Now, as he had done since last night, the Ferryman awaited the message that would furnish with him with the exact address of the new target.
He’d already procured the weapon, a South African Vektor CP1 automatic pistol chambered for 9 mm Parabellum rounds. It came with a suppressor. The gun was kept in a safe-deposit box at one of the large banks in Ankara’s financial district. Most of the major cities in Europe and Asia had such a weapon, or equivalent, in storage. It enabled the Ferryman and others like him to avoid the tiresome process of transporting firearms across national boundaries, and in particular through airports.
Vale’s death had had to be disguised, to make it appear that he was collateral damage in a terrorist attack, rather than the specific target of a hit. But such deceit was no longer necessary. Vale’s associate, Purkiss, knew the truth about the killing, according to the Oracle, and there was no point in trying to make the Ankara hit look like anything other than what it was.
The Ferryman had no interest in visiting tourist attractions, but he walked the streets of Ankara to keep himself occupied and limber while he waited for the message. It was a fine morning, clear though chilly. The centre of the city was overlooked by the steep hill with its great ruins, the remains of the old citadel. The Ferryman stuck to the centre because it would allow him to move quickly in whichever direction was necessary.
At ten forty-five the phone vibrated in the Ferryman’s pocket.
‘Yes.’
The Oracle said, ‘I have an address for you.’ He recited it. There was no triumph in his voice, but the Ferryman was sure the man felt it.
‘Understood,’ said the Ferryman.
‘You should also know that Purkiss has been located,’ said the Oracle. ‘Artemis has identified him at Frankfurt Airport. They’re taking action as we speak.’
The Ferryman was aware of a sense of a journey coming to an end. ‘That’s good.’
They ended the call. The Ferryman entered the address he’d been given into the navigation facility on his phone.
The address was within walking distance, in the Cebeci district. Most of the residences lining the narrow streets looked like either apartment blocks or houses converted into flats, perhaps for students. The Ferryman passed a large cemetery, and saw the street he wanted ahead to his right.
Ordinarily he’d prefer to stake out the location of one of his targets, obtain as careful a picture as possible of the potential exit points. Evaluate the likelihood of booby traps. But given the urgency of this particular hit, the Ferryman knew he had to move in fast.
The building was a converted house, with what appeared to be four flats judging by its two-storey structure. He did a first pass, walking briskly by the front door, a man in a business suit carrying a briefcase. From the corner of his eye he noted the panel in the wall beside the entrance: there were four buttons, confirming his estimate of the number of apartments.
The address the Oracle had given him was apartment 1B, which suggested the ground floor.
The Ferryman walked round the block, saw the fenced-off garden at the back of the house. He paused by a slight gap between two of the wooden panels in the fence and looked through. The garden was a little unkempt, and probably used communally. A gate in the back fence seemed to be latched from the inside when he tested it.
He had two options. Either climb over the fence, which would attract immediate suspicion if anyone was watching. Or, simply, ring the doorbell.
The Ferryman decided on the latter. If the target was expecting an attack — and it was possible Vale had warned him to be on his guard — then he’d be more likely to mount a counter-offensive if he saw the Ferryman climbing over his rear fence. He might not answer the door, but at least that would put the Ferryman on the alert.
At the front door once more, the Ferryman pressed the buzzer to flat 1B. He heard it sound from within the building. The window beside the door was double-glazed and drawn across with heavy drapes. They didn’t twitch aside.
The Ferryman had transferred the Viktor CP1 from his briefcase to his inner jacket pocket during his walk to the address. The jacket had a specially modified pocket, deep enough to accommodate the gun with the suppressor screwed on to the end. He kept his hands well away from his jacket, so as not to present too obvious a threat.
Approaching footsteps from within made him take a step back from the door. A moment later it cracked ajar. Bright, slightly nervous eyes peered through the gap. It was a woman, middle-aged, small and mousy.
‘Good morning, madam,’ said the Ferryman. His Turkish was fluent, though accented. ‘May I please speak to your husband? I have some pressing, and very happy, information to impart to him.’
The door opened a fraction further. The woman wore an apron dusted with flour, and looked hot and flustered. From beyond her wafted the aroma of baking.
‘My husband isn’t home,’ she said. ‘What’s this about?’
The Ferryman had tried this cold-calling approach before, and in his experience one had a very narrow window of opportunity before the door was closed in one’s face. He didn’t push his luck.
Stepping forward, he brought the gun out of his jacket as smoothly as a conjuror brandishing a rabbit from a hat. Before the woman could close the door, or even open her mouth, he barged through the doorway and pressed the barrel against her forehead and shoved her backwards and kicked the door shut behind him.
With his free hand he grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her close, so that his face was inches from hers.
‘Your instinct is to scream,’ he murmured softly. ‘I understand that. Don’t. If you keep quiet, you won’t come to any harm.’
He wondered if she’d have been able to scream even if she’d wanted to. Her chest had swelled with an intake of breath and she seemed to have forgotten how to release it.
‘Where’s Saul Gideon?’ said the Ferryman.
Her eyes seemed to fill half her face. Her hands came up on either side of her head and shook as if she had the ague.
‘Are there children?’ said the Ferryman, in the same placid tone.
He didn’t know if she shook her head deliberately or if it was part of the tremor that was now racking her entire body.
He moved the gun so that the barrel was pointing up under her chin. ‘Children,’ he repeated.
‘At at at at school,’ she gasped.
The Ferryman was relieved. He scanned the cramped corridor behind her. Listened hard, over the sound of her whimpering, for suggestions of another human presence in the apartment.
He turned her round by the shoulder, firmly but not roughly, and said: ‘Walk forward and turn right through that door.’
They entered a combined living and dining room. It was clean but drab, the furnishings modest. On the sideboard he saw a row of framed photographs. Mostly children, two boys and a girl aged between seven and thirteen.
In several of the photographs, the woman stood beside a man. He was dark, Turkish-looking. Around her age, perhaps forty.
Too young.
The Ferryman scanned the rest of the room. A wedding photo had pride of place above the television set. A younger, slimmer version of the woman beamed in the arms of the same man.
‘Where’s Saul Gideon?’ he repeated in her ear.
The woman tried to turn her head to look at him but he pressed the gun against the back of her neck and she faced forward once more. ‘I… I don’t know who that is.’
Over the years, the Ferryman had honed his ability to detect when a person was telling the truth until he could be more than ninety per cent certain. It was harder with professionals, of course, who were trained in the art of lying, and in many instances born with a natural propensity for it. But this woman was no professional.