City of the Lost

I

General Yilmaz had hand-picked every member of the team overseeing that day’s deployments from his Ankara command centre. Using the growing chaos as excuse and cover, they sent increasing numbers of units to take control of arterial routes, to guard key buildings and the homes of Turkey’s ruling elite. The vast majority of these units were unaware that they were participating in a coup, but they hadn’t been chosen at random. They’d been chosen because Yilmaz had reason to believe their first loyalty was to the uniform, not the government.

His buzzer vibrated in his pocket. He checked Asena’s message then beckoned Major General Hüseyin Yazoğlu aside. ‘You’re in command, Hüseyin,’ he told him. ‘You know what to do.’

‘Yes, General. We won’t let you down.’

He walked briskly back to his private office, established a secure line. Asena was waiting for him. ‘You do realize I have work of my own today?’ he asked drily.

‘There have been developments,’ she told him. ‘Black got to his girlfriend before we could. It’s possible they’ll go public. And something else: an incident outside that Famagusta house you wanted watched.’

Yilmaz’s heart clenched like a fist. ‘An incident?’ he asked. ‘What kind of incident?’ He swivelled almost subconsciously in his chair as he listened, until he was facing his ego-wall, dozens of photographs of himself with some of the world’s most powerful people. But the photograph in pride of place actually showed him on his own: a young officer, at the turret of his tank, leading his squadron south to Famagusta, his wife’s golden silk scarf knotted around his forehead, trailing him like a mane in the wind. He hadn’t even noticed the photographer. She must have been crouching by the side of the road. But, two weeks later, this photograph had adorned the front cover of one of Turkey’s bestselling news magazines, in celebration of their triumph over the Greeks. They’d captioned it ‘The Lions of Famagusta’. But only one lion had been visible, so that was what he’d become, to the envious joshing of his comrades. The Lion of Famagusta! And the photograph had become iconic. It had come to symbolize victory. He’d come to symbolize it. And because a lion was brave and fierce and handsome and noble, he’d come to personify those virtues too.

The woman with the dyed blonde hair. The youngster squinting fearfully up at him through his horn-rimmed glasses. He scowled at them until they went away again. Everyone had ghosts. His were more persistent than most, that was all.

‘There’s no danger,’ Asena was saying. ‘The police have already let our three men go. And it’s not like there was anything left in the house anyway. I had Emre and his men go in that first night, remember? They swore to me they cleared out all his papers, so there’s nothing left to link him to you. Besides, it’s almost certainly a coincidence. I wouldn’t even have bothered you with it except that—’

‘Almost certainly a coincidence,’ he said. ‘Almost certainly a coincidence. An anonymous tip-off today of all days. The house left unwatched so that anyone could have waltzed in. And you think it’s almost certainly a coincidence?’

‘My love,’ she said. ‘If you’re so worried, let me help. I’m in Cyprus myself now. Tell me what needs doing and I’ll—’

‘No.’

‘But—’

‘No.’ Yilmaz touched fingers to his desktop. For forty years, he’d lived in a kind of denial, pretending it had all happened to someone else, that it was a scene from a movie he’d once watched. Yet, somewhere deep inside, he’d always known this day would come. ‘You concentrate on finding Black and the girl before they can go public. Leave Famagusta to me.’

‘My love,’ pleaded Asena. ‘You need to stay in Ankara. Who knows what may come up? But if you just tell me what—’

‘I said leave Famagusta to me.’ He ended the call before she could argue further, then sat there brooding. He’d accepted, from the beginning, the possible failure of their enterprise. He could endure that kind of disgrace, as well as the life imprisonment or even execution that would surely follow, just so long as Turkey understood that he’d acted out of principle, to avenge the humiliations inflicted upon the army by corrupt politicians and a crooked justice system.

But this was a very different kind of disgrace, and it terrified him.

He didn’t need to panic, however. The commander of the Turkish forces in Famagusta had already doubled Varosha’s perimeter security at his request. He could have him redouble it. But that would provide only a temporary fix. He needed something more permanent. And he’d have to oversee it himself. In part that was because he’d never have full peace of mind unless he’d witnessed it for himself. It was also because he needed to be there to make sure no one sneaked a look before they closed it up. But mostly it was because it had all happened so long ago that he’d forgotten where it had taken place, and only by returning there in person could he hope to find it again.

At first glance, it seemed crazy to go tonight, what with everything so in flux. But in fact it was the perfect opportunity. Hüseyin had the command centre, and could be trusted to handle things until he was next needed, which would be when the time came for him to address the nation and explain what they had done. But that wouldn’t be until tomorrow morning at the very earliest. And, with Turkey on fire, no one would look twice at unusual events in Cyprus tonight.

Yes. It was time to bury his ghosts.

The decision made, it became a matter of logistics, of planning, of execution. After a lifetime in the army, these were second nature to him. He drew up a list of everything and everyone he’d need. Then he picked up his phone and started making calls.

II

The news reports out of Istanbul and Ankara were so distracting that Iain had to mute the TV to let himself think clearly. ‘Turkey was always a special case,’ he told Karin. ‘It was a major strategic prize during the Cold War. Muslim but secular. Straddling Asia and Europe. A key NATO member both because of the size of its army and as a first line of defence against the Soviets. But it was also large and poor and vulnerable to promises of communist nirvana. So the Stay Behind Organizations there were bigger and busier than most. And the most notorious of them was that ultra-nationalist group I mentioned the other night.’

‘The Grey Wolves,’ said Karin.

Iain nodded. ‘The woman last night pretty much admitted she was one of them; which is strange, because we all thought they’d largely disbanded. At their peak, they were very closely tied not only to the police but even more so to the army. In fact, they were almost their black-ops wing. They financed themselves with bank robberies, protection rackets, prostitution rings, that kind of thing.’

‘You’re not serious.’

‘But by far their biggest source of income came from controlling the Balkan route, which is how most Afghan heroin is trafficked into Europe.’

‘You’re not fucking serious.’

‘Afraid so. And they were political too. They were very closely tied to the right-wing establishment, what’s known in Turkey as the Deep State. They were deeply involved in the coups in 1960, 1971 and particularly 1980, which was a classic strategy of tension operation, multiple mass-casualty attacks blamed on left-wingers that gave the generals the perfect excuse to step in and arrest whoever they liked.’

‘And you think that’s what’s going on now? That someone’s setting up a coup?’

‘Coups are a bitch to pull off,’ he said. ‘The more people you involve, the more likely someone is to blab. Yet you need a big enough presence that people will accept it as a done deal or you’ll find yourself in a civil war. So the secret is to make it look like something else. For example, you degrade the security situation so badly that people want you to put troops onto the streets; for another, you make their lives so shitty that they’ll cheer any change of governance. Think of how the Egyptian army got rid of the last two presidents: the perfect templates for your modern coup.’

‘How long have we got?’

He gestured at the TV. ‘Looks like they’re going for it right now. Maybe because today was always the day, but maybe they’ve freaked out that we’re onto them.’

‘We have to do something,’ said Karin. ‘We have to tell someone.’

‘Who?’ asked Iain. ‘They just deported me, remember? I have zero credibility. I don’t have any great contacts in the government; and either the police or the army are behind it. Or maybe both of them together.’

‘You must know someone.’

‘No one I trust completely. And if we go to the wrong people and they tip our friends off, they’ll come after us, hard.’

She looked at the TV again: two lines of bodies were covered by dusty white sheets outside a railway station. Her expression hardened. ‘We have to at least try.’

Iain nodded. He could think of one person they could take this to. Someone predisposed to believe them, someone who understood Turkish politics, had useful contacts and was surely uninvolved in any coup. Best of all, someone certain to be at home, less than half an hour’s walk away. He stood, turned off the television. ‘Let’s go get our passports back,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Because we’ve got a border to cross.’

III

It was Andreas who insisted that they tell Professor Volkan of their discovery. They couldn’t call him, for fear that his phone was tapped, so Andreas volunteered to drive. Zehra’s delight at saving herself a bus-fare didn’t last long, for Andreas drove at such terrifying speeds that she clutched her door handle and closed her eyes until thankfully they arrived in Nicosia and had to slow for other traffic.

The policeman on duty outside Volkan’s house patted Andreas down but waved her through. The Professor was surprised to see them. She locked herself in a bathroom to retrieve the photographs from beneath her skirts then joined them in the study. ‘Your friend from the rallies is called Yasin Baykam,’ she told him. ‘I took these pictures from his house. Look at this one of him as a young soldier.’

Volkan frowned down at it. ‘So?’ he asked.

‘Look again,’ said Andreas. ‘Look who he’s with.’

He took it to his desk, turned on his lamp. He squinted at it for maybe four or five seconds then suddenly stiffened. He looked up at them both. ‘It can’t be,’ he said.

‘It is,’ said Andreas. ‘I checked it against that photograph of him in the tank. You know the one. He’s even wearing the same bandanna.’

Zehra checked her watch as the men talked. Katerina would be breaking up from school in a few minutes. She needed to leave now or she’d be late for her. She cleared her throat for the Professor’s attention. ‘Andreas said you’d be able to use these pictures to get my son out of jail.’

Volkan sighed. ‘Are you really still so desperate to get rid of Katerina?’

Zehra drew herself up to her full height, such as there was of it. ‘Taner is only in jail because of you. God alone knows what they are doing to him there. I want him out because he is my son and because his daughter misses him and I have to go meet her now after school, and I want to be able to give her good news.’ A little fire drained out of her. ‘I want to tell her that her father will be home soon.’

Volkan’s expression was unreadable for a moment or two. Then suddenly he marched around his desk and enveloped her in a great hug. ‘There she is, at last,’ he said. ‘My beautiful Zehra.’

She wriggled her shoulders. ‘Let me go!’ she protested.

He laughed and took a pace back, held her by her shoulders. His smile was charged with an extraordinary warmth and she understood suddenly why rash young men like her son would risk prison on his behalf. ‘Taner will be home soon,’ he assured her. ‘I guarantee it. And please tell your granddaughter from me that it’s largely thanks to you.’