City of the Lost

by Will Adams

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said the receptionist, ‘but we don’t have any rooms left. The phone’s been going crazy. Journalists and TV people and police. Everyone’s on their way. And the other hotels are the same. We’ve all been referring inquiries to each other. I honestly don’t know of any rooms left in the city.’

  Iain glanced at Karin. Sharing a room with a stranger breached all kinds of company protocols, but she was visibly at the end of her tether. ‘We can go hunting, if you like,’ he said. ‘Or there’s a spare bed in my room.’

  She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘Just for tonight. We’ll sort something better out tomorrow.’ The receptionist smiled at this happy solution, tapped Karin’s details into her terminal, gave her a spare card-key. They took the lift up. He fixed them a drink each, spilled a pack of chocolate-covered nuts into a saucer. Karin sat heavily on a bed and checked her mobile, but the masts were evidently overwhelmed here too. He nodded at the bedside phone. ‘Use that,’ he said.

  ‘It’s to Holland. To let my parents know I’m safe. Then to America.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said. ‘Owe me.’ He half held up his hand to apologize for his irritability, but Karin didn’t even seem to notice. He went into the bathroom, put his hands upon the sink, rested weight upon them. It was a risk of being single too long that you lost your soft edges. He checked himself in the mirror: a mess of sweat and dust and blood. He fetched clean clothes from his wardrobe, stripped and took a shower, vigorously soaping off the dirt and blood and sweat, watching the grey-brown mess of it circle the plug and then vanish. He dialled the heat up as high as he could take it then turned his face to the spray almost as if to purge himself of something, or perhaps in penance for the fact that, yet once more in his life, an operation he was running had turned so utterly to shit.

  THREE

  I

  They found a storage room crammed with pianos and other instruments in which to brief Deniz Baştürk on the bomb before he went out to face the press. Discordant notes thrummed and pinged each time someone changed position or rested a hand on a keyboard, making it even harder for him to absorb what he was being told, fretting at the ordeal ahead as he already was.

  Hard to believe that he’d actually once enjoyed dealing with the media. As an economics professor of reasonable repute, brought into the Ministry of Finance in the wake of the global financial crisis, his first interviews had almost exclusively been policy-dense one-on-ones with sober-minded financial journalists. He’d enjoyed the intellectual challenge of making his case persuasively, and he hadn’t needed to worry much about ambush, partly because he was essentially an honest man, but mostly because access was too valuable a commodity to the press to be wasted on a hit against someone as obscure and technocratic as himself. But then had come his unexpected elevation to the top job, and everything had changed.

  Enough. His aides knew nothing more and if he didn’t go out soon the murmuring would start, that he was hiding. He led the way himself, marching through the lobby and striding boldly out the automated glass front doors, because you had to look in command even if you didn’t feel it. It had turned darkly overcast outside, exaggerating the eruption of flashbulbs from the several dozen reporters and photographers crowded in the small courtyard and on the steps up to the street, almost like he was in an auditorium of his own. He felt exposed without a podium to stand behind; his usual one not only had a concealed step to make him appear taller, but its considerable girth also helped disguise his own. There was nothing for it, however. He took a moment to compose himself and to adopt a suitably sombre expression then spoke the usual platitudes about the nation’s thoughts being with the victims and their families, giving them his word the perpetrators would be caught.

  ‘You’ve been giving your word for six months,’ said Birol Khan of Channel 5. ‘Yet still they bomb. Each worse than the last. The Syrians, the Kurds and now it seems the Cypriots. It’s like they’re competing with each other.’

  ‘That’s an unnecessarily alarmist way of—’

  ‘Alarmist? These monsters murdered thirty people. And you call me alarmist?’

  He held up a hand. ‘That’s not what I meant. These … perpetrators are criminals. This is a security problem, not a war.’

  ‘It feels like a war. It feels like we’re under attack all the time.’

  There were murmurs of approval at this. These weren’t merely journalists. They were civilians too, people with their own fears, with loved ones of their own. Until recently, the troubles had been sporadic and largely confined to the Kurdish south-east, but now attacks were taking place with increasing frequency and violence all across the country. No town or village felt safe any more. No public space or office. And it was impossible to protect everywhere. He cast a guilty glance over his shoulder. Since his son had started here, the Academy had added layers of security, courtesy of the state. He himself was escorted by at least six secret service bodyguards wherever he went. His cars were armoured, his office and both homes protected by rings of steel. How would he feel if it was his own family in jeopardy and no progress was being made? He suffered another flutter of inadequacy. The country needed a proper leader, not some floundering economist. ‘The police are doing the best they can,’ he said weakly.

  ‘That’s the precise problem,’ shouted out Yasemin Omari, a gadfly TV reporter who mistook rudeness for speaking truth to power.

  ‘They’ve made a great many arrests.’

  ‘Yes. Of people the Interior Minister doesn’t like.’

  ‘That’s a ridiculous allegation.’

  ‘Some say he can’t catch the bombers because he’s fired his best officers and replaced them with incompetent loyalists. Others say he’s deliberately slow-pedalling the investigations to make you look bad. Which do you think it is?’

  ‘I think he’s a dedicated public servant doing an excellent job under extremely difficult circumstances.’

  ‘Your current Chief of the General Staff helped take down the Kurdish separatists last time it got like this. Why not put him in charge?’

  ‘Because counterterrorism is a civilian task. Besides, the Minister and the General are already in close contact. We operate a joined-up government.’ Laughter made him flush. ‘I assure you,’ he said.

  ‘You assure us?’ taunted Omari. ‘Everyone knows those two hate each other. When was the last time they even spoke?’

  ‘We have just suffered the most terrible atrocity,’ he said sharply. ‘Do you seriously expect me to reveal details of our investigation on national television?’ He shook his head as if in dismay then pushed his way through the pack and up the steps to the waiting cars. A heartfelt sigh the moment they were safely inside. ‘Get the Interior Minister and the Chief of the General Staff for me,’ he told Gonka, as they pulled away. ‘I want them in my office.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ she said. ‘When?’

  He turned so that she could see his face. ‘When do you think?’ he asked.

  II

  Karin was on the phone when Iain finished his shower, being talked at by an American man with an abrasively loud and patrician voice. ‘… need to let me know the moment my father’s death is confirmed,’ he was saying.

  ‘Of course,’ said Karin. She glanced up at Iain. ‘But I have to go now,’ she said. ‘Again, I’m really sorry for your loss.’

  ‘I’ll bet you are,’ said the man, sounding remarkably chipper for someone who’d had such grievous news. ‘Waking up like this to find nothing on the night-stand.’ The phone clicked; there was dial-tone. Karin grimaced as she replaced it in its cradle. ‘Nathan’s eldest,’ she said.

  ‘He seemed to take it well.’

  ‘They aren’t the closest of families.’

  Iain nodded. If she wanted to talk about it, she’d bring it up herself. ‘You look exhausted,’ he said. ‘Enough with the phone calls. Have a bath. A nice cup of tea.’ He fetched an olive T-shirt from the wardrobe, tossed
it to her, then fished some Turkish lira banknotes from his wallet. ‘For clothes and food and shit. Whatever you need.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘And if there’s anything else …’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Does that extend to advice?’

  ‘Sure. About what?’

  Karin had brought her day-pack up to the room. Now she took the bulky manila envelope out from it. ‘You remember what I told that policeman? How I went out walking all morning. Then I went back to Nathan’s room only to find him still in his meeting, and how he gave me this to post.’

  Iain frowned. ‘You want me to run it down to reception?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing like that. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about something. About why we were even here.’ She bit her lower lip briefly, as though torn between discretion and the urge to share. ‘If I tell you something in confidence, will you keep it to yourself?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Iain. ‘What?’

  She showed him the package’s address label. It was made out in neat turquoise handwriting to a Professor Michael Walker at the Egyptian Institute of Archaeometry in New Cairo, Egypt. ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘I know Mike. My boss Nathan used to sponsor his institute, you see, so I’ve dealt with him a fair bit over the phone. He’s an archaeologist, essentially, but he specializes in scientific techniques like carbon-dating, thermoluminescence testing, spectrum analysis, that kind of thing. How old is this parchment? Where was this amphora fired? What’s the mix of metals in this ingot?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Iain.

  ‘Nathan was fascinated by the ancient Greeks,’ said Karin. ‘Particularly the Mycenaeans. The ones Homer wrote about. We were in Troy a couple of days ago, for example. Then we came here. You won’t know this, but some people believe the Trojan War started in Daphne.’

  ‘Sure,’ nodded Iain. ‘Paris awarding Aphrodite the golden apple.’

  ‘Yes. Exactly.’ She looked so impressed, he decided not to confess that Mustafa had told him this that same morning. ‘But you saw the place. It’s not exactly Ephesus, is it? Though, to be fair, Nathan also co-sponsors excavations at an old Hittite city called Tell Tayinat, which is only a few miles from here, by the Syrian border. But that’s off-season right now. There’s no one there.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be following this?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m thinking out loud. You see, when I was arranging our itinerary, this was the only leg of the trip that Nathan insisted on, even though there was nothing for us to do here. We had to arrive last night, we had to stay at the Daphne International Hotel, and we couldn’t leave for Cyprus until the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Iain.

  ‘And Nathan only decided to make this trip two weeks ago. You don’t know him, but that’s completely out of character. He likes to have everything just so.’ She gave a little grimace. ‘He liked to, I should say. Spontaneity was never his thing. Yet suddenly he decides to come here. And you should have seen how excited he’s been these past few days. And that hotel! It was nice enough, yes, but Nathan was rich. I mean really, really rich. I could easily have found us something far nicer, like the place we had in Istanbul, you should have seen it. But no, he insisted on that specific hotel. And then this morning he tells me that he and Rick have a meeting, and that I should go out and not come back for at least two hours.’

  Iain nodded. ‘So you think your whole trip here was in fact cover for this meeting?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  ‘Do you know who it was with?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you suspect someone was offering him artefacts for sale, right? And that this package for your friend Mike in New Cairo contains samples he wanted tested? To authenticate the pieces before he handed over any cash?’

  Karin grimaced. ‘Nathan never cared too much about provenance,’ she said. ‘At least, that’s not fair, he did care, he cared a lot. But he thought it worth pushing the boundaries a little if it meant getting important pieces back into the public domain. He donated all those sorts of acquisitions to museums, you see. The black market’s still illegal, though, however honourable your intentions. And he told me once that he almost got caught here in Turkey several years ago. So what do I do? I can’t see how telling the police would help the investigation, but what if it could? Yet if I tell them about it, and they use it to trash his reputation, I’d hate myself. Or what if they accuse me of being his accomplice? I wasn’t, I swear I wasn’t. It never even occurred to me until a moment ago. But how could I possibly prove that?’

  ‘So post it to this Walker guy,’ suggested Iain. ‘You’d have done it anyway.’

  ‘But they’re bound to be keeping an eye on those sorts of places, aren’t they? What with the bomb, I mean. Or what if Mike notifies them himself after he receives it? It’ll look like I was trying to hide it. And I showed it to that policeman, remember? What if he asks for it?’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She sounded a little close to the edge suddenly; shock often got to people in unexpected ways. ‘Maybe to find out who Nathan was meeting. To identify his body or something. What would I do then?’

  He took the package from her, packed it away in his holdall at the foot of his wardrobe. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You were badly shaken by the explosion. I took it from you to carry. What with everything else, you never even gave it another thought.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘You never even gave it another thought. If anyone asks for it, which they won’t, frown and say you think maybe I have it. If they ask me, I’ll give it to them and your boss’ reputation will have to take a hit. That’s all. But it won’t happen, I promise you. Nor will anyone come after you. They’ve got far more important things to worry about.’

  She let out a deep breath. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘And not only for this. For everything. I honestly don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

  ‘Just glad I could help,’ he said.

  III

  A smallholding near Gornec

  The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus

  Zehra Inzanoğlu was breaking up soil in her top field when she heard the engine. It sounded strained and urgent, with a different pitch to any of her neighbours’ vehicles. Nor did it sound much like the hire-car of one of the hapless tourists who sometimes got themselves lost up here while trying to find some imaginary shortcut across the mountains to the north coast.

  She rested her mattock against her thigh, brushed dry earth from her hands. The car crested the low rise and came into view. It was old, pale blue and patched in places with grey filler and black tape, and her heart gave a little skip of recognition as it pulled to a stop on the hardened mud track near the steps to her cottage. Then the driver door opened and her son Taner stepped out.

  He was taller than she remembered. He’d filled out in the chest and shoulders too. When she’d last seen him, it had been possible to think of him as a boy, her boy, though he’d been twenty-four, married and about to become a parent himself. But he was a man now, beyond question. She walked down the path towards him, but stopped several paces short and held her mattock out like a pikestaff. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  He tried a smile. ‘I need help, Mother,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘I need your help.’

  She shook her head slowly. He was flesh and blood so saying no to him could never come easily. But the choice had been his. She and her husband had made the consequences of his betrayal perfectly clear. ‘You should have thought of that before.’

  ‘I’m not asking for myself,’ he said. He turned and beckoned to the car. The passenger door opened and a girl of perhaps ten years old climbed out. She was wearing a school uniform of royal blue with yellow bands, and her hair was of a lustrous black that tumbled in glossy curls down to and beyond her shoulders. Her mouth was mutinous and her eyes were bloodshot from rubbing or weeping. Even so, she looked so strikin
gly like how Zehra’s younger sister had looked at that age that it was a punch in her chest. ‘This is your granddaughter Katerina, Mother,’ said Taner. ‘Katerina, this is your grandmother Zehra.’ They stared at each other for several moments, uncertain what to say or do, so that in the end it was Taner himself who had to break the silence. ‘I need you to look after her for a few days, Mother,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m about to be arrested.’

  That caught her attention. She tore her eyes from her granddaughter. ‘Arrested?’

  ‘The bomb.’

  ‘What bomb?’

  ‘On the mainland. Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘I don’t listen to news.’

  ‘It killed many people. And they’re blaming me and my friends.’

  ‘With reason?’

  He flinched as though she’d slapped him. ‘Of course not, Mother,’ he said. ‘I detest violence. But plenty of people don’t like what we stand for and this is their chance to shut us up.’

  Zehra nodded at Katerina. ‘Why can’t her mother look after her?’

  ‘Athena’s dead, Mother. She died last year.’

  ‘Oh.’ Despite herself, despite her promises, she felt an unexpected pang of pity for her son, for there was no doubting that he’d loved his wife, and she knew what it was to lose someone you loved. ‘Don’t you have friends?’

  ‘They’re going to arrest them too. They’ll arrest all of us. They made that absolutely clear after the last time. So it’s either you or sending her to stay with her mother’s family in Paphos.’ He gave her a shrewd look. ‘And if I send her there, how can I be sure they’ll ever let her come back?’

  Zehra sniffed. She knew he was trying to manipulate her, but it was the truth too. Greek Cypriots couldn’t be trusted, which was precisely why she’d warned him against marrying one in the first place. She was about to point this out when she heard other engines approaching. ‘I told them I was coming here,’ explained her son. ‘I didn’t want them to think I was trying to run.’ He went to Katerina, crouched down before her so that she could see the seriousness on his face. He murmured something. She shook her head. He murmured it again, more forcefully. She took a couple of half-hearted steps towards Zehra then stopped and looked around. ‘Please, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘For Daddy.’ She nodded and went unhappily over to Zehra. ‘Be kind to each other,’ he said. Then he turned and raised his arms above his head and walked up the short hill to meet the two black SUVs now cresting it. They pulled to a stop either side of him. Doors opened. Six uniformed and plain-clothes policemen got out. They cuffed him roughly and bundled him into one of the SUVs, climbed in either side. The drivers executed a neat ballet to turn in the constricted space, then headed off. Taner looked back through the rear window, his palms pressed against the glass, but then they were gone, leaving only the fading noise of their engines and thin clouds of settling dust.