Enlightenment (24 page)

He had his back to her. A waiter was helping him into a chair.

As she sank into the shadows, a second man came in. When the newcomer spotted Jordan, he waved and wove his way past the dancers to his table. A column blocked Jeannie’s view, but his homely jacket made her think that he was probably not a Turk. Another foreign journalist, perhaps? Or was this Sergei?

She beckoned for the waiter and asked for the bill. He nodded, then looked at the shadowy figure sitting at the next table. He headed for the door. The shadow followed. It was tall and slim and moved like a cat. Except for the collar glowing purple in the strobe light, he was dressed in black.

Moments later, the shadow returned. Then the waiter with the bill. But as Jeannie headed for the front door, the man with this phosphorescent collar grabbed her arm. The collar was so bright she could barely see his face. But the moment she saw his eyes, she recognised him.

‘We’re in danger,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Very great danger. But if you do as I say, we’ll be fine.’ Easing her into a chair, he offered her a Marlboro.

‘I don’t smoke. Don’t you remember?’

‘Of course I do. I remember everything. Will you take it, please? Thanks. And would you mind turning your head a little, so your hair falls in a natural manner across your face? That will keep them from seeing you.’

‘Them,’ Jeannie said. It was only half a question.

‘I’ll explain later. Okay?’ His voice was calm but there was a catch to it. ‘Now raise the cigarette to your lips so I can light it for you. Yes, like that. Breathe in, just a bit, to allow for the fire to catch.’

She did as she was told but choked on the smoke. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s only for a few minutes. Yes, that’s fine. That’s all. Thanks. That’s perfect. And now I’m going ask you to lean over slightly, as if you are looking at your shoe, again letting your hair fall to conceal your face. Yes, just like that. Thank you. You can look now, but please try not to stare.’

She looked across the dance floor to see that two women had joined Jordan and his down-at-heel friend. The women had their backs to them. One was electric with grand gestures, the other clipped and correct. The first was Suna, the second Lüset. They were both leaning forwards, as were Jordan and his friend. Whatever was on offer, it exceeded their expectations.

‘Don’t stare. Didn’t I tell you not to stare? Please, Jeannie, listen. You can criticise me later, but for now, can you
please
obey me? At least
pretend
to obey me? Look. I mean – don’t look. In a few minutes they will leave. But for now you must sit still, very still, and pretend you still love me.’

Their first stop was a nondescript office building. As they stepped down from the jeep. Sinan took her hand and squeezed it very hard, but he did not look her in the eye. His last words to her were, ‘Don’t let them see how you feel.’

After the guards had taken Sinan inside, Jeannie was transferred to a white Anadol. When it became clear that they were heading for the airport, she tried to tell the driver that she didn’t have her luggage with her, or, more importantly, her passport. He just shrugged his shoulders. Outside the departure terminal, he went round to the luggage compartment and produced her suitcase. Reaching into his inside pocket, he brought out the wallet that contained her ticket and her passport. He walked her over to the Lufthansa desk, where a flight attendant had already changed her ticket.

She was then taken upstairs and left to wait in an office. Her escort stood guard outside the door. Ten minutes later, a slim, agile,
clean-faced
, middle-aged man came in. He was carrying a thick file. He put this down on the table in the middle of the room. Turning to face her, he held out his hand. ‘Long time no see,’ he said.

‘İsmet.’ She kept her voice neutral.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked breezily. ‘They didn’t manhandle you, did they?’

‘There wasn’t a “they”,’ she said. ‘I was just with Sinan.’

‘But you saw the others in that discotheque, didn’t you?’

‘Evidently, you did, too.’

‘Well, what can I say, Jeannie? With friends like that and so on. Don’t worry though. We’re talking to Sinan now, as you know, and once we’re through, I’m sure he’ll take us to them.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not following you.’

‘So he didn’t tell you. How interesting. Well, what can I say except I’m not surprised. Anyway, for your information, it’s not just you they kidnapped.’

‘Who said anything about kidnap?’

‘Well I hate to be the one to give you the news, but that friend of yours, Sinan, was in on the deal.’

‘What deal?’

‘Suna and Lüset,’ he said. ‘They kidnapped your boyfriend. In case you’re getting mixed up – seeing as you have more than your fair share of boyfriends – I mean Jordan Frick.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend. And he wasn’t kidnapped. He went with them willingly. I saw it with my own eyes. And anyway, he was the one who was pursuing them, not the other way round.’

İsmet lifted his hands, as if to Allah. ‘What can I say, except that fact is stranger than fiction? The fact of the matter is that Jordan Frick is as we speak in the hands of kidnappers. They’ve already phoned in to the press but between you and me it all looks pretty amateurish. An opportunistic act, what actors might call an improvisation. Now we have Sinan helping us, I am sure we will find him. So I’m not concerned. My question to you is, do you want to hang on in there, or should we just keep things simple and off the record and get you out on the first plane? It’s waiting on the tarmac. If you want to take it we can get you out there in minutes flat. But I thought, seeing as you and Jordan are an item…’

‘We are not an item,’ Jeannie hissed. ‘And he’s a piece of shit.’

‘Okay, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get cracking.’ He picked up the phone and gave a command in Turkish. He put down the receiver. ‘It’s been good to talk.’

‘If I find out you’ve framed Sinan, there will be hell to pay.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘And don’t forget to pass on my regards to your father.’ There was a knock on the door. İsmet stood up now. ‘These are the guys who’ll take you out to the plane.’

‘But before you go,’ he said as she rose to her feet ‘I have one more question for you. Did Sinan happen to mention where he buried his friend?’

‘What friend are you talking about now?’

‘Dutch Harding, of course. Oh, I’m sorry. Is this news? When Sinan and I had our chat on the phone just now, it was the first thing he confessed to. That’s why he stayed away so long, you see. He was the ringleader. He was the one who cut his teacher into seven pieces and stuffed them into the trunk.’

‘I think you’re making that up,’ Jeannie said.

İsmet shrugged his shoulders. ‘What you think is of no concern to anyone.’

Her guards were armed. They escorted her all the way to the first class seat to which she had been mysteriously reassigned. A tactful flight attendant had drawn the curtains to keep the economy class passengers from gaping. As soon as they were in the air, she was back to offer her champagne and smoked salmon. And she lifted her glass just as Sinan had made her promise she would. She was to pretend he was there with her, she was to know he was there with her in his thoughts. ‘It will cheer me up,’ he’d said. But that was then. Now she was high up in the sky, flying to freedom, flying first class, not because she had earned it but because she was her father’s daughter. And Sinan was in a cell somewhere, tied to a chair, having the truth burned out of him with an electric truncheon.

When she got back to New York, late Monday night, there was a message from her father on the machine. She didn’t call him back.

On Tuesday she got up early, went out for a run, and instead of going to work, she spent the day calling contacts, scanning the papers, concocting and discarding plans.

She’d be doing fine and then the shard of a memory would come flying from nowhere. The white fur coats on the bed, and their frozen breath. The brown fur coat he’d worn into the kitchen. The tea he’d brought back. The steam rising from the little, gold-rimmed glasses. The first slivers of light between the curtains. The white fur coats on the bed. His hand.

It must have been about six in the evening when she went out to pick up some groceries. She stopped in at the West End Café, to see if any of her friends were there. There, propped against the bar, was Jordan Frick.

‘You’re a piece of work, did you know that?’

He was wearing Raybans. His mouth looked ugly. ‘I hope you’re happy.’

‘What the hell do I have to be happy about?’ she said.

‘Don’t be disingenuous,’ said Jordan. ‘You almost got me killed.’

‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘You sound just like my father.’

‘Don’t you be flippant with me. Don’t you dare. I could have helped a couple of hundred people, including your friends, but now my plans are down the tubes.’

‘You know?’ Jeannie said. ‘This time last week, I might have fallen for that. But not now, Jordan. I know who you are, and who you work for.’

‘As any fool could tell you, I work for no one but myself.’

‘If you had spelled it out to me, I might not have minded. But you went behind my back, prepared your ground…’

‘What makes you so special that I have to spell out every goddamn detail?’

He had begun to shout. The bartender took note. He came down to their end of the bar. ‘I’m sorry, Jordan, but you know the score.’

‘Kit, this is serious. She had me fucking kidnapped.’ Jordan took off his glasses. He had two black eyes. ‘See what those precious friends of hers did to me?’ he screamed. ‘See?’

‘I don’t care what she did,’ the bartender said. ‘I don’t care if she locked you up in a trunk. Raise your voice one more time and you’re eighty-sixed.’

‘I’ll raise my voice when I want to, fuckhead!’

‘We’ll see about that, my friend.’ After calling over an off-duty police officer, the bartender turned to Jeannie. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes to get home.’

The first thing she did when she got home was to phone her father. ‘Call off your dogs,’ she said. He did not ask for names.

‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you what happened,’ she told her father the next time he called. ‘I’m assuming you’ve already been briefed.’

‘Yes, well, in a matter of speaking, I guess I have.’ He sounded unusually sheepish. ‘Not that he was particularly coherent during our, what did you call it? Oh yes. Briefing.’ His voice grew lighter. ‘Yes, as briefings go, it was a lot of fun. I hear our friend Jordan “No Name” Frick fell for the old box trick.’

‘What old box trick?’

‘God, you’re slow, aren’t you? There was no box.’

‘You could have told me,’ she said.

‘He actually went in to see the Harkers, did he? That’s just terrific. That’s the icing on the cake.’

‘So what was the cake?’

‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

‘What exactly did you send me there to do?’

There was a long pause. ‘How’s Sinan?’

‘In jail,’ I said.

‘Did you get a chance to speak at least?’

She wanted to tell her father how it made her feel to hear that note of light concern in his voice. As if he didn’t know the answer to his question, down to the last graphic detail. Although she got off the phone right away, it was not soon enough to save her from his pity.

‘I had no idea he still meant so much to you,’ he said the next time they spoke. ‘I thought you’d moved on.’ He went on to insist – how dare he? – that he’d had no idea, no idea whatsoever, that Sinan would be back in Turkey. ‘Or why, for that matter.’ But now he’d made up for lost time. ‘And it’s pretty ugly, I’m warning you. I hope you’re sitting down.’

Sinan, he went on to tell her, had not been charged with the kidnapping of Jordan Frick. But ‘under interrogation’ he’d admitted to a ‘panoply of other crimes, and believe you me, it’s one hell of a star turn.’ He had, her father claimed, admitted to them ‘willingly’. This, Jeannie presumed, was a way of suggesting that he may not have been tortured. ‘Someone acting on his behalf delivered a ludicrously incriminating statement to the press. If we are to believe it, he was the single mastermind behind every student riot in the past fifteen years, not to mention every kidnapping, including, incredibly, the kidnap and murder of the Israeli consul in 1971. Plus he was writing Marxist-Leninist tracts from the age of fourteen. And praising the achievements of Mao under 109 pseudonyms.’

‘It’s a joke,’ Jeannie said.

‘Of course it’s a joke,’ said her father. ‘But who has the heart to laugh? I have before me a Turkish newspaper with a very sad picture
on the front page. It’s all over the papers. It’s a picture of Sinan, pointing to a patch of the Bosphorus where he last saw that trunk. I don’t know if you realise this, but in Turkey the first thing they make you do in a murder case is put you through a re-enactment. Not that it did them much good, though. A decade later, Dutch Harding’s body for some reason is not where our friend Sinan recalls dumping it.’

‘That’s because he never put it there. He’s lying,’ Jeannie said.

‘Now why would he want to lie about something like that?’

The next thing she did was to look for Chloe. She was no longer at the address her mother had for her in Venice, California. She was in El Paso, having just been admitted to Juarez Medical School across the Rio Grande.

Jeannie flew right out. Chloe was standing with the crowd outside the gate at the airport and although she did not immediately recognise her, she picked her out at once. Her hair was dyed carrot orange and she was wearing a Mao Suit and it was clear that she, too, had been through an experience that had left her haunted.

She’d not spoken to her mother since Christmas, and it was clear, when Jeannie updated her, that she was hearing this chapter of the story for the first time. She did not ask Chloe how she felt about it all – this, too, would have been an indulgence, a deviation – all she wanted to know was if she would help campaign for their release. She said she would, and for the next few months, Jeannie and Chloe were in regular touch – if not to exchange notes about the campaign itself, then to discuss what to put into the packages they were sending to their friends in prison.

By April, when Sinan went on trial, interest in London was high enough for several newspapers to run short news items. These fed into pieces in the op ed and comments pages that gave damning if also rather sketchy accounts of human rights infractions in Turkey in the wake of the September 1980 military takeover. Jeannie knew better than to write anything herself, but she was quoted in the
New York Times
and photographed for the
Observer
.

Later that month, she received a letter from an Anna Sinanoğlu. She introduced herself as Sinan’s wife. She explained that she and
Sinan had met when they were both studying political philosophy in Copenhagen and had been married for six years. They had two children, a son and a daughter. Although it was Anna Sinanoğlu’s plan to continue to reside in Denmark, she and the children were currently in Istanbul ‘to assist with the trial’.

It was Chloe she called first, and – possibly because of that bad experience to which she had not yet alluded – Chloe heard the danger in Jeannie’s voice and jumped on the first plane. She stayed three nights. She cooked, kept the music playing, kept Jeannie talking, made her laugh from time to time, and listened to her cry. Every once
in a while, the clouds in her head would part for long enough for Jeannie to thank her.

On her last night, Chloe told Jeannie about her breakdown. But Jeannie was so caught up in her own sorrows that she retained almost nothing. Only that Chloe had been in a relationship with a violent man, that drink and drugs had played their part, and that she’d ended up in rehab after a suicide attempt. Now she was in therapy, and the ‘year of the bombs’ had featured a great deal. ‘Especially the murder. And how we never discussed it. Why didn’t we ever discuss it, Jeannie?’

‘We didn’t discuss much of anything, did we? We just walked around pretending to be invulnerable.’ At which Chloe asked Jeannie if she knew how much she’d hurt her by letting the world know she was a virgin. She apologised for her carelessness but Chloe could not help laughing, and Jeannie could not help joining in – to think that a thing so trivial could have seemed of such grave import.

Jeannie then asked Chloe about Dutch Harding. ‘There’s nothing much to say,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Nothing but sex and drugs and hundreds of unreadable books.’ She had certainly seen no bombs during her visits to Dutch Harding’s apartment, ‘although yes, there certainly was loose talk about bombs.’ She could not imagine why anyone, let alone his most slavishly devoted students, might have wanted Dutch Harding dead.

When Jeannie suggested that he might have been an agent provocateur, she waved her arms in exasperation. ‘But why? And for what?’

So Jeannie brought up Sinan. ‘Do you think he could have done it?’

Chloe shrugged her shoulders and gave Jeannie her most helpless stare.