On my flight home I was seated next to a Turk in his thirties who had once played for Arsenal but had to give up football due to injury and now ran a dry cleaning business in North London. He had been in Istanbul for his mother’s funeral, and he had no special message for me. Neither, it seemed, did anyone else. As I went about London during the week that followed, there were people here and there who mentioned they’d ‘seen the great piece’, but they had nothing else to say about it. By the end of the week, we had already moved to the next stage: ‘I saw your byline the other day, but I can’t for the life of me remember what paper it was, or what you were on about.’ Which was fine by me.
Because by now I’d worked out why it was that I’d been spirited into the Pasha’s Library, and what I’d been meant to make of it.
Or to put it differently, instead of looking where they wanted me to look, I’d glanced over my shoulder.
I’m still not sure how the news of my enlightenment got out.
I’d been home for a week when I got the first email message. The name of the sender was not familiar to me, but the domain was a university in New York State, so I opened it, expecting that it would be a friend of a friend as per usual, or a student needing a favour.
It was only one sentence.
‘What do you want from me?’
I paid it no attention. But the next day, I received another.
‘You fucking bitch. If you’re going to ruin my life, and destroy my family, too, you can at least do me the courtesy of saying what you want from me.’
This I tried to ignore, too, though the words stayed with me. I was worried enough to ring my old friend Jordan Frick, who was back from Uzbekistan, and who was worried enough to come over to see the emails for himself. When we checked my messages, there was a third email. This was a very long one, and I shall not quote it here. Suffice it to say that it contained information that only two people in the world know, myself being one of them. Impossible as that may seem. And yes, I am aware that, technically speaking, it is impossible for a man charged with terrorism to gain access to the Internet. But I am assuming that even the Patriot Act makes some space for legal counsel. So perhaps this was the conduit. During the week we were communicating, the gaps between my answers and his replies would indicate that we were being aided and abetted by a messenger.
I am assuming there is no need to reproduce the full correspondence here, Mary Ann, as you’ve already seen it. Again, let me thank you for seeing the threats as serious. This is a very nasty business, especially now, and I can’t tell you how dispiriting it is when your life is in danger and no one in officialdom will take you seriously. You were the first person to do so, and for that I can never thank you enough. The same goes for everyone else at the Center for Democratic Change.
I know we are still of two minds about Jeannie Wakefield – and I can understand why anyone seeing her likeness in that doctored photograph might jump to conclusions.
But you, at least, are prepared to see her as innocent unless proven guilty. It heartens me to know that even today, even in Washington, there are still organisations like the CDC that insist on due process. If we all band together, we can and will see justice done. In the meantime, I would ask for your patience. To say what I have to say, I need time. And a few other luxuries as well.
Which brings me to the email I received a few moments ago from the correspondent who might or might not be Sinan:
‘How much do you know?’
My answer: not as much as I’d like. But rest assured: what I don’t know, I can imagine.