Aslan sat down at the table. ‘Can you prove to me you’re a doctor?’
‘Why don’t you break your leg? I could set it for you. Or even your neck.’
‘So you don’t like me. So what?’
‘Do you want to be liked?’
‘Lions are proud. Tread carefully.’
‘Have you been treading carefully, Colonel? Where your men went, they rounded up suspects. And being a suspect means you live in a village where someone says a terrorist has visited. And what is a collaborator? Someone who speaks Kurdish. You tortured people for information. You murdered innocent people. I soaked up their blood and heard their last words. I often heard your name – Aslan. Aslan was an authority, an order – an excuse.’
‘Many stories were told about me. Propaganda, most of it. PKK lies.’
‘Most of it?’
‘I’m not proud of everything I had to do. I did my duty. You did yours. Sometimes innocent people and guilty people look the same. Look at you two! One looks like a tramp, the other, an accountant. What am I to make of that? Are you innocent illegals, or guilty illegals? Guilty or innocent, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why? Because I’m here, and you won’t say anything. That was always the problem!’
‘Problem, Colonel?’
‘They never speak!’
‘They’re frightened, Colonel.’
‘Yes, yes! They’re always fucking frightened! If people stood up to the terrorists, we could finish the job quickly, without all the mess.’
‘Is that what you call it?’
‘Every combat zone is a mess, Doctor. Chechnya, Kosovo… Their problems have been bleeding the countries white for years. We didn’t want that in Turkey. We wanted to sort it out quickly and get on with the future. Better than a long, slow drip of perpetual misery. We wanted to sort it out!’
‘The old way.’
‘If you like. The way we know best. It worked before.’
‘And is it sorted out?’
‘Mistakes were made. Mistakes were made… in the past. It’s over.’
Aslan got up and started pacing the narrow room. ‘There’s something about you, Doctor. Something strange. Why don’t you tell me about yourself, then all this trouble can go away. Give me something.’
‘Give something to Colonel Aslan, who took everything from my—’
‘Your what?’
‘My patients, Colonel.’
‘Your Turkish is good. Better than my Kurdish. Not born in Turkey, were you?’
The doctor said nothing.
Özdogan opened the front door.
‘Who gave you permission to enter? Get out!’
Özdogan slammed the door and stood outside with Bas in the rain.
Ali looked up at Aslan. Suddenly, he did not recognise his boss. ‘Sir?’
‘Ali?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Memories hard, are they Colonel?’
Aslan slapped the doctor hard across his face. Blood poured from his nose, but his eyes did not leave those of his attacker.
‘Damn it! I need some fresh air.’ Aslan nearly wrenched the door off its hinges, then took a deep breath. The two security men were soaked to the skin.
‘Why aren’t you in the car?’
‘Waiting for your orders, sir.’
‘My… why is everyone always waiting for orders? Why not just do them?’
‘You told us to—’
‘I know what I said! Come in! What’s in the case? Is it safe?’
‘Nothing came up on the screen, sir. I’d say it’s clean.’
‘Of course it’s safe.’ Aslan snatched it from Özdogan and threw it onto the table.
The old man was startled. ‘Please! Please! It’s sacred!’
‘Sacred? What’s the old man talking about?’
‘Some old junk, sir.’
‘Let’s have a look at it then!’
Özdogan opened the suitcase wide above the table and let the contents fall clanging onto the surface. Aslan’s eyebrows rose as he surveyed the scattered contents.
There were three bronze pieces. One had a large circular base with two spheres above it, and a screw thread. The second had a smaller base and was crowned with three spheres of decreasing size. Aslan picked up the third piece. Its graceful, sinuous shape resembled a cock or a dove. Its tail curved round flamboyantly at the back; its beak was long and arched downwards.
Its meaning suddenly dawned on Aslan. He dropped the piece on the table as if it were red hot.
‘Close your book, Ali.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Don’t ask why! I’m sick of people forever asking why. Ask them!’ He pointed to the two men. ‘Ask them why!’ The two men shrugged their shoulders.
‘Ali! Photograph them for the records. Özdogan! Bas! Back to the car. These men have nothing to do with our mission. The old man is an antiques dealer and the young man is clearly his son, protecting him. It’s a matter for German immigration.
‘Our apologies, gentlemen. A case of mistaken identity.’