by Parker Bilal
Makana imagined himself on a voyage to unknown parts, far away from anywhere. The idea held a certain appeal, and for a time he lost himself in it. The truth was he didn’t much like travelling by water. His memories of learning to swim in the river as a child were overshadowed by fear. The sense of what was concealed, of what lay beneath the surface, the darkness that lurked there. His father had been a good swimmer, driving himself out into the water with strong, firm strokes, his black hair alive, as he slid through the water as slick as a fish. When he came to teach his son to swim he had little patience. To the boy, the river’s calm surface was deceptive. There were dangerous eddies and undercurrents. His father would hear nothing of it. ‘Don’t be afraid. Keep going. Just trust in yourself.’ But the boy was afraid. He preferred dry land, where he could see what was coming. Maybe that was what made him uneasy about this city: he felt as though he was skimming over a surface with no idea of what lay below.
He took himself round the ferry, walking at the leisurely pace of a man who is in no hurry to get anywhere. He circled the upper deck, pausing to study the receding coastline, the hulking shadows of the narrow strait with its rocky sides, and over them the arc of steel and concrete that was the Galata Bridge, so high and long it looked almost like a natural feature. How could anything so big have been constructed by man? But this was the city of Justinian the Great, of Theodosius and Constantine. The walls spoke of the passage of peoples traversing the globe from east to west. It was hard not to be intimidated by that kind of history.
The ferry was half empty. There were two stops before they reached Heybeliada and the journey took just over ninety minutes. Before they reached it Makana descended to the lower deck and walked between the rows of fixed plastic seats. He chose a spot close to the rear where he could observe the other passengers as they came and went. For the most part these were locals, carrying bags and boxes, sacks and small children. The men smoked while the women chattered and handed out food to the young ones. There were also some tourists, foreign and local alike, who concerned themselves with posing by the railings for photographs of themselves and the view. No one stood out and no one looked familiar, but that didn’t mean anything. He didn’t really know who he was looking out for. It was like feeling your way in the dark, not knowing what shapes are going to materialise out of the shadows, which ones pose a threat and which don’t.
Makana joined the file of passengers as they threaded their way down the gangway to the quay. He spent some time on the waterfront, making his way slowly along the row of cafés and restaurants, stopping here and there, for coffee and a smoke. The people who had arrived with him dispersed in different directions, families settling themselves around tables, the adults calling for refreshments while the children ran wild around them. Some couples climbed into horse-drawn carriages and clopped away hopefully in search of a romantic setting. Painted wooden houses rose up the hillside, some blue, others a tan shade of varnish.
Everywhere he went, Makana asked if the name Aksoy meant something. He was looking for an old friend, he explained. He thought the family had a place here. It was on his third try that at last he found someone who knew.
A woman in black, her greying hair tied back, called across the room to the man washing dishes behind the counter. He was an older man with a bushy white moustache, who spoke no English, and Makana assumed he was her father. Yes, of course he knew the Aksoy family. They had owned a house on the island since he was a boy. They had been coming here for generations. Which one did he know?
‘Hatice Aksoy, a professor at the university.’
The woman in black nodded and translated, but the old man shook his head.
‘She’s not around any more. She passed away.’
‘Well, I should like to pay my respects to the family,’ Makana said.
They gave him directions and he was soon walking up the road that curved along the coast. He had been assured it was no more than ten minutes away, but this proved optimistic. It took him the best part of twenty before he came to a halt before a large wooden house set on a corner. It was painted a light blue and had two floors. A path led up to a front porch that extended around the side of the house. Makana followed it round to the rear where the sea was visible beyond a row of pines. At the edge of the garden, where the trees began, stood a small pavilion for spending the summer evenings watching the sun go down.
‘Effendim?’
He turned to find a woman in her thirties standing in the doorway. She held a small child in his arms.
‘Excuse me, I was looking for the house of Professor Aksoy. I was told she lived here.’
‘My mother?’ The young woman’s English was good. She looked him over suspiciously. ‘My mother passed away five years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ began Makana. He stopped. ‘Look, this is a little difficult. I’m actually trying to find an old friend of your mother’s.’ Her eyes flickered over his shoulder in the direction of the pavilion in the trees.
‘Are you a friend of his?’
‘He’s expecting me,’ said Makana. ‘I’ve come to take him home.’
The child in her arms was restless, and she jogged the little boy up and down a few times before he settled again. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind.
‘He just appeared out of nowhere. He was in a bad state. He refused to see a doctor.’
Makana looked back at the trees. Through the windows of the pavilion he could make out a figure moving about.
The woman seemed to make up her mind.
‘I’ve been worried about what to do,’ she said, stepping down from the veranda and leading the way along the path. ‘My husband is not happy to have a strange man in the house.’
‘I understand.’
‘He said he was a friend of my mother and he needed help. I couldn’t turn him away.’
‘Of course not.’
She studied Makana carefully. ‘He’s in some kind of trouble, isn’t he?’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
The woman nodded. ‘I didn’t know who to call. I didn’t know what to do.’
‘It’s all right. Let me speak to him. Hopefully we can resolve this quickly.’
The pavilion was elegant and simple. An octagonal roof protected a single room with windows on every side. A small porch contained a low table, a rocking chair and a bench. The air was perfumed with the faint trace of resin. Through the trees he could see the sea, shiny and flat, and in the distance cargo ships that slid across the glassy surface like wooden clogs across a slippery floor. Tankers lined up, patiently waiting their turn to enter the Bosporus Strait that would feed them north and deliver them to the Black Sea. Their lights were like electric echoes of the first stars to emerge in the sky.
Ayman Nizari stepped onto the porch looking more dishevelled than the last time Makana had seen him.
‘What are you doing here?’ Like a cornered animal’s, his eyes darted back and forth between the woman and Makana.
‘I came to help you,’ said Makana, trying to sound reassuring.
‘I don’t need your help,’ snapped Nizari.
Makana glanced at the woman, who shifted awkwardly. Nizari turned on her.
‘Did she tell you I was here?’
‘Nobody told me.’ Makana circled the room casually. He picked up a book and set it down. ‘They didn’t have to tell me.’ He glanced up at Nizari. ‘Others will be coming. If I could find you, so could they.’
‘What about my money?’
‘We can discuss that later.’
‘I told you, I want my money.’ Nizari was growing frantic. ‘Did you tell them? Did you tell Winslow?’
Makana tried offering a cigarette, which Nizari gratefully took. ‘You can’t stay here for ever,’ he said after a moment. ‘You’re putting these people in danger.’
‘I’m not leaving until I get my money.’
‘Then you’re going to be here for a long time.’
Niza
ri shifted his weight and then, passing a hand over his face, he sighed and sank down into the rocking chair.
Makana smiled at the woman, who looked worried. He peered inside the interior. There was a smell of mould in the air that competed with the general unwashed odour coming from Nizari. A heap of crumpled clothes tumbled from a half-empty bookshelf in one corner. An old turntable and a handful of battered LPs hinted at summer evenings and spirited parties. The whole pavilion seemed to speak of other times. Ayman Nizari was an incongruous addition to somebody else’s memories.
‘You shouldn’t worry too much about the money,’ said Makana softly. ‘The main thing is to get you to Cairo. Winslow is there. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
Nizari wrung his fingers. ‘I want it to be clear that I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Nobody is saying you did anything wrong,’ Makana assured him. This wasn’t the moment to be reminding Nizari that trying to sell your skills to a known terrorist can make you a lot of enemies.
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘You don’t have much choice, I’m afraid,’ said Makana. He turned to address the woman, who looked as though she was two steps away from calling the police. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know when the next ferry is?’
Visibly relieved, she looked at her watch. ‘In about forty minutes. You have plenty of time to make it back to town.’
‘Okay.’ Makana turned back to Nizari. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. For the moment it’s probably best for you to stay here. If that’s all right,’ he said, consulting the woman.
‘For how long?’
‘One night, two at the most.’
‘I thought you were going to get me to somewhere safe.’ Nizari’s hand trembled as he puffed quickly on the cigarette.
‘I am, but I need to make arrangements, and right now this is as safe a place as any. Less chance of being seen.’
‘Are we in danger?’ asked the woman.
‘Not if you do as I say. You’ve told nobody that he is here?’ Makana waited for her to nod. ‘Good, then let’s keep it that way. He should remain here, and not go out, any more than can be helped. I will be back as soon as possible.’
The young woman looked as if she were trapped in a nightmare, with no idea of how she had got here.
A horn sounded and Makana looked at his watch. ‘I have to go.’
‘You can’t just leave me here,’ Nizari whined. Already his voice was grating on Makana’s nerves.
‘Stay here and be ready to move quickly. We won’t have much time.’
He thanked the woman and then he stepped down from the shadows and walked away across the slope without looking back.
By the time he reached town people were gathering along the quayside in anticipation of the ferry. Makana circled through the crowd looking for familiar faces. His last words to Nizari echoed in his head. Time was running out.
Chapter Twenty-five
The dockside was crawling with police. Makana threaded his way through the crowds, skirting from one group to another – construction workers, tourists, a party of Spanish students shepherded by a pair of nervous teachers. Clearing the terminal building, he edged towards the shelter of the nearest streets.
Koçak was waiting as agreed.
‘Amin Bey, everything is all right?’ he asked as he opened the door for Makana to climb into the taxi. They moved off slowly, chugging up the steep incline between pedestrians, leaving a plume of black exhaust in their wake.
‘Before we go anywhere, I need to make a phone call.’
There wasn’t time to find another place, so he told Koçak how to find the Mukarrameh call shop and asked him to wait around the next corner for him. An anxious Marcus Winslow was waiting for his call. He answered on the first ring.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been worried.’
‘You heard about Marty Shaw, then?’
‘Of course. What was he doing in your room?’
‘I can’t say,’ said Makana. ‘My best guess is that he was searching it, and someone surprised him.’
‘That’s all there is to it?’ Winslow sounded sceptical.
‘What are you asking?’
‘I mean, I’m wondering what he was doing in your room. Did you have any contact with him at the consulate?’
‘He took an interest in me when I was collecting my passport.’
‘What does that mean, he took an interest?’
‘He asked what I was doing in Istanbul.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I stuck to my story.’ Makana looked out at the interior. Over the top of the high counter a pair of bloodshot eyes swivelled to observe him. It probably wasn’t a good idea coming back here, but he was in a hurry. He knew he needed to put Winslow’s mind at ease. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘If Shaw was leaking information, that might explain things. Otherwise …’
‘Otherwise, what?’
‘Nothing. I’m just trying to understand why Shaw was in your room.’
‘Does it really matter? Right now, the main thing is getting Nizari out of here, don’t you think?’
‘You’re right, of course.’ Winslow sounded weary. ‘You can’t stay there. You’ll be on every wanted list in the country now. If they had any doubts about your involvement in Sulayman’s death, I’d say you’d pretty much put those to rest now. That makes your situation untenable.’
‘I can’t argue with that,’ said Makana. The man behind the counter was speaking into a phone in a low voice, his hand cupped over the receiver.
‘You can forget about the airport. Even without Nizari you’ll be detained.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll find an alternative route.’ Winslow sighed. ‘You need to remain calm and sit tight. We’ll get you out of there, I promise. Are you anywhere near finding our man?’
‘I’m working on something.’
‘That sounds like progress. Just make sure you’re careful. You’ll need somewhere else to stay.’
‘I’ve taken care of that,’ said Makana. ‘Look, about Shaw, do you think it could have been the Israelis?’
‘At this point, to be honest, anything is possible.’ The more Makana needed from him, the more vague Winslow became. Makana wondered what that meant.
‘I want you to carry on checking in, every twelve hours. And call me if there are any more developments, and I mean, call me immediately. Is that clear?’
The man behind the counter resumed his silent observation of his only client. Makana listened for sirens.
‘One last question. The Israelis.’
‘Again?’ Winslow sounded annoyed. ‘This is beginning to sound like an obsession. All right, what about them?’
‘I’m having trouble working out which side we’re on.’
‘I don’t even know what that means,’ said Winslow.
‘I mean, are you working with them?’
There was a long silence. So long that Makana wondered if the line had been lost.
‘I thought I explained this to you; they’re our allies.’
‘What does that actually mean?’
‘It means that we share everything with them … in theory.’
‘In practice?’
‘In practice we are competing species in the same evolutionary pond.’
‘Which means what exactly?’
‘It means we don’t turn our backs on them. Is all this your way of telling me you’ve had a run-in with them?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s possible.’
Winslow gave a tut of annoyance. ‘There are times when I really wonder what it is you’re trying to say.’
Makana could have said the same thing. Nobody seemed to be able to speak plainly, least of all Winslow.
‘I have a feeling I may have run into them.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘They were masquerading as Bosnian jihadis.’
‘Nice touch,�
�� muttered Winslow. ‘I’m sorry. I was hoping to keep this simple. I want you to focus on coming through this in one piece. Keep out of harm’s way, and as for our friends in Tel Aviv, steer clear of them at all costs. As for Marty Shaw, I’ll get onto our liaison in the MIT and see if we can’t come in on the investigation.’
‘Can you do that?’ Makana wondered if Winslow was just making this up to reassure him, or if the Englishman really thought he could influence an investigation by Turkish intelligence.
‘If we tell him he’s a person of interest to us, it might take some of the pressure off you.’
‘Why can’t you tell them he’s one of yours?’
‘Because we don’t do that kind of thing. Ever.’
It was becoming more and more clear to Makana that he was an expendable part in Winslow’s grand scheme. Had Winslow ever really trusted him? Somehow he doubted it. He wondered whether Winslow had doubts about Makana’s innocence when it came to Shaw’s death, or whether he knew more about that than he was letting on. Winslow had come to him because he needed to use an outside agent, someone who wasn’t connected: once his status changed, Makana would no longer be of use to the British.
He dropped some notes on the counter and left the call shop quickly, half expecting to find the place surrounded when he came out into the street. A light rain had started. Turning a corner he doubled back right and left. He bought a newspaper and stood under the awning pretending to read it while watching the entrance to the call shop. No police cars appeared. When he was satisfied he was not being followed, he made his way back to where Koçak was waiting.
‘All is good, Amin Bey?’
‘Tamam, Koçak,’ said Makana, using one of the few words of Turkish he had managed to pick up. ‘Everything is good.’
‘Tamam, tamam!’ Koçak responded enthusiastically.
‘I need to ask you a favour, Koçak.’
‘I am at your service, Amin Bey.’
‘Wait till you hear what it is.’
Koçak lived with his wife Ayçe and three children, the youngest of whom was five, the eldest thirteen. The entire family had assembled on a small sofa in the narrow living room of their apartment to greet Makana. Koçak introduced each one with the solemnity of a caliph presenting his court. Makana slept in the spare room, which Koçak assured him was the honoured place where his wife’s mother slept when she visited from Anatolia. Makana envisaged a large woman, whose bulk had worn the trough in the mattress into which he rolled and from which he seemed to spend the night fighting his way out of. Appropriately, he dreamed of being buried alive.
