I quickly scanned my surroundings. There was nothing out of the ordinary in sight.
“I’ll give you until midnight. Then I’m going to call again. If you haven’t made any progress, well, you’ll have a surprise in store!”
And with that, he hung up.
This man’s surprises always turned out less than enjoyable. I wasn’t sure I wanted a new one.
That’s when Hüseyin, his eyes filled with panic again, asked, “How does he know we’re back home?”
Good question.
“He must be spying on us.”
Hüseyin ran over to the window and looked out. He looked hopeful, as if he’d spot the psycho instantly. I walked over next to him. There was no one standing in the street spying on our apartment. In fact, there was no one at all. The view was one of cramped apartment buildings as far as the eye could see. The usual Cihangir view. There were as many windows with lights on as there were with lights out. A nestled Cihangir extended before us, with the chic district of GümüŞsuyu to the right, and farther on the cozy and bohemian neighborhood of Setüstü at its edge. Narrow streets, not one of which was straight, not one of which ran parallel to another, streets that curled like worms, and apartment buildings of staggered heights, all joined in the darkness of nighttime shadows. Anyone possessing one of those Korean-made telescopes sold at the underpass in Karaköy, or even a crappy pair of binoculars, could have been watching the house right now.
Startled by the idea of being watched by someone, I quickly closed the curtains.
I knew I was being ridiculous, but at least he wouldn’t be able to see what was happening inside if he really was watching us.
“The bastard is a bona fide psycho!” said Hüseyin.
I sank into my sofa. It felt as if my body had suddenly become too heavy for me to carry.
I pressed the button on the answering machine.
The first three messages were followed by a series of hang-ups. Then, finally, Hasan, the maître d’.
“I’m sure I’m dialing the right number. What’s with the message? What’s going on? Why aren’t you answering your mobile?”
It was obvious what he was getting at. My answering machine message had been changed. That’s why callers had hung up, because they thought they had the wrong number. I stopped the messages and pressed the button to listen to my outgoing message.
The psycho’s deep croaking voice began to speak.
“Hello, there’s no point in leaving a message for the person you have called. He is too busy to deal with you.”
That impertinent so-and-so! He had been in my home, invaded my private space, and as if that weren’t enough, he’d gone and changed the message on my answering machine. Suddenly I felt terribly disheartened. A knot formed in my throat. I wanted to break things, beat someone up…And then sit down and cry. I was seized by the feeling that my house had been invaded. Every corner, from the carpets to the ceilings, had been sullied. How could I possibly sleep in my bed now? He had sat where I was sitting now, and had touched what I was touching. I felt nauseous. My eyes filled with tears. I realized that I had begun shaking with anger.
I picked up the handmade Belgian cushion from the sofa I was sitting on and dashed it against the floor. It did no good as an outlet for my rage, nor did it help me feel better. The cushion just sat there on the floor, in the middle of the carpet.
It was impossible for me to battle someone who was unseen and unknown. How could one stand up against an unknown threat? How to prepare, how to take precautions? Great disasters often occur when we must confront the unknown.
I was deeply unhappy. My unhappiness was feeding my rage. Hüseyin stood before me, helpless; not knowing what to do, he stretched his arms out toward me, and then put them down again. He did this a couple of times before finally somehow gathering the courage to come sit down next to me and put his arm around my shoulder.
“We have to be strong,” he said. “This is a battle of nerves. Don’t give him what he wants.”
He was consoling me in a calm tone I’d never have expected of him.
I smiled weakly.
He pulled me toward him and shook me in a friendly manner.
“Now, first change that message! Others might call.”
He was right.
I went and washed my face and blew my runny nose so that my voice would sound normal. I changed my message to what it should be. My voice sounded dreadful on the first take. But on the third, it was reasonably acceptable.
I had so much to do. I couldn’t decide what to do first. What was on the chip he had sent me? Why had he sent it? Getting to the bottom of all this was going to take time. If I were to sleep in my home that night, I’d have to search every nook and cranny to find out what he had dirtied, what he had touched, and what he had moved about. What if he had hidden something somewhere…? That was too much; I couldn’t sleep here, not with such suspicion eating away at me. The only solution, of course, was to go somewhere else to sleep. I could call in a domestic cleaning company the next day and have the whole place disinfected. This wasn’t something my cleaning lady Satı could take care of on her own. Mafioso Cemil Kazancı was expecting to hear from me on how he could pay me back. I had to call Selçuk and ask him to stop the police from digging too deep for the time being. Andelip Turhan was expecting us for a tarot reading. I needed to contact the dozens of people who were undoubtedly shocked by the psycho’s message on my machine, and explain the situation to them all, starting with Hasan. I would start with everyone who’d made a “missed call” to my mobile. All of them were expecting an explanation too. The psycho had given us until midnight, and had promised a new surprise afterward. Given us until midnight to do what, though? It was one heavy burden he had given me to bear, and in order to free myself of it, I had to catch him. In other words, everyone, even my psycho, was expecting something from me.
The thought of everything I had to do depressed me. I let out a deep sigh. It didn’t help.
18.
The task was nerve-racking.
I was trying the chip.
I had opened the computer case, backed up my data in case any problems arose, and put the chip in. The annoying thing about it was that its contents were completely identical to that of my own computer. First I thought it simply wasn’t working, that there was something wrong and that I was seeing the inside of my own computer instead of the chip. I tried again, and that’s when I became certain. All my data files were on this chip. I couldn’t have done a better job copying my computer if I’d backed it up myself. The last file was dated three days ago, meaning the day the psycho’s threats had started. But he’d been in the house today; and he’d accessed my computer three days ago. I had multiple security systems protecting against cyber-intruders, but had taken no precautions at all with my own computer. There was never anyone else in the apartment to use it but me, until now! All he had had to do was press the on button. My psycho had sat at my computer three days ago.
The piercing headache I had was completely psychological. Half of my head was throbbing. A voice inside was telling me to drop everything and run. Where to, however, I did not know. Anywhere. Wherever there was a flight to at this hour, using whichever visa was still valid on my passport…I had enough savings to keep me comfortably afloat for some time. The club could finance itself. Although he might be a bigmouthed gossiper, Hasan was reliable. Give him a higher percentage and he’d embrace the business as his own and carry on. And what if the club went bankrupt? I’d find a job as an illegal fugitive. Worst-case scenario, I could do drag shows at clubs. I’d already had a successful venture as such in Paris; if that didn’t work, I’d have to activate my international network of friends. A few days as a guest with each, and I could be safely sheltered for years.
I could go stay in Rio with my author Mehmet Murat Somer for six months a year, pester him, and ask him not to write about me anymore. Perhaps all this was happening to me because of what he had written. And since
he had become a bestselling author because of me, he should open his home to me.
I didn’t care what happened to my apartment. If he really wanted to, my psycho could come and settle in, and enjoy it if he wanted.
I could always ask Cemil Kazancı to use his Mafia connections abroad to lend me a helping hand. If they really were as tough as they purported to be, they could even supply me with a fake passport and ID. I’d bet I could ask for financial support too.
Plus, I was an expert hacker, and that was a moneymaking profession anywhere in the world.
By the time I returned—if I ever did return—things would have settled down. If he wasn’t locked up for murder in the first degree by then, my psycho might have already forgotten all about me anyway.
I was seriously considering all of these options.
Everyone has a breaking point, and I had hit mine. Sometimes decisions made without much thought, upon sheer instinct, can have fortunate outcomes too. Maybe I was at exactly such a moment.
I got up and opened the drawer where I kept my passport. I was going to check its expiration date and my visas. I could also go someplace where you didn’t need a visa. Although flights at this time of night were few, I could still catch the Turkish Airlines flight to Bangkok. You didn’t need a visa to get into Thailand.
My long-term USA visa and two-year UK visa were both still valid. But my goddamn passport expired in less than a month; I had forgotten to renew it. A great many countries didn’t show much hospitality to citizens of the Republic of Turkey who had less than three months left on their passports.
My passport in my hand, I sank onto the floor, sobbing. My escape and survival plan had crumbled to bits, just like that. And so had I!
I was having a nervous breakdown. Tears were streaming down my cheeks like a waterfall. I couldn’t stop them. I wasn’t too sure I wanted to either. I was a miserable wretch.
I’d had enough, and just wanted for this all to be over, no matter what might come to pass.
I sat there with my eyes open while I stared emptily, not seeing anything, not hearing a single noise.
Hüseyin lifted me up, took me to the bathroom, and washed my face. I needed a little love and compassion, a little pampering. For days everyone had been expecting things from me, but no one cared about poor me.
I handed myself over to Hüseyin’s strong, compassionate arms and passionate lips.
19.
So much for the “fasting.” I had thrown out my self-discipline and all control. Sometimes things which lie outside the boundaries of logic can be of use to us, can show us the path to truth. Like good sex! Although I knew I’d regret it afterward, Hüseyin’s performance was truly magnificent. His lustful and crafty fingers had aroused my body and brought me to my senses. My tension had been replaced by a sweet lethargy. And my mind, meanwhile, had been restored to pristine clarity.
There must be a rational and reasonable explanation for the current situation, I told myself. There had to be.
Still reclining on Hüseyin’s warm chest as he masterfully strove to tempt me again, I started making calls on my mobile from bed.
First I called Cemil Kazancı’s very private number.
“Who is this?” he answered curtly.
I asked him to put my apartment under surveillance, twenty-four hours a day—and for everyone going in and out to be recorded—until I told him to stop.
“Not something we generally do, but we’ll take care of it,” he said. “I’ll send one of the boys over. He’ll come and introduce himself to you first…”
That made sense. “Have you seen to our matter?”
“I’m calling him now,” I told him.
Hüseyin had greatly improved his performance over time. He went at it gently, masterfully, with tiny touches.
“Let’s slow down,” I said, planting a kiss on his lips. “We haven’t sorted anything out yet.”
He sucked my tongue into his mouth in reply as he stroked my inner thigh.
Now it was time to call Selçuk.
“Can you listen in on mobile phone calls?” was my first question.
“Yes,” he said. “One can get hold of the recordings when necessary.”
This was bad news. I didn’t want what I was going to say to be recorded. The paranoid Cemil Kazancı was no worse than me when it came to this. My landline was already being monitored, and had been for some time, because of maniacs like this latest one.
“What are we going to do?” I asked. “There’s a problem I want to discuss with you. But not on the phone if the lines are bugged.”
There was a short silence on the other end of the line. Hüseyin, thinking the conversation was over, quickly sprang back into action. I pushed him away.
“Look,” said Selçuk, “if that’s the case, since I haven’t yet mastered the art of telepathic information exchange, we’re left with only one choice—the classical method.”
He meant meeting up.
“I’ll pick you up outside your place in half an hour. We’ll go for a short ride.”
Seeing the effort Hüseyin was making, “Make it forty-five minutes,” I said.
We agreed.
I didn’t tell Hüseyin I was going alone until we had finished.
I should have known I wouldn’t have time to take a shower, but then Selçuk was an old pal, so I didn’t feel I had to look my best. I quieted Hüseyin’s objections to staying at home alone by telling him to lock the door and to sit and wait in the windowless storage room. He laughed. Sex had done him good too.
“I’ll be back in half an hour, tops,” I said, and gave him a kiss.
Selçuk was pulling up to the curb as I rushed down. He had come in his wife Ayla’s Renault instead of his official car.
I explained the situation to him frankly. I wasn’t going to hide anything from Selçuk. I hated people who weren’t straightforward, and doing the same myself really wasn’t my style. Half surprised, half curious, he listened until the very end of my story without interrupting me. The name Cemil Kazancı wasn’t new to him.
“Only until this psycho gets caught,” I said. “You can do what you want after that.”
“Do you realize what you’re asking me to do?”
“Yes,” I said. “I know perfectly well…”
We fell silent for a while.
“It isn’t as simple as he’s made it out to be. The Drug Trafficking desk is involved, Organized Crimes, even Interpol. It’s an old, rooted network. No one, let alone me, can intervene once the wheels have been set into motion.”
“Well, have they? Have the wheels been set into motion?”
Again, a brief silence.
“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“So?” I said. “What do we do now?”
“I’m taking you back home.”
He didn’t say he would, but I was sure that he was going to try. His best and more. I knew his style.
Instead of sitting in the windowless storage room while I was out, Hüseyin, whose primary concern at the moment was filling his hungry stomach, had begun boiling pasta.
“Look what I found, darling,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.
Now that we had slept together, I had suddenly become “darling.”
When Satı had come to do the cleaning, she’d left me a note fixed to the fridge with a magnet. We had both missed it because we hadn’t gone in the kitchen since we’d come home. And I had totally forgotten that today was Satı’s cleaning day.
“Of course. She was at my place all morning.”
The note read: “Mr. Veral, the telephone people came. They fixed the problem with the phone. We’ve run out of Omo detergent. And there’s very little surface cleaner left. Thank you. Satı.”
It always took them more than a week to show up when one actually needed a repair, so it was hardly likely that they’d have turned up just like that for routine maintenance.
“So they came into the house disguised as tel
ephone technicians,” said Hüseyin, laughing. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of it earlier!”
He was acting as if it were totally normal for people to turn up dressed as telephone technicians. Satı must have thought the same thing and let the psycho in. If she hadn’t watched them—and clearly she hadn’t—then we could easily deduce that our psycho had toured the house at his leisure, under cover of checking the cables.
The note said telephone people. People? So there were more than one. He couldn’t have been accompanied by the girl with the bicycle. Girls never become telephone repair technicians in Turkey. So he must have a third collaborator. I must be up against an entire gang.
But his coming over today disguised as a technician didn’t explain how he’d copied my desktop three days ago.
“What shall I put in the pasta? Tuna, or tomato and feta cheese? I can’t find anything else in the fridge.”
Hüseyin clearly didn’t take after his mama when it came to creativity in the kitchen.
“Whatever you’d like,” I said. I was going to call Satı.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Satı, groaning at every syllable—her way of letting me know how utterly exhausted she was. “The telephone people came. Two men. Youngish. One didn’t speak at all. They went straight to the back room to check the cables. It was taking them a long time, so I just continued with my own work. I had all that ironing to do. Broke my back, I’m telling you.”
“Describe them to me,” I said.
“I told you, they were young. One had longer hair. The way they let it grow these days. I hear they allow it in public offices too. Scrawny, they were. I didn’t stare’ cause I didn’t want to give them the wrong idea.”
“What about their height, their coloring?”
“Typical men, I’m telling you,” she said. “They were taller than me, but not short or tall. Medium…”
“Look, Satı, dear,” I said. “This is serious. You’d better jog that memory of yours.”
Little Melek had given us a perfect, detailed description.
Serenity Murders (9781101603079) Page 13
