He said nothing in reply, just letting the silence boil and, as most people do in such a situation, the woman, the little guy’s nanny, opened the door. Bradley’s plan had been to push hard once the door was off the lock, step inside, slam it behind him and confront the woman in the privacy of the house.
It didn’t work. In discussing it with Bradley, I had failed to take into account the fact that the woman was severely obese. When Bradley pushed hard on the door it hit the stationary bulk of her and stopped. It gave the surprised young woman just enough time to push back hard and start yelling. It looked for a moment as if Bradley was going to be locked out and the whole plan would founder. Reacting fast – thank God – the cop pulled out his pistol, rammed it through the gap straight at the terrified nanny’s teeth and yelled at her to step back.
She didn’t recognize all the words, but she got the message. She retreated a step, Bradley scrambled inside and, still pointing the gun at her, slammed the door behind him. The woman was too scared to scream and that gave Bradley the chance to pull a curtain aside and look out of a narrow window. To his relief, nothing was moving outside, and he realized that three Coke trucks manoeuvring into the warehouse, engines roaring, had swallowed her cries.
He turned back, saw that fear had really taken hold and she was shaking hard. Before he could say anything, a face appeared out of the doorway at the back of the house and looked down the hallway at them. It was the little guy.
Bradley’s gun was obscured by the bulk of the woman, and he lowered it so that it was out of sight and smiled at the child. That was all the boy needed. He walked forward, grinning back, talking away in Turkish.
The nanny moved to take hold of him, protective, and that – combined with Bradley’s grin – seemed to calm her, and the shaking turned into a tremor rather than a full-on quake.
‘What is he saying?’ Bradley asked, indicating the little guy, making his voice sound as friendly as possible.
The nanny swallowed, trying to moisten her throat, and forced her mind to summon up the limited English she had acquired working for different families over the years.
‘He say – you American?’ she managed to get out.
Bradley smiled at the little guy. ‘Yeah – New York.’
The nanny translated for the boy, still holding him tight. ‘He ask – you friend of bowing man?’ she said.
Bradley looked confused – bowing man? What the hell was that? But the nanny came to the rescue. ‘He mean FBI man.’
‘Ah,’ Bradley responded. ‘Brodie Wilson. Yeah, he’s my friend.’
The little guy said something, and the nanny translated for him: ‘Where is the bowing man?’
‘He’s with your mom,’ Bradley replied.
‘Where they go?’ the nanny translated for the little guy.
Bradley didn’t want to alarm the child and had what he thought was a good idea. ‘They went on a picnic,’ he said.
As soon as it was translated, the boy dissolved into tears, seemingly inconsolable. Bradley had no way of knowing that it was the boy’s dearest dream – to go on a picnic with his American friend – and now they had left him behind.
Bradley stared, confused. Through the child’s tears and grief, the nanny managed to understand what the problem was and explained it for Bradley’s benefit.
The cop bent down, kept the gun out of sight and told the boy that everything was okay, his mom would be coming to get him soon, but first they had to play a little game.
As soon as the nanny had translated it, the boy smiled at Bradley, reassured, and gave the cop one of his best bows.
Ben and Marcie had never had any kids, so Ben considered children pretty much an alien race, but he couldn’t help being deeply affected by the child’s desperate longing for something as simple as a picnic. He felt the revulsion well up, sickened by the prospect of what he had to do, but he also knew he had no choice. One kid’s suffering was nothing compared with the carnage of smallpox, and he motioned for the nanny to lead the way down the hall.
In the kitchen he immediately drew the blinds and locked the back door. Only then did he turn his attention to its architecture. It was a traditional Bodrum house, and the kitchen, like most of its kind, had a very high, steeply raked roof to help dissipate the heat. In the middle, high above, a light hung from a beam. It was supported by a heavy brass bolt and Bradley knew it would be perfect.
He turned to the nanny, demanded her cellphone and attached it to the charger lying on the kitchen counter. It was good thinking – if the phone ran out of juice at a critical moment, everything would fail.
Speaking slowly and clearly, he told the nanny it was his absolute intention that both she and the boy would get out alive. ‘It won’t happen, though,’ he said, ‘if you try to escape, answer the door or touch the phone. You will do everything I say, understand?’