İsak and Kasım crossed the Tepebaşi dual carriageway and walked up into Beyoğlu.
‘I know the doorman at the Armenian church,’ İsak said as they entered the teeming Balık Pazar, with its fish shops, souvenir booths and great hessian spice sacks. ‘He’s a friend of our pathologist. He’ll let us in so we can talk quietly.’
The two young men disappeared into what, to the uninitiated, looked like a cupboard in the wall. Behind this door, however, was a stone-flagged court and the unmistakable white façade of a church. Üç Horon was built in the nineteenth century for what was then a large Armenian minority. And although its congregation was now greatly reduced, the building itself was still the largest of its kind in the city.
The doorman, a thin and world-weary man by the name of Garbis, was only too pleased to let a colleague of Dr Sarkissian use a bench in the courtyard for a conversation with his friend. The Balık Pazar was like a madhouse in the evenings, especially in this late heat wave. Garbis even gave them an ashtray, and some small glasses of tea from his own samovar. As he walked away, the Armenian heard the men begin to talk in a language that was neither his own nor Turkish.
‘My boss wants to use Mendes’ expertise,’ İsak said without preamble.
Kasım, who was a few years younger than his cousin, shook his head. ‘How does your boss know about Mendes?’
‘I told him.’
‘You told him!’ Wide-eyed and on the point of fury, Kasım said, ‘Why? What were you thinking?’
İsak lit a cigarette and then looked down at the marble beneath his feet. ‘The case we’re working on – it involves vast amounts of electronic data.’
‘Yes, but don’t the police have experts—’
‘Yes, but . . . look, Kasım, I can’t go into detail. We need someone who can track people posting to newsgroups. We need someone who knows what has to be done to conceal identities.’
Kasım, one hand now up at his sweating brow, said, ‘Are you mad?’
‘No, I just want to help move my investigation forward, which will happen only if I can, somehow, get in contact with Mendes.’
‘And if this boss of yours wants more information about Mendes? If he wants to know what other little things he’s been up to? What then?’
‘Inspector Süleyman won’t ask about anything outside the scope of the investigation. Why would he?’
‘Because he’s a policeman!’ Kasım snapped.
‘So am I.’
‘Yes, but you’re different, aren’t you, cousin?’ Kasım said more calmly now. ‘You are one of us first and a policeman second. This Süleyman—’
‘Inspector Süleyman is well aware of what I am, Kasım,’ İsak cut in earnestly.
‘You told him!’
‘No, of course not. But he knows.’
‘How? Your identity card states that your religion is Muslim.’
‘Yes, but Inspector Süleyman knows that I am Yezidi.’ He shook his head impatiently. ‘Why and how I’m not prepared to go into, but he knows.’
‘So if he knows, why have you still got a job? You know as well as I do what people think about us.’
‘Inspector Süleyman is different.’
‘Not different enough to look the other way if he were to find out about your other “business”,’ Kasım said darkly.
İsak looked away, at some incomprehensible sign in Armenian. ‘No. But we don’t need to go into that.’
‘Don’t we? What if this Süleyman wants to know how we know of Mendes? No.’ Kasım took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit up. ‘Mendes must stay a secret.’ He leaned in towards İsak, the better to press his point. ‘Mendes set everything up for us, remember? If we do as he says, we cannot be found.’
‘I know.’
‘Mendes sympathises with us—’
‘We don’t know that, Kasım.’
‘Well, he must because—’
‘Mendes is a hacker,’ İsak countered earnestly. ‘He does these things for people because he, or she, enjoys the challenge. We don’t, Kasım, know what Mendes is. As far as I’m aware, your friend has never met Mendes. Mendes could therefore be a Kurd or an American or a Korean—’
‘Mendes’ instructions were in our language.’
‘Are you sure? What about your friend, Kasım, the one we set our system up through? Maybe he translated what the hacker had told him.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to contact your friend, or let me contact him.’
‘No!’
‘Yes, Kasım.’ Çöktin put his cigarette out and took a sip from his tea glass. ‘This is serious. People’s, children’s, lives could be at stake. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do everything that I could . . .’
‘It was a bad day when you joined the police!’ Kasım spat.
Infuriated by his cousin’s seeming lack of understanding, İsak said, ‘I joined because I needed a job! What I do puts food on my parents’ table!’
‘You speak English – you could have got any job you wanted! You could go abroad!’
‘And leave Mum and Dad?’ İsak flung a dismissive hand to one side. ‘Dad can’t work, Kasım. Mum does her best, but . . . And anyway, I don’t want to go abroad.’
‘Why not?’ Kasım moved in closer to his cousin’s face. ‘Is it because of that Turkish girlfriend you’ve got up in Balat?’
‘Döne . . .’
‘Yes, Döne – the one you’ll have to leave anyway when your parents go back to the village to choose you a bride.’
Now red with fury, İsak hissed, ‘Don’t change the subject, Kasım! Are you going to go to your friend for me or not?’
‘No.’
‘Fine.’ İsak stood up. ‘Then I’ll have to find him myself, won’t I? Shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘İsak!’
He bent down low to speak into Kasım’s ear. ‘I can have you followed, Kasım, as of this very minute. Think about it.’
And then, with grateful thanks to Garbis, he left. Kasım, alone now, looked down at what was left of his tea and sighed. He liked İsak. İsak was family and besides, he needed him to run the service. But to put the service at risk like this was reckless. Didn’t he realise that if his boss did find out about their activities İsak could lose not only his job but his liberty too? Children in danger or no children in danger, that had to be too great a risk for anyone to take. On the other hand, if İsak wasn’t going to help him run the thing then who was?
As soon as she’d put her employer’s shopping away, Ülkü called him to say that Max Bey was out. Happily, Turgut must have been close by because it took him only a minute to get up to the apartment.
As soon as he was inside, she kissed him. It was difficult to know how much time they’d have together. She hadn’t been in to see Max Bey go and so he could, theoretically, come back at any time. But Turgut didn’t respond with great affection – obviously a bad day. They went into her bedroom and, after he’d gone back for a few moments into the hall to get his cigarettes from his jacket, he shut the door behind them. He sat down on the bed and unzipped his fly.
‘Go on,’ he said as he folded her hand around his penis and lay back against the pillows.
He always wanted this. Every time they met. But Ülkü did as she was told, looking away as she always did while her boyfriend grunted and gasped his way towards his climax. If he could, she knew, he’d have ‘proper’ sex with her. But like her, he was from some nowhere in the east of the country where women were virgins until they married and men went to whores or foreign women or got their girls to do what she was doing now. But one day soon, Turgut was always saying, they would marry and then all of this would change. Maybe that was why he was so depressed today – making the money they needed was all taking such a long time.
When Turgut had finished, she got up and went to the bathroom. Later, she would recall that she did hear what sounded like something falling in the study, but it wasn’t
loud, Max Bey was out and so she didn’t pay it much heed. And anyway, Turgut was soon demanding her attention once again.
‘Ülkü?’
‘Yes?’
‘You know I love you, don’t you?’
She came back into the room, smiling. ‘Yes.’
He was still lying on the bed when she returned, massaging that thing of his with his own hand for a change.
‘I want you to suck my penis,’ he said harshly, and then added, rather more softly, ‘Please, it’s the best thing a girl can do for a man and I’m so tense . . .’
‘No!’ Ülkü bristled. ‘Only whores do that!’
‘No,’ Turgut said, ‘nice girls do it too.’ He smiled. ‘Max Bey’s students do it. Oh, Ülkü, it’ll make me so happy.’
‘But—’
‘Ülkü,’ he said, ‘we don’t get much time together. Please do this for me! A husband needs to know his wife will do anything he asks . . .’
Something bad must have happened, his eyes looked so wounded. If only she could talk to him about whatever was bothering him rather than do this – but then if this made him feel better . . . and so she did it. But unlike their other activities, it didn’t take very long. And so, once Turgut had recovered, she did it again. He loved it so much and she so wanted to please him. Max Bey said that once Ülkü could read and write properly in English, she’d be able to do a lot better than Turgut. He didn’t trust him, he said, and feared that Turgut was using Ülkü for some reason. But she was happy. Turgut was so handsome and even though she felt plain by comparison a lot of the time, she knew he loved her. Why would she want or need anyone else?
‘Do you feel better now?’ she said to him once she’d been to the bathroom again to wash.
‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes half closed. ‘You’re a good girl, Ülkü. You’ve made me very happy.’
Turgut got dressed and, as he was doing so, he said that he’d like a drink. She went to the kitchen to get water from the fridge. On her way back, however, she decided to go into the study to get her English textbooks. Turgut would have to go to his restaurant soon, and with Max Bey out, she would have a good opportunity to do some work.
She opened the door and reached around to the small table she knew she’d placed her books upon. What made her look into the body of the room she was never to know. But the sight of the blood all over the floor and up the walls caused Ülkü to drop her books to the ground and run screaming back to her bedroom.
CHAPTER 8
‘What time did your employer go out?’ The policeman, an Inspector İskender, was a small man with a big presence. Young, handsome and beautifully groomed, he had an iciness about his manner that the traumatised Ülkü found terrifying.
‘I . . . maybe five o’clock . . . I’d been shopping. He wasn’t in . . .’
‘It was five,’ a much more sure and certain Turgut said. ‘Ülkü called me as soon as she got in. I was nearby anyway and I saw Max Bey leave just before she called. They must have missed each other by seconds. It was five, I know.’
‘Was it necessary for Miss Ayla to be alone before you entered the apartment?’ İskender said, his attention now solely on the rough-looking boy sitting in front of him. ‘You were, after all, lurking outside. Were you perhaps seeking to seduce the young lady?’
‘No,’ the boy responded coolly. ‘Ülkü and I are, well, we are betrothed. I wouldn’t dishonour her in such a way. But Max Bey doesn’t like me. I have to “lurk” so I can get any time alone with her. He doesn’t think I’m good enough for Ülkü.’
‘And why should Max Bey care about the private life of his maid?’
Ülkü and Turgut shared a look before the former said, ‘Because he is a kind man.’
Noise from the study next door indicated a flurry of activity around the scene.
‘Excuse me,’ İskender said as he motioned for two officers to come and guard the young couple.
As he went into the study, İskender could see several people including İkmen. Together with İskender’s sergeant, Alpaslan Karataş and a couple of uniformed officers, they were studying the bloodstains closely. When İskender drew level with him, İkmen turned.
‘Maximillian Esterhazy and I are old acquaintances,’ he said. ‘Max is a brilliant man.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘In his fifties, an English national of Austrian descent. He gives private English language classes, does a bit of freelance writing and editing. Unmarried.’ He looked up into İskender’s face. ‘I do hope this isn’t his blood.’
‘We won’t know that until either we find his body or someone else’s,’ İskender said. ‘Do you think he might be capable of violence?’
İkmen shrugged. ‘Who isn’t?’
‘Is he homosexual?’ İskender asked with that bluntness that was his trademark.
İkmen smiled. ‘Unmarried doesn’t necessarily mean gay, Inspector. Could mean that Max just has more sense than to marry. And, anyway, he’s totally into his art; he has no time for such things.’
‘What art?’
‘Max is a magician.’ İkmen felt rather than saw Alpaslan Karataş’ head turn towards him.
‘What do you mean? On the stage?’
‘No!’ İkmen lit a cigarette and sat down in one of Max’s tattered armchairs. ‘Max is a real magician. He is what they call in the West an adept: he studies magical systems; Kabbalah, Enochian magic.’
‘So he’s a charlatan?’
‘Depends on your point of view,’ İkmen replied with a shrug, ‘but if Max wants something to happen, it generally does.’
‘I’ve called for Forensic,’ İskender said as he sat down beside İkmen and also lit a cigarette. ‘Why did he come here?’
‘He likes it here. I think it suits his essentially stateless nature,’ İkmen said. ‘He’s written a few papers about Turkish magic, which were, I believe, well received back in his own country. I read one about the Yezidi. It was very good.’
‘Yezidi?’ İskender narrowed his eyes. ‘They worship Satan, don’t they?’
‘No, that’s a myth,’ İkmen said wearily. He wanted to expand on this and tell İskender that a man he frequently ate and drank with, Çöktin, was actually a Yezidi, but he resisted the temptation and just said, ‘Their practices are misunderstood. They’re not bad people and they’re definitely not Satanists. Max knows Satanists—’
‘In İstanbul?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why didn’t you get him to—’
‘People like Max, Inspector,’ İkmen said sternly, ‘move to their own rhythm. Max, in his own way, sorted out Satanists and other assorted weirdos in his own unique fashion.’
‘Until now.’
‘Possibly.’ İkmen shook his head. ‘Depends what all this means, doesn’t it? I don’t know how I’m going to tell Inspector Süleyman.’
‘Süleyman? He knows this man?’
‘I introduced them,’ İkmen said. ‘They get on. Similar backgrounds.’
İskender looked confused.
‘Inspector Süleyman comes from an aristocratic family and so does Max,’ İkmen said. ‘I think his father was a count. The Esterhazys left Austria and went to England just before the Nazis took over Vienna. They didn’t hold with Hitler. I think that Max and Inspector Süleyman like to spend time talking about where they might have been and what they might have done had history been different. Life for peasants like us, my dear Metin, isn’t complicated by the spectre of what might have been.’
The two men sat in silence for a few moments before Karataş, a large and, from the look of it, very old book in his hands, came over to them.
‘This was open on his desk, sir,’ he said as he placed the tome into İskender’s lap.
‘Well, if that isn’t a representation of Satan, I don’t know what is,’ İskender said as he pointed out to İkmen the large illustration on one of the pages.
The older man briefly closed his eyes and then as he opened them again
he groaned. ‘In a sense, yes,’ he said. ‘The Goat of Mendes is what it’s called. Not that Max’s interest in it was for his own purposes.’
‘Oh?’
‘No. He was looking it up for me,’ İkmen said, and then proceeded to explain why he had asked for the magician’s assistance.
‘So, do you think that this Goat of Mendes thing has anything to do with all this?’
‘I don’t know,’ İkmen admitted. ‘Maybe. I hope that soon we might be able to ask Max himself. What is certain, though, is that we are going to have to follow it up. Çöktin knows, or rather is aware of, a computer hacker who calls himself Mendes. I know that Inspector Süleyman wants to be put in contact with that person and perhaps so do I.’
‘Or rather me,’ İskender said, İkmen felt a trifle tetchily, ‘because it is my case.’
‘Of course,’ İkmen put his head in his hands, ‘of course it is.’
Another silence followed, time during which the officers in the room now awaiting Forensic listened to the absence of sound as the blood dried on to every hard and soft surface.
‘But then again,’ İskender said, his head now tilted thoughtfully to one side, ‘I have to consider, assuming the absence of Mr Esterhazy, how far I might be able to get without any knowledge about “magic” . . . not far.’
İkmen looked up into hard and unfathomable eyes.
‘And so if, Inspector İkmen, you’d like to take that side of the investigation over for me, I would be most grateful.’ And then standing up quickly he added, ‘I need to take a statement from the maid and her boyfriend.’
‘Oh. Right. Yes. Of course, Metin.’
And then he was gone.
For a moment, İkmen looked across at Alpaslan Karataş who just shrugged. Metin İskender was a good man – clean, upright and unfailingly honest. But he was a strange character too. Stiff and rule-bound as so many of the men who had come from exceedingly poor backgrounds were, Metin was also the pampered pet of a rich wife who wanted nothing more than to get her husband to leave the police. She wanted him, so İkmen had heard, to explore his artistic side – wherever that might be. Not in tune with Maximillian Esterhazy and his ilk, that was for sure. But then, as soon as he heard about what had happened at Max’s apartment, İkmen knew he would have to, somehow, become involved. Apart from anything else, İkmen and Max shared something that only they knew about. Wherever Max was, assuming he was alive, of course, and whatever he’d done, İkmen wanted to help him.
Deadly Web Page 9