didn’t have time for extraneous murders.
CHAPTER 38
Let it play with your hair, this gentle breeze
Blowing from the seven seas.
Nedim, 17th Century Turkish poet
Perihan Kıraz had mixed feelings as she tramped around the dig at Iznik. The old enthusiasm always returned when the work restarted in the fall. The hot summer months she spent in the university classroom made anthropology seem hazy and distant, full of facts or surmises but nothing hands-on.
Here she inhaled the scent of freshly-cut wheat and soil dry from the rainless summer. The smells of Mother Earth. Her students’ eyes sparkled as they came across a bit of column or statuary—or even a piece of Iznik ceramics—after hours of fruitless digging, sifting, and hoping. Perhaps the brightest spot in this assignment was working with Oktay Fener, her university colleague. He was on the other side of the dig, laboring as hard as any of his students.
Oktay. She smiled, savoring the warm glow that always accompanied his name. Did he feel the same way? If he did, he was far too loyal to his wife to say anything intimate to her, Perihan. She was satisfied with the bond she knew drew them together.
He was a subject of attack by certain right-leaning newspapers who viewed with suspicion his close ties to universities in Hamburg and Chicago. The Turkish academic community was outraged at the newspaper attacks—especially since they were often followed by violence. Being an intellectual was a goal for many in Turkey. And it had become dangerous.
She glanced over at him again, the cold bite of fear dimming her enjoyment of the day. She was even afraid for herself, at times.
Oktay had been shot a few months ago—right here at the dig. His shoulder wound had healed. But the atmosphere of fear in the archaeologist community had not.
Perihan shivered. She still could hardly believe it, a gunshot breaking the quiet at the dig. They had stopped work for more than a week as the police investigated.
They had not found the perpetrator.
He was out there somewhere. He, or she.
CHAPTER 39
The sun moved the shadows over me. Power and its crimes are remembered, the revolts against the decisions of the powerful all too easily forgotten.
Mary Lee Settle, Turkish Reflections
I wrote as fast as I could while my New Best Friend, Haldun Kutlu, filled me in on what was happening in Turkey and the stories I’d be covering. After the abrupt end to our conversation yesterday, I’d asked if I could come back at what amounted to the crack of dawn the next day, nine a.m. I’d said I needed a longer talk and advice about things other than Peter Franklin.
To make sure I didn’t lose any of it, I was taping our session. Haldun’s concise and well-informed review indicated that his mind was more orderly than his office—and he gave unstintingly of his stored information.
“As you know, the Kurdish question has vexed Turkey since independence in 1920. It’s not easy having a fierce, nomadic minority that spills across your borders into Iraq and Iran. Unfortunately, our army has usually tried to deal with Kurds by stamping out their individuality by force—I do not defend the tactics.”
I was nodding and writing as he went on: “The result of a very complicated scenario is that now we have Kurdish extremists who receive training from other radical groups and set off bombs in our cities. They kill innocent people, just like the leftist groups back during the Cold War… And like more recent rightists… And, of course, like the secret police, that shadowy presence that has helped to give Turkey a bad name on human rights for many years.”
I hated to break in but feared that Haldun would get tired or busy and send me away.
“On the Kurds. Was Peter by any chance doing a special story on that?” His notes showed some urgency.
“Hmmm. I see what you are thinking.” His voice came slowly, almost hesitantly, not at all like his confidence a moment ago. “I’m not sure. Of course the Kurdish extremist question ties in with some of the drug and arms smuggling, too. With Iran and Iraq to the east, Chechnya and Armenia to the north, and Bosnia, Bulgaria and Rumania to the west.…” He jabbed a nicotine-stained finger up, down, right, and left as he spoke. “And all those former communist mafias lurking in the area—you are going to have tie-ins. Terrorist groups need money and arms. Drugs often are the way for getting them.”
Haldun lit another Yeni Bahar. Its aromatic smoke filled the air and added a layer to the smudge on the window. I choked in as polite a fashion as possible.
“And Islamic fundamentalism…does that tie in, too?”
Haldun stirred his tea and sipped. “Of course, the Islamist movement should be helping to curb the drug trade. The country is a lot more religious than it used to be. You’ve probably seen more women wearing scarves than they used to—my own wife has started doing it and people in villages have always been conservative. It’s a swing of the pendulum after the years dominated by Atatürk and his secularism. But extremists enter every movement, good or bad, and when they do, all bets are off.”
“Especially when Iran is your immediate neighbor,” I murmured.
“Yes. Yes! Then, of course, there are the ultra-nationalists to think about. The right-wing neo-Nazis.”
“You mean the terrorist groups that target professors and intellectuals they find too liberal?” They’d been doing that back when I lived in Turkey.
“Exactly. The biggest group is the Silver Wolves.”
I was writing as fast as I could. “Quite a cast of characters… But you still haven’t answered my question about Peter. Did he ever talk to you about any of these stories?”
Haldun stood up, stretched as he lighted yet another cigarette, and signaled for me to turn off the tape recorder.
CHAPTER 40
“And do you know what I’ll do, Resul Efendi? I’ll go straight to Ankara, to the Ministry and tell them what I’ve seen with my own eyes. I won’t give up the fight.”
Yașar Kemal, Anatolian Tales
“I suppose it is time to talk about Franklin,” Haldun Kutlu muttered. He went to the window and scowled out at the sodden day.
“You probably think Franklin learned too much and was, shall we say, disposed of,” Haldun said, turning back to me.
“Of course I think he was murdered!” I was surprised at the conviction in my voice. Journalists are like cops—they hate to see one of their own get taken out. And they can’t stand to see false evidence tainting a good man’s reputation after he can no longer defend himself.
Kutlu sat back down, his broad gestures rumpling his hair and suit even more. “I happen to agree with you,” he growled. “Franklin was a good journalist and was getting close to some stories plenty of people could have taken exception to. My guess is someone took violent exception. Now is that person—or group—Turkish or foreign? Or some kind of mix? Without the police behind us, it won’t be easy finding out. I have
