The Prophet Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  “It’s always more festive on nights like that, with just a few people,” Ponpon went on. “I got into the spirit. Since they had not only come, but shown such appreciation, I jumped through hoops to give them their money’s worth. That is, I let them have it.”

  They didn’t even exchange words that night. But later, Ponpon, wondering who had paid the bill, asked for details.

  That’s how she found out about Fehmi enyürek. She’d already seen his name on the flowers he sent.

  “It was the following night, or maybe the next Friday night. Just before the holidays, and the place was packed to the rafters. Naturally, I was at my most haughty. As imperious as can be. You can imagine. You’d have thought I was Maria Callas or something. And there, in the middle of the crowd, I spotted him. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that he was a psychopath – and I still can’t really get my head round that. I mean, he was as polite, as gracious as can be. But of course I want to believe you, as well. If he’s a maniac, I’ve got to accept it, I suppose! Anyway, I was thrilled to see him that particular night. I ribbed him a bit from the stage, saying things like, ‘It seems the gentleman is back; have you become a regular then?’ He shot right back, along the lines of ‘Who wouldn’t come back for more of you?’ He was a real charmer, you see. I was more than a little tickled and flattered. Then he sent a note backstage, asking if he could come and have a drink with me. I had another show, so I had to refuse him. But I did send him my card, with my cell phone number on the back . . . ”

  Ponpon was slurping down her whiskey. At this rate, she’d be out cold any second. I weighed up the pros and cons. If she passed out, I’d enjoy a calm, restful night. But if she passed out before she’d told me what I wanted to know, or started getting silly. . . Actually, that wouldn’t be such a problem. It’s not like it was our last night together. She could tell me the rest tomorrow.

  “As you know,” she went on, “I then went to Bodrum on holiday and to Antalya to work. I completely changed my show, of course. There are a lot of tourists. I had to choose songs and singers they are familiar with. Still, I am a bit of a patriot. I began every performance with Tarkan’s “, Simarik (Spoilt Rotten)” and ended each show with Ayten Alpman’s “Memleketim (My Country)”. Well, not even a week had passed before I saw him again. Once again, he was part of a big crowd. They sat right in front.”

  As I watched Ponpon I visualised Michel Serrault playing Alben in “La Cage aux Folles”. They were incredibly similar. With the same air of hyper-sensitivity, conceit and naïve effusiveness, as well as identical gestures and even the same way of holding a glass. Ponpon was doing a first-rate impersonation. I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from bursting into laughter.

  “What’s with the hollow-cheeked Ajda Pekkan look,” she fired at me, so I stopped. “Anyway, all their attention was focused on me. I was sent drinks and invited to their table.”

  “Did you go?” I asked.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

  “What do you mean?” I cross-examined her. I really didn’t understand. You either go to a table or you don’t.

  “I didn’t exactly stop by their table. Just sat down for a moment, then got up.”

  “So, you did go then.”

  “I suppose I did,” she allowed. “Why this jumping all over me for it? If I did, I did.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “We didn’t exactly have a conversation,” she replied. “I was pinched a bit, slapped on the bottom. They offered me a couple shots of whiskey. That’s all! I wouldn’t say I sat with them for longer than any performer would during the instrumental bit.”

  “Just like you said, they were real gentlemen,” I teased. “A real couple of English lords.”

  “Hmmph! You’ve got a real bee in your bonnet over all of this,” she said.

  Ponpon was invited to their villa, but apparently politely refused because they were such a large group and so very drunk.

  Antalya! A villa in Antalya. Fehmi enyürek. And perhaps Adem Yilmiz was there as well. And stuttering Musa was murdered in Antalya. The pieces fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle. But there was still no proof of anything.

  They showed up again the following night, then disappeared as abruptly as they’d arrived.

  “They must have returned to Istanbul when they finished their business in Antalya,” I guessed.

  “Probably,” she agreed. “I didn’t see any of them again for a long time. I had nearly forgotten all about him, until the opening night at Zilli in Istanbul. That first night I found the most enormous bouquet of flowers in my dressing room. It was the size of a funeral wreath. Then he started coming regularly once a week.”

  “Does he know your real name is Zekeriya?”

  She looked me up and down as though I’d said something shameful.

  “How on earth would he ever know my real name, unless that Hasan creature of yours told him?”

  “What do I know? I just thought they might know your name at the places where you work. They could have told him if he asked.”

  “They don’t know either,” she interrupted. “It’s not as if I hand over my identity card.”

  “But you sign contracts and all that,” I reminded her.

  “For the love of God! Contracts and agreements! There’s none of that. They simply count the cash into my hand and everyone’s happy.”

  There was no point in pursuing this any further. Maybe Ponpon didn’t use her real name for work contracts or tax reports, but someone, somewhere, had to have come across the name Zekeriya. If either Fehmi enyürek or Adem Yildiz really wished to learn her true identity it would have been easy enough for them to do so. However, there was no reason to inform her of this.

  Twenty-two

  Ponpon’s recollections hadn’t provided me with much information, but she did at least have several phone numbers for Fehmi enyürek recorded in her address book.

  The moment she finished her third whiskey her eyes began to shut and she went off to bed. I quietly began searching through her address book, which she’d fortunately brought to my house. I didn’t recognize most of the names, but some of the listings were truly astounding. She’d scribbled in +, – and x next to some of them. It was obviously some kind of rating system for men.

  There was nothing next to Fehmi enyürek’s name, and no listing for Adem Yildiz.

  I was up all night with various schemes racing through my mind.

  The baby poo mask had not worked any wonders. My eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. When I finished shaving and showering, Ponpon was still asleep. I gulped down a cup of strong coffee. Aiming to be as seductive as possible, I squeezed into a black bodysuit and leather trousers. Grabbing a studded leather jacket, I headed out the door.

  The morning chill did me good.

  I stopped by the corner patisserie, where I ordered a lemonade and cheese pgaça. It was fresh. Still piping hot. Ignoring my diet, I ordered another one. As my second pgaça arrived, Hüseyin entered the shop. The moment he spotted me he shifted his posture. A single eyebrow arched. He gave me an exaggerated greeting. The cur was pissing me off!

  The owner of the patisserie knows me well. He immediately understood something had bothered me.

  “Abi dear, is there anything else I can do for you?” he immediately asked.

  “No, thank you,” I replied.

  I turned around and resumed eating my pgaça.

  As if there was no space available in the shop, Hüseyin and his pgaça settled into a seat right next to mine.

  “Good morning, efendi,” he said. “How are you?

  “Thank you.”

  “Look, I’m referring to you as ‘siz’,” he pointed out. His care in doing so was progress of a kind “Good for you,” I praised him.

  “I see you’re as high and mighty as ever, no matter how I act.”

  He was asking for it. I had no intention in indulging in a bout of morning gymnastics, but he deserv
ed to be plastered against the wall.

  I ignored him.

  “It looks like you’re off somewhere . . . ”

  The patisserie owner sensed things were heating up, but could do nothing but look on worriedly. Naturally, he wasn’t pleased at the prospect of broken glass and shattered furniture. It was the busiest time of day, and a brawl on the premises was the last thing he needed.

  I had finished my lemonade and pgaça. I wiped my mouth with a napkin. Staring into Hüseyin’s eyes, I neatly folded it into a tiny bundle and deposited it on my plate.

  “You’ll really have to remind me to give you a sound thrashing some time,” I said. “Nice and slow. . . ”

  “Roses spring up from whatever your hand touches.”

  He’d reverted to the informal “sen”. I couldn’t hold back any longer.

  As I rose from the table I kicked his shoulder with my left foot, toppling him and his chair. He looked up, startled.

  “What do you think you’re doing!” he protested.

  Without giving him a chance to catch his bearings, I placed my right foot on his throat. As I spoke, I pressed down lightly.

  “That will be enough for this morning!”

  I winked.

  His mouth opened as he gasped for air. I noted the morsel of pgaça still lodged in his throat. somewhere in front of his tonsils, which were also visible. He was incapable of making so much as a peep. I pressed down once more, then removed my foot with a flourish and a glancing blow to his jaw. The shock had unsettled him.

  As I left the patisserie I noted the look of relief on the owner’s face. Hüseyin was still stretched out on the floor, looking at me with the same shocked expression.

  I had no difficulty finding Jihad2000 Kemal’s house. The apartment building door was open. I climbed the stairs straight to the top floor.

  The blue-eyed mother, who opened the door, didn’t seem at all surprised to see me.

  “Come right in, Kemal is in his room,” was all she said.

  As we walked to his room I looked her over, trying to decide if she would really eavesdrop on him. Unless she was busy, she probably would. There was no sound of a television or radio. It would be easy to hear all we said.

  Kemal was astonished to see me. He was dressed in a sweat suit that clearly doubled as pyjamas. On his feet were thick woollen stockings.

  “You’re early. This isn’t what you promised!”

  He arranged his hair with one hand.

  “I haven’t even taken a bath yet!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You’re just fine like this.”

  I wasn’t sure how convincing the lie was, but he smiled, if only for a moment.

  “Yeah right,” he replied.

  “I couldn’t stand it. I’m dying of curiosity,” I told him. “Tell me whatever it is you’ve found out. I’ll come back in the afternoon.”

  “You’re lying,” was his response.

  I looked deep into his eyes. I’ve always had a talent for staring at the point right between someone’s eyes. It’s easy to maintain for a long time and gives the object the impression that I’m looking directly into his eyes.

  “You’re lying,” he repeated. “You’ll find out what you need to know, and leave. Then you won’t return.”

  I continued with my penetrating gaze.

  “Oh, all right,” he relented.

  “Let’s get started then,” I said.

  “I haven’t even had my tea,” he whined. “I just got up. I was at the computer all night. I worked until morning for a German company called Frechen.”

  The Frechen he mentioned was probably the same company Ali had talked about. So they preferred Stephen Hawking to us. I suppose they knew what they were doing, but I made a mental note to hack them.

  “You’ll have to wait for a bit,” he said. “I need to go to the toilet. I haven’t even washed my hands and face. My mother won’t leave until she’s given me a bath. Until then, neither of us will get what we want.”

  While I recognised a quick mind at work, I had no intention of allowing him to play cat and mouse with me.

  “I’ll wash you,” I offered.

  I wasn’t sure how the thought popped into my head, but I was willing to go through with it. If things got out of hand, I could always hold his head under the water.

  His eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “There’s no way my mother would allow that.”

  Without giving me a chance to respond he quickly wheeled himself over to the door, where he called for his mother. She appeared instantly. They disappeared into the bathroom together.

  They had provided me with an unexpected opportunity. I quickly sat down at the computer. I calculated it would take more than just a few minutes to bathe a cripple. In the meantime, I intended to conduct a thorough investigation of the contents of Kemal’s computer.

  He used a broadband internet connection. If I wished, I could transfer the entire contents of his computer to my computer.

  First I checked the security system. It was flawless. The security programs he had installed would also serve to cover my tracks. In other words, Jihad2000 himself had in effect enabled me to snoop on him undetected.

  The connection was fast and powerful. First I mailed all Frechen-related files to myself. I was guilty of industrial espionage, but it sure beat having to hack the company later. I’d have a good look at all the files in the comfort of my own home. For now, I just copied what I found. There was an enormous dossier in which he’d filed all the information he had on me. I, of course, sent them all to myself. Then deleted them. I then made it impossible for him to download any of the files again.

  Sounds of running water continued to come from the bathroom. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but systematically scanned whatever I found. My eye was caught by some copied porn. Just as I expected: rough-looking men, women with enormous breasts and leather outfits, whips, high-heeled boots . . . There was no point in wasting more time on these images. I’d have to find whatever I was looking for before the bath was finished.

  A bit of excitement is a wonderful thing. It increases the flow of adrenalin. I felt beads of sweat on my forehead. It was the first time I’d done anything like this. And it was so exhilarating!

  There were hundreds of files and dossiers with numerical codes, rather than names. I would have to open each one to find out what they contained. The desk was also littered with dozens of CD-Roms. The overwhelming amount of material I needed to investigate just excited me more.

  The water was turned off in the bathroom. How long would the drying process take? That’s all the time I would have. I tapped away at the keyboard as fast as possible. Dossiers opened and closed. I couldn’t keep up with the number of new windows popping up on the screen. And all of a sudden the name Adem Yildiz appeared before me. I sent off the entire dossier.

  It was a bigger file than I’d expected. It was taking a long time to mail. I’d be caught red-handed if it didn’t finish soon. The last thing I needed was to make a mortal enemy of a crazed hacker like Jihad2000 Kemal.

  The sound of running water started up again. He was probably getting a shave. His mother came out of the bathroom. I identified her from the sound of her footsteps. She couldn’t see me from the hall, but she might poke her head into the room.

  I concealed all signs of my activities. And, as expected, his mother suddenly arrived carrying two cups of tea.

  “Kemal is shaving. He’ll be back in a second.”

  No, I didn’t take sugar. She stirred two cubes into his tea and left it on the desk I’d just vacated.

  “I’m fixing breakfast. You’ll join us, won’t you?”

  “I ate before I came,” I told her. “Thank you. Tea will be all for me.”

  Kemal entered as his mother left. He’d nicked his chin. The cut was covered with a large piece of cotton wool.

  “I hope you haven’t been bored,” he said. “There’s plenty here to keep you busy.
”

  He winked as he said this. His wet hair looked as though it had been doused with grease.

  I didn’t know what exactly I had stumbled across, but I’d certainly found something. I regretted having destroyed the files he kept on me. He would be sure to catch on. And then he’d become a true foe. It wasn’t a clever thing to do. The time had come for a confession.

  “I came across my name. You’ve certainly gathered a lot of information about me.”

  The mother arrived with a tray, interrupting me. I couldn’t exactly keep confessing with her there.

  “It took me quite some time,” said Kemal with a laugh.

  “Such a long time to gather it all.”

  Kemal’s mother deposited the tray next to her son. Switching into classic Turkish hospitality mode, she began pestering me.

  “My son, you really should eat something.” I was full, but the smell of freshly toasted bread was appetising.

  “Thank you, efendim,” I said. “I couldn’t. I really did have breakfast before I came.”

  Jihad2000 was unlikely to continue grinning when he realised that all those painstakingly collected files had disappeared.

  Fortunately, his mother left.

  “I destroyed them all,” I continued.

  The smile froze on his lips.

  “I mean, it wasn’t very nice of you to access all of that information without my knowledge. It’s like being spied on. It’s a horrible feeling. I felt terrible. So I just deleted them all.”

  “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

  He was right. I’d been a fool. I smiled weakly. I tried to look as seductive as possible, but probably resembled Woody Allen.