kind of furniture you’d expect in a reception area — and I note the surveillance camera in the corner keeping a record of who goes in and out. A pretty Turkish receptionist sits behind the glass window and glances at me every now and then. It’s refreshing to be in a predominantly Muslim country where the rules are relaxed enough that women can reveal their hair and the skin on the arms and legs.
I wait approximately twenty minutes and another lovely Turkish — or maybe Kurdish — woman fetches me and leads me to a door to the right of the receptionist that requires keypad code access. Part of my training with Third Echelon was to try to memorize codes by watching someone press the keys. Depending on how fast the person was, I eventually achieved an eighty-eight-percentile success rating. I stand beside the woman and fake a cough just as she begins the sequence — this creates the illusion that I’m not watching. Her fingers quickly zip over the pad, but I’m able to catch it—8, 6, 0, 2, 5.
The door opens and she leads me through a hallway adorned with Middle Eastern artwork. As we walk I quickly enter the code sequence into my OPSAT so I won’t forget it. We turn a corner and I notice another surveillance camera on the ceiling, and then we enter the head man’s spacious, and very Western, office. In fact, there’s a Picasso hanging on the wall. In one corner of the room stands a table displaying a scale model of a fancy modern building.
Namik Basaran greets me at the door, grins broadly, and holds out his hand as I’m ushered into the room. A very large guy, wearing a suit and a turban, stands to the side and eyes me closely.
“Mr. Fisher, welcome to Turkey,” he says in good English. I shake his hand and thank him. I notice that he’s squeezing a rubber ball in his other hand. He chuckles and says, “It’s for tendonitis. It’s also a nervous habit!” He walks over to his desk and drops the ball into a drawer. He turns to the big guy and says, “You may leave us, Farid, thank you.”
The big guy nods, glares at me once more, and leaves the room.
“My bodyguard,” Basaran explains. “And driver. And assistant. A man in my position can’t be too careful. Poor Farid, I took him into the organization from the street. He’s an Iranian, a victim of Saddam Hussein’s regime. Farid doesn’t speak — his tongue was cut out while he was a prisoner in Abu Ghraib Prison during the Iran-Iraq war. Now, would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”
I shrug and say that I’ll have whatever he has.
“Well, personally at this time of day I prefer a small cup of
I groan inwardly but smile and reply, “That would be fine.”
It’s difficult to determine how old Basaran is, but I’d guess early fifties. He’s medium-height, and, as in the photograph, there’s a noticeable skin condition on his face and hands. I’m not sure what it is. It’s not as bad as skin grafting, but it doesn’t look as if it’s due to some disease, either.
“Very impressive place you have here, Mr. Basaran,” I say.
“Thank you. It’s very gratifying to achieve the success one yearns for in one’s youth and then still be alive to enjoy it.”
“I’m particularly impressed with your airstrip. How do you use it?”
He shrugs. “We ship materials all over. Currently I’m in the process of building an elaborate indoor shopping mall in Northern Cyprus. That’s a model of it over there on the table. Beautiful, isn’t it? We ship materials daily to the island. As you can guess, I’m a firm supporter of Turkey’s right to claim Cyprus. I’m helping the cause by building up the north, giving the people more modern facilities and attractions. This mall will be the largest shopping center of its type in the Middle East.” He shakes his head and sips his tea. “The ongoing struggle with the Greek Cypriots there is tragic. Why can’t they just accept us and be done with it? But that’s a whole other conversation. Now. Tell me what brings you to Van, Mr. Fisher. I read your letter of introduction from Mr. Hamadan, and I see that you work for Interpol. How can I assist you?”
I give him my spiel on how I’m compiling an extensive report on terrorists in the region. Interpol will publish the report and send it to law enforcement agencies all over the world, but most important, it will help in combating terrorism here in the Middle East. “Mr. Hamadan suggested that I speak to you, as I hear you’re an expert on terrorism here in Eastern Turkey,” I say. A little flattery usually goes a long way.
“You give me too much credit,” Basaran says, but he smiles and enjoys the compliment. “I wouldn’t call myself an expert. That’s ridiculous. But I do know some things. I’ve followed the various groups in this area for many years and even met some of the leaders. That is not to say that I’m friendly with any of them. As a Turkish entrepreneur — and a successful one — they probably hate me as much as they hate anyone else in Turkey who favors a Westernized lifestyle. I could probably talk for hours about terrorism, Mr. Fisher, so unless you have specific questions, we might need to postpone our meeting for another time. I am very busy today.”
I decide to drop another name. “I see. Rick Benton also said you’d be very helpful.”
I notice a flicker in his eyes. “You know Mr. Benton?” he asks.
“Only by his work,” I say. “I never met the late Mr. Benton.”
Basaran’s mouth drops slightly. “The
“Yes,” I reply. “He was murdered in Brussels just last week.”
“That
“No, it’s a mystery.”
Basaran takes a sip of tea. “I met him one time. He asked me questions about some of the terrorist groups operating in this part of the country, just as you have asked. I assure you, I am compelled to speak out against terrorism whenever I have a public forum. It is important to me and to my family.”
I’d like to find out more about his family but decide that now’s not the best time.
“You do know about my charity organization, Tirma?” he asks.
“Yes, that’s one reason why I wanted to meet you.”
“Tirma is a personal project for me. I’ve pledged much of my income to help fight terrorism, and Tirma allows me to make a difference — if only a small one.”
“It’s not-for-profit, I take it?”
“Certainly. With an all-volunteer staff, I might add. If you’d care to quit Interpol and work for us for free, we would be more than happy to have you!” He laughed boisterously.
I laugh, too, but quickly swing the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Well, since you’re pressed for time, I do have a couple of specific questions.”
“Fire away.”
“What do you know about the Shop and what do you know about the Shadows?”
Basaran nodded, as if he was expecting the question. “Mr. Benton asked me the same thing. Those two groups are becoming the hot topics on everyone’s list. As far as the Shadows are concerned, our friend Tarighian has certainly taken the word
“Tarighian?” I feign ignorance.
“Nasir Tarighian,” Basaran says. “He’s the money behind the Shadows. Didn’t you know?”
“I thought Nasir Tarighian died in the 1980s.”
“That’s what he wants everyone to believe. But he’s alive and well, and financing and directing the Shadows’ operations with a firm hand. I’m afraid that no one knows where he is, though. Or much about his personal life, either. He’s a very mysterious man, just like his organization. It is said that Tarighian lives like a nomad, much like Osama Bin-Laden. He and his band of merry terrorists travel from one place to another so they can’t be caught. I imagine they live in caves in the mountains somewhere.”
“Any guesses as to what country they stay in the most?”
“I think it’s Armenia, Georgia, or Azerbaijan. It’s safer for them there. If they were in Turkey, they’d probably be caught. If they were in Iran, they’d probably be caught. If they were in Iraq, they’d most
“Do you know an Ahmed Mohammed?” I ask.
“Yes, indeed. He’s the more visible leader of the Shadows. Perhaps
