Faruk Hanoğlu lives in Yeniköy, right on the shores of the Bosphorus. At the front gate, apparently expecting me, was an elderly creature in the early stages of fossilization. As soon as I told him my name, I was waved through into an enormous, beautifully manicured garden that stretched from the main road all the way to the sea. Although it was night, I was certain not a single dried leaf had been allowed to fall to the ground, not a single wayward branch allowed to live. It was a secret paradise hidden behind high walls. The house stood in a small wood at the end of a long, well-lit path lined with ancient trees. A few steps led up to the glass door of the main building, in which a rather younger, better-dressed figure waited to greet me. In his forties, he wasn’t in traditional butler gear, wasn’t even in a suit. Over a beige shirt, he wore a brown V-neck sweater.
“Welcome,” he said. “Faruk Bey will see you in a moment. Come in.”
I was led to a ground floor room built virtually over the sea.
“Could I get you any refreshments while you wait?”
It was the most cordial offer I’d had for some time. His tone was refined and reflected a perfectly modulated courtesy, the correct balance of respectful distance and gracious warmth. Whatever he was, he did it beautifully.
He ushered me into a room at least half the size of my entire flat but clearly not furnished as a living room, or even a sitting room. It served only as a waiting room for guests like me. Facing each other were a pair of antique sofas. Two spindly chairs with wooden arms and threadbare Gobelin cushions stood guard. Heavy, matching gilt framed a series of wall mirrors and an ominous still life of a watermelon and a bunch of grapes.
As for the view from the window, only a string of adjectives like “fabulous,” “marvelous,” and “extraordinary” could begin to describe it. The dark of night lent the scene an element of mystery and otherworldliness; in the murky waters of the strait glowed the lights of the opposite shore and passing ships. I felt that if I leaped through the window I would become a part of the fairy-tale world outside.
As I sipped water from a fine antique glass, I tried to decide what to say to Faruk Hanoğlu. I’d just begun losing myself in the watery view when the door opened and the master of the house entered dressed in a Muzaffer Tema costume: a silk dressing gown and crimson ascot. I had no idea that anyone actually dressed like that anymore. A film had come to life. On his face was a smile of the sort favored by his sister, an affectation of snobbish nobility.
“Merhaba,” he said, shaking my hand. “Welcome. I hope you haven’t waited long. Ponpon’s call took me by surprise. But when she said it was urgent I couldn’t bring myself to refuse her. We’re so fond of Ponpon, you see.”
I thanked him.
“Do forgive me,” he said, “but I haven’t got much time. As you know, we don’t normally work nights.”
Right from the start the guy was trying to make me feel guilty. He was still standing and his smile couldn’t conceal the tension around his lips. I had been granted an audience under duress, and I was meant to realize as much.
“How funny, we just get going at night,” I chirped. “You know, the nightclub business.”
“Look,” he said, “let me be frank. Normally I don’t offer special treatment in cases like this. But Ponpon called. And was most insistent. She told me you required a fairly insignificant sum, and that you needed it immediately, tonight… Something about a difficult creditor or a routine payment of some kind. Of course, none of that interests us.”
“Yes…” was all I managed in reply.
“I think you’ll appreciate that large amounts of cash are not kept in the house. In fact, we don’t deal in cash at all. Our business is making money from money. We put everything to work, all we have. But you’re in luck. We’ve retrieved a certain amount just tonight.”
“Well, aren’t I the lucky one?” I grinned.
If he detected a note of sarcasm, he didn’t let on.
“How much do you require?”
When I didn’t answer, he continued, “As I told you, we never have much cash at hand.”
We’d never get anywhere if we went on in this vein. He was anxious to slap a cash loan into my hand at a not entirely exorbitant rate of interest and to see the back of me. And the sooner the better. The thought of taking his money and never paying him back gave me a certain wicked pleasure. After all, in his eyes I was the manager of a fifth-rate tranny club, a lowlife in difficult straits for reasons undoubtedly connected to the underworld, a credit risk who happened to be a friend of Ponpon’s. But I hadn’t come here to rip him off.
It was time to lay my cards on the table.
“Look,” I said, “the loan was just a ruse to get my foot in the door. There’s something else we need to talk about.”
As I talked, he became less smug, his shoulders falling along with his face. He even deigned to sit down across from me, growing more and more tense as he listened.
As I was finishing, I added, “Don’t forget. I’m on your side. I never really thought you’d killed Volkan. With your help, I can find out who did, and why. But I wasn’t happy about that business with the phone records. Just what did you think you were doing?”
He stared at me blankly.
“What can you prove?” he finally said. “You haven’t got a shred of evidence.”
“I have all I need.”
He laughed nervously.
“You mean nothing!”
His voice had reached a new pitch.
“I have enough evidence both for myself and-if it’s appropriate-the police.”
Once again, I was winging it. But I sincerely believed that with Cihad2000’s help we would turn up something.
He carefully scrutinized my face before looking deeply into my eyes. His left eye seemed slightly out of synch. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up cross-eyed. It could be a blood sugar problem, I mused.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to say to you. I told the police all they need to know. They’re doing their jobs. None of this concerns you.”
“Perhaps. But the police know nothing about the phone records.”
“That’s your problem. It has nothing to do with me. I didn’t even know about it. You’re making unfounded accusations and nonexistent connections.”
“But I can prove it…”
“Sure you can,” he said. “We’ll never get anywhere like this.”
Standing up, he walked over to the door.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
I was being thrown out. Slowly rising to my feet, I stole one last glance at the amazing view, hoping to keep the image alive forever.
“You know best,” I said. “I have no choice but to protect myself. If I find myself in trouble, don’t blame me for getting others involved-and that includes the police.”
Icy eyes were on my back as I left the room. I wished I had long hair, or at least a shoulder-length wig. I’d have proudly raised my chin, narrowed my eyes… and delivered a crushing toss of the head. Just a single toss. Like so. Humph!
The same two silent servants relayed me back out of the house and to the front gate.
Faruk Hanoğlu could only have treated me this way because he had something to hide, or perhaps because of his intolerable insolence. But whatever the reason, I’d been unceremoniously thrown out! It was an official declaration of war. If that’s what he wanted, that’s what he’d get!
A dark red BMW slowed in front of me, blocking my path to the opposite pavement. Thinking the vehicle may have decelerated just for me, I leaned down and looked inside. Sitting in the driver’s seat of the car entering the front gate, which had silently swung open to allow access to the garden I’d left seconds earlier, was none other than Haluk Pekerdem, in all his glory.
He hadn’t even noticed me. Haluk Pekerdem! Me! Unnoticed! I was furious! Hurt! I took it hard… I needed to be loved and desired, especially by someone like him. I ran to the opposite pavement.
Waiting for a taxi in the chill air of the Bosphorus, I hissed out a cloud of steam and the words “This means war.”