The Gigolo Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  His mother was right; he was tense. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink all night. And what he said was truly startling and extremely serious.

  “Calm down,” I said automatically. “Start from the beginning, nice and slow . . .”

  Far from calming down, he looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Mouth twisted, lips quivering, face beet red, he began:

  “Like I said, we hacked Telekom last night. The records we sifted through belong to the national telecommunications company. Don’t you get it? Türk Telekom. It’s a crime against the state. I don’t know what the punishment is, but it’s a lot more than a slap on the wrist, that much I can tell you. If we get caught, we’re done for. They’ll finish us off. We’ve been used. I swear to Allah, if I get away with it this time I’ll give up hacking completely. All those figures and numbers were nothing other than telephone numbers and records. When I realized, I almost peed my pants. It’s terrifying. We’re in trouble. They’ll all be after us. And we’re bound to get caught. Red-handed. I’ll rot to death in prison in my wheelchair. You can imagine how they’ll treat me there. I can’t face that. I’m afraid. May Allah save us.”

  I couldn’t allow him to go on like this. He had to come to his senses. The sahlep would take some time to make; his mother wasn’t likely to appear at the door anytime soon. I gave him a hard smack across the face.

  “Get over it; calm down!”

  The slap seemed to work. He was calmer, if only a bit . . . But he kept jabbering in the same hysterical tone.

  “Did you know about it?”

  “How was I supposed to know?” I said. “We landed the job. That’s all Ali told me. There was a go-between. The money was good, so he didn’t ask questions. Anyway, since when does anyone ask a lot of questions about this kind of work?”

  “Exactly. We asked no questions and now we’ve landed in the shit. Up to our necks, no less. They paid me in advance, every last cent. What idiots, I thought to myself, as I counted it. Good God, forgive me my trespasses. I repent. Do you think He hears me?”

  I tried, and failed, to suppress a chuckle. Here we were in the middle of a crisis, and I still couldn’t help laughing at the religious fervor of poor Kemal.

  “Do you really think it’s so easy to get hold of Telekom’s records? To access the main cache?” I asked, my mirth cut short by a chilling awareness that, as Kemal put it, we were in deep shit. “Haven’t they got all kinds of firewalls and shields in place?”

  “It’s child’s play,” he said. “The system’s extremely vulnerable. Anyone determined to access can.”

  “So why didn’t they do it themselves?”

  “What they actually had us do—had me do—was to make a tiny fraction of the records accessible, amid all that data. Then you accessed what I’d opened up and did what you wanted.”

  “I basically destroyed the records they wanted deleted . . .” I said.

  “It’s all over! I jump every time the doorbell rings. I expect the police to come and take me away any second.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “We’re experts. We both took every precaution to cover our tails. At least, I did. I didn’t leave any tracks. And you’re a pro, too . . . I know you are.”

  “That may be, but I was working at home. If they pull out all the stops, they could still trace me.”

  “What are you getting so worked up about?” I continued. “We’ll destroy any traces you may have left behind. They’ll never find you.”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  “So what’s the problem?” I asked. “Why panic? You’ve taken care of things.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m still scared. What if something happens to me and . . .”

  He never finished his sentence. The door opened and in came our cups of sahlep, borne by his mother on a garish plastic tray. She must have heard the last bit of our conversation, and she looked worried.

  “What happened, son?” she asked. “Why are you so scared?”

  “Don’t interfere, mother!”

  “But son . . .”

  “Keep out of it! You wouldn’t understand.”

  His mother looked at me for a sign of sympathy. Embarrassed at having been a witness to the sight of a mother scolded by her son, I examined the ceiling, avoiding her eyes and smiling sheepishly.

  “Look, your friend’s here. I’m sure he can help. You’ll sort things out . . .”

  “That’s enough, mother! Just go and mind your own business!”

  With a resigned glance at me, she left the room.

  “Shut the door and stop listening in!”

  Kemal was speaking from experience. Holding a silencing finger to his lips, he put a CD into the player.

  “She often eavesdrops on me out of sheer boredom. Now that she’s actually curious about something her ears will be pricked up like Lassie’s.”

  The last thing I wanted was to get mixed up in a family feud.

  “Just drop it,” I suggested.

  “No,” he said. “It could be dangerous for her, too, if she knows what’s going on. I need to protect her. As a son, that’s the least I can do. And if she was ever called on to testify, she’d sing like a nightingale. Then we’d all be in trouble.”

  “Stop exaggerating,” I said. “Don’t be such a wimp! What kind of a man are you, anyway?”

  Even I was astonished by my words. Kemal was still for a moment, then shot back with:

  “A lot of good my manhood will do me in prison!”

  “Look,” I said, raising my voice before remembering the mother and lowering it again, “we did a clean job. That’s a given. It’s impossible for anyone to trace us. Anyway, who could they get to do it? It’s not like they have any experts on the payroll.”

  “You’re right about that, but there’s no point in getting too complacent. A new whiz hits the scene every day. Some of them are still kids. It’s unbelievable . . . Sharp as tacks. I caught one of them trying to penetrate my system. Can you imagine?”

  That was true. There was a whole new generation of hackers waiting in the wings. I had confidence in my abilities. And in Kemal’s. But we could well meet our match one day. You’d think those little bastards would be happy to play street football and chase after girls; but no, they sit in front of their computers all day and become self-taught crackerjacks.

  Kemal was too panicked to think or talk about anything else. At the moment, at least for today, fear would dominate his life, if that’s what you could call his rather limited existence. I decided not to mention my arrangements with Pamir. If it were kismet, it would have to happen another time.

  The sahlep was delicious. I added a thick dusting of cinnamon to my cup. Once I finished it, I’d leave Kemal to panic on his own.

  Chapter 19

  Some feelings are contagious, and panic is most definitely one of them. The soothing logic I’d used when confronted by an unraveling Kemal had quickly evaporated once I was on my own. I was scared.

  I’d intended to jump into a taxi and go home, but instead ended up walking down to Beşiktaş to sit in a seaside café and think things over.

  Luckily, the skies had cleared. It was a crisp, sunny day, the kind that helps clear heads and allay worries. The waters of the Bosphorus shimmered serenely, silver and deepest blue.

  To date, I’ve broken the law any number of times. I take a different view of many things considered crimes by ordinary people. In fact, some of them strike me as being the most natural things in the world. And, to date, I have regretted none of my actions. That may sound a bit bold, but I can honestly say that I have never done a single thing that has weighed on my conscience. Actually, perhaps there are one or two things I’m not particularly proud of, and would choose to do differently. Still, I can truthfully say that they were mere details in the grand scheme of things.

  Even though I knew Cihad2000 was a half-crazed genius and insatiable masochist, he’d managed to infect me with cold fear tinged by
panic. Worst of all, the seeds he’d planted were growing by the minute. It was time to turn inward, to calm myself with soothing thoughts.

  I tried imagining Haluk Pekerdem. That sex god of a man could be just the distraction required. It wouldn’t be long before the juices were flowing, and I was warmed by a pleasant heat that was far from cerebral. The sun beating down on my table would enhance my steamy fantasies. I began . . . and failed. My mind flitted to his brother-in-law, Faruk, which of course led me to those damned Telekom phone records.

  Round and round, those earlier thoughts came crowding in: What on earth would we do if the police, intelligence officers, Interpol, and all the others caught up to us? Either we’d be quietly locked away in an undisclosed location or our names would be released to the press. We’d be disgraced and scapegoated, and they’d be baying for our blood. My personal life, which I’d carefully kept just that all these years, would be dredged up. Society’s most feverish suspicions about my dubious character would be confirmed by half-remembered near strangers from years back appearing before the cameras to feed them a steady diet of fresh blood (mine) and bile (theirs).

  There was another, even more sinister possibility: a silent end. No one would hear a thing, not a trace would be left behind . . . One night a car with darkened windows would take me from my home and I’d never be heard of again. How many people would notice my absence and dare to make official inquiries or demand a full investigation? As I pondered this last question, my spirits plummeted, my head throbbed, and a bitter taste flooded my mouth.

  Coming to my senses, I dispensed with that horrible thought. There was no way the authorities could hush up something like this. No, they’d be duly impressed that a pair of local boys could manage such a thing. We’d be lauded as evidence that our country boasted secret talent, with the potential for much more . . . The nation would rise up as one to applaud us. We’d be splashed across the press and forced to appear on TV news programs. In other words, we’d be subjected to a fate worse than prison. And then? Well, when it all blew over I’d have full cosmetic surgery.

  I found myself imagining which aesthetic procedures I’d opt for. I considered which features I’d change, what I’d augment, the bits that needed nipping and the areas that could do with a simple tuck: My prominent cheekbones could be enhanced, and a curvaceous smile designed for the corners of my mouth . . . and why not have a couple of dimples tacked on? So traumatized had I been by Kemal that I completely gave myself over to these whimsies. That’s how Raquel Welch had been created: a series of thirty-six operations, transforming her completely from head to toe. And, to give credit where due, the scalpels and silicone injections had constructed a femme fatale who for decades enlivened the dreams and fantasies of men right across the globe.

  I was losing it. Alright, I was a little scared, quite panicked, and a bit tense. But to sit lost in a reverie about plastic surgery and the merits of being transformed into a second Raquel Welch, with rocket breasts, lips perpetually blowing kisses, buttocks that with each sway sent ogling admirers reeling, eyebrows slightly raised into an alluring semiscowl—no, that was going too far.

  A group of male students a table away at the sidewalk café were staring as they obviously discussed me. Judging from their white-and-blue shirts and loosened dark ties they were still in high school. Their five o‘clock shadows told me they weren’t all that young, though. They were undoubtedly the oldest bunch in school and had probably had to repeat several grades. One of them was good-looking, a tall, lean boy. He was tasty in a way none of the others were. Almost involuntarily, in a habitual response developed over years, I winked at him. He instantly responded right back. Like any true gentleman, and any man who knows the ropes and truly intends to get laid, he kept this exchange hidden from his friends. After all, he obviously knew he was the gem of the bunch.

  Despite this pleasant distraction, my mind returned to Cihad2000, and I remembered that, due to his hysteria, I hadn’t found out why the name Faruk Hanoğlu had appeared among the telephone records he’d downloaded for me. Well, even if I had asked for information, it wasn’t as though he’d have had the presence of mind to furnish it. Once he calmed down, I’d have to dangle the prospect of a session with Pamir in front of him; that way, he’d be sure to cooperate.

  The boys over at the next table were still busily eyeing me, no doubt making lewd comments as they guffawed and carried on. Rambunctious laughter wasn’t the only thing radiating from their table; there was also the primal scent of male sexuality, an almost palpable perfume of lust and desire. Those who recognize it can’t help being affected. There’s something about boys that age, something raw, rapacious, and dizzying: libidos spinning out of control.

  Unleashed libidos or not, I had more important things to do, chief among them phone calls to Ali, to find out if he had any news, and to Ponpon, to get her to arrange a meeting with the Hanoğlu family. I went into the café to use the telephone.

  The phone was in the back, in a quiet corner just outside the toilets. First, I dialed the number for the office. Figen, the miserable secretary, picked up, her voice that of someone about to fade into oblivion.

  “I need to speak to Ali Bey at once,” I said.

  “Yes, of course,” she droned. “But I’ll have to put you on hold. His line’s busy. He must be on the phone.”

  A show of her efficiency was not what I required from Figen at that moment.

  “Figen, I’m calling from a pay phone. I can’t wait. Interrupt him; it’s urgent.”

  I was astonished by the note of panic in my own voice.

  “Well if he gets mad, it’s not my fault. If he yells at me you better tell him it was all your idea.”

  “I will,” I snapped. “Now hurry up and do what you’re told!”

  “Fine, give me a second to go and tell him you’re on the line. I’ll have to put you on hold,” she said, as though I needed a blow-by-blow account of switchboard procedure.

  The line automatically switched to Ali’s CD player and Leonard Cohen singing “I smile when I’m angry” reached my ears. I attempted to do just that.

  As I waited with a meaningless, tense, and completely artificial smile on my face, I glanced up to see the dark boy approaching me. He was taller and thinner than I’d thought. Although he looked slightly bashful, he was striding toward me with an air of purpose. I had no doubt that as he bore down on me he was rehearsing what he’d say.

  I realized too late that the fake smile was still on my lips. I’d been caught.

  “Hello,” he said.

  He had shiny, well-shaped lips.

  My boss spoke to me at the same moment the boy did, Leonard Cohen suddenly replaced by Ali’s tense voice.

  “What is it?”

  The boy’s eyes were on me, his ears pricked to catch everything I said. I was nearly at a loss for words.

  “I think we have a serious problem,” I managed, simultaneously producing a little smile for the boy. Old Leonard was right, of course, but I wondered if the boy realized that anger can also produce a smile. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

  “A problem? What do you mean? We got the job done, didn’t we? They’ve even deposited our money.”

  It was just like Ali to use “we” and “our” even though it was “me” who had done all the work and who would face the consequences.

  I could smell the fresh sweat of the boy an arm’s length away. He’d hung his head in a show of bashfulness, but the eyes peeping out at me from below his eyebrows were bold and proud. And the half smile was as cocky as could be.

  Covering the receiver with a hand, “It’s confidential,” I told him. “I won’t be long,” I added, as though he was in line waiting for the phone.

  “Hello? I can’t hear you. What’s wrong? Like I told you, they’ve even paid up. Let’s not spoil things now.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to find out who the client was? I’m coming to the office. We’ll talk there. Yes, the job went off withou
t a hitch. But that’s just the problem.”

  I could tell the boy wasn’t listening to what I was saying, only looking me up and down hungrily. It wasn’t what I was saying, it’s what I was that intrigued him. His right hand was fumbling around in the pocket of his charcoal trousers. When he noticed my eyes had shifted, involuntarily drawn to the action, he increased his toying.

  Muttering a few more words, I hung up the phone. Ali still had no idea what I was talking about, but he soon would.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, dear,” I said.

  The “dear” had slipped out of my mouth somehow.

  “It’s not important. No problem . . .”

  He grinned.

  He was standing right in front of me. I was pinned in the corner, and forced to take a step toward him as I tried to get out. He didn’t budge.

  “Can we talk?”

  If I refused him on the spot, there would be a scene, and I’d end up harassed by the whole lot of them.

  “Not right now, I’m afraid,” I said. “You heard me on the phone. I’ve got to go to work.”

  “We like you. We think you’re really something.”

  Why the “we”? Was he going to propose a group?

  “That’s very kind, but I’m afraid I haven’t got the time for . . .”

  “We’re all crazy about you. Couldn’t you help us out?”

  Yes, it was an orgy he had in mind.

  “Well, I never!” I bridled, not sounding entirely convincing or at all outraged.

  He felt secure enough to take another step toward me. Inches apart, I could now smell his mint chewing gum. Having undressed me, his eyes, feverish and full of urgency, moved on to doing unspeakable things to my person.

  “It won’t take long.”

  His open desire was seductive, his bravado repulsive; I was wedged between the two. But his fresh masculinity, youthful brazenness, and fumbling hand were getting the better of me. He emanated a raw animal lust rarely seen in older men, who normally play by the rules and care for conventions.

  “A friend of mine lives nearby. His place is free. It’s safe. We could go right now.”