by Jane Bastin
Chapter Twelve
To overcome lies in the heart,
in the streets, in the books
from the lullabies of the mothers.
“Sergeant Mehmet, run another check on Sylvia Sari, the Swedish wife of Ahmet Sari, the author at the congress at the Pera Palas.”
Sergeant Mehmet was silent on the other end of the line. Sinan wiped a tear of sweat from his forehead. A cloudless sky and a premature summer sun had transformed the streets around the Egyptian spice bazaar. Two young women walked by, jackets flipped over their arms, heels clicking in time to the tempo of their talk. A man hung from scaffolding with one arm, dressed in a string vest and boxer shorts. Sunglasses perched on the noses of every passer-by. Sinan sniffed the air, lunch was cooking.
“But, we’ve already done that, sir and—”
“I know but do it again. Good policing, Sergeant Mehmet… keep looking and you’ll find it.”
“Yes, sir and Inspector Haris, he—”
Sinan snapped his phone shut. His stomach was grumbling and the old borek shop that he used to frequent when he first arrived in Istanbul was on the corner of the bazaar. The thought of spinach and white cheese encased in layers of pastry made his mouth salivate.
Two glasses of tea and two spinach and cheese boreks later, Sinan wiped his mouth on a small serviette placed discreetly beneath his plate and scrolled through the contacts on his phone. His mind a little fuzzy from the warmth of the shop’s oven and the weight of the food, he thought of the plan that Haris had demanded he follow – interview the young man, Fevzi Cakmak, who was in love with Gaye, and leave the small and indelicate matter of the deaths of senior civil servants to other officers. No, he had to move quickly. He knew that Haris was snapping at his heel-bone. He knew that he would not be able to pursue his thoughts for long. Confined to desk duty was what would happen and the last time that happened, he thought his mind would burst. Policing did not happen in front of a computer screen.
“Huseyin?”
A silence preceded a gruff affirmation. Sinan grimaced. In the age of mobile technology, no one could feign surprise at a call – the name burst onto the screen. But he knew that Huseyin could not easily dismiss him. They had studied together at boarding school and trained as police officers in the same cohort although different branches. Huseyin’s choice of special operations had surprised Sinan at the time. Volatile, easy to rile, Huseyin was not the type who would keep a low profile and secure secrets.
“Hi Sinan, good to hear from you. I heard about you being on and then demoted from the Prime Minister case. Sorry to hear about that. Why would they put that buffoon, Haris, in charge? He was a joke when we were training and nothing much has changed. Weird.”
Sinan smiled at the screen.
“I agree, Huseyin, very strange indeed. But I’m trying to get some stuff together before they pull me back in line. Can you help?”
“Good for you! You haven’t changed a bit. Do you remember when we broke into the head’s office and stole his collection of wine and drank the whole lot?”
Sinan laughed and an old man looked up from his tea; crumbs from his borek stuck to his beard.
“Yes, good days! We must meet up soon. It’s been a long time!”
“Definitely. You know the difficulties with a small child and Ela is pregnant again.”
“Well, I don’t know those difficulties but congratulations anyway.”
“Well, you should get to know, Sinan. You’ll be an old man on your own if you’re not careful.”
The old man next to Sinan sneezed and a flurry of borek pastry landed on his wrist. Sinan watched him lick the flakes of pastry from his plate.
“Huseyin, I need a favour. Your contacts with the Russians, would one of them meet with me this afternoon?”
“Depends what it’s about.”
“Cyanide cigarettes.”
Silence, broken by the sharp whistle of a kettle.
“Okay. Give me half an hour and I’ll send you an address.”
The drive out to Belgrade Forest did not take as long as Sinan had anticipated. Haris had rung him three times and each time, he had pushed the phone deeper into his trouser pocket. Mid-afternoon and the traffic slipped away with a magician’s flourish. The densely packed concrete blocks of flats became more thinly spread until there was nothing but trees in full leaf. Light dappled over the dashboard and Sinan imagined for a fraction of a second that he was back in his mother’s village on the mountain. A flock of swallows darted through the sky up ahead as though pointing to the small cabin set just beyond a flurry of small trees. Sinan swerved the car off the road, almost missing the signpost for Averica. The birds pierced the air like needles darning cloth. A lorry thundered by, throwing a cloud of dust and hooted, the sound carrying far into the distance. The road here was not really a road, more a dirt track patterned with the imprint of large tyres. The cabin was not far. Tucked beneath a large horse chestnut tree, with its purple candled blossom, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. Two small windows half covered with lace net curtains and a small dark red door with an enormous lion’s head door knocker. Sinan looked to the side: a white Porsche. He smelt the air: the sweetness of blossom. As he raised the door knocker, Sinan felt heavy hands press firmly into his shoulder bone. It was as though there was no barrier of skin, shirt or jacket as fingers wove their way quickly beneath the bone. Unable to turn, he focused on the slow opening of the door.
“Inspector Sinan, Olga. A pleasure.”
The pressure in his shoulders eased immediately. Beckoning him inside the cabin was a very young, platinum-haired woman. Her wrists shook with gold bangles and her white skin shone against red lipstick. Sinan extended his hand and almost immediately the two large men who had manhandled his shoulders stood between them. Placing both hands between them she prised the two bulky men apart and spoke Russian at machine gun pace. Sinan shook his shoulders to ease his discomfort and followed Olga into the living area. A large blue velvet couch, a small glass-topped table and paintings of trees on every wall. Sinan looked around expecting one of the FSS agents to emerge from the back room. But there was silence other than the muffled chatter of the bodyguards outside. Instead Olga moved closer. Her hand steady and firm as she squeezed Sinan’s.
“Olga Teremenko.”
Sinan stared, his hand holding onto Olga’s as she stepped back.
“Am I not what you expected?”
Her voice was inflected with the rhythms of Russian. Sinan scratched his scalp trying to think of something to say to avoid embarrassment but nothing came. Touching his elbow, she smiled.
“Don’t worry. Everyone makes the same mistake. They usually think I am the mistress or the daughter but I can assure you that I work at the Russian Embassy and know your friend Huseyin very well.”
Sinan thought he caught a faint smile at the mention of his friend’s name.
“Of course, how terrible.”
Olga took two cups of coffee from the kitchen counter, tucked her long white silk dress beneath her knees and settled into the couch. Its largeness seemed to enfold her. Sprite-like, her limbs, thin and fragile folded beneath her.
“I assume Huseyin told you why I wanted to meet?”
Sinan flinched at the unexpected heat of the coffee. Olga smiled, slipping her tongue between her lips.
“Yes.”
Sinan waited for her to continue. Swallows darted their shadows across the windows. The two bodyguards squabbled and for a moment, Sinan felt the pressure of time.
“Old KGB stock. We used them in the eighties when we had a presence everywhere.”
“Are you saying you don’t anymore?”
Olga smiled, baring her teeth.
“I’m not saying anything.”
Sinan crossed his legs, placed the coffee cup on a side table and folded his arms.
“So the Russian secret service killed the Turkish Prime Minister?”
Olga rolled her hands over her stomach an
d laughed. Sinan watched as tears formed in the corners of her eyes. His phone buzzed deep in his trouser pocket.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Olga asked through the mesh of a lace handkerchief.
“No, it’s not important. But your answer is…?”
Olga stood up abruptly and for the first time, Sinan noticed the sinewy muscle in her upper arms. Stronger than she looked initially, he conceded.
“Of course, we are not behind the murder of your precious Prime Minister. What do you take us for? A bunch of amateurs. We have far better ways of pursuing our goals than that.”
“So, who passed on the cyanide cigarettes?”
“Not sure but I have put people on to it. There is a store in Ankara full of archived resources which never see the light of day but somehow this did and we are not sure how.”
“You must know who has access to the store?”
“Yes and no. Too many changes in personnel since the eighties and stock checking was never our strongest point. Look what happened to Stalin’s five year plans – if he had ordered a stock check, we might never have got into the mess we did but there you are…”
“Any suspicions?”
“None that are concrete enough to tell you at the moment but as soon as we have, I shall let you know through Huseyin. We see each other regularly”
Olga smiled and Sinan noticed a faint flush at the base of her throat.
“And I’ve heard that the Russian Government has bought quite a lot of land in Thrace for wind farms, is that true?”
Olga unfolded her legs and stood up.
“I have no idea.”
“Any links to the murders of three civil servants in the alleyway opposite the Flower Passage?”
Olga flexed her arm muscles slightly. Sinan heard the soft grinding of her teeth.
“Of course not. Now, Inspector, I expect you have far more important things to worry about. I have given you the information you requested and shall be in touch if we hear of any further developments. Goodbye.”
Olga opened the front door and extended her hand as Sinan grappled with his coffee cup.
Sinan drove slowly through the Forest. Tunnels of tree branches softened the light and helped to slow his thoughts. Violence was never far from such beauty. The forest carried the name of the city of Belgrade, besieged by Suleyman the Magnificent which resulted in the forced deportation of thousands of Serbs. Now, the only human for miles around was a Russian in a woodland hut. Russian cigarettes. Access to the Russian Embassy store in Ankara. Access to the person who had access. The intermittent buzz of Sinan’s telephone against his thigh broke through his thoughts.
“Inspector Sinan. There’s been another murder.”
Chapter Thirteen
My eyes can't get enough of the trees.
They're so hopeful, so green.
“Same killer, sir.”
Sergeant Mehmet sipped his tea as silently as he could. The Pera Palas Hotel was a little too formal and he felt the afternoon heat seep beneath his collar. Wiggling his neck loose of his top button, he noted Sinan’s lack of interest. The front bar area looked out onto the entrance. A woman dressed in a tightly fitting silver dress with a fur stole wrapped loosely around her shoulders stepped out of a polished Bentley. A dark-skinned porter in a top hat and overly large red overcoat pulled the woman’s suitcases from the boot.
“Sir, Inspector Haris insists on you attending a meeting this afternoon at 1:30 in the main operations room.”
Sergeant Mehmet let his stomach muscles relax once he had uttered the words. Sweat formed above his top lip but his focus was on Sinan. No response. Not even an indifferent shrug of the shoulders. The bony frame of Inspector Haris filled his mind and he thought of the spittle that would fly from his mouth when he realised that Sinan had once again defied his orders. A knot of frustration worked its way across Sergeant Mehmet’s forehead.
“So, that information on Sylvia, very useful. Very useful indeed. Links to Russian intelligence. Very useful.”
Sergeant Mehmet swatted a fly from his face intending to draw Sinan’s attention from the entrance.
“Sir, Russian links only in so far as her ex-husband worked on the Soviet space programme in the seventies.”
Sinan turned and looked at Sergeant Mehmet as if seeing him for the first time. He looked flushed, he thought and raised a hand to feel the heat in the room. Large windows on one side magnified the sun. The table felt hot to the touch and he reached out to pat Mehmet’s arm.
“No, good job. Nice. Sylvia Kan before she married this Ahmet chap. Young, not even graduated from university in Florida, meets the charming and dashing young Turkish aerospace engineer, Ismail Kan from Nevsehir and ups and comes to Turkey. You have to admire the bravery or foolhardiness of youth.”
Sergeant Mehmet nodded.
“And then they move to Bishkent in Tajikistan to work on the Soviet space mission.”
“Where is he now?”
Sinan took a long sip of tea watching his sergeant over the glass rim.
“Dead, sir.”
“How?”
“Died in prison.”
“Yes… For god’s sake, sergeant. Do I have to purloin every morsel of information from your lips with a fine pair of tweezers? Tell me the story in summary. Quickly. Bea is fetching Sylvia and will be here any minute. We’re fortunate her husband, Ahmet, is at a meeting with an agent that Bea managed to set up. The woman won’t talk while he’s there.”
Sergeant Mehmet wiped his hand across his top lip, sipped some tea and placed both hands on the table.
“Sir, her husband was a renowned aerospace engineer who when he returned to Turkey after the coup in 1980 was rounded up with other suspected left wing terrorists by the military. He was in Diyarbakir at the time with Sylvia. She was not arrested but kept under house arrest. He was charged with working for a foreign state to bring down the Turkish government and sentenced to be hanged. But he was found dead in his cell.”
“Suicide?”
“Made to look like one. The medical report shows that almost three quarters of his body was covered in torture-inflicted wounds. We now know about the torture rooms at Diyarbakir prison and it is highly likely that he was killed as a result of the wounds he received.”
Sinan raised his hand to interrupt but Sergeant Mehmet continued.
“Ahmet, Sylvia’s current husband, was based at the prison among the interrogation staff.”
Sinan let loose a slow whistle stopping abruptly when Bea appeared in the doorway with Sylvia standing a few steps behind.
Sylvia’s white blonde hair and the paleness of her complexion were brought alive by the fuchsia pink lipstick that Bea had insisted on applying. She told her how foolish she felt, a woman of her age fussing about such trifles and yet she agreed. Apple plump cheeks, tartan skirt to below her knees, and a crocheted white shirt buttoned to her neck made her look grandmotherly. Her hands shook as she sat on one of the hard-backed chairs. Unused to being with people other than Ahmet, she struggled to make eye contact and felt for the comfort of Bea’s hand.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Sylvia. As you know we are conducting two parallel investigations into the murders of the Prime Minister and a young woman called Gaye and three… no sorry, four civil servants just up the road near the Flower Passage. My first question is about the tattoo dye you purchased at the Egyptian spice bazaar a few days ago.”
Piano music from a radio far away whispered into the room. Sylvia’s hand shook as she withdrew it from the fold of Bea’s hand.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. I have never heard of such a place let alone visited it.”
Sinan waited while Bea enclosed both hands carefully around Sylvia’s and pressed firmly in support.
“There is nothing to fear, Sylvia. We just need to find out a little bit more. Now, we know you visited the bazaar because you have been filmed on the CCTV camera just outside the mosque entrance. The seller of the
red dye also accurately identified you. Now tell us what you intended to do with this dye.”
Sylvia shook her hands free. The lines on her bare forehead hardened as she pulled her sleeves up. Row upon row of carefully tattooed flowers decorated both arms, even the thin skin on her wrists. Bea was closer and leant down to look at each flower.
“Wow!” Sergeant Mehmet spoke without thinking.
“Beautiful flowers, all done in the same red ink?”
Sylvia nodded and began to pull her sleeves down when Bea placed her hand to stop her.
“Each flower starts with a burn caused, I think, by a cigarette.”
Sylvia pushed Bea’s hand roughly away.
“Do you do these tattoos?” Sinan’s voice was gentle.
Sylvia nodded.
“Do you get the red dye especially because you know it is non-toxic?”
Sylvia nodded.
“Does your husband know you do these tattoos?”
Sylvia nodded and stopped suddenly when a draft of wind blew the door ajar.
Sergeant Mehmet rose quickly to close it. Bea place her forefinger over her mouth and Sinan raised his eyes.
“Sylvia, love, these flowers, does it make you feel better when you tattoo yourself? Does pain help the other pain to go away?”
Sylvia’s eyes grew teary. Bea pressed her hands until Sylvia nodded in agreement.
“Look, you should not be going through this. I… we can help you. Does Ahmet make these burns? With his cigarettes?”
Sylvia looked down into her lap, squeezed Bea’s hands tight and nodded.
“Have you ever sold or given any of this dye to anyone else, Sylvia?” Sinan’s question was left unanswered as Bea levered Sylvia, quietly sobbing, out of her chair into the reception.
