He never finished his sentence. The door opened and in came our cups of
“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
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 Besiktas to sit in a seaside cafe 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 cafe 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 Hanoglu 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 Hanoglu family. I went into the cafe 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.
