Authors: Ian Mcdonald
The Dervish House (40 page)
Leyla stands a moment, holding their attention for the few seconds it takes for the adrenaline to ebb. Then she snaps shut her case and sits down beside Aso at the big table. Is that the heat of the sun on her face, or the afterglow of the pitch? Team CoGoNano! is silhouetted, faceless.
‘Thank you very much Ms Gültaşli, and Mr Besarani too.’ The only way Leyla can tell that it’s the man speaking is by his voice. ‘You’ve presented your product well and your commitment and passion is obvious to all of us.’
‘I’m sure you’ve questions.’
The man’s head turns slightly to the woman on his right. She says, ‘What CoGoNano! is really about at the moment is mass market nano apps. We’ve put money into some entertainment-based products - we’re developing some dance-based nano, another big one is a voice changer. A project we’re very fond of is a Tourette’s Syndrome simulator. It’s very very funny; we’ll be leaking a viral next month, we’ll find out through the hits. We’re thinking about celebrity endorsement, maybe some kind of stunt where we sneak it into the Meclis in Ankara. Politicians with Tourette’s. That’s got to be funny. We’re very excited about a product we’re market-testing, which is Mind Candy; it’s a visually oriented brain-training game that effects real neurological change. So this is absolutely in the right area for us, in that it’s non-industrial, but we’re really more in the market for must-have lifestyle accessories for fourteen- to twenty-four-year-olds. ’
‘So that’s a no then,’ Leyla says, marvelling at the composure in her voice. The third silhouette speaks now.
‘It is Ms Gültaşli. Thank you for bringing this to us and we wish you every success, but we’re not really into changing the world.’
The approach to the Bosphorus Bridge is grid-locked. The little rattly citicar is mired in traffic, intimidated by walls of trucks. Horns blare. The air-conditioner struggles against the heat. Even Cousin Naci’s immaculate white top sports sweat circles under his arms.
‘There’s no use hooting your horns, it’s not going to make it go any quicker,’ Leyla shouts at the curve of stationary vehicles sweeping down to the beautiful leap of the bridge. ‘What are they hooting their horns for? People are stupid you know, stupid.’ She winds the window down and yells up the six lanes of motionless traffic, ‘Bastards! Stupid bloody selfish bastards! You just couldn’t think of anyone else, could you? Oh no, have to get there on time, have to look cool, and here we are, here’s ten thousand people, all stuck here because of your bloody selfishness! Bastards! They should throw you off the bridge!’
A middle-aged driver in a battered old red Toyota stares at the foul-mouthed harpy in the next. Aso also stares. Placid Naci’s eyebrows are lifted.
‘Are you sure you didn’t get a sniff of that Tourette’s thing?’ Aso says.
Leyla whirls on him.
‘And you’re no better, Mr Oh-I’ve-picked-up-this-really-nasty-virus. Fix it. Take the time and fix it, if that’s even what it is. Bastards! Bastards! They could have told us before we took all the trouble of going to see them. “We’re not really into changing the world.” I’ve only just realized we didn’t get to see anyone with real money. They fobbed us off with juniors. “Must-have lifestyle accessories for fourteen- to twenty-four-year-olds.” Bastards.’
‘I do believe you’re beginning to care, Ms Gültaşli,’ Aso says.
‘I care about being professional, that’s what. I was good! I was fucking good!’
There is a sharp intake of breath from Cousin Naci at the dirty words from his relative’s mouth. Gültaşli girls don’t curse. The Demre branch does.
‘Well, we may be down CoGoNano! but we’re up a lead on the Koran cover,’ Aso says. Naci nods.
‘Oh, why do you have to be so bloody reasonable? You were the one in exactly the same place doing exactly the same thing yesterday after we got turned down for the Euro fund. Be angry!’ she shouts out to the truck drivers and red Toyota man. They pay no heed, they have their hands on the gear-shifts; from their higher vantage they can see movement ahead, rippling back from the arched back of the bridge.
‘Perhaps there is a quantum of anger,’ Cousin Naci says.
Leyla and Aso turn in their seats, gape-mouthed. Cousin Naci shrugs and returns to his customary silence. The trucks begin to roll, the little citicar boxed between them. Leyla’s ceptep chimes.
‘What!’ she shouts. ‘What now?’
It’s Lütfiye Ashik from Special Projects at Ozer Gas and Commodities returning her call. Mr Saylan can give her half an hour tomorrow at nine thirty, if that’s acceptable.
‘Yes, yes, of course it’s acceptable. Hello? Hello? It’ll be two of us, myself and Mr Aso Besarani. Thank you. Goodbye.’
Now the men are open-mouthed.
‘Özer !’ Leyla shouts. ‘Özer ! Özer Gas and Commodities, Special Projects Division!’ In the corner of her vision, on the edge of the rear-view mirror, she notices there’s a tow-truck eight vehicles behind her.
The ferry slides along the side of the gas carrier and darts across the stern, rocking on the wake. Georgios Ferentinou steadies himself on the companionway rail, breathing heavily. Nimble girls dash down the steps, chattering over their shoulders. He mops his brow in the heat and puffs up the next flight of steps. The gas carrier ploughs on under the bridge, half-submerged screws turning slowly. Georgios imagines it flashing into an annihilating fire. Would he see that flash, would he feel the heat of the fireball and if he did, would it be a blazing, ecstatic agony, or would it be the merest kiss of warmth before incineration? He imagines the girls in their city shorts and sun tops, their strappy sandals, the flesh of their exposed thighs and bare arms turning to boiling black tar. It would be quick, it would be instantaneous. Dead without even knowing. On these stifling nights when the dervish house seems to focus all the stored heat of the day into his small wooden bedroom, his thoughts go often to guessing the shapes and garments of death.
Major Oktay Eğilmez sits on a plastic bench in the shade of the bridge. He lights a cigarette, offers the pack to Georgios as the old economist sits heavily beside him.
‘In 2021 I was assigned to military intelligence in Diyarbakır,’ Major Eğilmez says without preamble. ‘In the run-up to EU accession we decided to conduct a series of strategic strikes against the PKK. The plan was to damage its structure and weaken Kurdish nationalism’s bargaining position before European human rights and ethnic minority legislation tied our hands.’
‘Militarily eminently sensible,’ Georgios says.
‘We thought so too,’ the major says. ‘It was a highly successful unorthodox warfare operation.’
‘I wondered why I’d never heard of it.’
The ferryboat turns in the channel and the light dips under the bridge canopy into Georgios Ferentinou’s face. The sun is full and generous. He smiles, feeling the skin tighten. Old men should smile in the sun.
‘Any action had to be one hundred per cent deniable during the accession process. So it was tactical assassinations made to look like murders or accidents, black ops strikes, special forces operations disguised as wedding massacres; you know how those Kurds are.’
‘Somewhat like Greeks, so I’ve heard.’
Major Eğilmez dips his head. ‘My apologies, Professor Ferentinou. ’ The sun falls on his face now and he closes his eyes in momentary worship. ‘For me, the best thing about this frankly ridiculous think-tank is that it brings me back to Istanbul again. Ankara is all politics politics politics. And no one can cook. Dr Cengiz Samast was assigned to our command.’
‘I’ve never heard of him either.’
‘I would be concerned if you had. Dr Samast is our country’s pre-eminent second-generation chemical warfare consultant.’
‘I’m afraid I have very little understanding of military terminology.’
‘Killing your enemy is clumsy and, frankly, messy. It creates resentment. How much more subtle, and clever, to turn him into your ally.’
‘I should not be hearing this.’
‘Operation Euphrates was a project to field-test a second-generation chemical device on an isolated civilian population. It consisted of an airborne nanoscale agent designed to enter the brain and modify dopamine, oxytocin and serotonin uptakes. You’re familiar with those neurochemicals?’
Two van drivers in scuffed workboots take glasses of tea to the rail to watch seagulls dipping in the wake.
‘I know they’re central to behaviour formation and emotionality.’
‘The agent was designed to increase passivity, disrupt associational ties and enhance mutual distrust while at the same time expanding receptivity to our information.’
‘Propaganda.’
Major Eğilmez is amused. ‘Professor Ferentinou, you know as well as I that the Turkish Republic does not engage in propaganda. We
market
. We chose Divrican, a small and isolated village, in Şırnak Merkeze district of Şırnak Province. There were two reasons: the village was known as a base for a local PKK warlord, also, its proximity to the border with Iran meant that any - unforeseen - consequences could be blamed on fall-out from Fandoglu Mountain. You may remember that we implemented an evacuation plan for villages in the border region and that we’re still imposing restrictions on livestock and agricultural products from that area.’
market
. We chose Divrican, a small and isolated village, in Şırnak Merkeze district of Şırnak Province. There were two reasons: the village was known as a base for a local PKK warlord, also, its proximity to the border with Iran meant that any - unforeseen - consequences could be blamed on fall-out from Fandoglu Mountain. You may remember that we implemented an evacuation plan for villages in the border region and that we’re still imposing restrictions on livestock and agricultural products from that area.’
‘By the same token, I presume the Turkish government does not engage in economic warfare either.’
‘Of course not. The package was delivered at three a.m. by a modified Hoodoo stealth drone. Within four hours the entire population was manifesting neurological symptoms.’
‘Symptoms?’
‘Heightened suggestibility. Visual and auditory hallucinations, of a consistent and persistent form. Belief in the reality of these hallucinations, in the form of schizophrenia-like inner voices, an unshakable trust in the personal nature and authority of these hallucinations.’
‘The nature of these hallucinations?’
‘Religious visions. Supernatural manifestations. Inner voices that spoke with the authority of God.’
‘Jesus and his Mother,’ Georgios Ferentinou says simply. He is having difficulty breathing. His lungs, his trachea, are lead.
‘Yes. This sounds familiar, doesn’t it? People who see peri and fairies, little magical robots. Djinn. Karin. Hızır. I’m a rational man. I don’t believe in djinn and karin and the Green Saint. I would say, your shaykh friend has been nanobombed.’
‘But what, how?’ Georgios flusters. The ferry shudders as the engines throw into reverse. The traffic and quays of Eminönü slide past. Major Eğilmez rises to his feet and straightens his jacket.
‘We seem to be arriving. You should probably go back to your car, before your driver gets irritated.’ He moves into the crowd streaming out of the cabin down to the deck.
‘The people, the villagers, the Kurds? What happened to them?’ Georgios calls. Gone. Georgios won’t see him again. An empty seat at the table tomorrow, a read apology from Major Ortak Eğilmez. Pressure of work, other commitments.
The ramp is down, the traffic is manoeuvring around the black government limo. The driver stands by the open door, looking up impatiently at Georgios on the high deck.
Mustafa taps the mirrorshades into exact position in the bridge of his nose with the tip of his forefinger.
‘Are we in an action movie?’ Necdet asks.
Mustafa strokes the starter chip. The little gas car has been sitting in the underground laager for years but starts instantly. The plastic seat covers smell buttery and electric. There’s a thin layer of dust on everything. The odometer is in low double digits. Necdet hadn’t known that the Levent Business Rescue Centre also maintained a small fleet of cars.
‘There’s stuff down here I think even the company’s forgotten about,’ Mustafa says, throwing on the batteries of fluorescents that illuminated the concrete garage and and the twenty VW runabouts parked in neat rows. ‘I had thought of setting up a taxi company, but Suzan might notice the kilometrage.’
Mustafa hurtles up the spiral ramp, headlights blazing, like he’s Special Agent Metin Çok or the legendary Jack Bauer.
‘In answer to your question,’ he says as the garage doors open before them in a blazing wedge of late afternoon light, ‘Yes, in a sense, it is an action movie.’
Necdet recoils with a soft cry. The sky churns with djinn; billions of them, moiling and boiling through each other like the storm of God himself. Storm grey, liquid slate djinn, ropes and cords of them woven from lesser djinn from least djinn, shouting through the sky above Levent. The strands of djinn are binding together into huge sheaves, the guy-cables of a divine bridge between Istanbul and heaven. The web of cables all tend in one direction: a sky sign. Necdet has no doubt that it leads to an apartment in Ereğli.
Mustafa’s face is tight. He hunches low over the wheel, knuckles white. He darts between lanes, cuts up trucks, races executive Audis and Mercs away from lights. He dashes between approaching trams.
‘Where did you learn to drive?’ Necdet asks.
‘The tourist police. I did my service with them. You tend not to get shot in the tourist police. This is police driving, this is what they call defensive driving. You work on the assumption that everyone else on the road is a homicidal cretin and go from that.’
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