City of the Lost

I

Taksim Square, heart of Istanbul. The city’s main congregation point, large enough to accommodate huge crowds, easily accessible on foot, by Metro and passenger ferry, and therefore the natural place for rallies. Yet that wasn’t the only reason for holding today’s main rally here.

Taksim Square had history.

It was here that the Gezi Park protests had started, leading to the nationwide marches, demonstrations and clashes with the police that had so roiled the previous administration. But it went back far further and deeper than that.

On 1 May 1977, half a million people had gathered here, undeterred by rumours of likely trouble. Most had been union members, their families, friends and other sympathizers, but there’d been more belligerent elements too: anarchists and Maoists and members of the banned Turkish Communist Party. Everything had been going smoothly until reports had started spreading of snipers on surrounding roofs. Shots had been fired; the vast crowd had panicked. Fortunately, security forces had been there in huge numbers. Unfortunately, their crude use of sirens, armoured vehicles, rubber bullets and water canon had only made matters worse. In the ensuing stampedes, thirty-four people were crushed to death or otherwise killed. Yet only demonstrators were ever arrested, prosecuted or jailed, while the investigation into the botched policing was slow-pedalled so effectively that the statute of limitations passed before a single charge was brought.

As for the rooftop snipers, everyone on the street knew the truth of that. The Grey Wolves had been responsible. The Grey Wolves and the CIA.

II

Iain arrived at the airport intent primarily on getting out of Egypt before Asena could find a way to finger him for the murdered taxi-driver. But luck was with him, for there was a flight leaving for Larnaca in Cyprus in a little over an hour. He bought himself a ticket then found a payphone and called London. No one was in the office yet so he left a message for Maria to contact Karin Visser at the Nicosia Grand Hotel and warn her that she was in serious danger and to lie low until he could get to her. Then he made his way through security and to his gate.

The plane was old and had no on-board phones. His ankles, wrists, stomach and thighs began to stiffen and throb from the chaffing and bashing they’d taken last night, so he walked up and down the aisle to stop them stiffening. The pacing made him fretful. The Grey Wolves had been notoriously well represented among the large community of Turkish army veterans who’d relocated to Northern Cyprus after partition. If Asena really was their leader, a single phone call from her could put Karin in terrible jeopardy. He remembered, suddenly and painfully, his MI6 handler breaking the news about his wife and son. The numbness of that loss, his sky turned black by storm. He was first up on landing, first through the gate. He looked around in case Asena had anticipated his move and sent a welcoming committee, but saw nothing to alarm him. He called London again. Maria was in. She hadn’t been able to get hold of Karin, she told him, but she’d left a message for her at her hotel’s front desk. He headed out the main doors, waved over a taxi. The driver tossed away his unfiltered cigarette. ‘Where to?’ he asked.

‘The Nicosia Grand,’ he said. ‘How long?’

‘An hour,’ grunted the driver. ‘Best part of.’

‘Ten extra euros for every minute under fifty,’ said Iain.

The driver grinned and plugged in his seatbelt. ‘You’re on,’ he said.

III

They’d had to clear the SUV of weapons before crossing the border into the Republic of Cyprus. Unfortunately, that meant arriving empty-handed for the job. Emre pulled up across the street from the Nicosia Grand Hotel then went into a supermarket to see what he could improvise. Tape for her mouth, a plastic bag for a hood, rope for her hands and feet, a selection of kitchen knives to make her docile. Plus a packet of Polos for himself. He paid with cash, went back out to the car. ‘Any sign?’ he asked.

‘Nah,’ said Rageh. ‘But I’ve got us a better picture.’ He turned his laptop around to show him a photograph of her modelling some pitted old sword for the camera.

‘Not bad,’ nodded Emre. ‘I’d do her.’

‘After me, you would,’ said Yasar.

‘Fuck yourself. But I’ll let you watch, if you’re good.’ He called the hotel switchboard, had them put him through to Visser’s room. It rang six times then switched him to voicemail. She was out. He sucked noisily on his mint as he looked around. The street was too busy for an easy snatch. If she was considerate enough to go walkabout, they could tail her and pick her up the moment she left herself vulnerable, hold her in the SUV. But what if she returned to the hotel? He rapped the window for Yasar’s attention, nodded at the Nicosia Grand. ‘Go get us a room,’ he told him. ‘Somewhere to keep this cow until Asena gets here.’

Yasar shrugged. ‘Why not hold her in her own room?’

‘Because that’s the first fucking place people will look when she goes missing, you idiot.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Yasar.

‘And get one with a double bed. Might as well have some fun while we’re waiting.’ He popped another mint then looked around once more, enjoying the sunshine on his face. Lights changed at a junction ahead. Traffic slowed and stopped. Across the street, a tall young woman with straw-coloured hair and a bulky red bag between her feet was watching a bank branch a couple of doors down from him. He turned back to Rageh. ‘Give us another look at that picture,’ he said. Rageh tapped a key and held up his laptop. Emre looked from the screen to the woman and back to the screen again. Then he grinned broadly.

No question. No question at all.

Bitch was here.

IV

The car was different this morning, a white Renault sedan. As best Zehra could tell, the men were different too, though she didn’t get close enough to make certain. But there could be no doubt they were part of the same enterprise, whatever that might be.

She shuffled past them to the end of the road, turned right. Then she went in search of a payphone. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, when the woman answered. ‘There’s something terrible going on.’

‘Your name, please.’

‘They’re breaking in right now,’ said Zehra. ‘They’ve been sitting outside his home for three days already, but now they’re breaking in. That poor old man. I dread to think what they’ll do to him.’ She talked over the woman’s questions, describing the car and giving the address before putting down the phone. Then she found herself a vantage point from which to watch.

Turkish Cyprus being what it was, there had to be a chance that these men were official in some way. This at least should answer that for her. The three squad cars took five minutes to arrive. They approached at pace from both directions, pulling up either side of the Renault to box it in. Doors flew open. Everyone got out. She could see the Renault’s occupants angrily protesting their innocence. One of them went chest to chest with a policeman. Pushed himself, he pushed back. A mistake. At once, he and his two companions were spun around and frisked and cuffed, then bundled into two of the police cars and driven away.

The third car drove up to the house. The two officers pounded on the door, cupped hands to peer through windows. They conferred briefly then got on their car radio. One of them fetched a crowbar from the trunk, pried open the front door. They went inside for a minute or so, came back out shaking their heads and laughing. One called in a report on the car radio while his colleague did his best to fix the jamb. They wrote a note of explanation or apology then got into their car and drove off.

Dust settled. Silence returned. Minutes passed.

Zehra circled around to the citrus grove, half expecting at every moment to be challenged, then made her way up to the house.