Dark Water

by Parker Bilal

Makana ignored him, trying to catch a glimpse of the impossible. The square was full of moving people. Pigeons swept through in waves, distracting the eye. All he wanted was something to confirm, to tell him that he wasn’t crazy, that he hadn’t just imagined it. And yet, how could it be otherwise? His mind told him he could not have seen Muna, that she had died all those years ago.

  His heart refused to believe that it wasn’t possible. He felt it with such conviction. It was Muna. Alive and well, and not a day older. Could his mind be playing tricks – a combination of not sleeping properly and of being in an unfamiliar city? That sounded rational, but it collided with that other part of his mind: the one that told him he knew what he had seen. The only other possible conclusion was that he must be losing his mind.

  Shaken and deeply confused, Makana asked Koçak to drop him off so that he could walk up through Beyoğlu. He had time and he needed to clear his head before he reached the rendezvous. The taxi, the traffic, the city, all of it seemed to be closing in on him. He walked slowly, rehearsing in his mind exactly what he had seen. He had to have been mistaken. Whatever it was, whoever he had seen, there had to be a rational explanation. Muna was dead. So who or what had he seen? A woman just like her, or some sort of projection on his part? He’d never really believed in ghosts, but on the other hand he’d never quite dismissed their possibility. He’d grown up in a world in which prayer was real and divine intervention a possibility, and although his rational mind refused to submit to such nonsense, there was still a part of him, he realised now, somewhere deep inside him, which had not entirely abandoned the idea.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Iskander Grillroom was more or less unchanged from his previous visits. The surly waiter stood by the counter, picking his teeth with a matchstick. He paid no attention to Makana – a sign perhaps that he was fast becoming a regular. What more could one ask for than indifference? He sat at the same table against the wall, facing the door, and ordered lamb this time. With one eye on the street he flicked idly through a discarded newspaper. The world had problems of its own. The American invasion three years ago had brought Iraq to the verge of civil war. Sectarian conflict had erupted following the bombing of the al-Askari mosque in the town of Samarra. Thousands had died in a matter of days and now the violence was spreading.

  Still no sign of his contact. People wandered by, going about their lives. Young ones laughing, others looking lost. A child crying while being hauled along by a woman who stopped from time to time to shout at the boy, which only made him cry all the harder. A man with a scruffy beard stepped in through the door and looked around the room before calling something to the waiter and settling himself in the opposite corner. Makana watched him for a time, wondering if he could be a messenger of some kind, but the man paid him no attention. The air was cold and damp and it looked as though it might rain. A tram rumbled by, rattling the glass in the windows.

  There were no more pictures of victims being hauled from the water in today’s paper. Surely that was a good thing. He wondered how much of the language he might understand if he could read the alphabet. He put down the paper as his food arrived. Stuffed vine-leaves and roasted lamb. The lamb fell off the bone when he put his fork to it. The vine-leaves were stuffed with aromatic rice. He lost himself for a time in eating. When he had finished he called for coffee to wash it down, which turned out to be strong and bore no relation to the watery substance they served in the hotel.

  Other than that, there was nothing. Nobody approached him. There was no sign of Ayman Nizari. No sign of the tall Dutchman either. Makana drank another cup of coffee and gestured for the bill. If Nizari was refusing to show himself there had to be a reason. He still had time to visit the British Consulate before they closed. If Winslow had done as he promised there would be a new passport waiting for him. Makana realised he was itching to leave. Ayman Nizari and Abu Hilal and all the rest of them would just have to make their own luck.

  He was counting out his money when a boy of about eleven appeared in front of him.

  ‘Postcards? You like?’ Makana waved him away as he started to get to his feet, but the boy was persistent. Without waiting to be asked he spread ten of them out on the table in quick succession, with the slick confidence of a seasoned card sharp. The waiter was already on his way over. The boy held Makana’s gaze for a long moment before gathering up his cards in time to be bundled out of the door. Glancing back down at the table Makana realised that one card remained. He looked up but the boy was gone, out through the door and away down the street. Makana studied the card. It showed a wall of pretty blue faience tiles; the interior of a mosque, he guessed. When he turned it over he read: Rüstem Pasha mosque – 16th Century.

  In the centre of the card were the numbers 18.00. Nothing more.

  The woman at the British Consulate said her name was Fateema Brown. Makana wondered how you got a name like that. An English husband, perhaps? The building was one of a row of stately mansions, testament to the five centuries when this city was the capital of the Ottoman empire. It was a grey, rather formidable-looking building with high square windows and serrated corners. Security was severe, as expected from a place that had been the target of a bombing less than three years ago.

  Makana had anticipated complications gaining access to the interior, but his fears proved ungrounded. A man with a clipboard found his name on a list, a button was pressed and an electric door buzzed open. He stepped into a short corridor and waited as the door behind him was locked and the one in front of him opened.

  Fateema Brown was waiting for him in the reception area, a small, nervous woman in her thirties wearing a navy-blue hijab. Makana wondered how many veiled women the British employed. Perhaps it was symbolic, an indication of how tolerant and liberal-minded they were. Since he was, in a way, working for the British government himself, perhaps he too ought to be a little more open-minded.

  What struck him about Fateema Brown was how uncomfortable she was. She gestured stiffly for him to enter a small office. The room was bare but for a simple table and four chairs. On one wall was a framed photograph of their queen. Naturally. Opposite this was a poster for British Airways that displayed a picture of a waterfall and green rolling hills with Visit Britain written in flowing letters along the bottom. Fateema Brown stood by the window, silhouetted against the skyline.

  ‘This is an unusual situation,’ she said as she came to the table.

  ‘Unusual in what sense?’ Makana asked.

  She made no immediate attempt to answer the question. Gesturing for him to be seated, she produced a key that was attached to her waist by a chain and turned to the flat metal box that rested on the table.

  ‘I understand you are in Istanbul on business?’

  ‘Agricultural machinery.’

  ‘I understand you were robbed two nights ago,’ she said, as she unlocked the box.

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Did you file a report with the police?’

  ‘No,’ said Makana. ‘I wasn’t sure that was necessary.’

  ‘It’s always recommended. In fact, it is usually a requirement.’ She rested her hand on the box, as if unsure whether to proceed or not.

  ‘Usually?’

  Fateema Brown nodded. ‘When you asked me what I meant by unusual, this is what I meant. Your application for a temporary replacement document went through the system in twelve hours. That has to be something of a record.’

  ‘Surely that’s a good thing.’

  Her look suggested that she knew there was something else going on. Makana reached for his cigarettes and lighter.

  ‘You can’t smoke in here,’ she said curtly, as she lifted a brown envelope from the box. Inside was a folded document. ‘Did you bring a passport photograph with you?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘It’s not a problem. There’s a machine at the end of the hallway. Just go out of this door and turn left.’ She held out some coins. ‘You’ll need these.�
�

  Makana followed her instructions and found the little photobooth as promised. He pressed all the right buttons and then, while he was waiting for the machine to process the pictures, a voice behind him spoke his name. He turned to find a tall man of around forty. He wore a blue short-sleeved shirt and had rumpled sandy hair that needed cutting.

  ‘Do you have a moment?’ The man gestured towards an open doorway just to the right. Makana hesitated. The machine whirred and the photographs dropped into the delivery tray.

  ‘I need to hand these over.’

  ‘I’ll take care of that,’ said the man. Taking the strip of photographs he indicated the door again. Makana walked through to find himself in a large room. The wallpaper was green with a pattern of gold pinstripes down it. On the fireplace a large carriage clock ticked away beneath a painting of a naval battle. The canvas was a rage of darkness and flame, burning sails and exploding ships on blue-black water. The only furniture in the room was a table with two chairs that stood between the high windows.

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ the man said. He sat opposite Makana and placed the photographs carefully on the table in front of him.

  ‘My name is Marty Shaw. I understand you are here to collect an emergency passport. I wonder if you could just spare a moment to talk about what you are doing here in Istanbul.’

  ‘I thought I had already explained that.’

  ‘Agricultural machinery.’ A smile crossed Shaw’s face. ‘Yes, I know all about that. I should perhaps explain. I know about your connection to Marcus Winslow.’

  ‘You know?’ Makana sat back in his chair. ‘Then you can ask him.’

  ‘Believe me, I’d like to, but unfortunately Mr Winslow has taken it upon himself to act independently.’ Shaw was watching Makana’s face for his reaction. ‘He’s running this show on his own.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Makana.

  ‘It’s very simple. Just tell me everything you can about this operation.’

  ‘Why don’t you just ask Winslow?’

  ‘Look, I understand your reluctance.’ Shaw smiled again. ‘I can assure you that you’re not jeopardising anything by talking to me. After all, we’re on the same side.’

  ‘With all due respect, Mr Shaw, I don’t know you.’

  Shaw shook his head. ‘No, you don’t know Marcus Winslow.’

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘How do you know you can trust Winslow?’

  It was a good question and the answer was obvious. He didn’t know. All Winslow had in his favour was the fact that he was the one who’d started all of this. Makana remained silent. Shaw held out a hand in a gesture of reconciliation.

  ‘Look, I understand that it’s not easy. All of this is new to you.’

  ‘All I need is a day, maybe two, and then my work here is done.’

  ‘What if I can’t do that?’ Shaw paused and changed tack. ‘What happens if things don’t go the way Winslow told you they would?’

  ‘You seem to be saying that I can’t trust Winslow,’ said Makana. ‘At the same time you’re asking me to trust you. That doesn’t make a lot of sense.’

  ‘You’re right, it doesn’t,’ agreed Shaw, ‘and there’s a limit to how much I can tell you. But let me ask you this. You look like a smart man. Have you had no doubts about Winslow yourself, about this whole mission?’

  ‘I don’t really understand what is going on here. Winslow arranged the replacement passport for me. That means he has some kind of authority here.’ Makana got to his feet. ‘You need to get in touch with him and make sure that you’re all on the same side.’

  ‘Winslow is on a personal mission. He’s out on a limb,’ said Shaw. He rested his hand on the door handle and held out a card. ‘If you find yourself in need of a friend, you can call that number, day or night.’

  Once clear of the building, his replacement travel document safely in his pocket, Makana found a phone box and called Koçak, asking him to meet later by the Galata Bridge. He could have found the Rüstem Pasha mosque by himself, but it might be useful to have a reliable car on hand. He turned the postcard over in his hand as he waited for the taxi to arrive. If it came from Ayman Nizari it confirmed that he was being extra-cautious. No name, no message, just a time and a place. A public space, somewhere he could feel safe.

  He made his way back to the Sultana Harem Hotel, stopping along the way to buy a few things. This time the reception desk was occupied by an overweight woman who spoke no English. Makana laid his key on the counter alongside the required cash. He leaned over to indicate the calendar that covered the desk blotter.

  ‘I need the room for two more nights.’

  She appeared to get the message, nodding and speaking, regardless of the fact that he clearly did not understand what she was saying. Patiently, she counted the money three times before writing him out a receipt.

  Now Makana could go up to his room. Although considerably smaller than the room at the Pera Palas, it would be enough for Nizari to rest in if they needed to stay out of sight for a few hours. Using the heavy-duty tape he had bought along the way, he fixed an envelope with five thousand dollars in it to the bottom of the bedside cabinet.

  There was a knock at the door and Makana opened it to find the same young man who had been on the reception desk the first time he had been here. He was holding a vacuum cleaner.

  ‘No, it’s all right. The room is fine.’ As an afterthought he reached into his pocket for some banknotes and counted a couple out. The boy looked at the money for a moment and then grinned, snatched the notes up and disappeared down the hall, dragging the vacuum cleaner behind him. The look on his face suggested that he suspected Makana was up to no good and the bribe was to make him look the other way. It didn’t make much difference what he thought the money was for, so long as he thought Makana was good for more of it at some stage. He looked at his watch. Koçak would be waiting for him.

  The historic heart of Istanbul lies on a peninsula that is separated from the rest of the city by the estuary known as the Golden Horn. It resembles a horn, twisted and bent, that has been driven into the land by the gods for the sole purpose of separating one side from the other.

  The Rüstem Pasha mosque stood in what had once been the city’s Latin quarter, occupied at various times by Venetians, Amalfians, Genoese and Pisans, and later home to a small Jewish community. None of this was in evidence today. The mosque was relatively modest compared with other, more illustrious temples in the vicinity, but its beauty lay in the delicate intricacy of its design, and the distinctive blue Iznik tiles that decorated the walls. Having left Koçak with instructions to wait for him and to be ready to leave quickly, Makana made his way in through the entrance gate. A narrow set of stairs brought him up to a long colonnade that ran along the side of the main building. A stall offered embroidered purses and postcards like the one Makana had in his jacket pocket.

  It was almost time for sunset prayers, and a handful of men had already gathered. Leaving his shoes by the door, Makana entered the main part of the mosque. The interior was cool and airy. Light reached it through a series of elegant red and white striped arches that divided the main part of the interior from a couple of smaller recesses. The walls were dominated by more of the same intricately patterned blue tiles.

  Makana’s watch told him it was almost six. He stood to one side and watched the men filing in through the entrance. They came in twos and threes, some alone. None looked familiar, but he studied the faces, looking for one he might have seen before, in the street, at the hotel, or at the Iskander Grillroom. He drew a blank. Each man chose a spot on which to stand and pray. The carpet was patterned with rows of doorways, representing the mihrab, the niche in the wall they faced, which indicated the direction of Mecca. Makana had edged along down one side, moving slowly, taking his time to study the faces once more. A few turned to observe him and he withdrew to the back of the room.

  It was past six now, and there was no sig
n of Nizari. As he stood by the entrance watching the men at prayer, Makana was surprised to realise that he found something like spiritual comfort in their murmurs. He assumed this was related to the disorientation brought on by being in a foreign place, an unfamiliar city. As so frequently over these days, the sense of dislocation led him back to the event that dominated his life: the deaths of his wife and daughter.

  While his new superiors were only interested in hounding him, Makana had thought he could manage. It was when they turned their persecution on his wife that he knew they had no option but to flee. Mek Nimr would stop at nothing to wipe out both his rival and his family. They drove out of the city at night, just before the curfew. Muna was driving. When they reached the top of the incline, a blinding row of lights came on ahead of them. Through the dazzle she saw soldiers lined up waiting, and in panic put her foot down. Had she hoped for some lucky way through? In any case it didn’t matter. Makana felt something give beneath the car. In the heat of the moment he thought it was one of the worn tyres bursting. Now he was no longer so sure. He wondered if Mek Nimr had done something to the car, to make sure they didn’t escape him. In any event, the old Volkswagen veered to one side and bounced up the kerb to hit the railings, hard enough to bend and dislodge them.

  By some quirk of fate, the offside door sprang open, and the same jolt threw Makana clear. The memory stayed vivid. Everything seemed to stop. He was watching the weight of the car slowly bow the railings over, tipping it into the river. He sprawled helpless. The sound of the car hitting the unseen water still echoed in his mind: a giant door slammed shut. He tried to throw himself in after them, but was pinioned.

  The last image Makana had of his daughter was of a three-year-old child pressing her fingers to the window of the car as it tilted slowly past the tipping point before falling into the darkness below. The image had engraved itself for ever, the details as sharp and clear as they had been nearly fifteen years ago. How many times had he replayed the scenes leading up to that moment, trying to work out what he might have missed, if there’d been any way to avoid them being taken from him.