Enlightenment

by Maureen Freely

  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 mus
t 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.

  When I tried to connect the laptop to the Internet, I was informed there was no dial tone. No dial tone, either, on the landline. I had just dialled my mother’s number on my cellphone – but forgotten to do the country code – when I heard İsmet coming up the stairs. Quickly, I put my phone down on the desk. Smoothly, he asked me what I’d like for lunch.

  ‘As it turns out, our hostess has left us a full refrigerator.’

  I thanked him but said I wasn’t hungry. ‘Well, let me know the moment you are,’ he said. Then he reached out for my cellphone and slipped it into his pocket. ‘I’ll hold on to this, too, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What – am I under house arrest now?’ I asked.

  ‘Madam!’ he cried. ‘I am simply trying to protect you. There is no one – no one – more eager to get to the bottom of this sorry affair than yours truly. Did I not say I am, among so many other things, Sinan’s uncle? By marriage only, of course. But these things still matter. I’ve known him since he was this high. Long enough to feature in that film of his! Look, come here.’ He walked over to the poster on the wall where the cobra tank had been. Under the banner – My Cold War in a child’s scrawl, over a flag that was half stars and stripes, and half hammer and sickle – was a collage of family photographs. Pointing at one of them – Sinan with his beautiful mother, flanked by three men – he said, ‘There, that’s me in white. The man holding Sinan’s hand is his father. And the one in the Hawaiian shirt – that’s Jeannie’s father! A happy time. Who could have known? What can I say, except that I am ready to answer any question you wish to ask? Though perhaps this won’t be necessary. Perhaps, just by seeing our happy photograph, you can imagine the rest? Isn’t that your modus operandi? Blurring the line between the real and the imagined, to plumb the truths of the heart?’

  ‘How much do you know about me?’

  ‘A lot more than Jeannie Wakefield. On that note, I’ll leave you to it.’

  After he left, I closed my eyes, and for five minutes, I let nothing into my mind but the sensation of my own breathing. Then I opened my eyes and I could hear the diggers outside again. I opened the filing cabinet under the long desk. It did not look as if it had been disturbed, or even discreetly searched. But on the shelf where I remembered seeing Sinan’s trophies was a collection of black and red hardbacked notebooks. These turned out to be an incomplete selection of Jeannie’s diaries. They were not in chronological order. The first, written in a neat, small hand, was dated 1981. The next was dated 1970, and the handwriting was so childish I thought for a moment that it was someone else’s. The last was dated 2005, and the script was so full of hooks and jabs that I could barely read it. When I tried to put it back on the shelf, an envelope fell out. When I opened the envelope, I found three ziplock bags, two containing locks of golden hair – her son’s? – and one containing a tangle that looked like it was from a hairbrush.

  Next to the laptop I had failed to connect to the Internet was a half drunk cup of coffee, a pen, a used
tissue, an open diary, and a pair of glasses. Running my eyes along the bottom of the screen, I saw a bar indicating the document Jeannie must have minimised, just before she fled the house. Microsoft Word – LET. I clicked on the tab and the following words flashed before me:

  ‘I saw the truth last night. My friend – there is no other way to put it. I walked away from the screen and looked up at the sky and there it was, scrawled across the stars – the story he never told me. I can see it all now. I can see the shape of my life as clearly as if I were standing outside it.

  And I have to ask. Did Suna know all along, or did she guess? She was the one who lured me here, after all, and I am marvelling now at the lightness of her tone.

  Oh, and by the way, she said. There was a new site I might like to visit. I could get there by going to the US State Department and following the links. Quite a cache: tens of thousands of declassified documents, all in their original form. Anything I’d ever want to know about Chile in 1973 and Guatemala circa 1976. She didn’t mention Turkey and neither did the site, but there was something in her choice of words that gave me pause, and that must be why I started typing in my father’s name.