Deep State (The Acer Sansom Novels Book 4) Read online

  Out on the open water, the air was crisp and cold.

  ***

  2

  Despite his rising anxiety and impatience regarding his reason for being there, Acer welcomed the respite of the short trip across the sea. Salt water had played an important part in his life ever since he was a child. He felt an affinity with it that was more enduring, more powerful, than any feelings he had for terra firma. Any opportunity to renew his acquaintance with it was an opportunity to embrace. Even this. Close proximity with the sea had the power to calm him, ease his tensions, dilute his worries and disperse his fears. As he sat staring at the looming spectacle of the Princes’ Islands rising up out of the water ahead, he felt the influences of the sea working their magic on him.

  The speedboat crossed the watery divide between islands and mainland in a matter of minutes. As they approached, Acer saw that the islands’ steeply sloping elevations facing Istanbul were littered with a jumble of homes, squeezed in shoulder to shoulder, a higgledy-piggledy mess with hardly any greenery to break up the prevailing whiteness.

  The boat veered through the channel between the two largest of the islands. From his online research, Acer knew the island on his left was called Büyükada, the island to his right Heybeliada.

  Glancing left, Acer saw a ferry leaving Büyükada’s small quay. The waterfront was filled with restaurants and shops with their multicoloured awnings and signs. In the bright sunshine it looked inviting. Acer wondered what it looked like in the wind and rain or the snow he knew Istanbul saw plenty of. He did not see many people around, but the tourist season was well past and it was the middle of the week.

  As they followed the curve of the island on their right, Heybeliada, the number of properties fell. In their place, large pockets of pine trees interspersed with well-detached, large and luxurious-looking homes characterised the slopes.

  The speed of the boat dropped abruptly as the gorilla in the suit angled the craft towards a small, perfect and natural-looking horseshoe bay on the side of the island farthest from the mainland. As they entered into the calmer waters, protected by the rocky outcrops, Acer learned what he could of the place.

  In stark contrast to the hundreds of closely crammed homes that shelved the slopes the other side of the island, Acer could make out only one large and very secluded property. This was buried about halfway up the incline, deep in the greenery of pine forest that swept down the steep face of the island from summit to shoreline and from left to right – as far as the curves of the island allowed him to see.

  Anchored in the bay were two impressive seagoing vessels. Both looked built for long-distance travel in a high degree of comfort. One was modern: sleek fibreglass hull, chrome railings and fittings and tinted glass. Its size and design hinted at big engines and a small crew. The other boat was bigger: wooden hull, brass fixtures and fittings and plenty of rigging and canvas for the captain to call upon. It suggested days of lazy sailing, lounging about under awnings on gaily coloured cushions with an endless supply of chilled drinks for those along for the ride. Lots of hard physical work and attention to the true business of sailing for those crewing it. Acer knew which boat he’d prefer. He’d always favoured wind power over engines.

  The engines grumbled as they came alongside a long wooden jetty that projected a good distance out into the bay. Acer looked down into the crystal clear waters to the stony bottom. It was just deep enough for a shallow dive for those who knew what they were doing.

  The three men stepped off the boat and waited for him. The man who had met Acer at the airport still had his bag. Acer was beginning to think they might not trust him. He also believed that his bag would be thoroughly searched before he was allowed near it again.

  The four of them walked along the jetty towards the island. The men’s formal footwear beat a noisy tattoo on the woodwork, drowning out the gentle lapping sounds of the sea as it sloshed against the jetty’s supports. Apart from that, the place seemed eerily quiet. Peaceful.

  The jetty led to a wide paved area – something a small truck could have turned in comfortably – that cut across the beach of sand and pebbles and led to what looked like the start of a tarmac road that disappeared into the shade of the forest. A four-wheel drive vehicle was waiting for them. Acer noticed poles with cameras high above the ground and covering every direction.

  Acer’s bag went into the boot. The four of them got into the vehicle. The man who had driven from the airport was at the wheel. No one spoke as they climbed the steep incline from the shore to the house in the forest. Acer let the window down to take in air and the smells of the place. His action earned him a quick look from the gorilla sitting next to him but nothing more.

  *

  After about a minute, they turned off the road that continued to snake away upwards and out of immediate sight. They were still on a good surface. The road was hemmed in on either side by ranks of mature pine trees. The heady forest scents filtering in through the window brought more memories back for Acer. Some good, some bad. He had no time to explore them. They broke clear of the forest and onto an area of brick-paved driveway that sat at the front of the property Acer had first glimpsed from the sea.

  It was an impressive and imposing wooden-fronted building constructed in the traditional Ottoman style: intricately decorated, lavishly fashioned and painted a brilliant white. Every window had shutters; the roofline was a jumble of slopes, valleys, cupolas, ridges and peaks. Every first floor window had a balcony – the carpenter responsible for the balustrades had outdone himself with his decorative fretwork. An elaborate portico protected the front door from the elements and the sun. The whole effect was of a property lovingly cared for – very expensive and very exclusive. The only incongruity was the number of small cameras fixed to each corner, covering every aspect.

  The roughness of the natural environment had been halted a few dozen metres from the building on all sides. It had been replaced with formal shrubs and borders of flowers. Like the building, the roadway, the jetty, the boats and the vehicles, the gardens looked like money was no object for whomever held ultimate sway over this little Turkish empire.

  The car came to a stop and the three men got out quickly. There seemed a greater urgency to their movements, a sharper edge to them. And Acer soon saw why. As he got out of the car, a man came through the large front door and walked towards them. The man moved with a self-assurance that came with power and control over others, with comfort and familiarity in his surroundings, with the knowledge that he was important.

  He walked up to where Acer stood and stopped and stared. Acer removed his sunglasses and looked back. The man was a little shorter than Acer and narrower in the shoulders. His suit did look expensive. Acer saw no sign of a weapon beneath his jacket. In jeans, casual shirt under a waxed jacket and solid boots, Acer was starting to feel distinctly underdressed for the occasion.

  Acer put the man in his middle-thirties. He was handsome by any standards and Acer intuitively understood the man knew this. He had light olive-coloured skin, large brown eyes, a good nose and a full head of styled hair. A quarter of an inch of shaped, thick black stubble covered his strong jaw. The man took a long moment to study Acer’s face, his eyes in particular. Acer felt the man’s eyes looking into him.

  Then the man smiled – an expensive smile or one that showed he was just naturally fortunate with his inherited dental properties. He offered his hand. Acer felt it best to be civil. He took the man’s hand and felt the soft but firm grip of a businessman.

  In his barely accented English, the man said, ‘Welcome to Heybeliada, Mr Sansom. My name is Kaan Oktay.’

  ***

  3

  Acer said, ‘Thank you. When can I see my daughter?’

  Oktay smiled again. ‘I understand your eagerness, Mr Sansom. Truly I do. Your daughter is here and well and happy. She is sleeping at the moment. Come with me. You will meet my father and we will discuss what is to be done. Then you will see your daughter.’
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br />   Acer knew he had to accept this. Aggressive demands and posturing would get him nowhere in this company. He had waited a long time to see his daughter again; he could wait a few minutes more.

  The five of them walked back to the house. Acer noticed that his bag had been left in the car.

  The temperature outside was bordering on warm. Inside, the air was cool and fragrant, with the scents of timber and polish. The woodwork of the outside of the house seemed amateurish when compared with the internal fixtures and fittings. Acer could not help but appreciate and marvel at the craftsmanship involved in the decor as they crossed the space between the front door and another that led out into a back garden.

  With a nod, Oktay dismissed the three who had brought Acer from the mainland. They turned towards a building in the grounds. It looked modern and functional. There were a number of antennae and satellite dishes on the roof. Acer believed it to be the sort of building a rich and cautious man might run his home security operation from, among other things.

  Oktay led Acer across a wide expanse of manicured lawn towards an area of shade beneath a broad-leaved tree. The leaves were brown and dry and shrivelled but still managing to cling to some kind of life.

  Under the tree sat a figure in a lawn chair. Getting closer, and with his eyes adjusting from the glare of the afternoon to the shade, Acer could see he was an old man, probably in his seventies. On first glance he reminded Acer of the leaves above his head. He was dressed less formally than the others, more comfortably. He had a head of thick silver hair that was swept back harshly from his face and kept there with hair product. His facial features were larger versions of Kaan Oktay’s. The backs of his hands and his face were mottled with liver spots. He was heavily wrinkled and his exposed flesh hung loosely on his shrunken frame. Apart from a well-trimmed moustache, he was clean-shaven. The man did not get up. He looked at Acer with a vacant expression that hinted at a tedious life, boring routines and dull days. The overall combination was of a body possessed by a feeble mind.

  ‘My father,’ said Oktay.

  Acer did not think the old man wanted to shake hands. He nodded at him, turned to the son and said, ‘Does your father speak English?’

  ‘No. Not one word.’ Oktay motioned to empty chairs and said, ‘Please, sit.’

  A woman dressed in the uniform of domestic help approached from the house. She carried a tray that held three empty glasses and a jug of yellow liquid with fruit in it. They waited while she set it on the table and poured each of them a drink.

  Acer remembered one of the few phrases he’d learned from his previous time in Turkey. He said, ‘Teşekkür ederim.’

  The woman bobbed her head in response.

  The old man said something in Turkish. Acer looked at the son.

  Oktay said, ‘My father asks if you speak Turkish.’

  Acer shook his head. ‘Not much more than that. Just a few holiday phrases I picked up.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Oktay. ‘I must remember, you have been in Turkey before.’

  Oktay spoke quickly in Turkish to the old man, who grunted in reply and seemed to lose interest. His eyelids fluttered and closed for a while.

  Acer had no doubt that they knew all about his Turkish past from the woman he had made a widow. Then he wondered what they thought about it. He was glad that the men he’d killed had not been Turkish nationals.

  The old man put out his hand for a glass and Oktay passed it to him. Acer decided to take one and quench his thirst. It tasted good. Like lemonade should. Homemade.

  Oktay breathed in deeply through his nose and let the air out the same way. He said, ‘Well, Mr Sansom. We should talk business. Your daughter will be awake soon and I’m sure you are anxious to see her.’

  Acer wondered whether his daughter really was asleep. ‘Business? My daughter is here. I’ve come to collect her. That’s all the business we have.’

  Oktay frowned. He shook his head a little sadly, like he regretted what he was about to say. ‘I’m afraid that, for you and your daughter, things are not so straightforward.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why? We don’t know each other, do we?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t owe you money, do I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why do I get the feeling that I do and that until I pay my debts my daughter doesn’t leave this place?’

  Oktay met Acer’s stare. ‘That is, in fact, a usefully simple way of looking at our situation, Mr Sansom. Allow me to explain.’

  Acer bit back his barbed comment and listened.

  ‘Yes, your daughter is here. She is living here under our. . . protection. For now. We will be happy to pass her into your care. In time. But first we require something of you.’

  ‘What sort of something? A guarantee that I’ll not go running to the authorities over a case of kidnapping?’

  Oktay allowed a high-pitched noise of amusement escape him. ‘That is rather dramatic, Mr Sansom. And anyway, you should believe me when I say that going to the authorities in Turkey would not be your best option. The first I would hear of it would be when they contacted me to ask what I would like done with your remains.’ Oktay wasn’t smiling now. He had fixed Acer with a hard and serious look. ‘What we require from you, Mr Sansom, is a favour. A few days of your time. A bit of effort. Some goodwill. That is all.’

  ‘What gives you the right to ask for anything in exchange for my daughter’s freedom?’

  Oktay scratched his stubble and cleared his throat. ‘Let’s call it a Turkish custom. You see, when you killed Mr Botha, you deprived my sister of a husband, her children of a father and, whether you like it or not, you insulted my father and our family name. Turkish custom. Sometimes it can be so. . . archaic and primitive, I know, but there it is. It has its uses. Now, according to Turkish custom, we must level some sort of punishment at you for that insult. Ordinarily that would be a simple matter of your death. And the deaths of every member of your immediate family. It is not enough to simply settle things with an eye for an eye. For our ‘eye’ we must take the eyes, the ears, the nose. . . I can see you understand. Honour is restored for all to see. The message is sent: do not engage in violence with the Oktay family. Do I make myself clear, Mr Sansom?’

  Acer said, ‘Where is your family from, Sicily?’

  The man smiled. ‘We can call it a Mediterranean mentality, if it makes you feel better.’

  ‘It doesn’t. Botha killed my wife, left me for dead, and took my daughter. What I took was my revenge. He was my eye for an eye.’

  Oktay shrugged. ‘So it escalates into a family feud. Do you have much family left, Mr Sansom?’

  ‘My daughter is it.’

  ‘Good. It is comforting to know that, should it come to it, this will not be something to spill over into future generations.’

  Acer shook his head in his dismay. ‘What is this favour you want me to do for you?’

  Oktay smiled. ‘That is better. Let us talk of positive ways to reconcile our differences with each other. To settle our debts.’

  Acer began to feel that the whole conversation was based on a lie. He doubted very much whether Botha, a South African, a foreigner, would have been welcomed into this family. Acer felt it more likely that the old man across from him would have washed his hands of his daughter for marrying a yabancı and then bearing him children, polluting the family gene pool. Acer felt that this whole Turkish custom crap, this Mediterranean mentality bullshit was just a smokescreen – an excuse to compel him to do some dirty work for them. And even then there would be no guarantee that they would honour their side of the bargain and, if the son was to be believed, no legal way he could force them.

  Oktay said, ‘There is someone my family would like. . . taken care of, I believe is an appropriate euphemism.’

  ‘Killed?’

  Oktay winced, just a little. ‘If you prefer.’

  ‘If I prefer? Let me get this straight: you’re telling me that if I murder someone for
you, you’ll let me take my daughter and that will be an end to our ‘business’? All debts settled?’

  The old man fidgeted in the chair and said something to the son. Oktay answered him briefly. He then turned to Acer and said, ‘Please, Mr Sansom, moderate your tone. My father becomes agitated easily these days. It is not good for him. Now, will you do this thing or are you going to be a problem for us?’

  ‘Do I have any choice?’

  ‘To be completely honest with you, no. Not now. I’m afraid that – because I can’t have enemies running around out there looking for ways to hurt me – if you refuse, your body will never be found. There is a lot of water and there are a lot of hungry fishes out there.’ He gestured towards the sea.

  Acer snorted. ‘Swimming with the fishes. How original.’

  Oktay smiled. It seemed genuine. ‘Come, come, Mr Sansom, it is not as though you are a stranger to killing.’

  ‘That was different. That was personal.’

  ‘Then my advice is to try to see this as personal, if it helps you to deal with it.’ He sighed. ‘I would not want you to think that this gives me pleasure, Mr Sansom. I consider myself an excellent judge of character. I like you. I really do. You have strength of character. You are not afraid to speak your mind. Under different circumstances. . . who knows? And besides, while you have undeniably insulted my family, personally I couldn’t have been made happier than when I heard of the death of that fat pig my sister chose to run off and marry. But appearances must be maintained. To do nothing in such circumstances is tantamount to a show of weakness. In my business, the meek do not inherit anything.’

  For the first time since encountering him, Acer received a glimpse of the nastiness, or was it madness, that lay just below the affable facade of the man in front of him.

  Because there was nothing left to say, no argument to waste time and breath on, Acer said, ‘And where will I find this man you want me to ‘take care of’?’