Enlightenment (4 page)

In the end she didn’t have time for the promised chat. She had, however, gathered up some papers for me. I went back to London laden down with documents and DVDs and a huge folder of photographs and news cuttings.

I laid them out on my study floor as soon as I got home and for many weeks, that was where they stayed. Every time I mustered up enough resolve to look at them, a wave of nausea came over me. I felt sorry for Jeannie, and my conscience told me I should help her find her son. But my heart clouded over when I thought about the others, and our strange reunion at the Pasha’s Library, and my shameful response to it.

You’d think I’d be glad to hear that a murder involving so many people I knew so well had never happened. That even if I still had doubts, I’d want to lose them – hope, at least, that these people were telling me the truth. Instead I felt bereft, as if they had robbed me of my own past.

What did it mean to say nothing had happened? Where did the erasure begin and where did it end? How much of my past was fiction not fact? These were the questions that ate into me, every time I tried to do the right thing. And I did try, if only in half-hearted spurts. I left a few messages with editors, though I didn’t chase them up. I answered Jeannie’s many falsely cheerful and desperately undemanding emails with falsely worded excuses. I wrote to Sinan’s lawyers, asking for information they did not forward to me. I kept track of the case through the website set up on his behalf by a student organisation somewhere in New York State, but only to confirm that there had been no progress. I unpacked the DVDs. Resolved, every night for many weeks running, to watch at least one of his films. But the only one I saw was the one I saw by accident – a documentary on BBC2 about a neighbourhood in the hills above my parents’ house.

I tuned in just at the end: four men, unmistakeably Turkish, watching a traffic altercation from a coffeehouse. An uppity lady in a Mercedes shaking her fist at the man unloading the lorry that was blocking the road as her chauffeur called him the son of a donkey. The men from the coffeehouse listening impassively, the camera slipping down the street, down the hill, to the Bosphorus.

In the credits rolling over it, I saw his name, and though I knew I had no cause, I still felt duped.

The last email I received from Jeannie was an apology. She was writing to ask if I would mind putting a hold on the story until we had a chance to speak. New information had come to light, she said. She would be truly grateful if I could help her ‘process the ramifications.’ But since there were leads to follow before she could honestly say she had the whole picture, it could wait until I was next in Istanbul. In the meantime, had I had a chance to see Sinan’s films? There was one in particular –
My Cold War
– that ‘might be good to review’.

I bounced back an evasive reply, giving her the dates of my next visit.

A few days later, I sat down on my study floor and went through my DVDs until I had found the one marked
My Cold War
. It was, as my mother had said, only half the story, but it was not, strictly speaking, the story of his childhood. Although it was told in an artful, playful way, interspersing its talking heads with footage from home movies, and news reels, old photographs, and ironic clips from old Turkish films, it had a menacing momentum that left me feeling as if I was trapped in the passenger seat of a car speeding towards a cliff. It began with Sinan’s birth in Washington DC in 1950, and his early childhood in an assortment of embassies around the world – the ‘innocent years,’ when he had believed Turkey ‘to be a great world power, as great as the United States and the Soviet Union put together’, and his father to be ‘the hero who had stood between these two towering giants, and kept the Cold War cold.’ He then moved on to his troubled teenage years in Istanbul, by which time he had, in his words, ‘discovered where Turkey was in the scheme of things’, and that his father, ‘far from being a hero, was a lackey, pleased to do whatever his American masters commanded.’ His disillusionment was compounded, he said, by the fact that he himself was ‘being prepared for the same fate.’ He went on to describe his years at Robert Academy, when he was ‘told to be a Turk at home, and an American in the classroom, until all I wanted was to blow the whole place up, and me with it.’ He went on to imply that, without the steadying hand of a trusted mentor – he did not mention Dutch Harding by name – he might well have done
so.

Cut to the student protests of the late 60s – the demonstrations, the riots, the bombs, the pitched battles, the day the workers marched on the city – and Suna, analysing the anti-American mood. ‘Of course, there were political elements. There was Korea, Cyprus, Vietnam. But for us, all children of the rich, the privileged, the carefully educated, the ruling elite – the beneficiaries of the best our American allies had to offer – there was a more personal problem. Our fathers were the collaborators. The Turks who made sure Turkey did as it was told.’

As pictures from our yearbooks filled the screen, Suna added, ‘Perversely, this only added to the glamour of the Americans who presided over us. Even as we ridiculed the shortness of their trousers, we envied their confidence, their freedom, their loose-limbed children. They were the untouchables!’

My heart froze when I heard those words, as I anticipated the cold slap of my own name. But the face that now flashed on the screen was not mine. It was Jeannie’s.

‘And of all the lovely American girls who passed through this boy’s hands,’ Suna’s cruel voice continued, ‘the most untouchable would be the daughter of the spy who watched over us.’

As Jeannie faded from view, questions flashed across the screen:

It was less than a week later that I ran into a colleague of mine named Jordan Frick. I say colleague in the looser sense of the word. He was a feared and respected war reporter, while I wrote on and off in the same paper about mothers and babies. But we’d known each other for decades.

We had, in fact, first met in Istanbul, in 1970. And if you’re beginning to wonder how there can be so many people wandering around the edges of my life who share a connection to Istanbul – let me just say that there
are
a lot of us, and that we seem to favour work that keeps us wandering. Jordan had first gone to Turkey with the Peace Corps, and had stayed on, supporting himself as a stringer for various papers in the US. But when our paths first crossed in June 1970 – at a party, at the house Dutch Harding shared with my mentor, the saintly Miss Broome – Jordan Frick was on his way back to the US: to make his parents happy, he had agreed to a masters at Harvard. When I told him I would be attending college in the area, he gave me his number. The following winter, after Sinan dropped me, I called him. He took me out to the Café Pamplona, where I had cried for two hours, and he had listened, and understood. Not once did he tell me I was better off without the bastard, or that I’d meet someone else tomorrow, or that these things happened to everyone, or that time would ease the pain.

He just said he was sorry to hear what I’d been through, as I didn’t deserve it, and sorry that he would not be there to help me through the next part, as he had decided to stop trying to please his parents.
So he was curtailing his studies and flying out to Mexico City that weekend to follow a story. I must have said I hoped to live like that one day, because he said, ‘Then good. Our paths will cross again.’

And they had, many times. In October 2005 it was at the Frontline Club. The event that evening was a panel discussion of ‘Extraordinary Rendition’ – though there were rumours circulating about spy planes transporting suspects to countries where torture was legal, the story had yet to break. But the will was there, most especially in the Frontline Club that evening, so I was not surprised to look across the room and see Jordan, who in recent months had been filing a great deal from Uzbekistan.

How he looked that day: not as ragged as he sometimes did when he came in from the wild, but, with his lion’s mane of windblown hair, his scorched tan, and his faded clothes, still dressed for the mountains. He was leaning on the bar at the back, his craggy face impassive, his eyes fixed on the man in the back row who had just stood up to ask the panel a question. When this man identified himself as a spokesman from the Uzbeki Embassy, and a ripple of disapproval went through the audience, Jordan showed no reaction whatsoever. When the guests on the panel faltered in their answers, Jordan lifted his hand and was immediately noticed. The entire audience turned around to watch, in fact. But as he rattled out the questions that the panel might consider directing to the man from the embassy, ‘not to mention the government it purports to serve’, he looked right over their heads. Not for the first time, I was unsettled by his weary calm; though he spoke with principled purpose, there was no outrage. It was as if he were here to make reparations for a crime only he remembered, and only he could expiate – as if he had been sentenced to speak for the dead, and walk the earth in their shoes.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ he said, when I tapped him on the shoulder in the clubroom. ‘In fact, we need to talk.’ He bought me a drink and led me through the smoky crowd, smiling warmly at anyone who tried to pull him into a conversation and saying, ‘Let’s catch up later.’ When we’d sat down at the round table in the corner, he told me he was just back from Turkey, which was in a ‘very strange mood.’ I asked for specifics and he waved his hand. ‘Oh you know.
This kerfuffle about the Armenians. This branding of their most famous author as a traitor for starting it. You have never seen so many flags. But put all that to one side for a moment.’ He looked me in the eye, and as he did so, his eyebrows shot up, almost of their own accord. ‘Jeannie Wakefield.’

‘You know her, too?’

He nodded.

‘From way back when?’

He nodded again, ‘I’m not sure I ever told you this part,’ he said. ‘But all those years ago – in 1970 or was in 1971, when I dropped out of graduate school, and decided to do journalism for real…’

‘When you went off to Mexico City, to follow that story…’

He tilted his head to one side, as if in search of a lost memory. ‘Yes, well. That fizzled out pretty fast, as it happens. I mean I had to get out of town. The upshot is that I ended up back in Istanbul, more or less by default, because I knew I could pick up work there. I had contacts. I don’t know if anyone ever told you, but one of them was Jeannie’s father.’

‘How did
that
happen?’

‘When I first went out to Turkey – you know, with the Peace Corps – we started with a summer course at Robert College, and William Wakefield was floating around the edges, in some sort of advisory role. Anyway, that was how I met him. When things turned sour – that’s another story – he went out of his way to help me. Our man at the consulate, in every way. I was aware of the drawbacks, so I can’t say I let my guard down. But he seemed to need me more than I needed him. Anyway, he fed me things. Things that a stringer fresh out of college can only pray for. You could say I have him to thank for kickstarting my career.’ Here he paused. ‘I hear you saw him last time you were in Istanbul.’

‘Do I take that to mean you two are still friends?’ I asked.

A long silence. ‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I would look for another word.’

Another long silence. ‘When’s the last time you and Jeannie spoke?’

I told him about her last email, and how I had replied to it.

‘So are you going?’ he asked.

‘Yes, later this month,’ I said. ‘My parents…’

‘If I were you,’ he said. ‘I’d bring that trip forward. Or do you not want to help her?’ He had never spoken to me so angrily, and it threw me.

‘Perhaps you could explain what’s going on,’ I said.

‘I think I’ll let her do that.’

‘Why?’

‘Let’s put it like this – I owe it to her. You owe it to her, too, by the way. You made her a promise. She’s counting on you to write this story.’

‘If it’s so important,’ I shot back, more sharply than I’d ever done with him, ‘then why aren’t
you
doing it?’ He looked up in surprise. Emboldened, I said, ‘After all, you’d never have the trouble placing it that I will. You’re a name. You can choose your own stories.’

His lips thinned. ‘I think you’ve been in this business long enough to know that stories choose you, and not the other way around. But I’ll tell you one thing. I’d give anything to be in your shoes. I’d love nothing more than to put it all down in black and white – everything I know, everything I’ve been carrying around with me. Maybe one day I will. But not now. Most definitely, not now.’

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘I know too much.’

‘Could I trouble you to be more specific?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But if you get back out there in time – and I mean, as soon as is humanly possible – you might just be able to help her puzzle this out.’

‘This new information, you mean.’

He nodded, slowly.

‘You’ve discussed it with her yourself?’

He stood up to leave. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I’m heading out on a plane at the crack of dawn. Baku first but then who knows, and I’m not sure how the reception will be. Anyway, here’s my mobile number. Leave me a message when you get back and I’ll do what I can.’ He turned away, and then he turned back again. ‘Listen. She trusts you, and I don’t want to spoil that. She trusts you, and at this precise moment, she very definitely does not trust me.’

The next morning I made my first serious attempt to place the article. The editor – and it was Jordan who had suggested I try him first – was so keen on the idea that he stopped me halfway through my description of Sinan’s career. ‘I know his films, of course. And I’ve known for some time about these ridiculous charges. But until Jordan told me, I had no idea he had married into the CIA. This is hot stuff!’

Within the hour, I had my e-ticket. By lunchtime, I was on my way out to Heathrow. By ten that evening, I was landing at Istanbul airport, and by eleven, I was dragging my suitcase up the dark stairs to my parents’ apartment.

‘We’re all so glad you’re here,’ my mother told me at breakfast the next morning. ‘Finally! Someone’s prepared to listen! And who better than you? Jeannie’s so relieved I can’t tell you. She called last night, by the way, and left you a message. She’s waiting for you at home. She can give you the whole day.’

It is never a good sign when people say that. No one in their right mind should give a journalist the whole day. As I set off down the white walk, I counted the rules I had broken by taking this on. Never write a story about a friend. Never write a story about someone with whom you have a history. Never let anyone, even someone you admire, push you into a story you know you shouldn’t do.

I prepared my speech. ‘So Jeannie. Before we go any further, it would be best for both of us if we lay down the ground rules. You say you have nothing to hide. But you must understand that once I get going, I may find out things you’d rather not know. If I do, I reserve the right to…’

Even before I turned the corner, I could hear the machines.

A white van and a black sedan were parked in front of the Pasha’s Library, and the green metal gate was propped open. Inside the garden was a team of workmen, digging up a hole. I assumed this was just more sewer work, so I proceeded down the path to the front door. It was unlocked, so I went straight in. The kitchen was empty, as was the old library and the porch. Hearing footsteps over my head, I bounded up to the office. There, sitting on the red sofa, was a man I did not
recall ever having met before, though there was something about his sleek, smooth smile that struck me as familiar.

He stood up and offered me his hand. ‘İsmet Şen,’ he said. Though his manner was Turkish, he had a strong American accent. ‘And you must be…’

‘Where’s Jeannie?’

‘Ah. So you haven’t heard,’ he said. He had an air of regret.

Sitting down again, and clasping his hands, he said, ‘Had you managed to arrive yesterday…I know she was eager to see you! But who knows, perhaps she’s just stepped out for a few hours. With luck, she’ll be back by lunchtime, or supper. More likely, supper. You can hold the fort, can’t you?’ He furrowed his brow. ‘Something must have frightened her. The poor creature has been extremely edgy lately, and who can blame her?’

‘Has anyone called her father? If anyone knows where she is, it’ll be him.’

‘Ah. So you haven’t heard about her father,’ said İsmet Şen. ‘I’m so sorry. I assumed Jordan Frick would have mentioned it…’

‘You’ve been speaking to Jordan Frick?’

‘He is known to us, of course. Naturally, we cannot hope to keep him away from this story forever. But until that moment comes, we are, of course, trying to do as much as we can behind the scenes. Jeannie’s father was, after all, someone I counted as a valued colleague. Even a friend.’

‘But now he’s…what?’

İsmet sighed, regretfully. His shoulders sagged to match his expression. I asked for the details. William Wakefield had been shot, in the back, in his apartment in Bebek. He declined to give me a date. ‘For this tragedy, too, is still under wraps. As for the weapon, as far as we can ascertain, it was the gun sitting on the table between us.’

I looked down at the table between us. Between the newspapers and the
Cornucopia
magazines, there was indeed a gun.

İsmet Şen picked it up. Passing it playfully between his two hands, he said, ‘Yes, this was the gun. Of this at least we are certain. But if you are asking who pulled the trigger – this remains an open question. But…’ Another smooth, sleek smile. ‘Perhaps not for much longer,
now you are here to help us.’

Slowly, he put the gun down again. Slowly, he stood up. At the stairs, he turned around to smile at me. ‘You have been offered the run of the office. So you do not need me to tell you how to proceed. Suffice it to say, that we, too…’

‘We. Who are “we”?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I should have explained. It’s force of habit, I’m afraid. I, too, had to retire many, many years ago, of course! But I still try to be helpful. Especially with tragedies such as this one. Mishandled, it could cause problems between my country and yours, and at such a sensitive moment! So think of me as a go-between. And of course – this is my house.’

‘How so?’

‘I am, quite simply, the owner. Or rather, the owner’s silent partner. The long and the short of it – in case you were thinking of asking – is that I have every right to be here. As much as Jeannie, if she walked through the door right now, might find that surprising. Though in fact, they’d overrun their lease. Which reminds me. I am being a bad host! What can I offer you?’

Nothing, I said. This seemed to be the answer he expected. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he said. Halfway down the stairs he paused and came upstairs again. Striding over to the coffee table, and picking up the gun, he said, ‘I’d better keep that with me. All things considered, it’s best to be prepared. I’ll be downstairs if you need me. But take your time! And please, by all means, use the phone!’

Though I’d never been the sort to court danger, there had, over the years, been a number of occasions when I’d gone to do a routine interview and found myself in a room from which my exit was barred, more often than not by a man who had given every indication of being trustworthy until turning the lock. No one can ever know how they will respond to such a situation until they’ve had to face it. We each have our own chemistry. Mine gives me arrogance. I feel no fear. I don’t ask questions. Above all, I don’t react. So this is how you want to play it, I thought as I watched my jailer disappear down the stairs. So fine. We’ll see who wins.

But I wasn’t going to rush – that was for sure. I swivelled my chair,
surveyed the room as I waited for my mind to clear. The Duplo was gone, as were the trains. The cobra was gone, too, and only one of the laptops was running.