The Prophet Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  He suddenly burst into laughter.

  “I’m kidding,” he said. “I’m not angry. I’ve got copies of everything in any case. It’s all on discs. It’ll take me ten seconds to reload them.”

  The scene had been set. I would have to give another performance in order to win his forgiveness. And my leather costume had whetted his appetite even further. What was my unconscious mind thinking when I selected this outfit?

  As he ate his breakfast, he began telling me what he’d learned.

  “I traced all those nicknames you gave me to the same place,” he said. “I mean, Starman and *adam are the same person. They’re both Adem Yildiz!”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Of the Yildiz markets?”

  “That’s it,” he continued. “And not just the markets, the whole huge group of companies.”

  “You’re kidding!” I exclaimed. I couldn’t help resorting to theatricality. I hadn’t wanted to be the one to bring up the name of Adem Yildiz.

  “Everything is connected to him,” he continued. “I didn’t even bother tracking it all. They hired me as a consultant when they set up their system. I know it all like the back of my hand. It doesn’t matter where he gets online or the nick he chooses, I recognize him immediately from the tracking codes I installed.”

  “Unbelievable,” I said, true to my role.

  He was good. I also did consulting for computer systems, but I’d never even considered engaging in such tricks. I’ve never been particularly eager to figure out who gets online, and where.

  “The system is a basic one,” he said. “You give each user an invisible tail. They can’t access anything without going through the main computer. It’s then easy enough to trace them by locating the tail. Easy for me, anyway, not for anyone else.”

  “What about ‘red star’,” I asked. “Who is that?”

  “Ah, that’s a funny one,” he said. “It might be Adem Yildiz, but I’m not sure. Whoever it is gets online using different passwords and market systems. I was going to track him down last night, but I had other work to do.”

  He winked again.

  “You know what I mean,” he said. “Frechen approached you first, then they found me.”

  “Fine,” I responded.

  “I arranged for them to find me,” he said triumphantly.

  “When you hesitated to make them a proposal I approached them directly. I introduced myself. And I got the job.”

  “Ali won’t be happy about that,” I informed him.

  “You mean that money-grubbing slime-ball of yours,” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘slime-ball’,” I corrected him.

  “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “That’s none of your business,” I said. “Now, what were you saying about Adem Yildiz?”

  “You’re sleeping with him all right,” he concluded. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have said that.”

  He was baiting me. That was obvious. He’d finished eating and had moved on to his sexual hunger, hoping I’d get angry enough to smack him around.

  “Adem Yildiz?’’ I persisted.

  “Both nicks are definitely his,” he said. “I know him. He’s a real piece of filth. His father struggled to make a man of him, but it didn’t do much good. Whenever daddy’s around he’s just as good as can be. Obeys orders, tags along to Friday prayers. He’s even been to Mecca once. But when daddy’s away, it’s time to play. And he’s as degenerate as they come.”

  It was all I could do not to reveal Adem Yildiz’s tricks in bed.

  “You seem to know an awful lot about him,” I prodded.

  “I saw him at work. He treated me like scum. When he paid my fee he acted like I was some charity case. That’s partly why I decided to trace him.”

  “What about the other nicks?” I asked. “I told you, ‘kizil yildiz’ is someone from the market chain.”

  “And the others?” I continued. “What about ‘Adam Star’?”

  “He’s one of them. But it’s not Adem Yildiz. Someone from a subsidiary company is using that nick. He gets online from all over the place. Someone who travels a lot.”

  “I’m impressed,” I told him. The subsidiary companies he referred to could well be Astro Shipping or Star Air. Which meant it could be Fehmi enyürek. There’s also a chance that Adem used that nick when he visited those companies.

  It was clear from his expectant expression that all of his attention was now focused on me, waiting for the reward we’d agreed on. I was considering the best way to either get started or to make an escape.

  The snoop of a mother came to the rescue. “Kemal, I’m off to the shops. You’re with your friend. He’ll give you a hand if you need anything. You will help him, won’t you, my son?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I won’t be long.” The minute his mother stepped out the door the glint returned to Kemal’s eyes.

  “That’s not all I’ve learned.”

  “Go on, tell me the rest,” I urged him.

  In order to enhance the mood, I leaned back on the bed, stretching slightly. I was fully aware that this also had the effect of thrusting my crotch close to his face.

  He bent nearly double, leaning out of his wheelchair to fondle it.

  “Now it’s your turn,” he said.

  I shifted positions instantly, to avoid his lunging onto the bed and on top of me.

  “But it’s still so early,” I demurred. “Mornings just aren’t my thing.”

  “Come on . . . ”

  “Just tell me a bit more,” I coaxed. “Then I’ll think about it . . . ”

  “No,” he snapped. He was worse than an obstinate child.

  There was no getting around it. We were off and running. I rose to my feet and delivered a sharp smack across his chops.

  As expected, he was thrilled.

  “Yes,” he moaned.

  “Look,” I scolded him. “Tell me everything I want to know; then, I’ll give you a little surprise.”

  I had no idea what my surprise would be, but I’d wing it.

  “Who wants a surprise,” he said. “It’s better like this.”

  “You won’t tell me anything after you come,” I said.

  “You still don’t trust me.”

  “Give me a good reason to trust you,” I said. “What’s with all those silly floats in the chat room? Every other line is a sermon or a bit of Koranic verse. And you won’t tell me a thing without bargaining first.”

  “Just put it down to life’s lessons,” he said. “You know how cruel life can be. Everyone made fun of me all my life. I learned not to give anything without getting something in exchange.”

  That’s all I needed. So far we’d avoided sociology. So far.

  “Don’t make such a big deal of it,” I said.

  “I’m not,” he said. “How many people have you seen like me? How many have you really got to know? And what’s more, you went snooping through my computer files.”

  “That’s no more than what you did to me,” I reminded him. “Stalking me on the internet like that . . . lurking like a thief.”

  “You’re a real smooth operator,” he said. “And a bad actor. I’d expected more from you. If that’s the way you want it, so be it.”

  He rolled his wheelchair back to the desk, and took an olive from his breakfast tray, popping it into his mouth. As he spat out the stone, he began talking.

  “Adem Yildiz was at the crime scene for all the murders outside Istanbul. The dates for the opening of a store in Van coincide with Iranian Muhammet’s death; StarAir Charter started flights from Antalya at the same time stuttering Musa was killed.”

  He took a manila envelope from the table and handed it to me.

  “Here are the dates. I’ve even taken the trouble to record them for you.”

  I opened the envelope. It was stuffed with newspaper clippings and internet articles about the opening ceremony for the Yildiz Market in Van. There was also news about the cont
ribution made to Turkish tourism by Star Air, which had begun flights to and from Germany.

  “This will be useful, but it doesn’t help me prove anything,” I said.

  “I can’t do everything for you,” he replied.

  I hesitantly extended my hand to him.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Perhaps we can be friends. I certainly wouldn’t want you for an enemy.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. Because you’re frightened. You’re afraid of me.”

  “You might be right,” I agreed. My hand hovered in mid-air.

  “Get out of here,” he said. “You disappointed me. I thought you were different. But you’re not.”

  Twenty-three

  Istormed out of Jihad2000’s place like a bat out of hell. If he’d expected me to fall in love with him, or even to feel the remotest interest, he was sadly mistaken. By not realizing how serious he was, I’d been asking for trouble. What was done, was done. Only time would tell if I’d earned a mortal enemy. You never know, we might really become friends after all. He had my utmost respect when it came to his professional skills. But that didn’t mean that as a man, particularly as a sex-crazed masochist of a man, I could be expected to feel anything for him.

  I hadn’t had any sleep, and thinking about Kemal just made me more irritable. The thought of coping with Ponpon at home was more than I could bear, so I headed straight for the office.

  Ali wasn’t around. I informed the know-it-all secretary, Figen, that she wasn’t to put through any calls under any circumstances. Then I entered my office. I intended to have a close look at the files I’d copied from Jihad2000.

  From the coffee I’d drunk, not a trace of caffeine remained. My brain cried out for more. I’d already wrecked my diet with two huge poaça. What would be the harm in another coffee?

  I interrupted Figen’s game of computer patience to ask her for a cup, strong and black.

  While waiting for it to arrive I got online and took out two empty discs. I began downloading files. First I looked at the file he’d collected on me. Every single movement I’d made on the internet had been recorded. Even John Pruitt! My address, telephone numbers, shopping records, every piece of mail I’d sent. They were all there. Jihad2000 was truly a terrifying character.

  I couldn’t decide if Kemal was a victim of destiny or the recipient of divine justice. A twisted mind had been imprisoned in an equally twisted body. Was it a case of cause and effect, or did he get just what he deserved? I was taken aback by my own train of thought. I realised I was thinking along the lines of the Inquisition, who believed in burning cripples because they were possessed by demons. I was ashamed of myself.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Figen’s fuzzy head, which poked into the room after a sharp rap on the door.

  “I know you’re busy,” she apologised, “and I’m sorry to interrupt, but the person on the phone says it’s terribly urgent.”

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “The lady who rang the other day; the one with the deep voice.”

  It must be Gönül on the line. I’d completely forgotten about her, even though she’d promised some news.

  “Put her through,” I said.

  Gönül’s typically carefree voice fairly tinkled down the line.

  She was as joyous and light as someone who believes with all her heart that ignorance is a gift from God.

  “I’m not disturbing you, am I?” she began.

  “What do you mean,” I assured her. “I was just thinking of you. I was wondering how to get in touch.”

  “Speak of the devil, they say. In my case, it’s quite the opposite, of course. You know I’ve got a heart of gold.”

  “I’ve got no doubt of that,” I said, right on cue. “Didn’t you have something to tell me?”

  “Why don’t you invite me to lunch and we’ll talk then. Not where we went last week, though. It was so boring. There wasn’t anyone but us. Let’s go somewhere crowded. We can check them out; they can check us out. That’s always more fun, don’t you think?”

  It wasn’t really the best time for lunch with Gönül, but there was no way for me to reach her otherwise. It was nearly noon and I’d probably be hungry enough to eat something. I decided to forget I’d ever eaten those poaça.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she said. “Just tell me if you’d rather not.”

  “I was just trying to think of a place to go.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Don’t think so much. You’ll end up losing your mind.”

  She followed this up with a luxurious laugh.

  “There’s a great pizza restaurant in Levent,” I said. “A real chic place.”

  “Fine.”

  “When can you come?”

  “I’lI be there this afternoon . . . ”

  “Well, when this afternoon? I mean, what time exactly?” I asked.

  “I’m in Altimermer right now. How long do you think it will take to get there?”

  “Where in Altimermer?’’

  “Haseki,” she said. “And I won’t be coming by taxi. There’s no way I’m paying that kind of money.”

  “Plan on it taking about an hour,” I said. “It’s nearly 11 now, so we’ll meet at the restaurant at 12:30. All right?”

  “Fine. But what’s the name of the restaurant? Levent’s a huge district. Let’s not get lost looking for each other.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s called Pizza Express. It’s right at the entrance to Etiler, to the left on Nispetiye Caddesi.”

  “The road that goes to Akmerkez Shopping Centre, right?”

  “That’s it,” I said. “Just past Namli Kebab Shop.”

  “Got it. I can practically see it in my mind’s eye.”

  “See you later then.”

  “Hang on a minute,” she said. “They’ll realize about me there, won’t they?”

  I smiled to myself. Only a blind idiot would fail to recognize Gönül for what she was.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I reassured her. “By the way, I’m dressed as a man. Plan accordingly.”

  “Oh, I’d recognize you anywhere,” she said. It was clear that some of the files in front of me would have to wait until after lunch. I had a little over an hour and intended to make the most of it.

  First, I investigated the dossier on Adem Yildiz. Even the tiniest detail had been collected and stored. Despite family pressure, he was still a bachelor. He was thirty-one, a ripe old age for an unmarried man in those circles. He’d completed his compulsory military service, opting for the shorter version. After graduating from a religious high school of no particular academic standing, he’d studied English. That’s probably where he went wrong. While superficially devout, he wasn’t particularly religious. There was evidence that he didn’t fast during Ramadan, using his travelling as an excuse. I really wondered how Jihad2000 had got his hands on all this information.

  Correspondence and e-mails between Adem Yildiz and various companies were all filed away. There was nothing of particular interest. He spent a great deal of time visiting porn sites when he was online. Transvestite sites seemed to be a favourite.

  He didn’t seem interested in cars, but had a penchant for high fashion. His habit of wearing only the most expensive designer labels probably reflected his upbringing as a spoilt rich kid.

  He travelled often, but didn’t stay anywhere for long. After graduating, he visited London at regular three-month intervals. From time to time, he made brief trips elsewhere. The travel files collected by Jihad2000 were a confused mess, and it didn’t seem worthwhile to sort through them. So the guy liked to go on holiday. What was potentially significant was what he did during his trips. Of that, there were no records. My Stephen Hawking must not have been able to get his hands on that kind of information.

  One thing that attracted my attention was his high school years. It took him much longer than normal to complete school. But what was really strange was that he graduated. from Sakarya Imam Hatip Lisesi rather than the sc
hool he had attended for seven years. Something had happened in his final year to make him change schools. He’d left Istanbul and ended up graduating in Sakarya. It was probably a case of friends in high places, a common enough occurrence when it came to the idle children of the wealthy. When it became apparent that their children wouldn’t be able to graduate from normal schools, the fashion was for rich families to make generous donations to high prestige schools, which in turn provided the desired diploma.

  The file contained numerous photographs, mostly market openings, as well as clippings from newspapers and magazines. Adem Yildiz was quite the dandy in each one: buttoned jacket, snugly fastened tie, a raised eyebrow and a pose both casual and haughty.

  The only picture in which he wasn’t wearing a tie was taken in Bodrum’s Mazi harbour, while he was water-skiing. He was wearing shorts that fell to just below his knees, in the conservative fashion. His chest appeared to be quite hairy. The quality and size of the photo made it difficult to determine what his body was like, but he was clearly no bodybuilder. He was neither heavyset, nor particularly thin.

  I wondered if Fehmi enyürek appeared in any of the pictures. But I couldn’t really remember what he looked like. Even if he was a member of the party that arrived at the club with Ahmet Kuyu that night, it was unlikely I’d recognise him in a photograph. I’d have to finish later. It was time for me to go and find out what Gönül had learned.

  Twenty-four

  When I took a seat in the back garden of Pizza Express Gönül had not yet arrived. I told the waiter I was expecting a friend and ordered a glass of fresh grapefruit juice. Poaa for breakfast, pizza now for lunch and then whatever Ponpon had prepared for dinner. . . At this rate I would become positively fat. There was no sense in settling for just plain plump. I’d allow myself to get completely obese. I stopped myself. The minute I finished my business with Gönül I’d go to a sports salon and work out until I collapsed from exhaustion. Newly determined to maintain my Audrey Hepburn slimness, I looked over the salad selections. I adored the pizzas here, but was resolute about preserving what was left of my figure.