It was funny, though, how a steel awl through the hand concentrated his mind. He looked at me, listening to every word I said, biting his lip with the pain.
‘You’re a good bass player,’ I told him, ‘maybe one of the best I’ve heard – and I know what I’m talking about – but it’s not the world’s fault it didn’t work out for you.
‘You don’t like playing covers of other people’s music? Then leave. Write stuff, put on concerts of folk music for tourists, do something – but drop the attitude.
‘That’s the advice, here’s the warning. Lie to me now and I promise you won’t be able to do any of those things, not even “Mamma Mia” for the ten thousandth time – you’ll be lucky if you can strum a ukulele with your fucking teeth. Okay?’
He nodded, scared, probably thinking I was some sort of US government-sanctioned psycho. I thought of telling him that was the post office, not the FBI, but decided to let it ride. I ordered him to hold perfectly still, and I managed to extract the awl without causing any further damage. He gasped with the pain, but that was nothing compared with the yell he let out when I doused the wound with a liberal splash from the open bottle of raki standing on the table.
‘Alcohol,’ I explained, ‘is a great antiseptic.’ I grabbed a piece of white linen he had been intending to use to polish the folk instrument when he was finished and bound his hand. I did it expertly, just tight enough to ease the pain and restrict the bleeding.
‘You were a doctor?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I just picked up a bit of knowledge along the way – dressing gunshot wounds, mostly.’
He stared at me and decided I wasn’t joking, which was the attitude I needed. ‘Were you playing the çigirtma – yes or no?’ I asked again as soon as I had tied off the bandage.
‘Yes,’ he replied, thankful to have his hand back and flexing the fingers to make sure they still worked.
‘How was my pronunciation this time – okay?’
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘It seems to have improved greatly, thanks to the needle.’
I couldn’t help it – I laughed. I poured him a shot of the raki and took the edge off my voice.
‘I want you to listen to a piece of music,’ I said, pulling out the MP3 player. ‘Is that you?’
He listened for a moment. ‘Yeah … yeah, it is,’ he replied, his voice full of surprise.
I knew then, without any doubt, that logic had not fallen victim to emotion.
‘How did you record it?’ Pamuk asked, indicating the MP3 player.
‘Somebody came in to get gas,’ I lied. ‘A person in the car was on the phone and left a message on an answering machine in New York. The music was playing in the background. It’s a murder investigation – I can’t say any more than that.’
The last thing I wanted was to reveal the importance of the phone box – even allude to its existence – and I was pleased to see he was totally down with my explanation.
‘New York?’ he said, smiling. ‘Wow – an international recording artist at last.’
I smiled and indicated what I had seen on the gas station’s office and roof. ‘You’ve got video cameras,’ I said.
‘Yeah, in case anyone drives off without paying. Armed robberies too, but there hasn’t been one in years.’
‘Listen, Mr Pamuk, this is important – what system is used to record the footage? Tape or disk?’
‘It’s old. Tape,’ he replied. ‘VHS.’
‘Where is it – the system and the tapes?’
‘They’re both here – in the office.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘How are the tapes catalogued, filed?’
He laughed. ‘What filing? There’s a box and the tapes are thrown in.’
‘Then reused – recorded over?’
‘That’s right,’ he said.
It was exactly what I had feared – that one of the cameras had captured the woman approaching the phone box – either on foot or by car – but that the tape had been reused and the footage wiped.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Tell me how it works. Who changes the tapes?’
‘We all do – whoever’s working,’ he explained. ‘The first thing you do when you start your shift is make sure the right amount of money is in the cash register, and then you check the recording equipment.
‘If the tape is close to running out,’ he continued, ‘you eject it, throw it in the box, select another one, rewind it and hit record.’
‘So some tapes might not have been used for weeks or months, that right?’ I asked.
‘Sure – depends on which one somebody grabs. For all I know, ones at the bottom of the box might not have been used for a year.’
I took a moment to think: it was going to be a roll of the dice, that was for sure. ‘What happens if somebody drives off without paying?’ I queried.
‘We go to the system, wind it back, take down the licence tag and call the cops.’
‘Do you give them the tape? For a prosecution, anything like that?’
He looked at me and laughed in disbelief. ‘This is Turkey, Mr Wilson. The cops trace the licence tag and go talk to the guy. Pretty soon he agrees to cough up twice the amount on the pump, which then goes to the gas station. He also has to pay a “fine” to the cops, which they pocket. Who needs a prosecution? Everybody’s happy except the guy who did the runner, and nobody cares about him.’
The system had its advantages for me too – it meant that none of the tapes were at the Bodrum police station or drifting through the judicial system.
‘And you look at the tapes on a TV in the office, right?’
‘Sure,’ he replied, then watched as I walked around the front of the gas station, looking at every camera, working out their fields of vision. It was going to be close, very close, whether they captured her – whether she came by foot or car, she would have had to walk to the phone box. If she had stayed very close to the kerb I didn’t think any of the cameras would have picked her up. And that was even assuming I could find the right tape and it hadn’t been recorded over.
‘Are the tapes time-coded – you can see the date, hours and minutes running along the bottom?’ I asked.
He nodded – yeah – and that gave me one advantage: thanks to Echelon, I knew the exact dates and times of both phone calls.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Take me into the office. I want to look at the tapes.’
Chapter Forty-five
AN HOUR LATER, alone, I was still sitting in front of the ancient black-and-white TV, its screen little bigger than my hand, and its definition about as good.
Beside me was a large stack of VHS tapes that I had already reviewed and a small collection of ones which I hadn’t yet seen, the fast-diminishing repository of all my hopes. Maybe the Western world’s too, but it was best not to think about that.
The office was cramped and, if it had been cleaned in the last decade, I would have been surprised. Despite the heat – air-conditioning hadn’t yet reached BP in Bodrum – there was no chance of falling asleep. The chair I was sitting in was so wrecked and uncomfortable that I had to get up every few minutes to give my back and butt a chance of survival.
All the time, stopping only to throw another tape on the discard pile, the time code was flying by in front of me, threatening to send me cross-eyed before the day was over. Just in case I got myself confused, I had written down the date, hour and minute of each phone call and allowed a margin of fifteen minutes on either side just to make sure she hadn’t arrived early or waited around afterwards.
Frequently checking the notation, I had come close a couple of times, watching the time code roar towards one of the appointed times, feeling my pulse race and the fatigue lift, only to see the tape stop abruptly and then find myself watching footage from a totally different week.
On one agonizing occasion I came within a hundred and forty seconds of the first phone call and I was certain the woman was about to walk into frame when the TV set suddenly went to a blizzar
d of static as the tape ran out completely and I was left staring in despair and disbelief. Ahmut Pamuk hadn’t been kidding when he said the system was chaotic.
I was down to my last three tapes when he appeared at the door. ‘Wanna coffee?’ he asked.
I hesitated, looking sceptical, I guess.
He laughed. ‘I know what you’re thinking: Not more of that Turkish crap – so thick you don’t know whether to drink it or chew it. I’m not offering that – I’m suggesting a cup of real American java, as thin as piss, so weak we Turks normally serve it in baby bottles.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I said.
‘One condition,’ he replied. ‘I’ll go and buy ’em, I’ll humiliate myself with the café owner on your behalf, but if anyone pulls in you have to pump the gas.’
‘Okay,’ I said. With just three tapes left, I knew the chances of seeing the woman were negligible, and I had pretty much given up – apart from a miracle, a coffee was just what I needed.
I had finished the next tape and was partway through the second-to-last one when Pamuk handed me the coffee. I took the top off, looked around to find a garbage can, discarded the lid and looked back at the screen. It had jumped nine days and, with a growing sense of wonder, I saw the code at the bottom counting down fast to the date and time of the second phone call.
I checked my notation just to make sure – confirmed it – and couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. Behind me, Pamuk was standing in the doorway, enjoying his treacle-like coffee, and I knew that if I saw the woman I couldn’t react – he thought I was looking for someone pulling in to pump gas and, if I proved myself a liar, that would open up a rat’s nest of questions. Apart from that, there was a risk – however slight – that he would know the woman. Totally neutral, I told myself: keep it calm.
‘Did you mean what you said before?’ Pamuk asked, taking the opportunity to kick back and have a chat.
‘About what?’ I kept watching the footage, too frightened to try to skip forward in case I missed something.
‘Me being one of the best you’d heard.’
‘It’s true,’ I replied, watching the seconds fly by and click over into another minute. Keep going, I urged it silently: Keep going.
‘Did you play yourself?’ said Pamuk.
‘When I was a kid – just good enough to know I’d never be great. I would have given anything to have had your talent.’
He said nothing. I wanted to look at his face to see his reaction, but I couldn’t break my concentration. If I was going to catch sight of her, it would be very soon. I shot a glance to check the VHS player – there was plenty of tape left but, thanks to BP’s security system, that was no guarantee. It could jump a day, a week or a month at any moment. I looked back at the screen, watching the seconds cascade past and feeling Pamuk’s presence behind me.
He grew larger in my mind and a strange emotion settled on me – I suppose all my senses were supercharged – but I had the feeling, the certainty, that I had been put into his life for a reason. It reminded me of the priest I had met in Thailand long ago who said that perhaps our paths had crossed so that he could tell me something. It felt like it was my turn to pass it on.
My concentration didn’t waver, my eyes didn’t shift. ‘You hate the work you do,’ I said quietly, ‘you hate the music you have to play, and that’s enough to cripple a man’s heart. Any man.’
On the screen there was no sign of a vehicle or a pedestrian – nothing. Maybe she was walking closer or parking her car and would stay so tight to the kerb that she would avoid the camera’s field of vision altogether – and that was assuming the tape didn’t run out or make one of its sudden jumps. I looked at the time code again, flying ever closer to the appointed minute for the call.
If I didn’t see her soon, the tiny window would have closed for ever.
I kept my voice even, neutral, nothing to betray anxiety or excitement. ‘I met a man once – this was many years ago,’ I continued. ‘He was a Buddhist monk and he told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said that if you want to be free, all you have to do is let go.’
Pamuk made no reply and, of course, I had no way of seeing his face. I watched the time code chew through the seconds – where was she?
Where was she?
‘That’s interesting,’ Pamuk said at last, and repeated it: ‘All you have to do is let go. Is that what you’re telling me I should do – let go of the crap jobs?’
‘I’m not telling you anything. But maybe it’s what I’m really doing here – I’ve been put on the road to pass it on, so to speak. Take it as a gift, if you want.’
I saw a car on the screen. It swung through the frame as if it was going to park: a Fiat, I thought, dark-coloured, but it was hard to say on a black-and-white TV. I didn’t sit forward in my seat, even though I wanted to. I just flexed my shoulders as if I were stretching.
I checked the time code – it was damn near perfect. Moments later, a woman appeared from where she must have parked. She was a Muslim with a headscarf on, the usual long dress, her head down as she hurried towards where I knew the phone box was located.
Halfway past the pumps, well away from the kerb, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a cellphone. Then she stopped, glanced around as if she were making sure that nobody was watching, and I saw her face for the first time.
I stared at it for what seemed like minutes but, according to the time code, amounted to slightly more than two seconds. She checked the time on her watch, moved towards the phone box and disappeared from sight.
I barely moved. I kept my attention on the screen even though my mind was racing, feigning what I hoped was just the right body language to convince Pamuk I had seen nothing that would interest me. A short time later – maybe a few minutes, but it was hard for me to judge – the tape ran out, and I never saw the woman emerge from the phone box.
I used the static as an excuse to turn and see if Pamuk had registered anything untoward. He wasn’t there.
I had been so engrossed in what was happening on the screen that I hadn’t heard a car pull in for gas or noticed that Pamuk had left to attend to it. I sat in solitude and silence for a long time, thinking about the woman I had seen. Finally, I got to my feet and walked out of the door. If nothing else, the fresh air would do me good.
Pamuk had just finished serving another customer and, as they drove off, he turned towards me. ‘Find what you were looking for?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I lied.
‘Is that why you look so pale?’
‘A few hours in your so-called office would do that to anyone,’ I told him.
He smiled. ‘I want to thank you for what you said – that thing about being free.’
‘Don’t mention it. Sorry about stabbing you with the needle.’
‘I probably deserved it – about time somebody made me wake up.’ He laughed.
We shook hands, and I walked away. We never saw each other again, but a few years later I was listening to National Public Radio and I heard him interviewed. I learned that by then he’d had a string of hits playing traditional instruments and had become a sort of Turkish Kenny G. His biggest-selling album was called If You Want to be Free.
Alone, deep in thought, I headed down the road and into the fading afternoon. I hadn’t taken the VHS tape with me, the one thing that would have helped identify the woman, because I didn’t need it. I had recognized her face when she had stopped to look around.
It was Leyla Cumali.
Chapter Forty-six
SHORTLY AFTER 9/11, when the US Air Force started bombing sites in Afghanistan to try to kill the leadership of al-Qaeda, a woman living in a remote village became a legend in the mosques where Islamic fundamentalism flourishes.
The air force dropped several laser-guided bombs on a nondescript house but, unfortunately, the US intelligence community had got it wrong again. A man by the name of Ayman al-Zawahiri wasn’t in the building – just his wife and a group of his children.<
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Out of nowhere, in the middle of a freezing night, the huge explosions levelled the house and killed most of the kids. Their mother, however – badly injured – survived. Almost immediately, men from the surrounding houses fell upon the ruins and, cursing the Americans and swearing eternal vengeance, tore at the masonry and rubble with their bare hands to get to the woman.
She was conscious, unable to move, but she knew that in the chaos of the attack she had not had the opportunity to put on her veil. She heard the rescuers digging closer and, once they got within earshot – frantic – she ordered them to stop. As the wife of an Islamic fundamentalist and a devout Muslim, she would not allow any man who was not a direct relation to see her unveiled face. She said she would rather die than be a party to it, and it was no idle threat. Despite the pleas of the rescuers and several of their womenfolk, she could not be persuaded otherwise and, several hours later, still unveiled, she succumbed to the effects of her wounds and died.
I had read about the incident shortly after it had happened, and I was thinking again about such a level of religious devotion or madness – choose the definition which suits you best – as I walked through the streets of Bodrum. In the back of my mind, it had been exactly that sort of woman I had expected to find using a preconfigured message on a cellphone to communicate with the world’s most wanted terrorist. Instead I got Cumali – a modern working woman by most standards, driving up alone in her black Italian car, and I just couldn’t square that circle.
Certainly the guy in the Hindu Kush was the first of a new breed of Islamic fanatic – intelligent, well educated, technologically accomplished – the sort of man who made the 9/11 hijackers look like the thugs and ruffians they were. At last the West had encountered an enemy worthy of our fear, and my private belief was that he was the face of the future – pretty soon, we would all be longing for the good old days of suicide bombers and hijackers. But however sophisticated he might have been, he was still a cast-iron disciple of Islam, and yet his only collaborator, as far as we knew, appeared to be anything but a fundamentalist. Yes, she dressed modestly in accordance with her religion, but Leyla Cumali didn’t appear to be al-Zawahiri’s wife by any stretch of the imagination.