Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [89]
Blood rushed to my head, and I knew that if I didn’t keep my composure, I was going to say the first words that came to mind, and that I would regret it later.
“You have no right to order me around like that, Haldun Abi. Especially when it comes to a matter like this. Take it any further and I’ll have to bring you in,” I replied.
He began to laugh. It seemed my words had put him in a good humor. He laid down his fork, which was still wrapped in spaghetti, and covered his mouth with a napkin. The color was back in his chubby cheeks.
“I know more about those guys who died in the skyscrapers than you do.”
“As much as you’ve heard on the news,” I said.
He picked up his glass and took a sip. He leaned back, relaxed, it seemed.
“I knew every one of them,” he said.
“You trying to get me to cough up some info about the investigation, Haldun Abi?” I asked.
“I don’t need to. Like I said, I know more than you do.”
“What do you know?”
“Every one of them was on the board of directors at the firm where he worked. These aren’t ordinary, unconnected murders. I’m going to tell you why, but first you have to tell me why you suspect lhan.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“Yes, you can. If you don’t, then I can’t tell you who’s next.”
I looked at the plate of mantı in front of me. I felt bloated, though I’d only had a few spoonfuls. I motioned for the waiter. I asked him to take my plate and bring me a beer.
I turned and stared at Haldun Abi. “How can you help me?”
“If you tell me what you know, I’ll answer all your questions. Now let’s start with lhan,” he said.
I had a slight headache. I undressed and took a shower. When I got into bed, I couldn’t erase the image of Haldun Abi’s scornful smile from my mind. I picked up my phone from beneath the bedside lamp and called Faruk, waking him. I told him to come to the hotel for breakfast in the morning with all the files on the murders with him, and to pick up a copy of The Communist Manifesto—a legitimate one—on his way over.
* * *
Once we’d finished our dinner, we moved to the restaurant bar. I wanted to go back to the hotel, but Haldun Abi said that he hadn’t yet told me what it was he really wanted to say. I couldn’t possibly grasp the real reason he wanted me to go back to Ankara, he said, and he didn’t know what he had to do to make me understand.
“Just cut to the chase then,” I said, “and tell me.”
He began tapping out a rhythm on the glass of beer in front of him; he seemed to be mumbling a tune to himself. “Have you read The Communist Manifesto?” he asked.
“Back when I was in the police academy, yes,” I said with a smile.
“Good, then maybe you’ll recall how it starts: A specter is haunting Europe …” He began to laugh. Either he was shitting me or he was testing me. “Marx came up with this theory, shortly before his death, that the center of the world revolution had moved to the east, and everyone thought that meant Russia.” He looked at me silently, with an earnest expression on his face, as if his words held some profound meaning. “These skyscrapers are built on the bodies of revolutionaries. These deaths aren’t murders, they’re revenge.” His face was red now, but it wasn’t from all the beer, it was because he was in pain; tears had welled up in his eyes and he was trying hard to keep them in.
“So is a leftist organization responsible for this? Or is someone bigger behind it?”
“No, no. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
I woke the next morning to the ringing of my hotel room phone. I felt like I’d been roused from a nightmare just in time.
“I’m in the lobby, Sadık Bey,” said Faruk.
A corner of the breakfast table was covered with files, and on top lay a copy of the Manifesto. I picked up the book and flipped past the prefaces. The book started just as Haldun Abi had said.
I went ahead and began eating my breakfast in silence. I could see from Faruk’s face that he had a million and one questions