Golden Chariot Read online

  “I did. I had her in sight as she and Uma hauled water barrels. Then the fire spread to the lab. Uma and I worked to save the artifacts while Charlotte ran to empty the shower’s tank. She was only alone for a few minutes.”

  Refik covered the receiver as he suffered a coughing fit.

  “The fire was a diversion,” Atakan said.

  “Yes. It was arson. We didn’t know at the time, of course. We’ve since found two separate points of origin. Atakan, I only took my eyes off her for--”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “Two hours at least, maybe more. We don’t know how long she was gone before we noticed.”

  “I must go. Abassian knows where she is, and he will tell me.”

  The Director quickly responded. “Stay on the line, Atakan.”

  Firat told Refik he’d call him later and disconnected the conference feature. “I’ll speak to you in a moment,” he told Atakan and put him on hold. He came back on the line a couple of minutes later.

  “You will not question him. You are too close to the situation.”

  “I--”

  “Quiet. Listen to me, Atakan. I just sent for two interrogators from our military base near the airport. They’ll be there shortly. You are not to step foot in that interrogation room. These men are experts. Trust me. Abassian will talk.”

  “Director, I ask you, please let me do this.”

  “No. For your sake, let them do their job.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Atakan pinched the bridge of his nose hard, trying to stem off the building headache.

  “Don’t hang up yet, Atakan.”

  “I’m here.”

  “I want you to turn the remainder of the operation over to Iskender.”

  “Director Firat, please--”

  “Atakan, you cannot lead the operation for the same reasons you cannot interrogate Abassian.”

  A stabbing pain throbbed behind his eyes. The pain would spread soon. Atakan pressed his fingertips to his lids and focused on persuading Firat to change his mind. Any show of antagonism or passion would convince the Director he was right to relieve him of leadership.

  “Sir, I ask you to consider my excellent performance record before you make this decision.”

  “Atakan, your record is impeccable, but you have an emotional attachment to the Dashiell woman. Emotions affect actions. Judgment, the ability to critically think through a problem is too easily influenced. Unfortunately, it is to the detriment of the operation. This is not personal. I’d say the same to any investigator in your position.”

  “Sir, Ekrem was as a brother to me. You knew this and allowed me to work his case. You trusted me to handle it in a rational, objective manner. Which I have. I ask you to extend that trust to me regarding this situation. Please.”

  “I don’t know. I have strong doubts.”

  “Please.”

  The silence on the Director’s end stretched. If he hadn’t heard Firat breathing, Atakan would’ve thought the man hung up.

  At last, the Director said, “You’ve done well on this smuggling case. I appreciate your diligence under difficult circumstances with Ekrem’s investigation. For those reasons, I’ll allow you to remain as the team leader.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do not make me regret my decision.”

  The Director disconnected and Atakan dropped the phone in to the cradle. He checked his watch. If the interrogators didn’t arrive in fifteen minutes, he’d do whatever necessary to make Abassian talk. Many efficient methods left no visible mark.

  #

  The interrogators arrived under his time limit. When the Director said he’d send men from the base, every man in the room understood who he meant. They’d be officers from the Military Intelligence Unit. Atakan’s father worked that special branch of the military early in his career. Unlike his tall, burly father, these men were the new breed of M.I. officer. Average height and weight, close cropped hair, clean shaven, in public they resembled thousands of other men in their middle thirties. They dressed in casual clothes, jeans and knit shirts, rather than uniforms. They wore no name tags or other identifiers.

  Atakan didn’t care what their names were.

  “What’s the status on the prisoner?” The second interrogator asked. “Any leverage?”

  “He used the name Basri Damla, but his true name is Garabed Abassian. He’s an Armenian national. They want him for trafficking in drugs and women,” Atakan said. “That’s if we turn him over.”

  “Can you tie him to the murder of your investigator?”

  “No.”

  “You only have the smuggling and conspiracy charge?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can work that angle. He gives us something useful and we keep him. He does five years in prison here. Or, we extradite him and he does fifteen years in one of their labor camps. Good.”

  The first officer asked, “Anything else?”

  Atakan handed him a file. “His parents are alive. Their pictures are inside.”

  The interrogator took the file and opened it, studying the photo of the elderly couple. “Every man loves his mother. It would be a pity to see the old woman detained by the Armenian police over her son’s activities.”

  “Unless we speak to them on his parents behalf,” Iskender added.

  The meaning was clear. Unless someone of authority or an agency interceded, the parents would be taken from their home. They’d be brought to a police station and placed in a room where Abassian could witness them relentlessly questioned. He’d watch as they’d force his mother to tears. He’d watch his father plead ignorance of his son’s activities. His father would plead for the police to let his wife go. Generally, the system inspired prisoners to co-operate rather than see their family tormented further.

  The officer closed the file. “We have what we need. Show us the room.”

  Atakan pulled a pair of surgical gloves from his gear bag and held them out to the interrogator. “In case he doesn’t love his mother as much as he should.”

  “No thanks.” He tugged a pair from his rear pocket. “We brought our own.”

  #

  An hour dragged by. The room was a furnace. Sweat dripped down Atakan’s hairline and the back of his neck. The room reeked of bitter, old coffee.

  “Halim, it’s stifling in here. Turn the air conditioner on and shut off the coffee pot.”

  “The air is on, Atakan,” Halim said. He walked over to the table with the coffee and tea makings. “The pot is off.”

  Atakan grunted and checked his watch. They were into the second hour when the lead interrogator came back into the room.

  “She’s at Maksym Tischenko’s compound in the forest twenty kilometers northwest of Sevastopol.” He peeled the surgical gloves off and dumped them into the trash. The knuckles of his right hand were noticeably red and swollen as he pulled a folded paper from his waistband. “Abassian drew a map of the location.”

  Atakan spread the map across the desk. Iskender, Halim and Cengis joined them.

  “He lined in the area surrounding the compound and indicates no other towns or structures close.”

  “Do you believe this is accurate?” Atakan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How did Tischenko enter the country? We’ve monitored the airports and ferry terminals.”

  “Boat.”

  The method seemed so obvious now. Atakan shook his head. The government didn’t have an effective system to prevent every boat from landing. The coastline near Bozburun covered a large area and was dominated by rough terrain. Watching it wasn’t feasible. That particular stretch of land was riddled with inlets and coves and made for easy access.

  “Abassian said Tischenko knew returning to Sevastopol was easier than the Bozburun landing. Once he’s in open water, there are a thousand pleasure boats between the peninsula and the Black Sea.”

  A thousand pleasure boats was an underestimate. As a matter of procedure Atakan updated
Firat. The Director would notify the Turkish Navy and Hellenistic Coast Guard, on the off chance the boat might get stopped. But, the odds were against them. “About this compound, did he say how many men Tischenko keeps with him there?” Iskender asked.

  “Abassian wasn’t sure. He said Tischenko has a small core of men he likes to use. His best guess was between six and ten.”

  “I need a flyover with thermal imaging to give us a better number. Can you do this?” Atakan asked the officer.

  “No, it’s best to use a reconnaissance plane. It has the altitude you need. Our base doesn’t house that type of aircraft.”

  “Who does?”

  The second officer had quietly come in and rid himself of his gloves. He joined the first man at the map.

  “The Americans,” Cengis said, jumping in. “Phone please.”

  Atakan slid the phone over to him.

  “I happen to know the commanding officer at Incirlik, the American Airbase.” Cengis sat on the edge of the desk to make the call. “They’ll have a P3 plane fueled and ready before you can spit three times,” he said, smiling.

  Incirlik was a long distance to bring a plane when time was critical, Atakan thought. He worried about the additional delay if the Americans said no.

  “This commander, do you think he’ll agree without argument?”

  “Please, the Americans live for this craziness. It is the ultimate X-Box game for them.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Bozburun

  Tischenko’s men tied Charlotte’s hands behind her back and helped her onto the boat. The rope cutoff her circulation. Unarmed, and with nowhere to run, the tight restraint was excessive. Payback for the earlier bite.

  Another man, already on the boat put a black, rough wool bag over her head. He led her down the narrow stairs to the deck below. At the bottom of the stairs, she took a few blind, tentative steps forward when he shoved her. She landed sideways on a cold leather seat cushion. She used the limited ability she had with her hands to push herself upright. The man barked something she didn’t understand in Ukrainian or Russian, she wasn’t sure which, before stomping up the stairs.

  The boat was a trawler about the size of the one that struck the gulet. Tischenko and the two others were sufficient crew and sufficient manpower to handle her too. She listened for additional voices anyway. When she saw Atakan he’d want to know how many men she heard or saw. She hoped he hadn’t been critically injured yet and they’d somehow get away.

  The trawler’s engine started and she felt the sway as they started moving. Waves slapped against the hull, the up-down motion as they cut through them melding with the sway. The rocking lessened the farther they went into the open water.

  Charlotte bent and rubbed her face along the cushion, trying to get the hood off. It itched, and she was burning up under it. Why Tischenko used the hood mystified her. What difference did it make if she saw where he lived? Chances are she wouldn’t recognize the area. Plus, he planned to kill her. Dead victims tell no tales. It was just an intimidation device. Under different circumstances, she’d gladly advise him, “Dump the hood. I’m intimidated plenty without it.”

  She had no luck with the hood and stopped struggling. She leaned against the bulkhead and tried to think of escape plans to share with Atakan. Planning helped her stay alert, in case, by some miracle, chance help came along. She never believed in miracles. But if they existed, this was a good time for them to manifest themselves and prove her wrong.

  Several hours passed before the outside environment changed. Shouts in Turkish came from other ships. Their trawler slowed. They must be maneuvering through heavier boat traffic. Ships passed close by, large ones judging from their engine noise. The noxious smell of diesel fumes from oil tankers and container ships penetrated the hood. Istanbul. They were traveling through Istanbul Harbor. It danced across her mind to try and escape out the side and jump overboard and reach help.

  And sink like a stone with her tied hands.

  Someone came down the stairs.

  “Are you hot under that hood?”

  Tischenko.

  “Yes. It’s lame you know. What’s the difference if I see where we’re going or not?”

  “It’s a technique I like.”

  “You watch too many movies.”

  He yanked the hood from her head, taking several strands of hair with it.

  She flinched at the sting and then blinked rapidly as the sunlight hit her eyes. When her vision cleared, she was able to see their location through the starboard windows.

  High on a hill in the distance, the late afternoon sun cast a pink and apricot glow over the six minarets of the Blue Mosque. Along the base of the hill was a peek-a-boo view of the crumbling walls of the Old City. They’d passed the Golden Horn and through Istanbul’s main commercial shipping lanes. The odds for help dwindled with the decreasing number of ships.

  “Would you like some water?” Tischenko asked.

  She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until he made the offer. “Yes.”

  He opened a small refrigerator and took out a bottle of Evian. He unscrewed the top and held the bottle to her lips.

  “Fear dries the mouth,” he said, as she drank the whole bottle without taking a breath.

  When she finished, he laid the empty bottle on the galley table.

  He ran his hand between her thighs, cupping her, stroking her. He pulled his hand away and slid it up over her belly. He twisted the waistband of her shorts until the button popped and then unzipped them. He inserted his fingers into her panties and tugged down, giving him room to fondle her crotch.

  She clenched her lower body, tightening, fighting the invasive touch.

  Tischenko smiled and slid a finger inside her. Reflexively, she clenched harder. “Nice strong pussy. I like that.”

  He continued to probe her, pushing his fingers higher.

  Taking deep, even breaths, she relaxed. She began to roll her wrists back and forth beneath the rope knot. The taut restraint limited her torque, but the thin skin around the bone abraded with the minor effort. The burning sensation was instantaneous. The tearing of the skin took longer, but not much. She focused on the pain and pushed Tischenko’s violation to another part of her mind. The relief of the diversion was brief. The feel of him, his closeness returned fast.

  She stopped hurting herself and ventured a glance to the bulge growing behind the zipper of his cargo pants. She changed the subject before he forced her to jerk him off, or worse.

  “Did you come to torment me, because your conversational skills stink?”

  “Yes and no.” He pulled his hand out from her crotch and sat back against the seat. “Torment for you, idle talk for me.” He shrugged. “The Turkish Navy is all around the harbor. It’s better they don’t see me.”

  “They’re probably searching for Atakan.”

  “Atakan?”

  She didn’t understand why he looked so puzzled.

  “Ah yes, searching for Atakan. Perhaps. But, they also know me on sight. We have a history of encounters. I’d rather avoid one today.”

  One of his men shouted to Tischenko and he stood.

  “We will have more time together later. It won’t be long to Sevastopol.” He looked out the port and starboard windows and then climbed the stairs to the top deck.

  At least, he hadn’t put the hood back on before he left and for that small break she was deeply grateful.

  Chapter Seventy

  Sevastopol/Tischenko’s Compound

  An unmarked delivery van with no rear windows and a driver were waiting by the cove when the trawler anchored.

  Tischenko’s men loaded her in the cargo area of the van. Dumped her was a better description. They kept her hands tied, but the hood stayed off for the ride to his compound.

  The van slowed to a crawl and turned. Her sense of time was skewed, but the ride seemed about twenty minutes. How long from this compound to the beach would it take someone on foot? Provided
Atakan had a good sense of direction, which she was born without.

  Charlotte heard the sound of electric gates creaking open. Gravel crunched under the tires. She estimated one meter per second and counted those seconds in increments of a thousand...one thousand...two thousand. At fifteen meters they stopped. About fifty feet, good to know if they made a run for it.

  The third man from the trawler threw open the cargo doors and pulled her out by her ankles until her feet hit the ground.

  She took a quick look around the walled compound wondering what she should observe that Atakan didn’t already.

  The concrete used to enclose the grounds looked like cheap blocking to her. Difficult to find a foothold on and climb.

  The front door had a surveillance camera mounted on the top lintel. She’d guessed the front gate did too since it opened without them identifying themselves.

  Tischenko stopped to talk to two men from the compound. The two from the boat stood on either side of her silent as their boss conversed with the other.

  Charlotte studied the place Tischenko called home. The stone house was a design nightmare. Part Norman castle with a crenellated roofline, part Byzantine, with onion shaped center and turrets, and finished with Palladian style arched windows. What combination of early hallucinogenic did this architect take?

  Close to the sea and Sevastopol, the place was probably the summer house of a rich Bolshevik originally. She was hustled into the house before she saw anything useful.

  His man pushed and shoved her into a high-ceilinged entry. Tischenko turned left and stepped through tall double doors into a well furnished parlor. Not as big as her mother’s living room, but impressive.

  The hardwood floors gleamed. He’d covered them with a variety of bold patterned Turkish and Persian rugs. Two butter colored wing-back leather chairs faced a plump sofa of heavy garnet silk. Strategically placed hammered copper side tables and coffee table created a pleasing conversation area in front of a stone fireplace. No television or CD player was visible.

  She couldn’t imagine anyone in their right mind wanting to sit and talk with Tischenko.

  Wainscoting bordered the lower walls and cream-colored moiré wallpaper covered the upper portion. A bucolic Renaissance tapestry hung next to the fireplace. The tasteful interior bore no relationship to the bizarre exterior.