‘Thirteen penises?’
‘Oh, you understood that, did you?’ Max put the telephone down and turned around to look at the young girl hunched over her book in the corner.
‘Yes.’
‘My, but your English is improving, Ülkü.’
The girl laughed and then put her book down on top of the replica Egyptian sarcophagus beside her.
‘You talk about “spooky” things, Max Bey?’ she said, using his own, typically British expression.
‘Yes, but not too much to you, Ülkü,’ Max replied a little sternly. ‘I promised your mother I’d teach you English, not spooky stuff.’
‘Who you talk to today about thirteen penises, Max Bey?’
‘Never you mind,’ the Englishman said, touching his nose with the tip of one long, thin finger. ‘A friend, someone you don’t know.’
‘Oh.’
Ülkü, who at no more than sixteen still wore the thick peasant clothes indigenous to her village, walked barefoot across the old tattered kilim on the floor and stood in front of her mentor.
‘Would you like me to do anything before I go, Max Bey?’ she said, her eyes down-turned.
‘Have you finished your translation?’
‘Is on the table,’ she replied, pointing to the top of the sarcophagus. ‘I have clean bathroom and toilet very good.’
‘I have cleaned both the bathroom and the toilet to a high standard,’ Max corrected.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, repeat it then, Ülkü.’
She did.
Max took a large hardback book from one of the shelves in front of his desk and opened it with a satisfied sigh. ‘You can go now, Ülkü,’ he said, ‘but if that Turgut starts to get sexy, I want to know about it. He should show you respect, remember?’
‘Yes, Max Bey.’
‘And no mixing with all the mad people up on İstiklal Caddesi.’
‘No, Max Bey.’
Her boyfriend, Turgut, was just outside the door, waiting, listening. But then Max knew that; he’d said what he had for a reason.
‘Off you go then,’ he said, and turned once again to the book on his desk.
Ülkü and Turgut walked the kilometre in complete silence from Max’s dark, book-lined apartment to a room containing one small, greasy bed. Once Turgut had shut the door behind them he took his clothes off and, sitting on the bed, he drew Ülkü down to sit beside him.
‘Suck it,’ he said breathily as he attempted to push her head down towards his crotch. ‘Like a city girl!’
‘No!’
‘My cock is bursting!’
‘No!’
Still fully clothed and looking away from Turgut as she did so, Ülkü took his penis in one hand and began to masturbate him.
Suddenly mollified, Turgut closed his eyes. ‘So,’ he said as with a sigh he resigned himself to sex without her mouth. ‘What did Max Bey have to say today?’
‘There was talk of a creature with thirteen of these,’ Ülkü said as she looked down briefly at his penis. ‘Max Bey laughed on the telephone as he spoke about it.’
Turgut Can, in spite of what she was doing to him, frowned.
CHAPTER 6
He couldn’t sleep because of the heat and so İkmen eventually got up and went into work. It was only 5 a.m. when he arrived and there wasn’t much happening in the station, with the exception, that is, of Inspector Süleyman’s office.
‘Have you been home, Çöktin?’ he asked a very sweaty and smoke-grimed individual as he put his head round the door.
‘No, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve been looking at these machines,’ he said, indicating the two computers on top of his desk.
‘Still?’
‘Yes.’ And then İsak told him about the newsgroups he’d found on Gülay Arat’s computer.
‘And what about the other machine – the boy’s?’ İkmen asked as he lit up his fourth cigarette of that day.
‘Cem was into newsgroups too,’ Çöktin said as he rubbed his reddening eyes with his fingers. ‘Not the same ones as Gülay, unfortunately. His interests were far more academic than hers. However, there is a kind of a connection between this Byzantine site, that Gülay liked—’
‘Theodora’s Closet.’
‘Yes, and this Christian thing.’ He peered hard at one of the screens. ‘The Blood of the Lamb.’
‘Sounds a bit gruesome,’ İkmen observed.
‘From what I can gather it’s all to do with the Crucifixion and Jesus shedding His blood in a sort of sacrifice. There’s some description of their rituals.’ Çöktin looked up and smiled. ‘I don’t really understand Christianity that well, sir.’
‘Fair enough. But what’s the connection, Çöktin? Apart from the obvious about the Byzantines being Christians?’
‘It’s words, sir,’ Çöktin replied. ‘Not many and only posted by a couple of people, but in both of these sites there are foreign words.’
İkmen walked over to the machines and leaned down to look at their screens.
‘Are they up now, these words?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Çöktin pointed with one hand at each screen. ‘See here and here.’
İkmen frowned as he read, smoking in a deep and focused fashion. After a few moments he said, ‘I can see what you mean, Çöktin. They seem to be the same. Here, this word “madi” appears on both machines. Some of the others . . . I don’t know what any of them mean. Can’t even guess at the language.’
‘No. But on Cem’s machine you have these words being used by someone who calls him or herself “Communion”, while on Gülay’s Theodora site the user is called “Nika”. I don’t know whether Nika and Communion are the same person.’
‘Does anyone ever reply to these people in this language you have discovered, Çöktin?’
‘No, that’s what’s so odd, sir. Nika and Communion exclusively use these words. No one else ever asks what they mean and yet they all seem to be able to understand and reply to them.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve not, as far as I know, found anything sinister on any of these sites apart from the fact that Nika was the last person Gülay Arat communicated with by computer before she died.’
‘What did Nika say?’
Çöktin did what to İkmen was some arcane things with the computer before he read out, ‘Nika – “I guess you must really be looking forward to becoming a haş gagi.”; Gülay as “Empress I”, which is her newsgroup name – “Yes, I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”’
‘When did this Nika communicate with the girl?’
‘The day before she died.’
‘Doesn’t sound like she knew she was about to die, does it?’
‘No, sir,’ Çöktin replied, ‘sounds far more, to me, as if she’s going to go off and do something enjoyable, then come back and tell this Nika all about it. Perhaps it was the sex? Maybe she was looking forward to it?’ He frowned. ‘If only we knew what a haş gagi was or is.’
İkmen shrugged and then moved across to Süleyman’s desk and sat down.
‘Can’t you trace this Nika through the Internet?’ he said. ‘I mean, if you know that Gülay called herself Empress I, which I assume must be Irene, then you can surely contact Nika.’
‘No, I can’t, sir.’
‘You’ve identified Gülay.’
‘Only because I have her machine.’ Çöktin leaned back in his chair, yawned and then lit a cigarette. ‘People hide their identities – not necessarily for sinister reasons.’
‘How do they do that?’
When nothing but silence greeted his question, İkmen looked up. Çöktin’s pained expression told him everything he needed to know.
‘I wouldn’t even begin to understand, would I, Çöktin?’
‘No, sir,’ Çöktin murmured, but then he cleared his throat and added, ‘And neither would many people, including Inspector Süleyman, if that’s any consolation.’
İkmen smiled. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to lear
n about computers, the subject was just simply beyond him. Even reading and writing e-mail was a trial – Ayşe had been obliged to show him numerous times before he got the gist of it. And if something out of the ordinary happened he was helpless. People talked about what they did on their machines all the time, but to İkmen it all just sounded like so much gibberish.
‘So if this Nika has hidden his or her identity, what about all of the other people involved in this group?’
‘They all use these pseudonyms.’
‘Don’t they ever meet?’
‘What, in the flesh?’ Çöktin smiled. ‘I doubt it, sir. Newsgroups aren’t like chat rooms. People don’t generally go on to them to look for a date. Newsgroups are about sharing information and exchanging ideas. Some of the debates can get quite heated and people usually want to protect their identity just so that they can express themselves without fear of ridicule or retribution.’
‘Sounds weird to me,’ İkmen grumbled.
‘I mean, there’s days of this stuff,’ Çöktin said as he turned his attention back to the machines once again, ‘arguments, chat, information. I don’t know how long it would take me to sort through it all.’
‘Well, you’ll need help,’ İkmen said. ‘Inspector Süleyman will have to request assistance.’
‘I’m not sure that will help actually, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ Çöktin said, ‘it’s as I’ve said before, sir, complicated. If you want to hide your identity, there are plenty of ways in which this can be done with ease. I don’t really understand it myself, but I do know that there are ways of routing data that render it well-nigh untraceable.’
‘So this line of enquiry is hopeless?’
‘Maybe, or at least it will be unless I can find a way to contact someone,’ Çöktin said darkly.
İkmen, leaning forward now across Süleyman’s desk, frowned. ‘Contact who, Çöktin?’
The Kurd shrugged. ‘If I knew the answer to that, sir, I’d have contacted whoever is Mendes a long time ago.’
‘Jak! Jak!’
With what Estelle Cohen felt was a very teenage-style sigh, Jak Cohen turned round to look down at his brother.
‘What?’
‘Where are you going at such a mad hour of the day?’ Balthazar said from his huddled position in his chair next to the kitchen door. He’d slept in the chair all night. Sometimes it was more comfortable for him than his bed. But as often happened these days, he’d lost track of time.
‘It’s nine o’clock, Balthazar,’ Estelle said. ‘Jak has a meeting in Beyoğlu.’
‘A meeting?’ Balthazar pushed himself up on his elbows and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. ‘Who with? When? You’re driving me to the hospital at two.’
‘Yes.’
‘So if you’ve got a meeting how—’
‘My meeting, Balthazar, is this morning,’ Jak said, his teeth gritting against the aggravation his brother was causing him – it had been pretty much constant since he’d returned to İstanbul. ‘Your appointment is this afternoon. I will take you to it, as I promised.’
He then turned to retrieve his briefcase from the floor.
Balthazar, mollified, lit a cigarette. ‘So who you going to see in Beyoğlu then?’ he said through a welter of coughing.
‘A business associate.’
‘Yeah, but who?’ Balthazar smiled. ‘Remember, I know a lot of men in your line of business in this city, Jak. I’ve arrested a lot of flesh traders in my time.’
‘And used their wares,’ Estelle put in, looking down disgustedly at her husband as she did so.
‘I’m not a pimp, Balthazar,’ Jak said evenly as he watched his sister-in-law retreat miserably out to the balcony. ‘I run dance clubs where beautiful women dance for men. There’s no touching, no meeting after the show . . . The men pay, the women dance. It’s perfectly legal.’
‘You didn’t bring one to dance for me, did you, you bastard?’
‘No.’
‘So maybe you can get me one from your business associate here?’
Jak straightened his tie. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’ Balthazar pouted. ‘Don’t you want to give your poor crippled brother a little happiness?’
‘I thought I’d done that when I paid for your son’s wedding.’
‘Oh, throw that in my face!’ Balthazar scowled. ‘Pornographer!’
Jak leaned down and braced his hands against the arms of his brother’s chair. ‘I run legitimate clubs and shops selling sex AIDS and literature,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t touch any weird stuff – children or animals. Ask the British police about me and they’ll tell you I’m a legitimate businessman.’
‘How can I ask them?’ Balthazar threw his arms theatrically into the air. ‘I’ve never been to Britain! You’ve never invited me!’
‘Then why don’t you ask your friend Mehmet to ask the British police to check me out? I’ve got to go!’
Jak pushed himself away from his brother’s chair and stood up.
‘Go where? To see who?’ Balthazar reiterated.
‘To see a man.’
‘Who?’
Finally worn down by his brother’s questioning, Jak said, ‘He’s called Demir Sandal. I’m going to see him about belly dancing costumes for my girls. I want to do this Middle Eastern-themed thing. Why are you laughing?’
Balthazar, wheezing through many years’ worth of mucus, nearly choked.
‘Because,’ he breathed, ‘Demir Sandal makes the filthiest video tapes I’ve ever seen. Now he is a pornographer . . .’
‘Well, he may be,’ Jak continued, unabashed by what his brother had just said, ‘but I’m going to see him about costumes. God, Balthazar, what kind of idiot do you think I am? If I want smutty tapes I can get them at home without having the aggravation of taking the fucking things through customs!’
‘I came into possession of one of Demir’s tapes once,’ Balthazar said – almost, Jak felt, dreamily. ‘Girls, with each other, you know.’
‘Lesbians.’
‘It opened my eyes,’ Balthazar laughed. ‘I had to have some of that and I did. British girls – they’ll do anything.’
‘My son is British, Balthazar,’ Jak said as he finally managed to tear himself away from his brother. ‘Be careful what you say.’
And then he left.
Balthazar leaned back into his chair once again and closed his eyes. His interesting interlude with the two British girls had been, now he thought about it, longer ago than he had originally recalled. It had to have happened back in the late eighties. God, but that had been good. Money well spent. Demir Sandal had to be getting on in years now – he’d been knocking out cheap photo books and videos for years. Balthazar wondered, idly, what the old pornographer was into now. Something, no doubt, of an extremely exciting nature. Balthazar smiled.
Süleyman had joined them now, sitting in his chair, frowning. İkmen, who had brought a chair in from his own office, sat beside him, his face a picture of confusion.
‘Mendes is a hacker,’ Çöktin said. ‘He can get into and out of systems and you and I don’t even know that he’s been there. He, or she – it could be a woman, after all – is a legend.’
‘Hacking is illegal,’ Süleyman said sternly. ‘How do you know about this?’
‘I know because Mendes is sometimes discussed on some of the newsgroups I post to.’
‘Music groups?’
‘Some, yes.’ Çöktin turned away.
‘Some?’
İkmen, who had, as was his wont, been considering more arcane aspects of what they were being told, cleared his throat. ‘You know the Goat of Mendes is a European Satanic figure. I don’t know much about it, but I do have a friend who has an interest in—’
‘Max—’ Süleyman began.
‘Yes,’ İkmen nodded. Max did, like all Englishmen, have a surname, but that wasn’t something he wanted Süleyman to share with anyone, not even Çö
ktin. ‘Do you think that this Mendes might be involved in some sort of Satanic practice, İsak?’
Çöktin could feel his face redden. And although he was turned away from his superiors, he knew that they could see it. But in spite of the fact that everyone in the room knew it, Çöktin’s religion was not something any of them could or would talk about. An adherent of the native Kurdish Yezidi faith, Çöktin wasn’t comfortable with talk about Satanists. Known as the ‘Devil Worshippers’, Yezidis believe in a benign and restored version of Satan they call ‘The Peacock Angel’. Consequently, they are frequently misunderstood and confused with the Western conception of Satanists and the dark deeds those people perform.
Realising that this was obviously proving difficult for Çöktin, İkmen added, ‘Not, of course, that you would know anything about Satanism . . .’
‘No, sir.’
‘But it is thought, is it not,’ Süleyman interjected, ‘that some of these kids who assume the “Gothic” lifestyle are interested in things Satanic? I met a little group last night. I know of a young person who goes to their clubs and bars. There is a place, what is it, Kemancı – they all go there to listen to that skate punk you told me about, İsak. Maybe there’s a tie-up between this Mendes, the newsgroups and these children?’
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Çöktin said, ‘or at least I would be surprised if there were. From the little that I know of Mendes, I think he’s been around too long to be a teenager. And anyway, nobody knows where he is. He could be anywhere.’
‘But he is Turkish?’
Çöktin shrugged. ‘Maybe. I’ve never communicated with him. I don’t know anyone that has directly. All my information is anecdotal. It is said that he communicates in several languages including Turkish, but—’
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