The seven hills of Istanbul were awash with rain. Mahmut Aslan shook his blue nylon jacket and handed it to his male secretary.
‘So, Ali, what’s new?’
Ali gripped the jacket tightly; rain splashed over his shiny shoes. ‘Did sir enjoy his holiday?’
‘Yes, sir enjoyed his holiday and is thrilled to be back. The very sight of you, Corporal Ali, fills me with optimism.’
‘Optimism, sir?’
‘My next holiday cannot be far away.’
Ali winced. First goal to the Colonel.
The district of Ümraniye, where Colonel Aslan had his office, was nothing to write home about, but Ali Wilmaz liked his desk job. It was a lot better than clean-up ops on the Iraqi border.
In May ’93, Ali had seen thirty unarmed colleagues executed by the Kurdistan Workers Party (PKK) in Diyarbakir province, southeast Turkey. Now, in spite of more than a decade of elimination tactics – and the odd political concession – the PKK was back at war. Nobody relished a posting to the southeast; it was a dirty war.
‘Coffee, Colonel?’
‘Later, Ali.’ Aslan looked up from the pile of reports on his desk. ‘Why wasn’t my coffee here when I arrived?’
‘You were late, sir.’
‘Then why isn’t it cold on my desk?’
Ali coughed. ‘You’re often late, Colonel.’
‘Of course I’m late! Half of Istanbul is late when it rains!’
‘Of course, Ali. And Ali…’
‘Sir!’
‘Clean your shoes. You’re not a seagull!’
Ali retreated to the makeshift reception.
Aslan slumped back in his moulded plastic chair, lifted his feet onto the desk, lit his pipe and contemplated the ghostly ripple of reflected rainfall that hovered over the portrait of the great Mustapha Kemal Atatürk opposite.
Everything Aslan did came under Atatürk’s keen eye; dead for sixty-six years, the giant still watched over Turkey. Atatürk, father of the Turks – a man with a dream.
Aslan ground his teeth around the pipe stem. Should he turn on the desk light. The dim room suited his melancholy. Adding the tedious half-light of a 60 watt bulb would be sacrilegious. His lair was a temple of gloom.
What had he done to deserve this fifth-floor excuse for an office in the National Security Council’s Police Liaison Department, perched high – but not high enough – above one of the dreariest quarters of Istanbul?
What had he done? Aslan had done everything: exemplary field operations, intelligence gathering, and the grin-and-bear-it arse-licking that goes with any elevation through the poisoned gateau of bureaucracy. As the interface between the government’s security operations and the military-dominated National Security Council, he tried to avoid making enemies, but sometimes standing tall meant standing in someone’s way. His loyalty was simple: Turkey. No party; no philosophy. Turkey was the only cause Aslan took as sacred.
At least his holidays had improved. Thailand had been a lot more entertaining for a widower than sunny, divided Cyprus.
Aslan tore off the precious few vacation days from his roll calendar to reveal the date: Wednesday 10 March 2004.
*
The red bulb on his nicotine-greased phone flickered into half-life with a strangled whine.
‘Celalettin Celik for you, sir.’
‘Put him through, Ali.’
‘Colonel Aslan?’
‘Yes, Celik, what is it?’
‘I have a press conference in half an hour, Colonel. Any comments before I request a news blackout?’
Aslan squinted, looked up at General Atatürk for inspiration, found none, and took a sharp intake of pipe smoke. What the hell was Istanbul’s police chief talking about?
‘I pride myself, Celik, on knowing most of what’s happening in this city, but mind-reading is not my strong suit.’
‘Terrorism, Colonel. You’ve heard, surely?’
Aslan drank deeply from the coffee his secretary had just handed him. ‘Thank you, Ali. You can go.’
‘Sir, there’s just—’
‘Later, Ali.’ Aslan returned his attention to the police chief as Ali lingered in the doorway. ‘Terrorism? More than heard of it, Celik.’
‘Pardon me, Colonel. I meant have you heard about last night?’
‘I’ve just come off a late plane from Bangkok. I haven’t even had time to wash.’
‘Welcome home, Colonel. I’m surprised your secretary has not already acquainted you with the facts.’
‘My secretary, Celik, can hardly make a decent cup of coffee.’ Aslan emptied the cup and winked at the anxious Ali, indicating with his left hand that he’d best stay. ‘So, what is it?’
‘Bomb. Masonic Lodge in Kartal District.’
‘Freemasons?’ Aslan licked his forefinger and smoothed his thin, fair eyebrows.
‘There are fatalities. Our boys have sealed the place off, naturally.’
Aslan thought for a second, then clenched his fist. ‘Tell the press as little as possible. Don’t speculate. Just the usual things: “Highly experienced teams of experts are covering all leads.” The voice of calm and reason. You do it so well.’
Aslan winked at Ali again. ‘Now, Celik, you’ve spoken to the governor, haven’t you?’
‘Of course, Colonel. Late last night. He’s already made a statement. Announced a full press briefing for Monday morning.’
‘Man’s a lunatic.’ Aslan swept back his long, blonde hair and took a deep breath. ‘I’ll meet you at the scene in an hour.’ He looked at the sheets of rain belting against the stained windows. ‘Better make that an hour and a half.’
Aslan slammed the receiver into its cradle. ‘Ali!’
‘Sir!’
‘Soap.’