Ankara
July 16, 9:15 p.m.
The location of Medir’s “office” was as cloaked in secrecy as the smuggling business he conducted from it. Off tree-lined Ileri Street in Turkey’s capital city, it was found by climbing a rear, outdoor stairway behind the busy Dedem coffee shop on Ordular Street, just south of Anitkabir, the sprawling, massive mausoleum to Ataturk, the father of Turkey’s republic.
The Turk sent his bodyguards into the room first, as was his custom. And his customs were singularly eccentric.
He neither ate nor drank in public, which could be discerned as caution. His hands were forever folded up within the voluminous sleeves of his jubba, the ankle-length, robe-like garment he wore over the traditional baggy trousers, the salvar. When offered a hand to shake, the Turk would smile, bow, but refrain. He didn’t touch others and expected none to touch him. Caution, perhaps.
But along with his penchant for the ancient dress of Turkey, the Turk practiced other peculiarities—peculiarities that often caused Medir considerable anguish. And fear for his soul.
Like repeating back to Medir the smuggler’s most private personal thoughts. After one such revelation, Medir had dispatched his three mistresses and no longer skimmed a few lira off the top of any transaction that came his way. Like inquiring as to the health of Medir’s wife and twelve children with sweet words that appeared to carry evil, lethal intent that chilled Medir’s blood and froze his corpulent fleshy folds.
Most peculiar of all were his eyes. Or what was behind his eyes. Medir could not tell for certain, since he no longer looked into those eyes. Medir had looked once, at their first meeting, and felt his heart shrivel in his chest. One more moment of those eyes, he believed, and his heart could have stopped altogether. Forever. But it was one look he would remember. Forever. The Turk’s eyes were black, his pupils a pale yellow, the space around his irises swirling like a gray fog. In Medir’s one look, the yellow pupils appeared to swell, pulse as if they had a life of their own—or they were the portent of death.
Medir sat silent, immobile behind his desk as the bodyguards circled the room, opened the door to the closet, and ensured the windows were shut, latched, and covered by their curtains. Who this man really was, Medir didn’t know. At the prices he was willing to pay, Medir didn’t care. When he was first contacted, Medir was told to expect the Turk the next afternoon. As if there was only one Turk. Well, there certainly was only one of this man … perhaps only one of him in the entire world. For his own peace, Medir called him only “Excellency.” He hoped that was deference enough.
The bodyguards completed their circuit of the room and stood, flanking the door, one facing Medir, one facing the small alcove beyond the door that opened onto Kale Kapisi Street in the Old Town of Ankara. The Turk entered, his silent, unnamed aide in his wake, and approached the desk. While there was movement under his salvar where his legs would be, the Turk appeared more to glide over the floor rather than walk. For a man who radiated an incredibly powerful aura, the Turk’s physical presence seemed as formidable as the morning fog. His voice was a sibilant whisper that seemed to emanate from the lips of a serpent. Medir lowered his eyes and bent from his shoulders. “Excellency, how may I serve you today?”
“Good afternoon, Medir.” The Turk’s words slithered into Medir’s ears and defiled his thoughts. Medir kept his eyes fixed on the amulet at the base of the Turk’s throat and tried to empty his mind. “How is the health of your wife and children?” The Turk slipped into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “May their good health continue.”
“Thank you, Excellency.” Medir was perspiring in rivulets, snaking down his body and soaking his clothes, including the expensively tailored French suit that still looked like a wet potato sack.
“Forgive me for my lack of courtesy today, Medir, but I have little time and many pressing matters. May I get directly to the issue at hand?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Do you have what I requested?”
“Yes, Excellency.” Medir focused his attention on the amulet at the Turk’s throat—an infinity symbol carved into the face of the earth. “The convoy is ready to move, well hidden in the mountain valleys south of Lake Van. Some heavy weapons, including two tanks and a half dozen mortar and rocket launchers, four thousand assault rifles, and an abundance of ammunition. The Peshmerga will be delighted.”
“The Kurdish militias in northern Iraq are fighting a lonely battle against ISIS. They will only be delighted if we can put these weapons in their hands. Can you get them safely to our destination?”
“Yes, Excellency, without a doubt. We have traveled the route many times. Our connections are effective and reliable. We will succeed.”
Eyes diverted, Medir waited. No response came. The longer the silence, the stronger the compulsion to look up once more and see if those eyes were truly as he remembered. But that was a risk he would not take.
“Medir … I have long admired your smuggling enterprise in the east. The operation has reaped great wealth for you. I hope it continues to flourish. It would cause great hardship, for both of us, if the government were to intercept your shipment … shut down your means of trade.”
Medir shuddered at the veiled threat.
Without appearing to move, the Turk withdrew a large leather pouch from the folds of his jubba. He tossed the pouch onto the top of the desk, where it hit with a thud and the invigorating crinkle of gold coins. “Half now … half on delivery.”
Medir gazed at the leather pouch. This operation would earn him twice the normal yearly income on all his other smuggling combined. If only he didn’t feel like he was dealing with Satan himself.
Medir lifted his eyes from the bag of gold coins to address the Turk once more. But the chair was empty. The specter-like aide and the bodyguards were gone. The Turk had silently disappeared. And Medir felt like he needed to bathe—both his flesh and his spirit.
Ankara
July 17, 5:55 a.m.
“I despise that pink monstrosity. All of it! I hate living in Ataturk’s museum.” Turkish president Emet Kashani walked slowly through the long greenhouse of the Pink Palace, the presidential residence built for Kamal Ataturk, the revered father of Turkey’s republic. His fingers caressed the velvety leaves of one bromeliad after another. “It’s as if I sleep with his ghost every night and walk with his memory every day.”
The sun was barely up, the greenhouse tolerable at this time of day. Still, Kashani’s short-sleeved shirt was already streaked with sweat stains. Arslan Eroglu followed in his president’s wake, as he always did.
“You won’t be here much longer,” said Eroglu, prime minister of Turkey and Kashani’s closest confidant. “The White Palace will soon be finished.”
“Not one day too soon.” Kashani was wearing the pants of a farmer, soiled and stained from digging in the greenhouse—one of the safer ways to vent the anger he could not expose in public. And the greenhouse was one of the few safe places to keep certain conversations unheard. Kashani turned toward Eroglu. “What of our other plans, Arslan? How do they proceed?”
How to respond? How much truth could he tell Kashani?
“It is as we expected, Mr. President. All our enemies are committed to the same quest for the same land. It’s one of the few things we, the Persians, and the Arabs agree on, the unalterable truth that once Islam controls some part of the earth’s surface, that land is forever under the rule of Islam. Our conflict arises from the question of whose Islam will rule.
“The Islamic State controls over eighty thousand square kilometers of Syria and Iraq, from the Mediterranean Sea to south of Baghdad. Its leader, the Sunni usurper Al-Baghdadi, has declared the caliphate. Now the Shia brethren of Iraq and Iran are moving inexorably toward a reincarnation of the Persian Empire, first to crush the stain of ISIS and then to reclaim all the territory once ruled by Persia.
“We know our enemies. And unfortunately, no one controls ISIS any longer.” Eroglu reached a bench in an alcove of the greenhouse and settled himself into its cushions.
“We were fools to think we could ignite that spark and keep it from scorching our fingers,” said Kashani. He walked over and joined Eroglu on the bench. “Are we being fools again by arming the Kurds?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Eroglu recited. He leaned closer to Kashani. “Our task remains threefold: obstruct and cripple the advance of Persia, or dismantle it altogether; destroy ISIS as a military force; and cut the legs off that heretic pig in Damascus to absorb Syria into the new Ottoman Empire. An empire ruled by Sultan Kashani … where Turks are masters of the caliphate.”
Kashani nodded his head. “Yes. Keep my eyes on the ultimate goal, Arslan.”
If you only knew the ultimate goal.
“So, my president, we use the weapons at our disposal,” said Eroglu. “We secretly arm the Kurds to fight ISIS. As we know too well, after fighting against their rebellion for the last decade, the Peshmerga are relentless enemies. And we offer to unlock the flow of fresh water back into Iraq and send our military to strengthen the corrupt Syrian government—with one stipulation. That Syria and Iraq join Turkey in contributing the territory necessary to create an independent Kurdistan, our bulwark to the east. When Syria and Iraq agree to those terms, the resurrection of the Ottoman Empire will be assured. Emet Kashani’s Ottoman Empire.”
Eroglu bowed his head to his president, and set his final hook. “And the ghost of Ataturk shall be banished, forever.”