It was raining hard. Ali entered the Community Centre and slammed the front door. He slung his black mac over a worn Formica-topped table and looked at the two men sitting on chairs in the corner. The old one was wrapped in a blanket, apparently asleep; the other, dressed in a suit, was sitting back, relaxed, one ankle resting on his knee.
‘Recognise these characters, Ali?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Got the file?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ali handed Aslan an oversized ring-file with a blue plastic cover.
‘Don’t give it to me! See if you can identify these men.’
Ali sat down at the table and began leafing through the inch-square photos of all politicians and their aides closely connected with Kurdish rights.
‘Ali!’
‘Sir?’
‘This man here thinks he knows me.’
‘Forgive me sir, why don’t you just ask them who they are?’
‘Brilliant, Ali, as ever. And you think I haven’t done so already?’
‘Their reply?’
‘No reply. But fear not, soldier, there will be.’
Aslan addressed the man at the table. ‘I’ve been misinformed. You are not Yildiz and Yazar.’ He waited to see if they reacted. ‘Yildiz and Yazar, I presume, are still in Iraq.’
The two men still did not react.
‘So, I suppose you’ve never heard of them.’
Aslan looked closely at the men. There was something familiar about their faces.
‘You have no residence permits.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ said the younger man. ‘I wonder what the German authorities would make of your own unofficial visit. Or is this typical of Turkish security methods?’
Aslan nodded to the guard. The guard slapped the man about the face.
‘Wish to repeat the question?’
The younger man said nothing.
‘Please don’t give up talking to us. I really am interested in all that you have to say. What do you think I want to hear? Speak.’
The younger man said nothing. Aslan nodded. Another slap in the face.
‘I didn’t think you were the complaining type. In any case, who would listen? You could be Turkish citizens; you could be from Iraq. Our friend who works here doesn’t know. He did tell us two mystery guests were expected last night, and you’re about as mysterious as any I’ve seen for a while. Frankly, my friends, I’ve no interest in your lives. But you…’ He pointed to the younger man. ‘You know who I am.’
The man shook his head.
‘Yes, I think you do. Here we both are in a strange city – presuming it is strange to you – and yet here we are in this one rotten little room, and you indicate you know me. In fact, you couldn’t stop yourself from telling me you knew me! And now, all of a sudden, you’re bashful. Why would you know who I am? Are you a drug dealer? Many pushers wear smart suits. A bomber?’
‘I… think I was mistaken, sir. You looked like someone. The man I was thinking about. He would have recognised me too.’
‘You should have been an actor, my friend. Except actors try to make their performance credible. And I don’t believe a word you’re saying. Why? Because I look into your intelligent eyes, and I can see that you don’t believe a word you’re saying. I don’t think you’re a man who likes playing parts. I don’t even think you lie habitually. Unlike my colleagues behind you. Look at their eyes. They betray nothing. They could lie through their teeth on an order from me. You’d never know. But you… tell me now, who did you think I was?’
‘I think there are many Kurds who would mistake you for another man.’
‘Which man?’
‘You can’t be him.’
‘Who can’t I be? Tell me! Who can’t I be? Tell me, my friend, who am I not? In your opinion. In the bad light. In Hamburg. This morning. Who am I like?’
‘I… thought you resembled a colonel in the Turkish Special Forces.’
‘A colonel?’
‘Yes… Aslan. Mahmut Aslan.’
Aslan bit his lip, hard.
‘Hear that, Ali? My fame has preceded me.’
‘Interesting, sir.’
‘Ali, the old man has a suitcase between his legs. Care to open it?’
The old man awoke, with a start.
‘You, old man! Who are you?’
‘I’m… I’m…’
‘Go on, man! Ali, take the case.’
‘Sir.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am a Kurd.’
‘It’s heavy, sir.’
‘Just put it on the table. I know you’re a Kurd – or, at least, you might be. You might be from Afghanistan, for all I know. Perhaps the Americans are looking—’
The old man tried to seize the case from Ali’s grip.
‘Important to you, old man, is it? The case? Is it important? What’s your name?’
Aslan nodded to the guard, who slapped the younger man hard.
‘It’s rattling, sir. Some kind of mechanism inside.’
‘Özdagan! Take the case to the car. Give it the onceover for booby traps.’
‘Sir.’
There was a knock on the door to the back room. ‘What is it?’
‘How long you going to be in there? Why have you locked the door? We have a family coming in soon. Please!’
‘Patience. This is a security issue. Nobody leaves and nobody comes in without my order. Now return to your TV. Unless you want trouble.’
The man behind the door disappeared.
‘What is in the case, old man?’
‘Say nothing.’
The guard slapped the younger man again.
‘Did I tell you to do that, Bas?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Don’t say sorry to me, Bas. Apologise to the gentleman here.’
‘Sir?’
‘Never mind. Forgive my enthusiastic colleague. He wants to get on in the service. He’s just learning to follow orders without thought or conscience.’
The old man looked desperate. He turned to his younger friend. ‘They will see!’
‘Oh yes, old man. We shall see. We shall see everything. Now you. You know who I am. How do you know?’
The younger man’s bright eyes surveyed the hunk of man standing before him. He looked into his eyes without fear. ‘Aslan. Turkish for “lion”. Lions have teeth, claws…’
‘Cut the bullshit. You didn’t meet me in a zoo. Where was it?’
‘Do you remember these places, Colonel: Diyarbakir, Bitlis, Silvan, Batman, Hoshap? You were well known in those places. Redwan, Midyat, Van, Zakho—’
‘Enough! That was fifteen years ago.’
‘What’s he saying, sir?’
‘I think he’s trying to incriminate himself, Ali. All areas where the PKK operated in the nineties. We may have found ourselves a terrorist. Stroke of luck perhaps.’
‘I’m not PKK.’
‘He says he’s not, sir.’
‘Yes, I heard.’ Aslan noted the sincerity on the man’s face. He also recognised that no terrorist suspect would have been so open about knowing him, or about revealing where he had encountered him. But the suspect did not have to know that.
‘I’m sorry. You turn up in Hamburg – a known hangout for terrorists – with no papers, and no ID. You say you know me, a security officer. That must be a million to one chance! You demonstrate familiarity with some of the trouble spots of our southeastern provinces. And you ask me to take your word that you’re not a dangerous terrorist setting up a new cell in Germany. My friend, you’re either extraordinarily bold, or absurdly stupid. Or perhaps you are a suicidal maniac utterly careless for your personal safety. A fanatic! Why are you in Hamburg?’
‘You would not understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘You ask how I know you in those places. That is easy to answer. I am a doctor.’
‘Doctor?’
‘Medical doctor. Some of your Special Police victims were my patients.’
‘Bas, leave the room!’
‘Sir?’
‘Leave the room! Help Özdogan with the case. Go on! Get out!’
‘Sir!’