In the grimy light of the washed-out morning, the men’s eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. The once-tidy meyhane was now a mangled web of steel and Formica tables, wooden chairs, broken olive oil bottles and mineral water tumblers strewn across a swamp of stale melons, cheese, pools of raki, red wine, bottled beer, bread rolls and cutlery. About the many gaping craters in the plaster, faded photographs of Alpine scenery, portraits of Atatürk, and kitsch Kaiser Wilhelms now dangled awkwardly, their glass shelters shattered. Blood congealed on table tops beneath electric wiring weirdly suspended from cracks in the false ceiling.
‘Another triumph for a cause,’ muttered Aslan.
‘But which cause, Colonel?’
‘Not Turkey’s, Celik. Not ours.’
The broken glass doors of the restaurant scraped open. Three men in white chemical-resistant suits entered the dusty dining area.
‘Bomb disposal, Colonel. It’s a formality. Gives the TV people something to show anxious viewers.’
‘Right.’ Aslan pointed to a large double door to the left of the toilets. ‘And through there is the Lodge itself?’
‘Yes, my respected friend. Through there is the Lodge of the Association of the Grand Temple of Free and Accepted Masons of Turkey.’
Aslan’s eyebrows arched as his eyes widened. ‘All part of Istanbul’s rich cultural heritage, no doubt. Must we be blindfolded before entering?’ Aslan tried the door handle.
‘Locked, Colonel. I’ve spoken to the Worshipful Master—’
‘It’s what we – pardon me, they call the president of a Lodge. “Worshipful” just means respected. It comes from England originally.’
‘And “Master” just means Master?’
‘A traditional honorific, Colonel. Master of the Craft. “Craft” being their word for the brotherhood of Freemasons. Anyhow, he was anxious we would not violate the Lodge.’
‘Violate it? It’s not sacred, is it?’
‘I suppose they would like a member to be present. A formality, nothing more.’
Aslan reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small steel contraption, like a penknife. He plunged it quickly into the lock and played with the mechanism.
‘But Colonel…’
‘Relax, Celik.’ Aslan pushed the doors open.
An oil generator pumped a weak current into a globe-like pearl bulb in the centre of the ceiling: a precaution against Istanbul’s occasional power cuts.
Below the light, a chequered floor was arranged with richly upholstered seats, set to the left and the right like choir stalls before an altar.
‘So this is Freemasonry!’ exclaimed Aslan as he took in the precise arrangement of the furniture – the tall, mahogany throne positioned where you might expect to find the altar, the row of high-backed chairs behind it, and the tattered pre-war Turkish flag that hung over them.
‘You’ve never visited a Lodge before, Colonel?’
‘I confess, never. I’ve seen pictures of course.’ Aslan strode across the chequered floor. ‘Clever of them to see life as a chess game.’ He sat down on the leather-cushioned throne, its gold-leaf wearing thin. ‘And this is?’
‘The throne of Suleiman,’ replied the police chief, ‘where the Worshipful Master sits. And those special seats behind you are for the Past Masters – retired Worshipful Masters.’
Aslan felt a frisson of power as he spread his palms along the elegant leather armrests of King Solomon’s throne. ‘Feels good, Chief. But I think I need to do some reading. So, the terrorists missed their target.’
‘We can’t be sure of that, Colonel.’
Celik sat himself down behind a low lectern halfway down the front row of seats. On it rested a leather-bound copy of the Koran in Turkish. ‘There’s something odd about last night’s events.’
Aslan sat up in his throne. ‘No doubt of that, Celik.’
‘This was nothing like the November attacks on the British Consulate, that British-owned bank and the synagogues. They were well planned, well financed – a big operation. Trucks filled with bombs. Dozens of dead. Hundreds of wounded. Big publicity for the fundamentalist cause. It made al-Qaeda look bold and powerful. And the message was obvious to anyone who watched the news.’
Aslan sighed. ‘Let’s stick to last night. What happened?’
Celik spread his fingers around the volume of the Koran. ‘Two men carrying automatics burst into the meyhane at 10.59 p.m. One set off explosives strapped to his body.’
‘So we won’t be interviewing him.’
‘Destiny decreed only two victims.’
‘The other being the waiter, right? I read that in Ali’s brief.’
‘Forty-seven years old. Before the bomb went off, grenades were thrown and shots were fired at the diners – about forty of them. Four were wounded. The second bomber’s explosives failed to detonate properly. He lost a hand and is on the critical list with stomach wounds.’
‘My heart bleeds. What kind of bombs were they carrying?’
‘Pipe bombs. Fourteen of them, stuffed into hunting jackets, packed with nails and wired by batteries. Another twist—’
Aslan stood up abruptly. ‘Yes?’
‘They brought bottles of petrol. The survivor was carried to an ambulance screaming “Damn Israel!” Said he wanted to burn the Freemasons alive.’
‘If only we had a time machine, we could send these dupes back to the Middle Ages where they’d be happy.’
‘It’s the paperback culture, Colonel. A kind of nostalgia.’
‘Romantics with pipe bombs. Potent blend. Not my idea of a night out.’
‘Love and suicide have always been close, Colonel.’
‘Among young fools, perhaps. If I’d mentioned suicide to my late beloved, she’d have killed me.’
The banter quickly evaporated into silence. Aslan’s eyes rose to the bulb in the ceiling. It had begun to flicker. ‘Jews… Freemasons… That broadens the palette. Anyone admitted responsibility?’
‘Not yet, Colonel. Not even IBDA-C.’
‘IBDA-C, the Islamic Great Eastern Raiders Front… Weren’t they first to claim responsibility for the November bombings?’
Celik nodded.
‘And did not our dear IBDA-C use pipe bombs in the mid-nineties?’
‘That was against churches and nightclubs, Colonel.’ Celik shook his head. ‘IBDA-C weren’t up to the November bombings. Not on their own, anyway. But something like this maybe?’
Aslan stared at the throne of King Solomon. ‘This is no chair for me, Celik. Suleiman had wisdom and was beloved of God.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘So, what do we have?’
Celik shrugged. ‘The usual suspects.’
‘Is this usual?’