After an hour walking around the Istanbul Congress Center, de Payns was already tired. The Congress Center was a large, sprawling, easily accessible sieve of a venue, and by the time he’d been introduced to most of it, de Payns felt as if he’d walked fifty miles. He didn’t have much choice in the matter; his job was to fit in with MiT’s operation and, as instructed, he’d adopted a professional look with a suit and office shoes.
The Eastern Gas Conference had started on Friday evening and there’d been a brief Saturday morning session. Now the afternoon was drifting along in plenaries until the closing-night dinner at which Kolomoisky was going to speak. De Payns walked the vast Harbiye Auditorium with Captain Marak, noting its layout: the entrances and exits, and the latticework of service passageways that connected the main hall to the backstage area.
He followed Marak onto the stage and they looked over a room large enough to accommodate several basketball courts. ‘I’m advised Kolomoisky’s table is there,’ said the captain, pointing to an area twenty metres from the lip of the stage. ‘The main corporate and political tables are either side.’
De Payns scanned the sea of big round dining tables, then the tiered seating rising at the back of the hall. The room could be accessed from more than one level of the building, he realised. ‘Entry from two levels?’ he asked.
‘Actually, three,’ said Marak. ‘There’s service access from a mezzanine level below.’
The backstage area was a system of green rooms, changing rooms, kitchens and administration offices for the theatre management. They walked down some service stairs and came out in the mezzanine, from where the car parks below could be accessed. In front of the escalators that took delegates up to the halls and auditoriums was a bank of security gates that matched the ones at the top of the building.
De Payns wasn’t comfortable with the set-up, but he noticed a lot of uniformed security around the building and Marak assured him there were intelligence agents and cops in plainclothes.
‘We have four hours before this evening’s event,’ said Marak, looking at de Payns. ‘You may as well get some rest, because these gas people will send you to sleep, I promise.’
■
The bus stopped in the covered drop-off area at the side of the Congress Center and Maahi filed out with his troupe. The building was enormous, rising up like God’s spacecraft and visible for miles. He’d never seen anything like this city and it had grabbed his curiosity. But when he’d tried to have a look around after the breakfast in the hotel, Akeem had grabbed him off the street and dragged him inside, where he’d held up his phone and threatened to call Parzan.
Akeem led them in through the service entry and up an escalator, something Maahi had used only once before, at Istanbul Airport. Maahi’s throat was dry and his palms were already sweaty. He wondered how well he’d be able to hit the drums in this nervous state.
They reached the top of the escalator and saw the security gates, manned by guards, ahead of them. A conference official with a blazer and a walkie-talkie led them to a service door, and one of the security guards came over with a detection wand and cleared each of the troupe one by one. Inside the service door they walked up a flight of stairs until they were in the backstage area of the huge auditorium. Maahi could hear voices booming over the loudspeaker system and lots of laughter. It was so noisy; it sounded like there must be a thousand people out there.
The man in the blazer showed them into their dressing room then hurried away, leaving the door open behind him. Several porters brought in the drum cases, flutes and guitars from the bus and left them in a pile on the carpet. Akeem opened two large gear bags and dispensed costumes to the players, and as the troupe pulled on their long, loose white robes, a wave of sadness overwhelmed Maahi. Donning the robe brought back memories of travelling and playing with his father, uncle and cousins, and he felt homesick for that life, for that era of Libya.
When they were dressed, Akeem checked his watch.
‘An hour before we go on,’ he said. ‘Let’s warm up the drums and flutes.’
He pointed to Maahi and Kabil, a large member of the troupe who’d also been forced into the service of Parzan and the al-Kaniyat militia. As the rest of the players tuned their instruments, the two of them followed Akeem into a short hallway that connected two changing rooms.
‘Stand here,’ said Akeem, beckoning them towards a Coca-Cola vending machine. ‘There are no cameras covering this spot.’
Akeem took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door of the machine and swung it open. He dragged out a black sports bag and kneeled, unzipping the bag.
‘One each,’ he said, handing Maahi a Heckler & Koch MP5. It was a weapon he knew well. Maahi weighed it in his hands and instinctively checked for safety and load. The black submachine gun had the small fifteen-round magazine, and it had been shortened by removing the stock, so it ended in a pistol grip. A looped shoulder strap was attached to the back of the pistol grip assembly, which had an exposed loop where the stock had been removed. It was a standard set-up for the al-Kaniyat militia.
‘Like this,’ said Akeem, and he raised his robe, hooked the MP5 strap over his shoulder, and let the weapon drop so it was hanging under his armpit. When he put the robe down again, there was no sign of the weapon, thanks to the small magazine, which didn’t protrude.
Maahi and Kabil followed his lead, adjusting their straps to their own liking and then securing their guns so they didn’t show.
When they were done, Akeem drew them in and gave the youths their assignments. ‘You have your targets,’ he said, looking them each in the eye. ‘And remember: it does not offend Allah if you kill a Jew.’
Too scared to talk, Maahi just nodded. He had never even met a Jew.
‘We’re going to make history,’ said Akeem, his long white teeth pushing into a smile. ‘Europe has never met the al-Kaniyat militia. But after tonight, they will never forget us.’