City of the Lost (29 page)

At first glance, it seemed crazy to go tonight, what with everything so in flux. But in fact it was the perfect opportunity. Hüseyin had the command centre, and could be trusted to handle things until he was next needed, which would be when the time came for him to address the nation and explain what they had done. But that wouldn’t be until tomorrow morning at the very earliest. And, with Turkey on fire, no one would look twice at unusual events in Cyprus tonight.

Yes. It was time to bury his ghosts.

The decision made, it became a matter of logistics, of planning, of execution. After a lifetime in the army, these were second nature to him. He drew up a list of everything and everyone he’d need. Then he picked up his phone and started making calls.

The news reports out of Istanbul and Ankara were so distracting that Iain had to mute the TV to let himself think clearly. ‘Turkey was always a special case,’ he told Karin. ‘It was a
major
strategic prize during the Cold War. Muslim but secular. Straddling Asia and Europe. A key NATO member both because of the size of its army and as a first line of defence against the Soviets. But it was also large and poor and vulnerable to promises of communist nirvana. So the Stay Behind Organizations there were bigger and busier than most. And the most notorious of them was that ultra-nationalist group I mentioned the other night.’

‘The Grey Wolves,’ said Karin.

Iain nodded. ‘The woman last night pretty much admitted she was one of them; which is strange, because we all thought they’d largely disbanded. At their peak, they were
very
closely tied not only to the police but even more so to the army. In fact, they were almost their black-ops wing. They financed themselves with bank robberies, protection rackets, prostitution rings, that kind of thing.’

‘You’re not serious.’

‘But by far their biggest source of income came from controlling the Balkan route, which is how most Afghan heroin is trafficked into Europe.’

‘You’re not fucking serious.’

‘Afraid so. And they were political too. They were
very
closely tied to the right-wing establishment, what’s known in Turkey as the Deep State. They were deeply involved in the coups in 1960, 1971 and particularly 1980, which was a classic strategy of tension operation, multiple mass-casualty attacks blamed on left-wingers that gave the generals the perfect excuse to step in and arrest whoever they liked.’

‘And you think that’s what’s going on now? That someone’s setting up a coup?’

‘Coups are a bitch to pull off,’ he said. ‘The more people you involve, the more likely someone is to blab. Yet you need a big enough presence that people will accept it as a done deal or you’ll find yourself in a civil war. So the secret is to make it look like something else. For example, you degrade the security situation so badly that people
want
you to put troops onto the streets; for another, you make their lives so shitty that they’ll cheer any change of governance. Think of how the Egyptian army got rid of the last two presidents: the perfect templates for your modern coup.’

‘How long have we got?’

He gestured at the TV. ‘Looks like they’re going for it right now. Maybe because today was always the day, but maybe they’ve freaked out that we’re onto them.’

‘We have to do something,’ said Karin. ‘We have to tell someone.’

‘Who?’ asked Iain. ‘They just deported me, remember? I have zero credibility. I don’t have any great contacts in the government; and either the police or the army are behind it. Or maybe both of them together.’

‘You must know someone.’

‘No one I trust completely. And if we go to the wrong people and they tip our friends off, they’ll come after us, hard.’

She looked at the TV again: two lines of bodies were covered by dusty white sheets outside a railway station. Her expression hardened. ‘We have to at least try
.
’

Iain nodded. He could think of one person they could take this to. Someone predisposed to believe them, someone who understood Turkish politics, had useful contacts and was surely uninvolved in any coup. Best of all, someone certain to be at home, less than half an hour’s walk away. He stood, turned off the television. ‘Let’s go get our passports back,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Because we’ve got a border to cross.’

It was Andreas who insisted that they tell Professor Volkan of their discovery. They couldn’t call him, for fear that his phone was tapped, so Andreas volunteered to drive. Zehra’s delight at saving herself a bus-fare didn’t last long, for Andreas drove at such terrifying speeds that she clutched her door handle and closed her eyes until thankfully they arrived in Nicosia and had to slow for other traffic.

The policeman on duty outside Volkan’s house patted Andreas down but waved her through. The Professor was surprised to see them. She locked herself in a bathroom to retrieve the photographs from beneath her skirts then joined them in the study. ‘Your friend from the rallies is called Yasin Baykam,’ she told him. ‘I took these pictures from his house. Look at this one of him as a young soldier.’

Volkan frowned down at it. ‘So?’ he asked.

‘Look again,’ said Andreas. ‘Look who he’s with.’

He took it to his desk, turned on his lamp. He squinted at it for maybe four or five seconds then suddenly stiffened. He looked up at them both. ‘It can’t be,’ he said.

‘It is,’ said Andreas. ‘I checked it against that photograph of him in the tank. You know the one. He’s even wearing the same bandanna.’

Zehra checked her watch as the men talked. Katerina would be breaking up from school in a few minutes. She needed to leave now or she’d be late for her. She cleared her throat for the Professor’s attention. ‘Andreas said you’d be able to use these pictures to get my son out of jail.’

Volkan sighed. ‘Are you really still so desperate to get rid of Katerina?’

Zehra drew herself up to her full height, such as there was of it. ‘Taner is only in jail because of you. God alone knows what they are doing to him there. I want him out because he is my son and because his daughter misses him and I have to go meet her now after school, and I want to be able to give her good news.’ A little fire drained out of her. ‘I want to tell her that her father will be home soon.’

Volkan’s expression was unreadable for a moment or two. Then suddenly he marched around his desk and enveloped her in a great hug. ‘
There
she is, at last,’ he said. ‘My beautiful Zehra.’

She wriggled her shoulders. ‘Let me go!’ she protested.

He laughed and took a pace back, held her by her shoulders. His smile was charged with an extraordinary warmth and she understood suddenly why rash young men like her son would risk prison on his behalf. ‘Taner will be home soon,’ he assured her. ‘I guarantee it. And please tell your granddaughter from me that it’s largely thanks to you.’

While Karin bought herself a pair of plimsolls, Iain borrowed her mobile to call his London office. He referred Maria to his address book then told her which of his Cypriot contacts might know the home address of Metin Volkan and asked her to call him back as soon as she’d found it out.

It was a short walk to the border, a pedestrianized alley in which two men in blue overalls with long-handled rollers were whitewashing away graffiti, while a border guard with hooded eyes lost a private battle against the urge to yawn, then shifted weight from leg to leg.

Iain’s recent troubles in Antioch might have earned him a place on an immigration watch-list, so he and Karin joined different queues. The woman officer glared at him. But then she glared at everyone. She held his passport beneath a scanner then stamped it like it had jilted her. Then she turned her glare onto the family behind.

Maria came through with Volkan’s address. They Googled directions then hurried along cobbled streets as shadows inched up facing buildings. Everything was shabbier this side of the border, at least until they crossed the road into an enclave of expensive homes. A policeman was standing outside one of the front doors. Iain took Karin by the hand and walked up to him. ‘Is Professor Volkan at home?’ he asked in Turkish.

The policeman grunted. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘I used to be his student.’

‘He’s got someone with him.’

‘Please. This is my fiancée, Karin. I’ve told her so much about the Professor, she really wants to meet him. And we’re only here for the day.’

The policeman didn’t look convinced but he knocked all the same. Then he knocked again, more loudly. There was shuffling inside, then the door opened. ‘Yes?’ asked Volkan irritably.

‘It’s me, Professor,’ said Iain, speaking rapidly to prevent Volkan from interrupting him. ‘Iain Black. And this is my fiancée Karin. I’ve told her so much about you. She insisted we come to meet you.’

His smile was forced, his eyes elsewhere. ‘Charmed,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid this is a very bad—’

‘Please, Professor,’ said Iain. ‘Five minutes.’ He switched to English. ‘It’s not only to meet Karin. I’ve also got a question about my thesis. On the Deep State, you’ll remember. On the Strategy of Tension. On how bombing campaigns were blamed on innocent parties to facilitate a coup.’

The professor stared hard at him for several seconds. ‘Iain Black,’ he said. ‘You used to wear a goatee.’

‘I was a student. Students do crazy things.’

‘How good to see you again. And your fiancée. Karin, wasn’t it? Come in. Come in.’ He held the door wide for them, closed it behind them. Then he folded his arms. ‘You have one minute,’ he said. ‘Please tell me what this is about.’

Zehra did her best to make it to the school before the end of Katerina’s day, but her legs were tired and wouldn’t obey her, and she found herself arriving a full twelve minutes late. Fortunately, there was still a knot of children, teachers and parents there, though the flutters of panic didn’t go away until she saw Katerina with another girl and an elegant looking woman in long blue skirts and a gorgeous cream jacket. She hurried straight up to them to explain herself, but she was wheezing too hard to speak.

‘You must be Katerina’s grandmother,’ said the woman. ‘So nice to meet you at last.’

Zehra nodded and tried a smile but still she couldn’t speak. ‘I thought I was going to miss her,’ she managed finally.

‘You mustn’t worry,’ said the woman. ‘Everyone’s late from time to time. Someone will always stay around until everyone’s collected who should be. And it’s been a pleasure to spend time with Katerina again. Especially as I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing her so much from now on.’

‘How do you mean?’

The woman smiled brightly. ‘Oh. We’re the ones who usually get to look after her when your son is away. But now that you’re back, I don’t suppose we’ll be needed so much any more. Which is a real shame for us, because our girls get on so well together.’

Zehra looked blankly at her. ‘You look after Katerina when my son is away?’

The woman smiled warily and screwed up her nose as if she sensed she’d made some kind of mistake, but wasn’t sure what. ‘Someone has to, right?’ she said. ‘All the travelling he does. And what with everything else.’

Zehra thanked her then took Katerina by the hand and led her off along the pavement. Her cheeks were flushed, her heart was roiled. Her wretch of a son had tricked her! And, to make matters worse, Katerina’s guilty expression made it perfectly clear that she’d been in on it too.

‘Don’t be upset,’ begged Katerina. ‘He was just sad you wouldn’t talk to him. He missed you.
I
missed you. I had a grandmother and I’d never even met her. Anyway, we were worried that you were lonely.’

Zehra looked away. It took her a few moments to compose herself, then she looked around again. ‘Me lonely?’ she said. ‘Get away with you, you little scamp.’

‘Please don’t tell him I told you,’ said Katerina. ‘He can get really angry, you know.’

‘Not with me, he can’t,’ said Zehra. She settled her hand upon Katerina’s head and looked both ways to make sure the street was clear before they crossed. Then she bought them each an orange-flavoured iced-lolly, and they licked them in companionable silence as they walked together back through the park and home.

One minute won Iain and Karin five. Five earned them an invitation into Volkan’s study, where he introduced them to another man tapping away at his smartphone. The fortuitousness of their timing quickly became apparent. They shared stories, suspicions, discoveries. Theories were mooted. Some failed. Others gained traction, were revised and honed. The room grew dark enough that Volkan turned on the wall-lights, reflections sharpening in the window panes.

Volkan took it upon himself to sum up their progress, like the natural chairman he was. He put his index finger on a photograph of Yasin Baykam. ‘What do we know about this man?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘We know he served alongside Turkey’s current Chief of the General Staff, who led the advance into Famagusta as a young tank officer back in 1974. We know he used to be a member of the Nationalist Movement Party, whose youth wing was notoriously close to the Grey Wolves; and that he and his friends had grey wolves tattooed upon their forearms. We
think
that his sympathies mellowed with age and may have changed altogether after meeting the former owners of his home and farm. We know he came to one of my meetings two months ago, but held back. And that he then came to another meeting last month, and this time offered to help.’

‘What changed between the two meetings?’ asked Iain.

‘The bombs grew worse,’ said Volkan. ‘As did the backlash. They destroyed any hope of Ankara agreeing to hand back Varosha. And yet people still blamed us for them.’

‘So let’s assume that was the real purpose of the bombs,’ said Karin. ‘To make Varosha politically toxic. And Baykam realized this somehow. Maybe he recognized the methodology, or maybe one of his old Grey Wolf friends confided in him, not realizing his sympathies had changed. So he came to see you speak that first time, perhaps to assess whether he could trust you or not. But he wavered. Then the bombs got worse and he came back.’