by Jane Bastin
Borders throw up division and confusion unlike the neatly positioned lines on the map. Looking south west at the ticket control, Sinan imagined he might see the border with Iraq, checkpoints, military hardware. Looking south east, he imagined the border with Iran, no longer a pencil etching on paper but a fluid confusion of mountains and gaping passes where people moved between countries. The officer spoke again, his voice flowed past Sinan, lost in his thoughts and tired from the early morning start.
“Identity card.” This time, the voice was insistent. Sinan looked up at a young soldier with a few tufts of hair on his top lip. Not old enough to shave and yet enough power bestowed by the state to command others. Sinan threw his identity card down and showed his police identity. It had little impact. The young soldier simply stamped his ticket and ordered an elderly man in an oversized suit to move quickly.
All Sinan had was a booked taxi, hotel room and an address. The rest was up to him to achieve. Inspector Haris’ voice grated in his mind. Achieve what exactly? Sinan knew that the murders had nothing to do with Gaye, the young prostitute and the boy who loved her. He knew that Inspector Haris received generous shares in the proxy companies set up by the Americans and that the murdered civil servants probably knew of this. Squinting against the bright light that fed through the mud-spattered taxi window, Sinan ran through the information he had gathered but it was not enough… not enough to dispute Haris… not enough to form a coherent case. Yet he knew, deep in his gut, that this was larger than a lover’s tiff and that it was linked to the Flower Passage murders.
“Hotel Brezhnev?”
Sinan asked the driver to repeat what he had said. The harsh, guttural accent sounded like the driver was scraping phlegm from the back of his throat.
“Hotel Brezhnev?”
Sinan laughed. Sergeant Mehmet’s joke? Hotel Brezhnev? Russians, Americans – all slicing up Turkey. War launched through the books of an estate agent. Purchase land, lots of it until you have acquired most of the strategic parts you need to further your own country’s needs. Energy resources, minerals, maritime access… all gradually disappearing into the funds of larger states. The taxi pulled up with a screech of breaks like a wailing cat and Sinan stared at the brown, dilapidated building with a couple of broken windows.
“Hotel Brezhnev.” The taxi waved his hand as if to show off the marvels of his city.
The street outside the hotel was the main thoroughfare of the city according to the receptionist. Sinan did not notice how she flicked her black hair back and rattled her gold bracelets when he entered. He noticed rather the faded posters offering tours to the wonders of Iran and first class medical treatment at Baghdad’s best hospitals. Wallpaper of multi-coloured birds covered the walls apart from a small area behind the reception where it had been scraped away.
“Would you know where this address is?”
The receptionist leant over the counter. A faint smell of mothballs. She opened her mouth; very white teeth, chemically whitened, Sinan’s mind whirred into overdrive. Her tongue rested for a moment too long on her bottom lip.
“Flat 6A, Harp Street.” She mused over the words as though they were of significance. “It’s not too far away but not good place, you understand my meaning?”
Sinan noticed for the first time that the receptionist had a small tattoo just above her left eyebrow. Three dark blue dots. Traditional markings of the Zaza Kurds, perhaps she knew Gaye. Sinan wiped his hand over his forehead, the heat of Istanbul had not yet reached Hakkari but he could feel spools of heat settle above his brow.
“Did you know this girl? Her name was Gaye.”
Sinan kept his eyes trained on the young woman as she peered closely at the picture.
“Was?”
She didn’t answer the question. Her top lip trembled slightly. Slowing his senses down, Sinan watched as the young woman rubbed her thumbs against the palm of her hands. She skipped a breath. When she looked back up, she shrugged her shoulders, “No, I have never seen her before. What happened to her?”
Fixing the young woman with a stare that Sinan hoped would trigger some response, he spoke slowly. “She was murdered. A terrible slaughter. Needless, of course and I intend to find her killer.”
The young woman choked.
“Of course, if you have any information, you must tell me. It is of national importance.”
“National?”
The young woman looked down. She did not intend to ask the question.
The address was not hard to find. Small streets sprouted off the main thoroughfare and Harp Street was halfway down, just past a large grocers. Blocks of flats lined the street on both sides. White-tipped mountain peaks pierced the sky on the horizon but the buildings looked washed out. Paint had peeled away from the walls leaving a patchwork of damp and concrete. The windows rattled in the wind and rust flaked off the doors. No one walked along the street other than a couple of stray dogs sniffing around a dustbin.
Flat 6A was on the third floor of a five-storey block. No lift but an array of plants lined the entrance. The concrete stairway was spotless. No dust or litter from the street but well-worn concrete. Three pairs of shoes lined the doorstep. One pair of black boots, possibly for labouring; one pair of rubber slippers, possibly for running up and down the stairs; one pair of red shoes with a small heel and a small bow. Sinan took a deep breath before knocking firmly on the door. He could hear the scraping of a chair and the sound of increasingly louder footsteps. A young girl, about twelve, opened the door. A large red bow in her dark brown hair and a look of pinched caution. An older woman, possibly her mother, appeared, wiping her hands on a flowered apron. Suddenly, in a fragment of a second, she moved across the hallway to close the door but Sinan placed his foot between the door and the hallway. A scream echoed and Sinan thought he saw the naked lightbulb swing in the middle of the hallway. Wincing at the pain that shot through his foot as the young girl continued to press the door shut, Sinan fumbled in his pocket for his identity badge.
“Istanbul police. Inspector Sinan Kaya. I would like to talk to you about ...”
The woman bared her teeth. The young girl slipped behind her mother and held onto her stomach. Looking closer, Sinan saw that she was still young. Maybe late thirties. But, her skin was grey. Only her lips, the vestige of early morning lipstick suggested something more.
“My husband is not here. You cannot come in to my house.”
Sinan pushed his foot a little further into the hallway.
“I’m afraid I can. I just want to speak to you about…”
The woman stopped Sinan by raising her hand firmly in the air. The same navy blue dots on the palm of her hand.
“My son is not a terrorist. He has gone to Istanbul to work. He has not joined the PKK. I have told your sort this over and over. Leave us in peace.”
Raising both hands, Sinan spoke softly. “I am not here to question you about your son. Please do not worry. I am here to talk about Gaye, your daughter.”
“We have no daughter called Gaye. Our only daughter is Damla here.”
Sinan had not heard the thud of footsteps on the stairs behind him. Turning he saw a tall man, red-cheeked from the wind.
“Please leave.”
Sinan stepped back to let the man enter.
“My name is Inspector Kaya from Istanbul police. I just want to ask you a few questions about Gaye and whether she had any enemies.”
“Her only enemies were her family. She left us. She disgraced us. We never heard from her again.”
The woman spoke quickly, tears streaming down her face. Her hands trembled as the man, her husband Sinan surmised, stepped closer, his hand raised in mid-air.
“Be quiet, woman. You don’t know what you are saying. She was a whore and died a whore. That is all there is to it.”
Sinan pulled his foot clear just as the door ricocheted against the door frame.
Chapter Nineteen
Where I am, you know,
I do
n't have a pearl-handled jack-knife
Rabbit holes did not appeal to Sinan. Many an investigation had drawn him deep inside them and he knew how difficult it could be to get out. Key lines of enquiry flailing in mid-air, people distraught at inconclusive evidence, superiors furious at the public embarrassment caused by newspaper journalists pointing ink-stained fingers at the wrong people and the wrong institutions. No, there was no way he was going to allow Haris to draw him into a dark rabbit hole in pursuit of nothing. Gaye was what the Americans might call collateral damage. Haris was mired in the workings of the proxy companies set up by the Americans. What did he have to do to earn this? Haris was surely just a minion. How many more were embroiled in supporting American, and possibly Russian, purchases of strategic Turkish sites? Sinan sipped his Turkish coffee in the hotel lounge, his thoughts interrupted by the news that blared from the television hanging precariously on the far wall. The receptionist appeared as if from nowhere, a tray of shortbread biscuits in her hands. Thanking her almost as an afterthought, Sinan’s eyes drifted back to the television screen. In the cool of the afternoon, Sinan had blocked out the relentless sound of traffic as it thundered past the hotel doorway. He did not intend to spend a night in the hotel but he knew that it would impress Haris if he, at least, showed some obedience.
Onur Bestelen, his contact from the Ministry of Agriculture, was on the television news. His large stomach strained against his pristine white shirt, ill befitting a man who had worked most of his life in mud and slurry. Staring directly into the lens of the camera, he spoke carefully and deliberately.
“I am honoured to be the interim Prime Minister of this most treasured country. I shall work tirelessly to make sure that we, our esteemed government, continues to fulfil the promise of our great Prime Minister Demir. He is sadly missed but his legacy continues and I will endeavour to ensure with all of the power bestowed upon me by our great parliament to continue to protect the country against its enemies. And with that promise, I hereby give notice that all mining interests will be nationalised, returned to the hands of the people of Turkey by midnight tonight. All those who currently work in mines will be compensated and will continue to work as normal. Their new boss will be us, the people.”
Sinan sat forward, stretching his ankle that still throbbed from the door that Gaye’s father slammed against it. Onur Bestelen, the new Prime Minister. Stranger things had happened, he thought, rubbing the stubble on his chin. As the thought settled, he saw the familiar face of Rick McFarlane, resplendent in his stetson standing a few steps to the side of the new Prime Minister.
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Wonderful?” Sinan turned suddenly at the sound of the receptionist talking through the doorway.
“Yes, wonderful. The new Prime Minister is in Hakkari. He blessed us with his first visit as Prime Minister.”
Sinan stared at the flowery wallpaper. The longer and harder he fixated on one set of pink and purple flowers, the more psychedelic they became. Their petals morphed into strangely fluid strips that wove in and out of each other. Hakkari? Coincidence that Haris would send him here at this time? Could he have known and if he had known what difference could it possibly make? Sinan’s mind buzzed with questions and he felt the pull of the rabbit hole.
Onur Bestelen, newly anointed Prime Minister, albeit interim, waved his bodyguards aside as Sinan approached. His stomach hung uncomfortably over his belt, his chin sagged almost to his chest but he harboured no discomfort at ordering a third helping of the local meatballs in garlic yoghurt. How quickly fortunes change, Sinan thought.
“Sinan, my good man, what a wonderful coincidence to see you in Hakkari of all godforsaken places. This country must surely have more to offer than this although I must not talk out of turn. Huge reserves of gold here, you know. Good job we’re turfing the Americans and Russians out. Not before time, if you ask me. Feeding off of our good fortune, not right. Not right at all.”
Onur wiped a serviette across his mouth, looked closely at it as though inspecting an unknown quantity and laughed. Sinan shifted slightly. They sat at the front of a glass plated restaurant midway up one of the mountains that encircled Hakkari. The view of the dismal blocks of identikit flats was preferable to the one on the ground, thought Sinan. Politely declining the offer of meatballs and garlic yoghurt, Sinan set to work complimenting Onur on his great accomplishment. In Turkey, no expression of wonder and awe at the achievements of others can be too much and Sinan layered the praise like fat over sizzling meat. Eventually, even Onur bey tired of it.
“So, you are taking back control of everything that our land has to offer?”
Sinan took a glass of cherry juice from a waiter.
“Well, not quite. I know that’s what I said but we have to be realistic, you know. The government has little money. We cannot afford to work everything that we have so we will work quietly and astutely, of course, with the partners we have.”
Sinan grappled with the contradictions presented within the space of a few minutes by the new Prime Minister.
“Onur bey… I mean Prime Minister, but you said that the government intended to nationalise everything as promised by Prime Minister Demir.”
Onur glared at Sinan, pulling his glasses firmly back over his protruding nose.
“Yes, yes, yes. Demir was a fool. There was no way that that could have happened. We are almost bankrupt. He lived in another world, the fool. Flirting with floozies the age of his grandchildren. The civil service tried to warn him over and over but did he listen, no, of course not. The man was one large, incomprehensible fool.”
Sinan pressed his fingers against his palms and smiled.
“Of course, sir. I noticed someone who is staying at the Pera Palace hotel in Istanbul in the crowd. Might you know him?”
Sinan waited, his senses slowed.
“Who?” Onur bey took out a pen from his ill-fitting suit. Ramadan Gift Holdings was embossed on the side of the gold-plated pen. Sinan stared at it for a moment too long. One of the American proxy companies.”
“Well, who?” Onur bey’s voice rang with frustration.
“Rick McFarlane. He used to work at the US Embassy here.”
Sinan watched as Onur bey’s cheeks, pink from the meatballs, blanched. He spoke too soon.
“No, never heard of the name in my life.”
Since he had to spend an evening confined to Hakkari, Sinan sought out the restaurant where the foreign mining executives dined. He was curious. What was there to do now that the Prime Minister had publicly announced the nationalisation of all mines? The taxi dropped him half way up another mountain. It was not dark but a mist had descended drowning the tops of the mountains. Despite the daytime temperatures, the evening was crisp and the flare of an open fire hit Sinan as he opened the door. Men, no women, a range of nationalities hummed around tables, bottles of beer and raki lined up. Small twin men with sharp noses and almond shaped eyes served trays of meat. Sinan baulked. Not a great meat lover but a lover of food, he felt the contradiction often. A waiter ushered him to a small table that overlooked the valley, not of Hakkari but another remote and lost world of trees and rocks. Lost in thought, initially wondering whether he should contact Bea and whether there might be any reception even if he wanted to, he did not at first notice the American by the far table. But, the rolling of his consonants and the elongation of his vowels caught Sinan’s attention. Rick McFarlane, speaking fluent Turkish to a group of what appeared to be Turkish mining executives. He waited for him to notice him but he did not. Bidding farewell in word perfect Turkish, he turned and left. Why had he claimed not to speak a ‘damn word’ of Turkish? Why had he claimed he was simply a visiting author? What was he doing in Hakkari? Questions, the beginning of the resolution, Sinan knew but there were still no answers.
Sinan pondered the range of possible answers while eating a large barbecued piece of game along with rose flavoured rice and local sheep yoghurt. Stomach replete and his mind none
the clearer, Sinan’s thoughts turned to Bea.
“Hi, it’s you!”
Her voice betrayed the composure she was desperate to perfect.
“Yes, it’s me!” Sinan felt his face redden. It was late, the mining executives and others dressed in identikit black suits were now singing of lost love and clinking glasses, talking of eternal friendship. He imagined Bea as she was in her room, the night before. Naked and beautiful, her skin singing of promises. But the romance of his thoughts did not translate into words.
“I just rang to make sure you were okay. Any changes at the hotel at all?”
Bea was silent for a few seconds. Her usual rush of words was absent.
‘Bea?”
“No, nothing. Only that damn Ahmet, you know the torture expert with his poor downtrodden wife, Sylvia. He keeps on trying to get my attention. God knows why. He’s given me his goddamn book to read. I’ll be damned if I read it. Too gory, I’m sure. But he’s succeeded in getting ma’s attention. God damn it, the old woman is fawning all over him from breakfast to high noon.”
Sinan held the phone to his ear but did not listen only speaking when he realised she had stopped.
“Okay, I’ll see you when I get back.”
“When will that be?”
Sinan hung up the phone without answering. Rick McFarlane was back. Sinan paid the waiter but by the time he turned, McFarlane had gone.
