City of the Lost

I

Yasemin Omari, star political reporter for Channel 5, ever on the lookout for the killer question. It was how you made your name in this business, making the great and good stumble and look foolish. On days as chaotic as this, the best tripwire was news too fresh for them even to know about, which was why she ignored the Prime Minister’s bromides and kept checking her twitter-feed instead, even while jostling for position to be called on for the first question.

A new topic was trending crazy fast: #stopthecoup. She scrolled quickly through the backlog of tweets and the links to all the photographs and other evidence. Her eyes widened as she read; her mouth fell further and further open.

She glanced either side to see if anyone else had got it, but the fools were all fixated on the Prime Minister. One part of her mind automatically started trying to frame her knowledge into the most devastating possible question. But another part was shouting at her that, if there was anything to these tweets, some seriously bad shit was about to go down right here, right now, for all that they were deep in the heart of the government quarter’s cordon sanitaire. She looked around, was reassured to see the six bodyguards flanking the Prime Minister and the four additional state security policemen who’d just passed through the security gates and were now walking briskly towards…

Something about them chilled her, their bulked-up silhouettes or perhaps their slightly stiff-legged gait, as though they’d each rolled their right ankle. But they couldn’t all have rolled them. Then she realized that they were walking that way to conceal the assault weapons held down against their legs. And she began, almost despite herself, to scream.

II

With a politician’s instinct, Deniz Baştürk sought instantly to make a joke of the woman’s shrieking. But he faltered when he saw Omari’s expression and he followed her gaze to the four policemen advancing so purposefully towards them. They realized they’d been spotted. They bellowed chilling war-cries and began to charge, raising their assault weapons as they came, firing indiscriminately into the small throng of ministers, bodyguards and aides clustered around his podium. Everyone screamed. Everyone tried to scatter in different directions, knocking into each other and falling over, the crash and clatter of dropped microphones and cameras.

Amid this pandemonium, only Baştürk remained immobile, frozen by a mix of fear and incredulity. As well, then, that his bodyguards were trained for this. Two of them grabbed him by his arms and swept him up the steps and inside, closing the door behind him. But there were people stranded defenceless out there, aides and journalists yelling in terror as they scrambled to get in after him, so he himself opened the door for them, helped them inside. A flurry of bullets rattled the wall. He could hear the single cracks of handguns as the rest of his bodyguards began the fight back. He risked a glance out. Perhaps two dozen men and women were lying dead or injured in the street and on the steps leading up to—

A blinding flash; a deafening blast. Too big for a grenade; surely a suicide vest. The shock created a momentary lull. The injured recognized their opportunity and began to limp and hobble and crawl brokenly for cover, leaving just seven others behind. Six of them looked beyond help; but Yasemin Omari, she of the man-trap questions, was wailing in pain and fear, clutching her shattered left hip with one hand and futilely trying to claw herself to safety with the other. Baştürk didn’t even think, he simply sprinted down the front steps and into the road, scooped Omari up then ran back to safety. A long burst of automatic gunfire along the street sounded terrifyingly close. The wall ahead of him puffed with multiple impacts. He closed his eyes, as though that could somehow protect him, and tried to duck down low. Something punched his arm and span him around and he dropped Omari even as he stumbled back inside. The door slammed behind him and he was instantly surrounded by bodyguards and others, all shouting at each other to step back and give him space. Two of them picked him up and carried him upstairs to the nursing suite where he had his weekly check-ups, yelling for a doctor; but no doctor appeared and he was too impatient for news just to wait there so he tore himself free of them and made his way to the communications office, hoping to find out what the hell was going on.

The five flat-screen televisions around the walls were each tuned to different news channels, muted and running subtitles. The various anchors and reporters were clearly as bewildered by events as he was. The initial numbness of his gunshot wound quickly wore off; his arm now began to ache unbelievably. A staff nurse cut away his jacket and shirt sleeves while he stood there, exposing the ugly mess of flesh and blood beneath. He thought her name was Selda but he wasn’t certain and he didn’t want to offend her by getting it wrong. But he had to say something. ‘Will I live?’ he asked, softening the question with the ghost of a wink.

She coloured as she looked up at him. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought her starstruck. ‘Straight in and out, sir,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to see the doctor, of course, but you’ll be fine.’

‘You’re Selda, yes?’

‘Yes, sir.’

More gunfire outside. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but it sounded further off. And more answering cracks now; reinforcements were arriving. Another lull. In the corridor outside, he could hear a journalist breathlessly reporting that he himself had witnessed the Prime Minister being shot; that he was believed critically wounded and perhaps already dead. He stormed out to tell him in no uncertain terms to stop making shit up. Another loud explosion made the building tremble; they all ducked instinctively.

‘That’s two down,’ muttered someone.

‘Two to go,’ said another.

He led his strange entourage into the cabinet room, Selda still dressing his arm. State, Interior and the Deputy Prime Ministers were already there, making phone calls, trying to find out what they could. He felt strangely exuberant and had to caution himself that it was only shock playing tricks on him, that he mustn’t let it go to his head. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Who are these people?’

‘We’re not sure,’ said State. ‘But they’re saying Yilmaz is behind it.’

‘Yilmaz?’ It was like he’d walked into a glass wall. ‘No. It’s not possible.’

‘That’s what they’re saying. They’re saying it’s a coup.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Cyprus.’

‘Cyprus?’

‘Apparently he flew in earlier with fifty men and met a convoy of trucks and led them into Varosha.’ He gave a grimace. ‘They’re saying on Twitter he’s trying to cover up some old massacre.’

Baştürk sat heavily. The one policy on which they’d clashed; the handback of the lost city. Suddenly he saw it all. ‘Get him for me,’ he said icily. ‘On the radio. On the phone. I don’t care.’

‘We’re trying. He’s not answering.’

‘Then send people in to arrest him. I don’t care what it takes. Just do it.’

Interior nodded soberly. ‘Yes, Prime Minister. I’ll do it now.’