So once again, the secret is safe. The invisible hand binding them to the unspeakable past begins to wither. Sinan and Jeannie live happily ever after with little Emre, whose joy in the here and now so confounds his grandfather that even he stops chasing ghosts.
İsmet drifts into retirement, Chloe into the arms of another saintly husband. Suna carries on with her fine works. Haluk and Lüset write the cheques.
Sinan’s films lose their edge. He does not become a terror suspect, and his wife does not come to me for help. She does not go missing. I do not set out to find her.
This is how the story ought to have ended. Could have ended. Would have ended, if a certain someone hadn’t decided it should not.
Who was this person?
Was it Jordan, refusing to let anything get in the way of a good story?
Was it William, stirring for revenge?
Was it İsmet, sensing danger?
Or was it his shadow?
The time has come to tell you where I am.
I am sitting on the balcony of an apartment in Bebek, in a building near the top of the steep steps, and as I’ve been writing, dawn has come and gone.
I can see all of Bebek Bay stretched out before me. From the southernmost towers of Rumeli Hisar to the fishermen huddled outside Arnavutköy. There must be a hundred yachts and rowboats moored in the still waters before me. The Asian shore looks close enough to touch. Were it not for the steady stream of tankers, the speed with which they cut across the bay, the swirl marks that mark off its still waters from the churning currents, I could be at the edge of a lake.
This is the apartment that Dutch Harding shared with Billie Broome from September 1968 to June 1971.
William Wakefield lived here, too. From 2000 to 2005.
Though he has been gone for several months now, the furnishings remain the same. I am sitting in what I’m told he called his watching post. It’s a creaky but comfortable garden chair with floral cushions. This was where he was meant to have been sitting when an unknown assailant crept up behind him on the evening of October 16th 2005 and shot him in the head.
The story is not corroborated in any autopsy report. There is no autopsy report. No blood, even, on the cushions of his favourite chair.
After weeks of searching, I have not been able to find a single piece of paper, faked or authentic, attesting to his death.
When his daughter made enquiries, only days before she herself disappeared, she was informed by a State Department apparatchik (or someone who identified himself as such) that his body had been ‘repatriated.’
I know differently, though it remains to be seen if my evidence will stand in court.
But here, for what it’s worth, is my eyewitness report.
A fortnight after William Wakefield’s murder and repatriation, he paid me a visit at my home in North London. He was a good twenty pounds thinner than when I’d last seen him, and his complexion had a grey tinge to it. He looked hunted and desperate but (perhaps naïvely) I took those as signs of life.
He wanted to know if I’d heard from Jeannie. When I told him I hadn’t, he caved into a sigh.
Did I have any theories? His voice was thin and for a moment I pitied him. Then I remembered who he was and what he stood for and went to retrieve my folder on the Patriot Act.
‘Why are you showing me this?’ he asked, tossing the documents onto the table. Keeping my voice neutral, I explained. ‘I think she went back,’ I said. ‘Not to JFK, or any other airport, for that matter. She wouldn’t be that foolish. No, I think she went back via Canada. She was that desperate to find her son. She must have thought friends would hide her. Perhaps they did. Perhaps the authorities had been tracking her all along. Anyway, I think they nabbed her. And as you know, the Patriot Act allows them to hold her for quite some time without informing her family. Or anyone else.’
‘Where do you think she is right now?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘On a spy plane?’
‘Who do you think is behind this?’
‘One of your old friends?’
‘I have lots of old friends,’ he snapped.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘And some have more to hide than others.’
‘Show me what you have, then.’
‘I will, but not until you’ve answered a few questions.’
He clasped his hands and bowed his head. It brought out my cruel streak. ‘What I’d like you to explain is how you justify what you do.’
‘What – is this the International Criminal Court?’
‘What I want to know is why you’ve stayed silent,’ I said. ‘Even though you know.’
‘You think words ever put things to right? You journalists know nothing. The action is behind the scenes, my friend. Things have to happen quietly or they don’t happen at all.’
‘That’s rich coming from the darling of CNN.’
‘You of all people should never never believe what people say on CNN.’
‘Did you ever find time in your busy schedule to explain this to your daughter?’
‘Oh glory be! Don’t you know I did everything…’ But here his voice cracked. Ashamed of my venom, I reined myself in.
‘I’ll take a risk,’ I said. I went back into my study and returned with the other files. The life and death of Dutch Harding. The complete works of Stephen Svabo. Manfred Berger’s glittering career.
He went through them in silence. When he had returned the documents to their folders, he studied me instead.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘You tell me,’ I said. ‘As you know, this is not my usual terrain. I just write about mothers and babies, remember? So tell me I’m over my head.’
‘You’re over your head,’ he said. ‘But you’re getting very warm.’
‘By which you mean to say that…?’
‘You need to go back,’ he said. ‘I mean to Turkey. Find out what he’s up to. What he doesn’t want us to know. That’s the first thing you need to do.’
‘And the second?’
‘You need to spook him. Make him show his face. And when you have…’
‘If I’m still alive by then.’
‘When you’ve caught him redhanded, you are going to write it all down.’
‘I thought you said words could never put things right.’
‘Oh they can if they stay secret.’
‘How the hell do I write something up for the papers and keep it secret?’
‘Who said anything about the papers? No, what you do is write in confidence. Write for the inside track. Win their confidence. Gain their trust. Bring this story alive for them. Give them no chance but to live and breathe it. Make them grieve. Make them cry for their country! But never let them forget that – should they treat you badly – you will take your story elsewhere.’
He took out his wallet and extracted a card, placing it carefully on the table, so that I could read it without touching it:
Mary Ann Widener
CENTER FOR DEMOCRATIC CHANGE
MAWidener@cdc.org
‘The Center for Democratic Change?’ I said.
‘That’s the one!’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ I said.
A beady grin. ‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Where are they located?’
‘If they wanted you to know that,’ said William, ‘they’d put it on the card.’
‘But if I assumed it was Washington, let’s say on the Beltway…’
‘You might not be far wrong.’
‘So,’ I said, picking up the card now. ‘Tell me about this Mary Ann Widener.’
‘You roomed with her older sister in your sophomore year. Kelsey Widener? Name ring any bells? Apparently you visited the house once or twice. Mary Ann remembers that distinctly. I take it you do, too. That’s good. It’s always better if there’s some sort of personal connection.’
‘So you want me to write to her,’ I said.
‘Tell her everything you know.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s honest. And principled. She genuinely wants to help.’
‘How far can I trust her?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Though I can’t say I can vouch for her friends.’
I can’t either, Mary Ann. But you I’ve always trusted. Which is why – though I have never quite managed to forget that my letters to you are not as private as I might have liked – I have tried to write as truthfully as circumstances allow. Where there are gaps in my story, I have tried to mark them clearly. But to obfuscate now would protect no one. For I have done my master’s bidding, and the game is up.
As I write these words, I can hear him padding down the corridor in his slippered feet. How odd this is. Shouldn’t I be shaking with fear? I’ve never felt calmer. As he crosses the balcony, holding his coffee mug close to his chest, his strange lank hair pulled back by the sea breeze, I can see he is as haunted as I am. Wherever he goes, whoever he becomes, whatever riches and secret glories he accumulates, this is the place he revisits in his dreams. Now here it is in front of him again. Could it be that he is still asleep?
Leave him to it. There are still things to explain.
There being no justice in the world, the story of the last four years goes like this: