sports cars.”
Basaran shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. Still, I fear that Arab opinion of America has been so badly damaged that recovery may be impossible.”
I tend to agree with that statement, but I think it’s best to change the subject. “So, tell me, how did you get so interested in fighting terrorism? Or rather, providing relief for terrorist victims?”
“Everyone has a passion, don’t they? Mine is helping victims of evil doers. I have seen first hand the tragedy that befalls families when their loved ones are killed by a suicide bomber or by a land mine or by a hijacked airplane that is flown into a building.”
“Forgive me if I’m being too outspoken here, but I sense that terrorism has affected you personally.”
Basaran’s eyes cloud over for a second. I hit a nerve, I know I did. “Doesn’t terrorism affect everyone personally?” he asks, avoiding the question.
“The thing is, terrorism is a means to an end that really doesn’t accomplish what the terrorists hope to achieve,” I answer.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Governments don’t usually change their policies because of terrorism.”
“That’s not entirely true,” he says. “Look what happened in Spain when the Madrid train was bombed. The people voted out the existing government. Make no mistake — terrorism makes its point in a number of ways. People today are more frightened of terrorism than of anything else. Look what’s happening in Iraq. That can’t go on forever. Pretty soon something will break and the terrorists will win there.”
“Do you really believe that?” I ask.
Basaran suddenly slams his fist on the table, startling other diners around us and surprising me. “Iraq will fall again! I know it will. Iraq will fall and American interests in the region will be in jeopardy. You just wait and see!” He quickly gains composure and says, “Forgive me. I get carried away sometimes.”
The outburst seems to have come from nowhere. Does Namik Basaran have something against Iraq? It’s obvious he’s not fond of American foreign policy, but there’s something else at work here. I decide to steer the conversation in yet another direction.
“Mr. Basaran, we were talking earlier about the Shadows, and we didn’t get around to discussing the Shop. Can you tell me anything about them?”
Basaran appears embarrassed by his show of emotion. He sits for a few seconds and sips his raki as if he’s considering what information he should reveal.
“The Shop,” he begins, weighing his words, “are despicable. From what I can gather, they are interested only in making money. They do not care whom they harm in the process. They don’t give a damn about political, religious, or sociological issues. They provide a service and they’re very good at it. There have been many clandestine arms dealers in the world but none as nefarious and well organized as the Shop.”
“Who are they? What’s their chain of command?” I ask.
“No one knows. It’s run like a mafia family, though. There’s a boss and his trusted lieutenants, and then each lieutenant has an order of battle beneath him that spreads like a genealogical chart. They have their fingers everywhere, not just in the Middle East. I imagine they have a branch in Switzerland, my friend.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“As for the leadership? It is rumored that the Shop is led by a small group of wealthy bankers, former military officers, and corporate presidents from Russia and the former Soviet satellites.”
“Russia. That’s what I’ve always thought. Any idea of who the big boss is?”
Basaran looks around to make sure no one is listening. He leans forward and whispers. “I’ve heard a name. I don’t know how accurate it is. Have you ever come across the name Zdrok?”
Interesting. It’s the name Rick Benton had written on his chart. It’s also the name of a man I heard Basaran curse earlier today.
“I may have heard that name before,” I say. “Who is he?”
“Andrei Zdrok. He’s from Georgia, I believe. Very wealthy financier. If he is not the head of the Shop, then he’s very high in its bureaucracy.”
“Have you ever met him?”
Basaran shakes his head. “Of course not. As I said, I don’t know if he exists. It’s just a name that has come up. It may mean nothing.”
I doubt it. I sit back and reflect on this. Basaran has just lied to me. He wouldn’t curse a man that didn’t exist. I now know I can’t trust Namik Basaran any more than I can trust the terrorist I called No-Tooth. I’m going to have to take a closer look at Akdabar Enterprises after the sun goes down.
We are served strong coffee—
“I love it here,” Basaran says. “The sunsets on the lake are particularly rewarding.”
“Are you from here originally?” I ask.
“Actually I’m from a small village at the foot of Mount Ararat called Dogubayazit. Do you know it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Drab little place. I was happy to leave when I was old enough.”
“You’ve managed to build yourself a very successful life.”
Basaran waves his cigar. “Luck. A little luck and making some smart investments. That’s all. I’m not qualified to really
“When do you foresee the mall being finished?”
“It almost is! It’s been under construction for three years. I expect to open the doors within weeks, but I hope to have a completion ceremony in the coming days.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“And what does the Republic of Cyprus have to say about it?”
He waves his cigar again. “Those damned Greek Cypriots can go hang themselves. They’ll be in a bother for a while and then settle down. That’s the way things are in Cyprus. It heats up for a period, then cools down. It keeps everyone on his toes. What’s important is that the opening of the shopping mall will show the world that the Turks are in Cyprus to stay.”
I wonder if the south will be that easily conciliated. For a guy who spends a lot of money, time, and energy supposedly fighting terrorism, Basaran sure is opinionated about politics. Reza warned me as such.
When the waiter brings the bill, Basaran snatches it up and waves his cigar again. “Do not protest. This is my pleasure.” He looks at his watch and says, “Alas, I must call an end to our very pleasant evening together. I do wish you luck with your Interpol report, Mr. Fisher. I hope to have a copy of it when it is published.”
“Certainly. Thank you very much for the dinner.”
“Not at all.”
We stand after he leaves a stack of bills on the table. We say good night to the maitre d’ and step outside into the brisk night air. The big bodyguard appears from the shadows to stand beside his master. Basaran holds out his hand and I shake it. “Good night, Mr. Fisher. Pleasant journeys.”
“Thank you. You, too.”
I have to cross the surprisingly busy main street that cuts through the square. I wait as five cars rumble by and casually look back to the restaurant and see Basaran and the bodyguard still standing there, watching me. I give them a little wave and Basaran does the same. I turn back to the road and see the approaching headlights of a sixth car some distance away. I figure I can make it across the square before it gets here. As I step off the pavement, the car’s wheels screech and the vehicle speeds toward me.
For the first time in my life I freeze. Even as it’s happening I realize I’m unable to move and I don’t know why. Normally I would have reacted by instinct and leaped to the side, but for some reason that I cannot fathom I don’t know what to do. I’m a deer on the road, caught in the beams.
Something prompts me to look back at Basaran. He, too, seems to be frozen in place, his eyes glued to me. Why isn’t he moving? Shouldn’t he be shouting “Mr. Fisher, look out!” or something like that?
And that’s what jars my senses. It’s
