City of the Lost (5 page)

He was still watching when Karin came out of the bathroom, tucking his olive T-shirt into the waistband of her trousers. ‘What are they saying?’ she asked.

‘They’re saying it was Cypriots.’

‘Cypriots?’ She frowned in puzzlement. ‘Why?’

‘Apparently they rang in a warning.’

‘No. I mean why would Cypriots want to bomb here?’

Iain muted the TV. Cyprus was one of the world’s more intractable problems; explaining it was hard. ‘You know it’s partitioned, right?’

‘Turks on the top,’ she nodded. ‘Greeks on the bottom.’

‘Right. Except that the Greek bit is actually independent.’ The island had been a tug-of-war between Turkey and Greece for three thousand years. Then the British had taken over for a while, until forced out by insurgency in 1960. An uneasy independence had lasted until 1974, when a botched coup backed by Athens had provoked the Turks into invasion, seizing the northern third of the island before stopping. As Greek Cypriots in the north had fled south, so Turkish Cypriots in the south had fled north, creating a
de facto
partition. At first glance, the Turks got the better of the deal; their nationals accounted for one in five of the population, but they now controlled a third of the island, including the main resorts, the ports, the water resources and the fertile central plain. But sanctions had since devastated tourism and trade, forcing Ankara to pump in billions of lira every year to keep the place running. Worse, Cyprus had blighted Turkey’s international reputation and hobbled its application for EU membership. ‘The UN’s been trying to negotiate a settlement from the start,’ he told Karin. ‘But without much success. You can understand it: well over a thousand people vanished without trace during the fighting, and have never been found. Tens of thousands of others lost their homes and businesses and belongings, so there’s still a lot of bad blood. But then this new guy Deniz Ba
ş
türk became Turkish Prime Minister. He made it clear that Cyprus would be his number one foreign policy priority. There’s this place called Varosha. It’s a district of Famagusta, a city on the east coast of Cyprus. It used to be one of the top resorts in the whole Med until the Turks seized it, but it’s been completely abandoned ever since and now they call it the Lost City. Anyway, it’s been one of the major sticking points, because the Greek Cypriots have always insisted it be handed back before negotiations can begin in earnest, which the Turks have refused to do, because giving Greeks something for free is unthinkable. But then Ba
ş
türk came in and made noises about handing it over, which caused such an uproar among Turkish nationalists that Ba
ş
türk had to back down. That, in turn, provoked hard-line Cypriot reunificationists into setting off bombs, in the hope of persuading Turks to change their mind and let Varosha go.’

‘And so they murdered thirty people?’ asked Karin. ‘But that’s crazy.’

‘Since when has crazy ever stopped bombers?’ He touched his left ear. ‘Suds,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ She checked a mirror, wiped them away, then ran fingers through her hair, spiking it a little, but with evident dissatisfaction. ‘You don’t have a comb, do you?’

Iain ran a hand over his buzz-cut. ‘Do I need one?’

‘I guess not.’ She held up the banknotes he’d given her. ‘Then maybe I should go do some shopping,’ she said.

‘Hush, girl,’ said Zehra Inzano
ğ
lu, as her granddaughter stood on the road and continued to bawl. ‘Enough.’ But Katerina didn’t stop, except to take in more breath so that she could howl all the louder.

Indignation roiled Zehra’s heart. How could her son do this to her? She was too old. Her parenting was done. Yet what could she do? She looked around. She couldn’t see any of her neighbours watching but she knew they would be, if only because she’d be watching them were their situations reversed.

And still Katerina howled.

Village life was a delicate affair. Everyone knew each other’s business, yet they also soon learned where they could and couldn’t tread. But then something new came along and suddenly all those tacit boundaries broke down, and people would ask their intrusive questions again. They’d make judgements. Zehra couldn’t face that again. She just couldn’t. Besides, a girl of Katerina’s age should be at school. Yes. The thought was clarifying to her. She needed to return her to her home, find someone there to look after her. The Professor, perhaps. They wouldn’t have arrested
him.
And it would serve him right for introducing her son to that Greek whore in the first place. Her chin jutted with the rightness of it.

The bus wouldn’t run again that day, she couldn’t afford a taxi and asking a neighbour for a lift would mean having to explain and thus justify herself. She’d rather die. She went instead to her son’s car. His keys were still in the ignition; his wallet and mobile phone were on the dash. The car was a manual, however, and Zehra had only ever driven automatics. On the other hand, she knew the basic principle: you started them in second gear and then drove them as though they were very, very bad automatics.

She went inside to pack a bag, in case the Professor wasn’t home. When she came back out, Katerina was still bawling. Her persistence was astonishing. ‘Hush,’ she said crossly, belting her in to the passenger seat. ‘I’m taking you home. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ But Katerina just carried on. Bitter thoughts filled her mind as she climbed behind the wheel, turned on the ignition and tried various combinations of pedals while heaving at the gear-stick, until finally it slotted into place. Then she took her foot off the brake and began bunny-hopping on her way.

A police horse whinnied in the street outside the Prime Ministerial offices, then did a little leftwards dance before lifting its tail and venting its bowels in a massive, noisy movement exactly as Deniz Ba
ş
türk was getting out of his car, providing the pack of press photographers across the street with the perfect visual metaphor for his premiership. And no one to blame but himself, for the horses were his idea, a way to increase security without making it look like they were turning into a police state.

A car pulled up behind. Iskender Aslan, his Minister of the Interior. ‘Prime Minister,’ he called out, hurrying to catch up. ‘May I ask what this—’

‘Inside, Iskender.’

‘But I—’

‘Inside,’ said Ba
ş
türk.

They found the Chief of the General Staff waiting in the antechamber. General Kemal Yilmaz typically wore suits in Ankara, as befitted a civilian city, but he’d been supervising exercises when the call had come, and so was in uniform today. ‘All those ribbons,’ mocked Aslan. ‘You must be very brave.’

‘They award most of them to anyone who serves,’ replied Yilmaz. ‘I’m sure you have plenty of your own.’

‘Gentlemen, please,’ said the Prime Minister. He motioned them through into his private office, made their aides wait outside. This wasn’t the kind of talk that wanted witnesses. ‘Nine mass-casualty bombings in three months,’ he began, walking to his desk. ‘Twenty in the past year.’

‘The terrorists are to blame for that, Prime Minister,’ said Aslan. ‘Not my ministry or the police. We’re doing all we can. And we’re making real progress. We have already made a number of highly significant arrests in Cyprus this afternoon.’

‘Ah, yes, all these highly significant arrests of yours. You tell me about them after every bomb. Then you quietly release them a week later for lack of evidence. So what good are these arrests when the bombings don’t merely continue, but get worse? They’re saying thirty people. Thirty people!’ He sat down, as much to calm himself as anything, then looked back and forth between them. ‘You may have seen me on television earlier. I assured the nation that we operate a joined-up government, that you two were already working together on this. Is that even faintly true? Are you working together?’

The two men glanced coolly at each other. Their mutual loathing was an open secret. ‘I saw your briefing, Prime Minister,’ said General Yilmaz. ‘As you made clear, counterterrorism is rightly a job for the police, not the army.’

‘And we don’t need the army’s help,’ added Aslan. ‘All things considered, we’re making commendable progress in—’

Ba
ş
türk slapped the table. ‘Commendable progress!’ he mocked. He let silence fall again, then said: ‘I don’t care what history you two have. I don’t care about turf wars or saving face. This is a crisis.’ He dropped his eyes a little, for all three of them knew that this was merely his own exercise in arse-covering, so that his earlier statement wouldn’t be proven a lie. ‘General Yilmaz helped defeat the terrorists last time it got this bad. He knows the Syrians and he fought in the Cyprus campaign. So I want you to take advantage of his experience, Iskender. Is that clear?’

‘But we—’

‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

‘Several of my old team are still in the service,’ Yilmaz told Aslan. ‘Perhaps I could have them seconded to you? To observe and advise only. That way we wouldn’t overstep any constitutional boundaries. And, who knows, your team may even find their new perspective helpful.’

‘Minister?’

Iskender Aslan flushed. If he said yes and things improved, people would credit the army. If things continued or got worse, it would be because he hadn’t accepted enough help. But he had no choice. ‘Of course, Prime Minister.’

‘Excellent,’ said Ba
ş
türk, hurrying to his feet and walking Aslan to the door before he could think up some objection. ‘Thank you so much for coming by. Now I need a quick word with General Yilmaz on that other matter.’

‘That other matter?’ frowned the Minister. ‘But I thought we’d agreed to leave it until—’

‘Did you?’ asked Ba
ş
türk politely. He closed the door on him then turned back to the General. ‘Now, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk riots.’

Iain walked Karin down to the hotel lobby and pointed her to a nearby shopping street, then asked at reception about overnighting a package to the UK. He’d missed his window, however, so he asked instead for directions to a computer repair store, got sent across the river along the hospital road. A grizzled shopkeeper was hauling down rusted shutters with a hooked stick, a cigarette almost sideways in his mouth, as though he’d walked into a wall. He eyed Iain gloomily, but invited him inside. The place was dimly lit, as seemed appropriate for the computer morgue it resembled, shelves crowded with innards and peripherals. It would be easiest to have the man try to recover the footage for him, but it was too risky, so he bought himself a new laptop instead, plus a screwdriver and various other tools, then returned to the hotel.

Karin was still out shopping. He cleared space on the dressing table, opened up both laptops and transferred his old hard drive into the new machine. It wouldn’t boot. That, sadly, was the extent of his computer skills, so he called the office, got put through to Robyn. ‘I just heard,’ she said. ‘Poor Mustafa. I can’t believe it. He was so nice.’

‘I didn’t know you knew him,’ said Iain.

‘I put him on our system.’

‘Of course.’ Iain rubbed his neck wearily. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘My laptop got pretty badly banged up. I’m sure you can imagine. But there’s stuff on it I need.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘Footage.’

A moment’s silence. ‘My God. You think you got it?’

‘It’s possible. I’d like to find out.’

‘Overnight it to me. I’ll start on it first thing.’

‘I missed last post,’ he told her. ‘And this needs doing fast. Can’t you talk me through it?’

‘You’d need a new laptop.’

‘Already got one. And I’ve tried switching drives.’

‘No luck?’

‘No luck.’

‘Then you’re going to need some more equipment. And it won’t be quick. Recovery could take a day, maybe longer.’

‘I’m only after a few video-files.’

‘It doesn’t work like that. What we’ll have to do is we’ll have to send in a special program to copy every bit of salvageable information on your old hard drive over to your new one. Think of it as like a photographer at a crime scene. You don’t know where the vital clue might be, right, so you photograph everything. But you won’t have to stand over it or anything. The program will run by itself.’

‘Okay. What will I need?’

‘Get Skype if you don’t already have it. And an external web-cam too, so that I can see what you’re up to. Plus a CD-writer and some blank CDs and a—’

‘Whoa!’ he said. ‘I need to write this down.’ He fetched a pad and pen. ‘Okay. Shoot.’

‘An external web-cam. A CD-writer. Some blank CDs. An external hard-disk drive with as much capacity as you can get, because you’re going to be sending everything to it. Oh, and does your room have a fan?’

‘No. Air conditioning. Why?’

‘You’ll need to keep the disks cool. They’ll seize up otherwise. Buy two computer fans to lay on top of them. And a couple of mouse-mats, to stop them vibrating.’

‘What about software?’

‘I’ll email it to you. Burn it onto a CD then boot up your new laptop with it. Call me back once you’re ready.’

‘It won’t be until morning. The shop’s closed.’

‘Try me on my mobile if I’m not in. And don’t go yet. Maria wants a word.’

‘Fine.’ He sagged and fought a yawn, the day’s adrenalin finally ebbing away. ‘What about?’

‘I think there’s some issue with Mustafa’s insurance.’

‘Oh, hell,’ he said, sitting up straight again. ‘Put her on.’

‘Riots, Prime Minister?’ asked General Yilmaz.

‘You know, I imagine, that the public service unions have called for a Day of Action this Friday to protest against the new wage and pension cuts.’ It was why he’d gone to the Academy that afternoon: his son’s concert was on Friday night, and so there was a chance that duty would keep Ba
ş
türk from it. ‘Most of the other major unions have declared their support. And now various opposition parties have endorsed it too. There will be large marches and rallies here in Ankara and in Istanbul, and smaller ones all across the country. And they keep revising the estimates of attendees up. Because it’s not only about pensions and the economy any more. It’s about the bombs as well. People see us as ineffective. They see us as weak. So there’ll be plenty of trouble-makers out to take advantage: anarchists, Marxists, criminal gangs, everyone with a grudge or a fondness for mayhem.’