City of the Lost

I

Karin’s gentle flirtation with the branch manager of the Société Genève had caused her a minor headache. Not only did she suspect he now was watching out for her, he also knew the serial numbers of the two boxes she’d rented. She therefore waited across the road until she saw him emerge from his office to welcome a prosperous-looking couple and take them off for a private consultation. The moment his door closed again, she hoisted her red vinyl bag to her shoulder and hurried across.

Two cashiers were free: a cocksure young man with gelled hair who started chewing phantom gum when he saw her, presumably because he thought it made him look cool; and a woman with pendant gold earrings and kindly eyes. An easy choice. ‘Miss Visser, isn’t it?’ said the woman. ‘Marcus told us you might be in.’

‘Is he around?’

‘He’s with customers right now, I’m afraid. You could wait for him. Or I could take you down myself?’

‘Could you? That would be great.’

They went to the office with the keys. The woman took out a register. ‘What number, please?’

‘Seven A,’ said Karin. She showed her key then handed over her passport. The cashier filled out the register then turned it for Karin to sign. They went downstairs together. ‘I hope this will all fit in one box,’ said Karin, patting her bag. ‘I did rent two, but I want to save the other one for my next load.’

‘Ah,’ said the woman. They went inside, opened 7a. The cashier removed her master key. ‘I’ll leave you now,’ she said. ‘Call me when you’re finished.’

‘Thanks.’ She waited for the door to close then set the bag down, unzipped it. Inside were cheap paintings and china swaddled in bubble-wrap that she’d bought that morning to simulate an inheritance. She transferred most of it to her box but kept a painting and a fruit bowl back. She zipped her bag up again, closed the lid of her safety-deposit box, then slid it most — but not quite all — of the way in.

She went across to Rick’s box, number 16a. She crouched before it and placed her palm upon it, like an expectant parent feeling for the kick. How much would this particular baby be worth? Half a million euros? A million? Her heart suddenly began beating uncomfortably fast, her mouth went dry. She stood back up, took several deep, long breaths and walked around the table until she was calm again. She double-checked her pockets. In her left was Rick’s key. In her right was her own second key, for box 13a. You can do this, she told herself. She went to the door, knocked on it. ‘Excuse me,’ she called out. ‘Could you please come back in a moment?’

‘Of course.’ The door opened. The cashier smiled. ‘Yes?’

Karin gestured at her bag, the tell-tale lumps of the painting and the fruit bowl visible in it. ‘I feel like such a fool,’ she said. ‘It won’t all fit. I’m going to need to use my second box.’

‘No problem.’ She held up her master key. ‘What number?’

The moment was upon her. The exact situation she’d hoped to engineer. Open Rick’s box and wait for the woman to leave then simply switch its contents with those in her own, still-open box. Then come back at any time to take the whole lot away. But a strange thing happened as she took hold of Rick’s key in her pocket. Her shoulder muscles went weak on her; she felt nauseous. She became starkly aware of consequences: the shame her mother would feel; the disappointment of her father. The certainty of jail and the ruin of her prospects.

‘Madam?’ asked the cashier anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’

Karin’s body knew before her mind did. Her heart-rate slowed; her hands began shaking slightly with the release of tension. She couldn’t do it. And not because she was too moral. No. It was because she simply lacked the guts. She let go of Rick’s key and took out her own second key instead, held it up. ‘Thirteen A,’ she said.

The cashier smiled quizzically. They unlocked the second box. Karin waited until she was alone again then went down on her haunches. The knowledge that she was both more venal and less courageous than she’d imagined was dismaying yet perversely also a relief. She put the remaining items and the red vinyl bag itself into her second box, closed them both. Then she allowed herself another minute to compose herself before returning to the door and asking to be let out.

II

The coded messages sent out by Asena were received by senior Grey Wolf commanders around the country. They, in turn, passed the word on to their local units. In apartment buildings and lock-ups all across Turkey, small groups of tough young men gathered, joking excitedly about the adventures ahead. They pulled on T-shirts with ridiculous socialist slogans, and filled their day-packs with banners and balaclavas, with cans of spray-paint and rocks and other missiles, then set off in jubilant spirits to join their local rallies.

A more senior cadre of Grey Wolves had tougher tasks. Over the preceding few weeks, they’d visited local shops and department stores looking for those with large stocks of flammable goods and no sprinkler systems. They’d bought bulky boxed goods from these, had carefully opened their cellophane wrappings and replaced their contents with home-made incendiary devices. Now they took them back to where they’d bought them, surreptitiously replacing them on the shelves. No one checked your bags on the way in, after all; only on the way out.

As for the commanders themselves, they loaded the explosives they’d taken from the forest lair back onto vans and trucks, then drove them to multi-storey car parks, railway stations, street markets and other designated spots. And, finally, in a disused warehouse on a run-down industrial estate outside Ankara, five men of quiet purpose stripped down a horse-box in the livery of the Ankara mounted police, then oiled it and checked it all over one final time, as though their lives depended on it.

III

The girl Visser was inside the bank twenty minutes, plenty of time for Yasar to get them a room in the Nicosia Grand then rejoin them outside. She no longer had her red bag when she came out, and she looked in something of a daze. She waited for a break in traffic then hurried across the road and into the hotel. They went in after her. She headed for the lifts but the receptionist called her over, handed her a message. She ripped the envelope open as she went to the lifts. Emre ushered her in ahead of him. ‘Which floor?’ he asked, as Yasar and Rageh got in behind him.

‘Ten, thanks,’ she said.

Yasar’s room was on the third floor. Emre punched the buttons. It was one of those ones with doors that take forever. He hit the button irritably to make them close. Visser frowned and looked oddly at him. Emre tried a reassuring smile but for some reason it didn’t seem to reassure her. She made abruptly for the closing doors. He grabbed her by her arm and threw her violently back against the mirrored rear wall. Then he clamped a hand over her mouth and pressed his knife against her throat. Her face drained of colour; her eyes went wide with terror. Emre grinned. Nothing thrilled him quite like the fear of a pretty woman. They set off upwards, reached the third floor. The doors slowly parted. Yasar looked out then gave the thumbs-up and hurried on ahead to open his room for them.

‘One sound, bitch,’ Emre warned Visser. ‘You understand me?’

Her nod was barely perceptible, but enough. He looked out. A maid’s trolley was heaped high with used sheets and brushes, but there was no one in sight except for Yasar, beckoning from the far end of the corridor, right down by the fire exit. Stupid fuck could have got something closer. He put one hand on Visser’s arse, pressed his knife into her tit with his other, then fast-marched her along the corridor.

A burst of TV laughter from one of the rooms gave him a start. He glanced around. The pain in his foot when the girl stamped on it was indescribable. He yowled to wake the dead. She tore herself free of him, fled through the fire-escape doors. A blink of stillness as Rageh and Yasar stood there open-mouthed, unable to believe he’d been bested by a girl. ‘Get her, you idiots,’ he yelled, hobbling towards the fire-doors. ‘Get her.’