Zeki had readily agreed. He hated cleaning up after what he considered to be the vile things that went on in the massage parlour. Persuading Yaşar to swap his casual drug dealing for something more regular and demanding had not been easy, but he had done it. Yaşar had stopped dealing. What he hadn’t stopped doing was smoking drugs himself. He didn’t do it at work. True to his brother’s promise to Ahmet Ülker, he did not jeopardise the operation of the factories by being off his face on the job. With goods coming in and going out sometimes all night long, not to mention quite a few problems with the people Ahmet got to work for him, he couldn’t afford to be drugged up. But on the journey to work, which the two brothers made from their flat on Clissold Road to the factories at Hackney Wick, he would have one small joint. This he always lit as he walked from the flat to the battered old Vauxhall Cavalier the two of them used to get to work. Zeki had told him again and again that that wasn’t a good idea, that neighbours might smell the weed and shop them to the police. But Yaşar said it would be all right. He was convinced that the neighbours neither knew nor cared what they did. It was therefore quite a shock to Yaşar when he came out of his flat and felt a heavy and unfamiliar hand upon his shoulder. Over by the car he could see his brother Zeki, his face a grey picture of terror, being frisked by two uniformed police officers. The officer who had his hand on Yaşar’s shoulder said to him, ‘Now what is that I can smell, sir? Not an ordinary Marlboro Light, is it?’
‘Tuberculosis isn’t an easy disease to catch,’ Arto Sarkissian said to Mehmet Süleyman. ‘We don’t see it that often these days although it is making something of a comeback now.’
‘Why is that?’
The Armenian shrugged. ‘Population movement is part of it. In countries like Afghanistan where health care is perfunctory to say the least, people are not vaccinated and therefore vulnerable. People flee from places like Afghanistan to make homes in other, safer countries and so the disease spreads further than it would under normal circumstances. I don’t blame those who flee for doing so but it does give us problems.’
They were standing outside what looked like a derelict house in the district of Cihangir, opposite the Taksim Hospital. The house, which local talk said was occupied by men generically described as ‘Indians’, was being searched by uniformed officers.
‘I may be wrong but I think it unlikely that the boy Tariq came into the country alone,’ Arto said. ‘He was sixteen at the most and from the look of his teeth, he’d probably lived in some remote place for most of his life. I doubt very much whether he could have negotiated his way to İstanbul all on his own. And if he was with others then there is a higher than usual chance that those people have tuberculosis too. We have to find them, and soon.’
They both looked up at the tall stone house, its once elegant internal spiral staircase visible through holes in its external walls. Already officers had found some evidence that people slept there: small amounts of food, ashes from wood fires, the occasional tattered bedroll. But so far no people had been found. The security guard at the hospital had told Süleyman that smoke came out of the old house on most evenings and the patients in the wards opposite sometimes saw lights, probably from torches, at the glassless windows.
Süleyman turned back to Arto Sarkissian. ‘Doctor, have you heard from Çetin?’
‘Oh, my friend is completely off the radar as far as I am concerned, Inspector,’ Sarkissian replied. ‘His destination, so I understand, is police business. Don’t you know where he is?’
‘No,’ Süleyman said. Without thinking he bit his lip.
‘It makes you anxious?’ the Armenian asked and then without waiting for a reply he said, ‘I’ve always been close to his son Bülent. I’ve met him a few times since Çetin left. The family are managing.’
Neither the doctor nor the policeman mentioned the difficulties they both knew Çetin and Fatma had been having. To talk of the personal life of a friend is not something polite Turkish men do. After a few moments Süleyman burst out with, ‘I just wish I knew he was safe!’
‘Sir! Sir!’ called one of the constables.
Süleyman looked towards the house again. There was a lot of activity around the small door underneath the main entrance. He walked over to the constable, Yıldız. ‘What is it?’
‘There’s a man in the basement, sir,’ another constable said. ‘Look.’ He pointed through the low door into the chamber where Süleyman saw a pair of bright eyes looking at him out of a very dark face.
‘Hello,’ said Süleyman. The man looked old and scared and very, very thin. ‘Do you—’
‘Don’t hit me! Please do not to hit me!’ the man said and threw his skinny arms up and across his face in panic. ‘I will tell you about the boy who blew himself up! I will tell you about Tariq!’ Oddly, he spoke in English.
Had he been able to go to the West End or the City it would have been easy for İkmen to amuse himself. In Stoke Newington it would have been possible for him to have a good time had he been able to use his English. There were bookshops, small art galleries, cafés full of interesting-looking people. Some of course were Turks and he could have spoken to them, but remembering what Ayşe had said about the smallness of the Turkish population in Stoke Newington, he didn’t really want to forge relationships. Çetin Ertegrul was an illegal Turkish migrant who wanted to work and send money home. The last thing he needed was for some new male friend to invite him back to his house and introduce him to his recently widowed sister. And so for two days after Ayşe had taken him to breakfast he drifted aimlessly around damp streets. He looked in shop windows that advertised Turkish foodstuffs, poked around in hardware shops that looked exactly like such places did back in İstanbul, and occasionally sat in Clissold Park, smoking and drinking Coca-Cola from cans. And although he knew that Ayşe and Terry were available to him, until he was somehow inside Ülker’s organisation there was really nothing to talk about. Apparently the Met were engineering a situation whereby Ülker would soon need one or more security guards. All he could do was wait.
When he returned to the Rize that evening he found Mr Yigit in halting conversation with a thin Englishman whose face was badly scarred on one side. He was probably around İkmen’s own age but much better dressed, although the hand with which he held a smoking cigarette was yellow and rather dirty-looking.
‘Oh, Mr Ertegrul,’ Yigit said as İkmen passed by his desk in the lobby. ‘Did you find any work? Did you have a good day?’
‘No, I didn’t find any work,’ İkmen said. ‘The day was OK.’
‘Ah.’ Mr Yigit turned towards the Englishman and said, ‘He looks for work.’
‘You all look for work, old son,’ the Englishman replied. ‘That’s what you lot do. How much of it do you think we have over here?’
The accent wasn’t broad but it was definitely London. What was also definite was the clear distaste this man had for İkmen’s ‘lot’.
‘But Mr Harrison,’ Mr Yigit said, ‘you must not to make the complaining. Turkish man, Mr Ülker, he give it a job to you.’
‘Don’t give me a load of pony about how I should be grateful to Ahmet Ülker!’ the Englishman said angrily. ‘He should be fucking grateful to me!’
‘Ah, but I mean nothing to it, Mr Harrison,’ the pansiyon owner said. ‘Only fact, he give job to you when really is difficult for you—’
‘What the fuck are you staring at, Abdul?’ The Englishman’s face was suddenly puce with anger. Startled, İkmen took a step backwards. ‘Uh . . .’
Yigit walked over to him and put an arm round his shoulders. ‘Oh, Mr Harrison,’ he said, ‘sorry, sorry. Mr Ertegrul, he speaks no English.’ Then he turned to İkmen and said, ‘Don’t stare at him, please, Mr Ertegrul. He is an ill-mannered bastard, like so many of them.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘Oh, pay it no mind. Pay it no mind.’ Yigit smiled. ‘He’s an annoying man but one that a person has to be polite to.’
‘Speak bl
oody English, will you, Yigit!’ the Englishman growled. ‘God help us!’
‘Sorry! Sorry!’
‘Harrison looked İkmen up and down with some distaste, ‘So what does he do, this new mate of yours? What is he? A waiter? Who among you lot isn’t? Or is he some bloody idiot who thinks he can lay bricks?’
‘Security guard,’ Yigit said to the Englishman. ‘Back in İstanbul Mr Ertegrul is security guard. Mr Harrison, I think maybe that—’
‘What, with no bloody English?’ Mr Harrison puffed on what was left of his cigarette and then put it out. ‘Five foot and a fag paper and without a word of English! What bleeding use would he be? Christ Almighty, Yigit, even them stupid druggie brothers could do their “good mornings” and their “please” and “thank yous”. This one looks like he’s fucking brain dead!’
‘Oh but—’
‘What’s going on?’ İkmen asked. ‘What’s he saying?’
Yigit pulled up his baggy pyjama bottoms and smiled again. ‘Mr Ertegrul, this man’s employer now has some vacancies for security guards.’
İkmen opened his eyes wide and said, ‘Does he?’
‘Yes, he has good Turkish employer,’ Yigit said. ‘Mr Ertegrul, if I can get you in, maybe to meet this man’s employer . . .’
‘I would be interested,’ İkmen said.
‘Of course, and if I help you, there would naturally be a consideration . . .’
Money. Of course.
‘Yigit, if you’re telling him you can get him a job, you can stop that right now!’ Harrison said. ‘He can’t speak English! Don’t tell him you’ll get him something when you can’t! Don’t ask him for money to do it either. I know you, you old twister!’
‘Mr Harrison, I don’t never ask people for money!’ Yigit said. ‘And why he don’t make the security guard anyway? He don’t need English.’
‘Yes, he does!’ the Englishman said. ‘How’s he going to—’
‘Many peoples work in factories for Mr Ülker don’t have no English,’ Mr Yigit said. ‘Thousand, thousand languages there.’
‘Yeah, but the security guards are a bit different,’ Harrison said. ‘What if the old bill come along in the night and try to speak to him? They’re gonna suss what he is straight away and then we’re back to square one again.’
‘This man, Mr Ertegrul, is a decent man,’ Mr Yigit said. ‘He don’t smoke drugs. Not like Sılay brothers.’
‘I’m not saying he isn’t decent! What I am saying is that he’s got no English!’
‘What’s he saying?’ İkmen asked. ‘What’s going on, Mr Yigit?’ He looked genuinely bemused.
‘Nothing. Nothing,’ Yigit soothed. He clearly wanted to make a few pounds out of him if he could. ‘There now, Mr Ertegrul, don’t you worry. This Englishman is nothing, just a stupid pig. You know he works for Turkish people five years, still he speaks not a word of our language. I know his boss, he is a personal friend of mine. Don’t worry, I will get you an introduction.’
Chapter 12
* * *
The old man’s name was Abdurrahman Iqbal and he was a Pakistani citizen. His passport stated that he had been born in 1920 which meant that he was eighty-seven years old.
‘I was born in India, Calcutta,’ he told Süleyman. ‘Before partition, you see. There was no Pakistan before nineteen forty-seven.’
‘I know, Mr Iqbal,’ Süleyman said. ‘Now, you told Dr Sarkissian here and myself that you knew the boy Tariq, the boy who blew himself up in Tarlabaşı.’
Unusually, Arto Sarkissian had come into the interview room with Süleyman and İzzet Melik. He’d come because the Pakistani was very old, very thin and could possibly need medical attention. He would also at some point need to explain to him about Tariq’s illness and what that might mean for him.
The old man shrugged. ‘I knew that the police would come sometime,’ he said sadly. ‘I told the other Afghans as soon as Tariq did what he did. I said, “You must go now or the police will catch you!”’
‘You live in that house with illegal Afghan—’
‘I used to,’ Iqbal said. ‘But you have me here now and the Afghans when they know you have been there, they will disappear.’
‘Do you know their names, these Afghans?’ İzzet Melik asked.
Iqbal shook his head. ‘No. I knew only Tariq,’ he said. ‘The others are all grown men. They didn’t want an old man with them. But Tariq? He was so young and alone and sick too – always coughing. The others ignored him but to me he was a poor confused boy. I tried to help him. I failed.’
‘Mr Iqbal,’ Süleyman said, ‘we need to know everything you know about Tariq. It is very important. You also need to consider when you answer that you are an illegal immigrant into this country. What you tell us may make those in immigration look more favourably upon you.’
The old man smiled. ‘You mean, sir, your immigration people might help me to stay?’ He shook his head. ‘With great respect, I do not want to stay here. I am in transit only. My hope was to move on soon.’
‘Into the European Union?’
‘To Great Britain,’ he said. ‘That was where Tariq was going too, you know.’
‘All right, before we speak of your plans, let’s get back to Tariq,’ Süleyman said. ‘What do you know about him?’
Iqbal told them that Tariq, a Sunni Muslim, was an Afghan from a village to the north of Kabul. All of his family with the exception of one older brother had been killed in the various battles that had taken place between the Afghan army and the Taliban. Left with a hatred for both the American-backed Afghan army and the Taliban, Tariq had left Kabul and was making his way to London to be with his brother. Already very sick, his condition had deteriorated by the time he got to İstanbul. He had also run out of money. Abdurrahman Iqbal had found the boy begging on İstiklal Street. At first he had thought that he was a fellow Pakistani, but when he found out that he was an Afghan he took him into the house opposite the Taksim Hospital. It was, after all, a haunt for others of his kind even if they wanted little to do with him. In the limited way that he could, he nursed Tariq and got him on his feet again. The boy had been grateful. When he’d heard about the possibility of getting some work at an illegal factory in Tarlabaşı, he had jumped at the chance. He needed money to go on further and he also wanted to get some cash for Iqbal.
‘I was a little short of money myself by then,’ the old man said. ‘And so the boy went to work. He spoke some Turkish on account of his mother having been a Turkoman.’
And for a while he got on with his job very well. His father had been a tailor and had taught him to sew when he was little. Stitching leather handbags wasn’t so much different. But as the weeks passed, Iqbal began to see a change in his young friend. Not only did his cough get worse again but he began to come out with things that the old Pakistani wasn’t sure were true.
‘At first he was very happy because he said his new bosses were going to arrange transport to England for him. I told him to be careful,’ Iqbal said, ‘because you know, gentlemen, what some of these people traffickers can be like. People who make false goods are criminals and so if they also traffic people, those people sometimes end up as their slaves in their new country. Prostitution and things like that.’
But as time went on it became apparent that something even more sinister was happening to Tariq at his place of work. Someone at the factory, Tariq never said who, began to talk to him about fundamentalism. He told Iqbal that the way it was presented sounded just like the Taliban and at first he was appalled. But as time went on he began to feel more and more guilty about leaving his country in the hands of ‘infidels’.
‘I told him they were poisoning his mind,’ the old man said. ‘But Tariq said that they had promised not only to take him to London but to give a considerable amount of money to his brother there.’
‘What did they want from Tariq in return?’ Süleyman asked.
The old man lowered his eyes. ‘Tariq knew that he was very sick. H
is only desire was to see his brother before he died.’ He looked up sharply and said, ‘They wanted him to explode a bomb somewhere in London.’
‘A suicide attack?’
‘Yes.’
Süleyman leaned across the table and looked deeply into the old man’s eyes. ‘Where?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. London. I have never been there.’
Süleyman turned to İzzet Melik and spoke in Turkish. ‘İzzet, the two foremen we arrested at the Tarlabaşı factory—’
‘Awaiting trial, sir.’
‘Contact the prison and tell the authorities we need to speak to them,’ Süleyman said.
‘Now?’
‘Right now,’ his superior said. As İzzet Melik rose to his feet, he added, ‘And tell Commissioner Ardıç that we may well have some more information the police in London will find interesting.’
‘Yes, sir.’ İzzet left.
‘Carry on, Mr Iqbal.’
‘I told Tariq to leave that place and somehow I would get us both to London,’ he said. ‘But he was in two minds. On the one hand he knew I was right. He was a good Muslim who knew that violence and Islam are two ideas that just cannot be connected. A good Muslim is a peaceful and kind person, caring of everyone and prejudiced in no way against anyone. But growing up in that terrible country . . .’ He shook his head. ‘The people in that factory told him that if he blew himself up, his soul would go straight to Paradise. They gave him guns and grenades to make him feel powerful. Young men like such things. He brought them home! Allah, but I nearly took them from him and threw them into the Bosphorus. I wish now that I had. Two weeks before he killed himself he talked of opening his veins to get himself out of pursuing their plan. I told him not to. Maybe I was wrong in that.’ He looked over at Dr Sarkissian. ‘I know you know what was wrong with Tariq, sir.’
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