by Parker Bilal
While he waited he thought about Winslow. In his mind a question mark still hung over the Englishman. Makana had the sense of having been launched into this with a faulty map, and no compass to speak of. What purpose that might serve, he could not say. He wondered whether he could trust Marty Shaw.
He looked at his watch again. Sulayman was now ten minutes late. He wondered if punctuality was a Turkish quality. Against his better judgement he poured himself another glass of raki. He needed to be able to rely on Sulayman to get them out of the city and across the border with little or no notice. Turning up late for dinner was not encouraging.
‘Hey stranger!’
It took Makana a moment to respond, unable to imagine that such a greeting might be addressed to him. He felt his heart sink as the red-faced man stepped forward.
‘Remember me?’
It was the Dutchman who had introduced himself at the Iskander Grillroom.
‘What a coincidence!’ the newcomer said, beaming like a schoolboy who had won a prize, which seemed to confirm Makana’s worst fears. But it was too late to avoid him. Henk Sneefliet was already settling himself, uninvited, into the chair opposite.
‘Small town,’ smiled Makana.
‘I see you’re getting acquainted with local customs.’ He picked up the bottle of raki and grinned, revealing two uneven rows of yellow teeth. ‘I’m not fond of the stuff myself. I prefer beer.’ The man’s blue eyes widened as he signalled to the approaching waiter.
There was something about this forwardness that rankled. It was a boldness born not of familiarity but of arrogance.
‘Actually, I was just about to leave,’ said Makana, looking at his watch. So unsubtle an encounter worried him. Snowfleet, or whatever his real name was, must have known that Makana would be suspicious, yet at the risk of blowing his cover he had come forward. Suddenly, Makana had concerns about Nadir Sulayman. Maybe there was a reason he’d been delayed. Makana handed some money to the waiter and gathered up his cigarettes from the table.
‘What a shame,’ said the man. ‘I was hoping we could get to know one another a little better.’
‘I’m afraid I have an appointment.’
‘Oh, I understand. It’s always difficult, mixing business with pleasure.’
‘Some other time perhaps.’
‘Yes, some other time.’ The Dutchman went through his pockets until he found a business card. From another pocket he produced a pen. ‘Taxim Palace Hotel. You can give me a call.’
Makana took the card. Henk Sneefliet, Engineer. There were contact numbers, email accounts and an address in The Hague.
‘Thank you. I’ll do that.’
They both seemed aware that they were playing a part, and that the next time they met the setting might not be so civil, but for the moment neither of them was prepared to let on.
Leaving Sneefliet behind, Makana reached for the mobile Nadir Sulayman had given him. He needed to warn him off and arrange a new meeting place. The call went straight through to a recorded voice speaking in Turkish. Makana cut the line.
He walked in a wide circle, first one way and then the other, taking more time and being more cautious than usual, varying speed and direction until he was fairly sure he was not being followed. After twenty minutes Nadir Sulayman had still not called back. Now Makana knew something was wrong. The Dutchman had known something, he was sure of it. He took another sharp turn and headed for Nadir Sulayman’s office.
Makana walked quickly now. It was getting late and the streets were flooded with evening revellers veering like shoals of fish from one distraction to the next. Tourists and locals brushed past one another as if passing through two versions of the same city. Drunken Germans sang football songs and screamed at one another. Families pulled small children out of their path. Somewhere a siren was wailing, elsewhere there was laughter. Young men and women, all determined to have a good time. Through open doors music drew people into the bars. Red and green neon strips seared the night like streaks of lightning cut through from beyond the stars.
The lighting around the office building seemed fainter than the evening before as Makana climbed slowly to the first floor and made his way round the open gallery. The light over the heavy door was dark. Soft shards of broken glass crunched underfoot as he drew near. In the alleyway just below a loud group of people went by, and he paused, waiting for their laughter to fade. A radio was talking somewhere high up in the building and a woman was calling her child. When he pressed the doorbell he could hear it buzzing within. It sounded clearer than the previous day. Nobody came. A cat brushed past his legs and pushed itself against the door, which moved. He was already regretting the raki he had drunk at the restaurant, although the truth was that his mind was as cold and clear as it ever was. Reaching out a hand, he watched the door yawn open before him.
Walking into a darkened apartment had never struck him as an inspired idea, but Makana saw no other choice. His instincts told him to proceed no further. Better to turn around, head back to his hotel, wait and see what Winslow suggested. But that wasn’t going to help anyone, least of all him. Right now, Nadir Sulayman was his only way out of this city.
He stepped inside and stood for a moment, shutting out the muffled sounds of neighbours and people in the street, and music from above. The cat mewed at his feet. It looked up at him as if to ask him what he thought he was doing before it slipped between his legs and disappeared into the night. Makana sighed. He didn’t need any more bad omens.
The corridor to his right was dimly lit. Across the darkened vestibule he could make out the door to Sulayman’s office, a shard of light just showing. He trod slowly across the open space, not knowing what to expect. With the back of his hand he pushed open the office door and peered around.
At first sight nothing jarred. The room was the same chaotic mess, though maybe more so. Nothing moved save a blue tumbling planet earth bouncing slowly across the window pane. The computer screen stood on the desk with its back to him. The reflection of the planet rebounded from corner to corner like a portal into another universe.
As Makana stepped carefully into the centre of the room, his foot caught a mound of paper. There were files and newspapers scattered all over the floor. Someone had been looking for something. He registered a tap running somewhere, and recalled Sulayman emerging from a bathroom on the right.
Later he would wonder why he had not taken a moment to consider that sound a little more carefully. Instead, his attention centred on what lay behind the desk. The big chair had been tipped over and Nadir Sulayman lay on the floor on his back. The light from the computer screen played over him in soft waves. It took a moment for Makana to realise that the blue plug sticking out of his mouth was his swollen tongue, thick enough to choke him. Something certainly had. His eyes were open. They had the wide, glazed look of someone who had caught a glimpse of eternity.
Makana inched his way around the body. There were sheets of paper scattered around and over it, and splashes of blood. Sulayman’s neck seemed to have swollen into two thick rolls. When he leaned closer Makana could make out a thin white band of hard nylon. A plastic cable tie less than half a centimetre thick was so deeply embedded in the flesh that it was almost completely concealed.
The blood came from a wound to the side of the head. There was a scrap of flesh and hair on the sharp corner of the desk which suggested that Sulayman had struggled and hit his head as he went over. There was bruising on his face, one eye was swollen and there were cuts on his left cheek and ear. Two of his fingers looked broken.
As he knelt beside the body, a distinctive buzzing sound drew Makana to lean over and glimpse a green light pulsing. He reached under the desk to fish out the mobile phone, whose screen showed a sealed envelope. When he tapped it the message was simple, and in English: ‘In the midnight hour – Blue Ozan?’ The sender’s name rang a bell. Kara Deniz. He tried to recall where he’d seen it before, and memorised her number before erasing the message and replacin
g the phone where he’d found it.
Something caused him to glance up. A sense that the air in the room had shifted in some subtle way. He knew straight away what it was. The running tap he’d heard when he came in was no longer running. His eyes flicked up to the window as a shadow crossed it, fluid and light as silk. An instant’s more time, and he might have unbent from the floor. It didn’t come. When the blow struck him he was still rising, and then he wasn’t any longer. The room tilted onto its side, and now he was hugging the floor as if it were a wall.
Chapter Fourteen
He opened his eyes to find Genghis Khan staring down at him. The long, drooping beard was more than convincing, but Makana was confused. He had always had the impression that the Mongols dressed in furs and animal skins, while this one appeared to be wearing some kind of a uniform. There were shadows moving around the edge of his vision, which seemed to have narrowed. He tried to move, which made his head hurt and caused a commotion around him. The Mongol emperor was yelling at him.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
He was helpless to fend off the hands that searched through his clothes until they came up with his wallet and his new temporary passport.
‘English?’
Not so much a question as a statement of disbelief.
They hauled him to his feet, his head feeling like a block of ice balanced on a sharp spike. It should have fallen off, but somehow it didn’t. His hands were wrenched behind his back and he felt the metallic crunch of handcuffs clamping tightly around his wrists. Genghis Khan appeared in front of him again and did some more yelling, then two men escorted him from the apartment.
Makana managed to count twenty officers of various ranks before he lost track. His head felt giddy and his hearing was fuzzy. Murder was clearly a major attraction in Istanbul, and no one seemed too concerned with preserving the crime scene. He could imagine something similar happening in Cairo, although the Turks seemed a little better prepared, perhaps even a little more modern. Certainly they were better equipped than their Egyptian counterparts. Paramedics in fluorescent jackets raced past him. Heavy boots rushed into the apartment and out again.
The two officers guarding him stood close by, as if half expecting him to make a run for it, though it was plain he could barely keep his feet. Eventually even this became too much, and he slid down onto the ground, not much caring about the stench of cat piss that rose up to meet him. He felt slightly nauseous and wondered if he was going to throw up. Most of all he felt riled at the time being wasted. He had been reduced to a spectator, not to mention a spectacle. The crowd tramping in and out of the apartment paused to examine him the way you might a caged bear. His two guards stood there proudly, grinning like hunters displaying their catch.
Sitting out of the way on the ground allowed Makana space in which to gather his thoughts. Nadir Sulayman’s broken fingers displayed lacerations and cuts, and jagged nails, all of which suggested he had struggled. The killer had slipped the noose over his head and pulled it tight before stepping out of the way to watch him flail. Sulayman must have thrashed about trying to get the noose off, tipping the chair over, tearing his fingertips and ripping off his nails in the fight to breathe. It seemed a dreadful way to end one’s life.
He was hauled to his feet. There seemed to be a tension in the air and a sense of order had entered the proceedings. It didn’t take long to work out the cause of this change. A man clad in civilian clothes had appeared at the top of the stairs and was making his way around the gallery towards them. From the way his two guards responded, Makana knew the newcomer was a policeman, most likely a senior officer. Cigarettes were hurriedly stubbed out and uniforms straightened.
The new arrival carried himself with the caution of a man who has learned the hard way the perils of rushing in. He was in his mid-forties, but youthful-looking, with a scruffy beard and unruly hair that seemed to speak defiance of regulation. His eyes were baggy and bloodshot, indicating a continual lack of sleep. At the same time they alerted him to everything around him. When he spoke he did so softly but still commanded general attention. The men on either side of Makana took in every syllable.
Genghis Khan was back in a hurry, holding up a plastic bag containing Makana’s personal effects. The officer glanced at this before turning away. He ran an eye over Makana and then he was gone, disappearing inside the apartment with the same lack of ceremony that had marked his approach. Shouting broke out from within almost at once, and the men who had crowded eagerly inside now began to emerge steadily, pooling around the doorway to kick their heels sullenly as they awaited orders. There was a round of mutual recriminations as they appeared to blame one another for their predicament.
By now a few onlookers had emerged from the neighbouring apartments, lining the railings of the gallery above them. One woman called out a comment that triggered a round of laughter. This too was familiar territory for Makana. More faces appeared at windows and leaning over balconies. The policemen strutted round like players on a stage. The smiles vanished when the detective emerged. Suddenly everyone seemed to find new purpose, and orders were issued and swiftly obeyed.
When he saw order prevailing, the detective turned his attention to Makana. He held up his identity card.
‘Inspector Serkan, Department of Homicide.’ He spoke in English and held up Makana’s temporary British passport. ‘How is your head?’
‘I’ll live.’
‘Okay. So …’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘What happened here?’
‘I had an appointment with Mr Sulayman.’
‘You are friends?’
‘We only just met. He was arranging some things for me.’
‘What kind of things?’ Serkan’s eyes searched Makana’s.
‘Business things.’
‘You don’t speak Turkish.’
‘No. I’m visiting. From Cairo.’
‘What is this?’ Serkan held up Makana’s replacement passport.
‘I was robbed. The consulate gave me that.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that Mr … Amin?’ The detective flapped the document in his hand as if trying to dry it. ‘We will have to check with the British consulate naturally. These temporary passports are easier to fake than the real thing.’
‘They will confirm what I have just told you.’
‘You say you are here from Cairo?’ Serkan sounded sceptical. ‘That is where you live, in Egypt, with your British passport?’
‘It makes travel much easier.’
‘I’m sure.’ On second thoughts, perhaps it was more disapproval than doubt in the detective’s tone. ‘And do you travel a lot, Mr Amin?’
‘Yes. Am I under arrest?’
‘Good question.’ Inspector Serkan seemed amused, but didn’t answer. He carried on scribbling notes. Then he looked Makana up and down while tapping his pen absently against the back of the notebook. ‘He was dead when you found him?’
‘Yes.’
Serkan pointed at Makana’s head. ‘But someone was still there. The killer?’
‘Possibly.’
‘You’re not sure?’ Serkan seemed intrigued.
‘I didn’t witness the murder. I saw someone reflected in the window, then I was knocked out.’
‘Okay, so tell me. From the beginning. You arrive at what time?’
‘Around nine forty-five.’
‘And how do you get inside?’
‘The door was open.’
‘Okay.’ Inspector Serkan tapped the nib of his pen against his notebook. ‘Then you find Mr Sulayman. Then what do you do?’
‘I checked to see if he was still alive. I could find no sign of life.’
Serkan frowned. ‘You are a doctor? No? No medical training of any kind?’
‘You didn’t need medical training to know that he was dead.’
Inspector Serkan held up a hand and turned to speak briefly to Genghis Khan, who leapt into action clearing the onlookers away. The inspector turned b
ack to Makana. ‘My apologies. You were saying?’
‘I said that it was clear he was dead.’
‘Of course. Of course.’ Serkan studied Makana for a moment. ‘Perhaps you can go back to the beginning. You had an appointment with Mr Sulayman?’
‘Yes, but not here, we were due to have dinner together. When he didn’t appear and didn’t return my calls, I came to see if he was here.’
‘Where did you have dinner?’
‘I didn’t have dinner. When he didn’t show up I decided to come here.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Inspector Serkan nodded. ‘Continue. Where were you to meet?’
‘The Tanpinar restaurant in Nevizade Sokak, at nine o’clock.’
The questions came in an odd, apparently random order, clearly designed to disorient the subject. Makana was familiar with the tactic. It was a way of getting people to lose patience, to become confused, to tie themselves in knots with lies. How he answered was at least as important as what he said. What he said, what he left out, all of it was being carefully recorded. The notebook was a prop. Inspector Serkan waved it about, jotted a few things down, apparently at random, suggesting that he wasn’t paying too much attention. It gave the impression that either he was a very poor detective or, as Makana rather suspected, a very good one.
Serkan spoke without looking up. ‘When Mr Sulayman did not appear, how long did you wait?’
‘I don’t know. Half an hour, perhaps.’
