, thereby giving the region a much more exotic feeling than the rest of Turkey. By the same token, people here are more conservative, more suspicious, and less warm toward strangers than in the Westernized European half of the country. It’s also dominated by the Kurds, perhaps a fifth of the total population.
During the past decade the region was plagued by terrorism instigated by the Kurdistan Workers Party, the PKK, considered to be one of the more dangerous terrorist groups in the world today. They recently changed their name to KADEK (Kurdistan Freedom and Democracy Congress) and yet again to KONGRA-GEL (the People’s Congress of Kurdistan) in attempts to diminish the perception that they support terrorism. The jury’s still out on whether or not this is true. At any rate, Turkish police and antiterrorism forces are plentiful in the southeast, and I’m prepared to be stopped at checkpoints without warning.
Reza supplied me with the necessary identity papers and visa. I’m back to being a Swiss detective for Interpol. Getting across the border isn’t a problem, although I’m asked a lot of questions. I’m pretty good at bluffing my way out of interrogations from your everyday variety policemen. They let me drive on after issuing a strict warning to stay off the roads at night, to not talk to Kurds who ask me to carry items for them, and to report any suspicious activity.
I drive to Van, a midsize town on the eastern shore of Lake Van, the largest body of water in Turkey, excluding Istanbul’s Sea of Marmara. Mount Ararat is nearby, a spectacular sight but also the location of a Turkish military facility that is off-limits to civilians. I can’t be caught dead anywhere around there.
With help from Third Echelon’s navigation capabilities, I find Akdabar Enterprises on the very edge of town, overlooking the vast lake. It strikes me as an odd place for a construction and steel conglomerate site. Why Van? Perhaps its main clientele consists of Kurds in the region. Who knows? I realize now that the place gets its name from Akdabar Island, one of the more important islands on the lake. One of Van’s few tourist attractions is the tenth-century Church of the Holy Cross located on Akdabar.
I park the Pazhan on a hill overlooking the expansive complex so I can get a bird’s-eye view of the place. Using a pair of Third Echelon’s binoculars, I see that a tall wire fence surrounds the property. In the very center is an open courtyard with two flagpoles at opposite ends. A Turkish flag is on one while the Akdabar logo sails on the other. A large refinery sporting two tall smokestacks appears to be the dominant landmark; it’s probably where the steelworks are located. There are a couple of big oil drums near the edge of the water, along with smaller constructions that are probably workers’ quarters and offices. From what I can see there are several armed guards patrolling the grounds — along the fence perimeter and around the buildings. The oil drums, certainly a target for terrorists, have a particularly strong security presence. Other guards ride around in three-wheelers, golf cartlike vehicles that I suppose are faster than walking.
The most impressive thing is that the plant has its own airstrip and hangar. I see a cargo plane with Akdabar’s logo painted on the side readying for takeoff. Basaran must do very well for himself indeed.
Reza was able to provide me with a letter of introduction to see Basaran. Although the two men have never met, their business connections should be enough to get me in. I’m counting on the letter and my Interpol credentials to get me in the front door. I want to meet Basaran personally in order to get a sense of the guy. If he knew Benton, then perhaps he’ll be forthcoming with information.
I dress in civilian clothes, put on a tie, leave the Osprey in the car, and drive down to the visitors’ parking area. I present my papers and letter to the guard at the front gate and ask to see Basaran.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asks in heavily accented English.
“No, I’m afraid not,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I had no time to arrange it. I just entered the country. If Mr. Basaran is busy I can come back later…?”
“Wait here.” The guard went into the checkpoint booth and made a call. I could see him reading from Reza’s letter, nodding his head, and glancing at me. Finally he came back and said, “If you don’t mind waiting a little while, Mr. Basaran will see you when he gets out of a meeting.” He gave me a map of the complex, pointed to the group of small buildings by the lake, and told me to drive there and park in the accompanying lot. He gave me a visitor’s pass and admonished me not to drive anywhere else on the property.
Over by the lake the view is spectacular. It’s a clear day and the water stretches out to the horizon, much like Lake Michigan does at the edge of Chicago. The buildings here are modern constructions and apparently house the administrative offices, an employees’ facility that includes lockers, dressing rooms, a gym, a cafeteria, and vending, and the Tirma charity organization headquarters. By the way, Carly back at Third Echelon pointed out that the word
The waiting room in the main administrative building is modern and comfortable. It contains pretty much the
