‘You again?’ Karaman said when the guard opened the door and Ryker stepped inside.
He glanced over Ryker’s shoulder, as though surprised to see Ryker entering alone.
The guard closed and locked the door, leaving Ryker standing there, staring down at Karaman.
‘I already told the detective, I’m not doing any more interviews without my lawyer.’
‘Yeah,’ Ryker said. ‘That’s right. Your lawyer. Who I understand you had in here with you while I was gone earlier. Except, he’s not here now, is he?’
‘You can’t—’
‘What?’
Karaman glared but said nothing more.
Ryker remained standing a few moments longer, then looked up behind him to the camera in the corner. He kept his gaze there until the little red light flicked off, then he faced back to Karaman whose confidence had ebbed away a little.
‘Looks like you’re not in charge of the rules here,’ Ryker said.
He moved forward and took a seat.
As with the first time he’d been in this room with Karaman, Ryker initially opted for the silent treatment. And once again his guest broke first.
‘So what is this?’ Karaman asked. ‘Your attempt to intimidate me?’
‘No. I haven’t started on the intimidation yet. You’ll know when I have.’
A further silence.
‘Did you manage to sort out your emergency?’ Karaman asked, barely containing his smile.
‘Not yet. But I’m presuming you know by now that Fatma Yaman is dead.’
‘Who?’
‘You know who she is.’
Karaman shrugged.
‘So did your lawyer tell you about her murder? Or have you got someone else on the inside here giving you information?’
Karaman didn’t answer.
‘Did you order the hit?’ Ryker asked.
‘I don’t even know who you’re talking about.’
‘You should have been thanking her. You’re only here, in England, because of her. If it’d been down to me you’d still be in Oman with several pieces of you missing by now.’
Karaman snorted, looked disgusted. ‘You really think a lot of yourself, don’t you? All your macho talk.’
‘My first question is this,’ Ryker said. ‘Did you have her killed?’
‘You asked me that already. I’m locked up in prison. How could I do that?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘Do you know who ordered the hit?’
A pause this time before, ‘No.’
Ryker sat back in his chair and sighed.
‘What do you know about her?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’ll tell you about her, then. She worked for MI6. Middle East expert. She had a lot of files on you. Intel on places you lived, visited. Intel on associates, businesses, money trails.’
Karaman looked entirely unperturbed.
‘She had so much information that could have buried you. But she never did. To protect you? That’s what I thought before. Now I’m not so sure.’
Ryker paused. Karaman said nothing in response, so Ryker decided to carry on.
‘Her intel was how I found you. I stole it from her. My plan was to interrogate you. But somehow she caught wind. Took you back. Brought you here. Now she’s dead.’
‘It’s a terrible thing,’ Karaman said.
‘Yeah, it is.’
‘But it had nothing to do with me. I’m in prison. You may have noticed.’
‘Tell me what you know about the Syndicate,’ Ryker said, deciding to go for the meat.
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘Who do you answer to?’
‘Allah, of course,’ Karaman said with a smile.
‘How do you know my name?’ Ryker asked.
‘Someone told me.’
‘Who?’
‘It’s not important.’
‘It is. Otherwise, I wouldn’t ask.’
‘Does it worry you?’
‘It intrigues me, more than anything.’
There was a momentary standoff, but Karaman remained confident and smug. He wouldn’t be pretty soon.
‘Why don’t we back up a little,’ Ryker said. ‘All these questions but we don’t even know each other. So, tell me about your life. How you went from Islamist terrorist organizer to living on that hundred-million-dollar yacht in Dubai.’
‘It cost a lot more than that, actually.’
‘Yeah? Tell someone who gives a shit about stuff like that. But come on, seriously. Twenty years ago you were some dumbass religious nut who thought you’d get a few virgins in the afterlife if you spilled the blood of some infidels. Or, to put it another way, you decided to set up terror campaigns, suicide bombings, shootings, which saw innocent men, women, children murdered.’
Ryker paused. Karaman didn’t say anything.
‘You’re not denying any of that.’
Nothing from Karaman.
‘Seriously, though, what kind of god would be impressed with such barbaric behavior? Only a shithead of a god would reward anyone for such cowardly, vindictive acts. And that’s all you were then and all you are now. A coward.’
Karaman still said nothing but he was clearly riled up. Knuckles clenched. A vein throbbing at the side of his head. Was it the talk of his god that offended him or the personal insults?
‘But still,’ Ryker carried on. ‘You went from that coward, twenty years ago, to this corrupt mega millionaire today. So, did you get rewarded by your god for those terrible acts? Or did you just come to the realization that he doesn’t actually exist? And in this life, you get what you take. Because there’s nothing noble about how you got your money. Stealing, fraud, corruption. Drugs? Trafficking? Are those things not haram? Or does your religion, your dedication to Allah, only count in certain circumstances?’
‘You know nothing about me. My life. My religion,’ Karaman said through gritted teeth.
‘So, tell me. How’d you make your money? How’d you go from that bottom-feeder terrorist to living on that yacht?’
No answer.
‘You knew Yousef Selim,’ Ryker said.
No answer and no tell on Karaman’s face.
‘Was he a close friend of yours?’ Ryker asked.
Karaman didn’t say a word.
‘Is that how you knew my name? Because of… our history?’
Karaman still gave nothing away.
‘Did you know I’m the man who killed Selim? I gave him what he deserved. Actually… No, he probably deserved a lot more pain than I gave him. But he’s dead because of my hand.’
Karaman mumbled something under his breath now. His first language. Ryker didn’t catch all of the words but got the gist. A pledge to his god to make Ryker pay.
Ryker smiled. ‘Rarely have I felt the satisfaction I did the day I watched his life ebb away in front of me.’
Karaman clenched his jaw but didn’t respond, although Ryker knew he was seething.
‘Knowing that you and he were friends… You wouldn’t believe the added motivation I now have in bringing your cushy life crashing down around you.’
Karaman shook his head but didn’t say a word.
‘Tell me about the Syndicate,’ Ryker said.
No answer once more.
‘Would you prefer me to try this a different way?’
No response at all.
‘Very well,’ Ryker said. ‘It’s time for the intimidation.’
But he didn’t move.
Karaman looked confused as if he’d expected something more sudden, severe.
After a few moments of rising tension, Ryker stood up from his chair and took out the gum he’d earlier stuffed into the corner of his mouth. He reached up to the camera and stretched the gum out across the lens. Just a little extra precaution in case someone outside the room decided to betray his trust and turn it back on to have a quick peek.
Ryker turned back to Karaman who seemed a little amused by the charade. Probably not the correct response, really – perhaps he still doubted Ryker.
Ryker burst forward, grabbed the table, and lifted it from the ground, tipping it toward him and causing Karaman, with his cuffs attached, to be dragged forward, off his seat. He groaned in shock or pain or something else.
Ryker didn’t give Karaman a chance to recover. He lifted his foot and Karaman squirmed and cowered as Ryker smashed his heel down onto the metal ring on the tabletop. Well, he aimed for the metal ring, but it was impossible to hit that without also hitting the cuffs and Karaman’s hands and wrists too and the prisoner yelled – definitely pain this time – and then roared when Ryker smacked his foot down a second time and the ring snapped free from the table.
As Karaman writhed Ryker took hold of the Formica top and dragged it to the door and wedged it under the door handle.
‘My hands!’ Karaman yelled, clutching his stricken body parts to his chest. Ryker strode over and Karaman cowered, perhaps finally realizing the predicament he was in. ‘What are you—’
Ryker crouched down and grabbed Karaman’s lower right arm, squeezing hard as he turned the guy’s wrist over and pulled up the sleeve of his prison garb.
‘Tell me about this,’ Ryker said, prodding the lumpy, shriveled patch of flesh a few inches up from Karaman’s hand.
‘You can’t… do this!’ Karaman shouted. He looked from Ryker to the door, opened his mouth to yell. ‘Hel—’
He didn’t manage to finish the word before Ryker threw a full-blooded punch into the prisoner’s stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. He followed up by taking hold of Karaman’s right palm and pushing the hand back toward the wrist.
‘Shout out again and I snap it,’ Ryker said.
He glanced at the door. The table was wedged firmly. Not unbreakable but it’d take some effort to get through. But there was no indication yet that anyone on the outside even knew of the ruckus, so Ryker had time.
‘You’ve… My fingers!’
Which Ryker took to mean Karaman thought Ryker had already broken them, and at least a couple of digits did look to be hanging at pretty awkward angles.
‘There’s a lot more bones to break yet,’ Ryker said, pushing the hand further back and feeling the resistance as the wrist bones were strained.
‘You’ll burn in hell!’ Karaman shouted.
‘Hell? I’ve been living in hell most of my life. The things I’ve seen, done. Chasing down vermin like you. When I go? The vast nothingness I receive will be peace. A peace you’ll be craving for pretty soon.’
Ryker briefly let go of Karaman’s hand, then took hold of the pinky on his left hand and bent it back until he heard and felt a snap.
He stifled Karaman’s shout of pain by shoving his hand over the guy’s mouth while he retook hold of his right wrist, turning it over to reveal the scarred flesh once more.
‘Tell me about this,’ Ryker said. ‘Or, more specifically, tell me about the tattoo you used to have here. The one you burned off. Why? Because it’s haram, isn’t it? To ink your body like that, to alter what God gave you. But the Syndicate aren’t believers. And neither are you, deep down.’
Karaman shook his head. He was shaking. Fear, pain, anger. Sweat globules were popping up on his forehead, his confidence shot.
‘Tell me about the tattoo. The double-headed eagle.’
‘There was no tattoo!’ Karaman shouted out. ‘You want to know about this? I was burned. By a fire caused by a bomb dropped on my apartment block by my own government! I was twenty years old. Friends of mine were killed! Because we didn’t believe in our corrupt leaders. This is my reminder.’
‘Liar!’ Ryker shouted and he pushed Karaman’s wrist again and the captive quivered with fright. Ryker sent a fist into his side. Onto the now-treated gunshot wound from the extraction. Still pretty damn raw around there given the bulging of Karaman’s eyes. ‘You’re lying. I’ve seen the tattoo. On the dead body of Davis Bracey. Others too. I’m pretty sure I would have seen it on the dead body of Andrew Lebedev, except his corpse was so badly charred once they pulled it from his burned-out car that there was no way to tell.’
Karaman shook his head, opened his mouth to say something then stopped, either because he had second thoughts or maybe because he was already delirious with pain.
‘I’ll tell you who I didn’t see the double-headed eagle on. Fatma Yaman. I’d had my doubts, but she wasn’t one of you after all, was she?’
Karaman didn’t answer.
‘A double-headed eagle,’ Ryker said. ‘You had it etched on you, just like all your cronies on the Syndicate. But what? When they sent you off on assignment you had to get rid of it to try and prove you’re a good Muslim? When was that? When you were that eager Islamist setting bombs and brainwashing young men into carrying out suicide attacks? Or was it only later in life, when you were trying to prove your faith to the oil sheiks?’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about!’
‘You think? OK, so how about this? Do you even know what the double-headed eagle represents? Because I’ve been paying attention.’
Karaman huffed rather than answer.
‘Well, keep up, because I’m going to breeze over several thousand years of history because I really don’t have all day here.’
Karaman shuffled and squirmed as though trying to get Ryker to release him but a further push against his wrist and a further fist to his side – which was now leaking blood – got him to settle down pretty quickly.
‘The double-headed eagle as a symbol is believed to go back to the bronze age,’ Ryker started, talking like he was delivering a lecture, ‘but its now widespread use is most usually directly or indirectly linked to the Byzantine Empire. You know, the guys who ruled over southern Europe, north Africa, the Middle East, your own country, Türkiye, for hundreds of years after the fall of the Roman Empire, before the emergence of the Ottoman Empire. So the double-headed eagle is a pretty ancient symbol, the two heads representing the physical and the spiritual, or something like that. But a lot of people think the outward-looking heads were simply a nod to the Byzantine’s claims to power stretching across Western Europe and to the Middle East. You with me so far?’
Karaman gave no response, but he continued to hold Ryker’s gaze.
‘Strangely, though, this symbol consistently crops up not just across millennia, but across all manner of clashing cultures. The Byzantines, Anatolian Muslims, the Ottomans, the Holy Roman Empire, the coat of arms of Ivan the Terrible, the Kingdom of Mysore in India. It’s on the modern-day Albanian flag. It’s used as an emblem for several Orthodox Christian churches, the Scottish Rite of Freemasonry, the Hellenic Army. It’s on flags and municipal coats of arms in Austria, Hungary, Spain, Italy, Serbia, Croatia, Germany, England.’
Karaman slowly shook his head, looked disgusted as though he found Ryker’s words deeply offensive.
‘So, tell me,’ Ryker continued. ‘Why is this one emblem so pervasive through so many varying societies?’
No answer.
‘Because it represents something more than people realize. Something in common between all those peoples, places, cultures.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘No. I’m not. It’s a representation, sometimes deliberate but probably often accidental, of power and control. And I really don’t know how it all started, whether different people in different places over the centuries even knew what it meant or where it all came from, but it’s no surprise to me that a shadow group of powerful and corrupt shitheads like you, like the Syndicate, would use such a symbol to show your affiliation. So tell me about your tattoo.’
‘I told you. I burned my arm in a fire in Türkiye.’
‘You’re a liar.’ Ryker let go of Karaman’s wrist and took another finger. He didn’t snap it straight away but got ready to and Karaman tensed up, waiting. ‘You’re part of the Syndicate.’
Karaman said nothing, but then, it hadn’t really been a question. A thud on the door behind Ryker echoed around the room.
‘Ryker! What the hell are you doing?’
Winter. He sounded angry.
‘We’re fine!’ Ryker responded. ‘Just talking.’
He ignored Winter’s complaints as he – or maybe one of the prison guards – unsuccessfully tried to open the door.
‘You better be quick,’ Ryker said to Karaman, pulling on the finger a little more. ‘Tell me about the Syndicate. Who do you take orders from?’
Karaman shook his head.
So Ryker snapped another finger and this time didn’t bother to muffle the man’s cries.
‘Winter, we’re good in here!’ Ryker shouted out. ‘We said we’d do it my way. This is my way. So back off until I’m ready.’
He got no response but the activity beyond the door died down momentarily.
Karaman’s head rolled as though he was battling to stay awake. Ryker slapped him to bring him around.
‘You want me to stop?’ Ryker said before delivering another heavier slap. ‘Then give me something! A name. Who’s in charge?’
He got ready with another finger and Karaman stared wide-eyed. ‘I don’t know anything! I’m just… I do what I’m asked! I get communications. In person. I set up a deal here, move some money there. That’s it!’
Which wasn’t dissimilar to what Bracey had claimed too. Except he’d ultimately given up Karaman’s name. Karaman would give him something if Ryker was only given the time here.
‘Who gives you the instructions!’ Ryker bellowed, once again taking the finger to the limit.
‘I don’t know them!’
‘No, you must know more. Who’s in charge? One person? A group?’
‘I don’t know! They’re nameless! Faceless! How else is everyone protected?’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Snap.
Karaman yelled even more loudly this time, maybe not because the pain was any worse but because of the increasingly frenzied nature of the conversation. The ruckus at the door grew louder again, the table scraping, creaking, as Winter and the others outside reinvigorated their attempts to break in.
‘I’m only going to ask one more time. Next up is your leg. I’ll smash your knee to pieces. You’ll never walk again. Give me names.’
Ryker stood up off him and raised his foot and brought it crashing down… onto the floor.
Karaman flinched and cried out and then nearly laughed when he realized what had happened.
‘Oops, missed,’ Ryker said. ‘I won’t a second time.’
He lifted his foot again.
‘You want a name!’ Karaman shouted. ‘I’ll give you a damn name. One of those from the top. Andrew Lebedev.’
‘No. Give me the name of someone who isn’t already dead.’
Karaman somehow managed to find a smile in response to that.
‘What?’ Ryker said, deciphering the response. ‘Lebedev’s…’
‘You said yourself how badly charred that body was.’
Ryker didn’t get a chance to say anything more. The next moment the tabletop cracked in two and Ryker spun around as the door burst open. Two prison guards rushed in, Winter a step behind them. All three men paused as they circled around Ryker, looking somewhere between bewildered and mad as hell.
‘I warned you,’ Winter said to Ryker. ‘Jesus, Ryker, I warned you not to do anything stupid!’
Ryker said nothing.
‘What are we supposed to do now?’ one of the guards asked as his hands hovered by his side, ready to grab a baton or his cuffs or pepper spray or perhaps a first aid kit for Karaman.
‘Lock him up,’ Winter said. ‘You need to lock him up.’
Not Karaman. Ryker. And he didn’t resist at all as the guards came for him, cuffs at the ready to take him away.