Windsong – Breath of Being (Chapter 15 – Nightingale)

CHAPTER DATE

Being The Beginning Sunday, January 23, 2011

Mistral

1 The Exchange Sunday, January 30, 2011
2 bildende Kraft Saturday, February 5, 2011
3 Gossamer Wings Friday, February 11, 2011
4 Nemesis Saturday, February 19, 2011
5 Odd Shoes Friday, February 25, 2011
6 al-Rûh Friday, March 4, 2011
7 A Love Supreme Thursday, March 10, 2011
8 The Three-Cornered Light Thursday, March 24, 2011
9 Serendipity Tuesday, April 5, 2011
10 The Watchman Friday, April 15, 2011
11 The Upright Way Sunday, April 25, 2011
12 Angels Wednesday, May 4, 2011
13 The Cave of Montesinos Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Meltimi

14 Idols Tuesday, May 10, 2011
15 Nightingale Sunday, May 15, 2011
16 The Perfect Square
17 Haunting
18 The Uncontainable
19 The Ear of Malchus
20 Mauvais Pas
21 Sinan Qua Non
22 Spirit-Level

Sirocco

23 Witness
24 Alcibiades
25 Ney
26 Birdsong
27 The Vanishing Point
28 The Cat Walks
29 The Approximate Likeness of Being

Becalming Unscientific Postscript

Chapter 15

Nightingale

“Nightingales are put in cages because their songs give pleasure.

Whoever heard of keeping a crow?”

Jelaluddin Balkhi (Rumi)

The Mathnawi

The tall dark-suited man with reflecting sunglasses watched, with a slightly sneering smile, as the Mercedes SLK pulled across the flow of the traffic, ignored the blaring horns, and screeched to a halt in front of the restaurant entrance, a restaurant famous for its geographic location right on the Bosphorus in Bebek – and for its social visibility. He stepped forward to pull the car door open. ‘I’m Captain Reza the General’s aide-de-camp. The General is upstairs, Colonel. Waiting for you.’ he said looking at his watch.

The driver stepped out. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ the man said, half raising his hand as if to salute, then thinking better of it changed the direction to brush some cigarette ash off the cuff of his suit. He brushed past the younger officer. Behind him, silently, a young valet attendant in a green Nehru jacket and red fez tassled cap slid in, closed the door and drove the car away.

A brisk wind was blowing as the officer reached the glass panel-doors at the top of the restaurant steps. Another young boy in a Nehru suit held them open for him. The army officer could see in the distance that because of the wind funnelling down from the Black Sea the General had declined the open terrace in favour of a table in the far corner where there was a full view of the room. He also knew that this very public display of endorsement, of patronage, on the part of the General, was deliberate, the senior officer’s exercise of his status under Article 118 of the Turkish constitution, its power and its obligation.

‘Devlet,’ Colonel Mehmet Zorlu whispered to himself, as he looked around the room, reminding himself of the undefined notion of Turkish statehood and the expected and fundamental duty of every Turkish man, woman and child to subscribe to its obligation. An obligation determined by the will of the chosen men like the General. He was now to be one of those chosen men, a Guardian, and today was his ordination.

Zorlu walked slowly, enjoying the moment. Men nodded towards him and women leaned towards each other as he passed their tables. Soon all of Istanbul – all of Istanbul that mattered he determined – would be talking of him. Approaching the General’s table, he apologised for being late. The General smiled thinly as he looked up at the younger man and indicated for him to sit down. A waiter held out his chair.

Uncomfortable in the silence that followed, he concentrated on studying the menu – a redundant exercise, and Mehmet Zorlu knew it! He waited and then watched as the older man ordered for both of them: kadin budu, the Lady’s Thigh – ground meat, rice and eggs – for himself: kilic siste – swordfish – for him; and a red wine from Mamara called G. The older officer, a heavy man, was dressed, Zorlu noted in admiration, was dressed in a dark-blue suit exquisitely tailored to hide his paunch. He watched as he pulled out a cigar holder and small guillotine from his breast pocket. The General touched a slight scar that ran down his temple before guillotining the tip of his cigar and slowly lighting and puffing on it. Zorlu couldn’t help but stare at the manicured nails and the, very obvious, missing two fingers – the index and thumb – from the General’s right hand. He already knew the full story of the General’s fingers: a famous archer in his youth, he had mutilated himself, in despair at failing to qualify for the Olympics in Rome. It was the last time the General had failed at anything and that same brutality he now brought to bear on anybody else’s failure to meet expectations. Mehmet Zorlu waited for the older man to speak.

‘It is better that we meet here! More eyes, less ears.’

‘Yes, General,’ Zorlu agreed.

‘Is it arranged?’ the General asked, matter-of-factly.

‘Yes sir. There are two special force units in place, ready to go to Kirkuk on your signal. The targets have been identified. Unit 8200 and Mossad have been most helpful in this regard. It was Unit 8200 that tipped us off about Ocalan’s aide and the woman arriving from Izmir.’

‘We must prevent any immediate power base being established by the mountain Turks in the new Iraq.’ The General exhaled a smoke ring towards the roof.

‘And the Americans? What do you expect of them, General?’ Zoprlu asked.

‘As always they confuse information with intelligence. They are out of their depth because their superior technology has dulled their wits. I give them six, maybe seven months, and then they’ll pull out of their arrangements with the Iraqi Provisional Government. No more Vietnams. They have no stomach for body bags any more. We must be ready to move.’

‘Yes, General,’ Zorlu nodded.

‘That is why Mehmet, getting back that dossier is so important. It –’

The waiter approached. Both men fell silent as their food was served and they began to eat. Every now and then another diner would approach their table and shake the General’s hand. Each time, Zorlu noticed the instant stiffening of four other diners, two men and two women, at the next table. Alert, hands dropping simultaneously beneath the tablecloth, relaxing only when the pleasantries were concluded. They were not eating, just sipping glasses of water.

‘I need you to handle this personally, Mehmet,’ the older man finally said as their plates were cleared.

‘Yes, General.’

‘It is most important. That dossier must not get into the hands of the Americans or British. If they know of our true plans for Iraqi Kurdistan, or our arrangement with Baku, then it will cause great difficulty. We are not yet ready.’

‘What of our own government, General?’

‘Motherfuckers, all of them! We’ll let them get on with fooling themselves . . . and the Europeans, that they have the power to determine the future of Turkey. Imbeciles. The military is, and has always been, Turkey. Have they not learnt that lesson? We have that power and we will exercise it when we see fit. ’

‘Yes, General. I’ll see to it personally.’

‘Good. How is your wife, my godchild?’

‘In good health. Looking forward to our daughter’s wedding.’

‘And your son?’

‘Starts his Master’s in MIT in September, when his cadet training is over.’

‘Does he plan to stay on in the military?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. It is the only future in Turkey. I will not detain you any further Mehmet. Go with my blessing, with all our blessings.’

As if by magic his chair was already being held for him. Zorlu got up and turned to leave.

‘Mehmet.’

‘Sir.’

‘The true secret is with us.’

‘Sir.’

––––––––––

Colonel Mehmet Zorlu watches from the shadows. The woman, in her early 40s he guesses, is slumped in a high-backed chair, her hands tied behind her. She is naked and exposed apart from the long dank blood-stained hair that covers her left breast. Hard to know what colour it really is, he thinks. Her head rests on her chest, moving sideways and back on the point of her chin. Tears flow down her cheeks, coursing clear streaks through the grease and grime that covers her face. A single arc light shines brightly in her face. In its glare, through half-closed and bruised eyelids, he knows she can just make out the shape of her tormentor, a bull-necked face in the sun. From somewhere else she hears, as they all hear, and reacts to the scream of a man. Its piercing agony penetrates the room. He continues to watch, unbothered.

‘In God’s name, no,’ she whimpers with the hoarse cry of a wounded animal.

‘Give me the information I want and this will be all over for you,’ the bull grunts.

Zorlu watches her legs being separated and follows closely as the Captain’s nightstick gets closer, pushing against her, penetrating her, higher and higher. Nice move, he thinks, feeling horny.

‘Tell me,’ the inquisitor shouts.

The nightstick is withdrawn, brought up to her mouth and pushed in.

‘Taste your own cunt-fear, bitch!’

Zorlu hears a tooth break and sees her face distort. She can taste her own blood, he senses . . . and more. She starts to choke and tries to pull her head back. Then the vomit comes, shoots out of her. Bad move, he thinks. Starve them first, deny them water. No vomit to annoy.

‘Bitch,’ the inquisitor roars, covered in bile, lifting the stick to strike her.

‘Hold it, Captain Remzi,’ he suddenly orders. ‘Clean the woman up and bring her back to her cell. She is no good to us dead.’

––––––––

Later – how much later, she isn’t sure. Outside the woman thinks she can hear the song of a nightingale: lu lu lü lü li li. Again and again, higher and higher. Must be near dawn she thinks. She is curled up on the floor of her cell. Beside her is a pot. She had tried to urinate but all that came was blood. The cold has made her skin blue and the bruising black. The door opens. A blanket is thrown down to her.

‘Get up.’

It was the same voice that had intervened earlier. She just pulls tighter into a ball. Two pairs of hands lift her and sit her on a chair.

‘This is not good for you. Your husband cannot help, your family cannot help, your fucking newspaper friends cannot help, nobody can help you. You are disappeared. Save yourself further pain by telling me where the dossier is. We know you have it. Where is it?’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know . . . what it is you want?’

‘Listen. Your friend the devil-worshiper is dead. He was not as brave or as strong as you. Typical Kurd shit of a man. Their women have always been stronger and great fucks as well. Like to get it up the ass. But then you know that.’

‘Please . . .’

‘Don’t think we don’t know about all your screwing around. Fucking that Irishman. Fucking that hiristiyani filth. Fucking any mountain man with a dick bigger than his brain.’

‘I don’t know . . .’

There is a knock on the door. ‘Colonel. The hekim is here with his drugs.’

‘Took his fucking time!’

‘Please . . .’

‘Shut up bitch. Hold her down boys! I feel like one good ass-fuck before we scramble her brains. I want her to know what a man in uniform can do for her. I want her to feel the power of a ‘Guardian’.’

‘Please. Oh God . . .’ she cries.

––––––––

They meet at the house hidden in a private estate on the heights above Bebek. The General was in the garden pruning roses and did not look up as Colonel Zorlu approached.

‘What happened,’ he asked.

‘She never broke. Died on the table,’ Zorlu replied, wishing at this moment for some of the strength she had had. ‘I am sorry General.’

‘Fuck! I’m very disappointed, Mehmet. Very disappointed indeed.’ The General turned to face his subordinate.

Zorlu could see the stumps of the missing fingers blanche. He spoke quickly, ‘We have another possible lead, General. Her friend, the Irishman, is in town. I am having him followed. I am certain . . . I have information he knows something of the dossier. Who else would she have trusted?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes sir,’ Zorlu said with as much certainty that he could muster.

‘I hope so Mehmet. I do hope so… for all our sakes.’ The General angrily snipped at the stem of a resistant rose bush, inspected his work and then looked at Zorlu. ‘How do we explain her death?’

‘Easy General.’ Zorlu relaxed a little. ‘The two of them together, the Kurd terrorist and herself in a pit, made to appear like they were stoned. An honour killing.’

‘Does the husband agree?’

‘He does. The new de-criminalization of honour killings by the Government made it easier for me to persuade him to in time take responsibility for the act. One or two years in a plush jail, money in the bank, in truth, his honour satisfied for her long history of betrayals. A good deal all-round.’

‘Very ingenious, Mehmet.’

‘Thank you, General.’

‘And the dossier?’

‘Give me two days. No more.’

‘That is good. You must join us for lunch on Saturday… you and your wife. We, the incoming Council members and our wives, are flying to the house in Dilmun.’

‘Thank you, Sir. I would be honoured.’

‘And so you shall, Mehmet . . . if this works out.’

Windsong – Breath of Being (Chapter 14 – Idols)

CHAPTER DATE

Being The Beginning Sunday, January 23, 2011

Mistral

1 The Exchange Sunday, January 30, 2011
2 bildende Kraft Saturday, February 5, 2011
3 Gossamer Wings Friday, February 11, 2011
4 Nemesis Saturday, February 19, 2011
5 Odd Shoes Friday, February 25, 2011
6 al-Rûh Friday, March 4, 2011
7 A Love Supreme Thursday, March 10, 2011
8 The Three-Cornered Light Thursday, March 24, 2011
9 Serendipity Tuesday, April 5, 2011
10 The Watchman Friday, April 15, 2011
11 The Upright Way Sunday, April 25, 2011
12 Angels Wednesday, May 4, 2011
13 The Cave of Montesinos Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Meltimi

14 Idols Tuesday, May 10, 2011
15 Nightingale
16 The Perfect Square
17 Haunting
18 The Uncontainable
19 The Ear of Malchus
20 Mauvais Pas
21 Sinan Qua Non
22 Spirit-Level

Sirocco

23 Witness
24 Alcibiades
25 Ney
26 Birdsong
27 The Vanishing Point
28 The Cat Walks
29 The Approximate Likeness of Being

Becalming Unscientific Postscript

MELTIMI

The Meltime (Turk. Melteme: from the shore) winds are the annual

Northeasterly Aetesian winds in the eastern Mediterranean.

“In the fate of the ‘Ãd there was another sign. We let loose

on them a blighting wind . . .”

The Qur’an

surat al-dhãriyãt (The Winds); 51, v. 41

Chapter 14

Idols

“On the surface, an intelligible lie; underneath, the unintelligible truth.”

Milan Kundera

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

The mobile phone, which is placed on the bench beside him, shrills loudly as he sits drinking water in the small park beside of the mosque. Flanagan has just turned it on with the intention of checking for messages but the water was a more urgent need and he left the phone down. He has spent the best part of the last eight hours, since dawn, walking the warren of streets above the northern bank of the Golden Horn, created when the squatters had moved into the old Ok Meydani archery field in the early nineteenth century. The climb had taken him from the Koç museum on the waterfront up to the site of the old archer’s lodge, in front of the Ok Meydani mosque, and then down the hill again into the valley. Flanagan feels exhausted. His hands are shaking. He gulps down the water and ignores the phone’s shrill. It stops ringing.

To his right, to the northeast, on the next rise in the landscape is the Feriköy cemetery where he is convinced the Puta Tobra target-idol once stood. To his left, over the classically domed roof of Piyale Pasha mosque, back up the hill, is the Sinan Pasha mosque, the site where he determined the Hekim target to have been. He thinks through his calculations again and is even more certain. All the clues, he reminds himself, are in Karabatakzade’s letters to his son and father.

Flanagan flips open his notepad and checks his notations one more time: Our messenger spirit, the calligrapher had written deliberately, to his father, as a coded message. The use of the emphatic ‘Our’, he had noted, acknowledged the family’s writing heritage, a heritage which predated the family’s use of Arabic or Persian but still had to be a northern Semitic language. It had to be if the ilm-i-abjad, the science of the letters, was to be used to find the hiding place. Aramaic-Syriac or Palmyran, he had written in bold red letters. In the older Biblical literature in Palestine, Flanagan knew that the Messenger Spirit, the Paraclete of John, was called m-n-h-mna in Syriac, or sometimes munahhemna, meaning ‘the life giver’. Convinced of this, he had paced the distance derived from the calculation of the letter values of the m-n-h-mna word-root– a total of 196 gez – from the graveyard towards the Sinan mosque. This had placed him in the middle of the footbridge that crossed the Piyale Pasha Boulevard – ‘A huge fucking motorway,’ he growled out loud! Sitting on the bench, looking back towards the motorway footbridge Flanagan feels defeated. Concrete and bitumen have long covered-over the field of his dreams.

His mobile phone shrills again. This time he answers it, ‘Ismâil?’

‘Jaffa my friend. Where are you?’

‘It’s no good, Ismâil,’ he said angrily. ‘There is a huge bloody motorway exactly where the Book is most likely buried. It’s a dead end!’

‘Where are you?’

‘Piyale Pasha mosque.’

‘Let us meet. I have some wonderful news for you?’

‘What is it?’

‘Tomorrow my friend. I have no time now. There is much to achieve.’

‘Where.’

‘There is a good restaurant beside the Kariye mosque near the Edrine Gate. Midday?’

‘Fine. But tell me the news.’

‘Tomorrow, my friend.’ The line went dead.

Flanagan looks at the phone for a moment and then dials in for his messages. There are two: from Mac telling him he is coming to Istanbul and the other from Alanna. She has not contacted him since that night they had argued in the hotel and she stormed off. He listens. The recording is poor, he thinks she says she is in Izmir, is coming back to the city, and wants him to meet her with the dossier. ‘Fuck the dossier,’ he says aloud. Two small boys playing in the park are staring and laughing at him. He tries calling her back. There is no answer.

Flanagan stands up and walks towards the small garage directly ahead of him, across the small road that skirts the front of the mosque. There is a large poster on a nearby shop wall advertising a health drink. It has a Japanese archer taking aim; 60 or so years in age, Flanagan estimates; the face deeply tanned and lined; the eyes intense in their focused concentration. The archer’s left arm, that holding the bow, is uncovered and is pearly white, with the skin colour and contours of a baby’s arm, remarkable in its contrast, steady in its purpose. Flanagan looks back up the hill over the roof of the mosque towards the Ok Meydani and wonders whether Karabatakzade’s arm was white.

He then turns his attention back to the garage. Three or four taxis are parked outside. They cannot be all in for repair, he thinks. One of them would surely bring him back to the city…

Windsong – Breath of Being (Chapter 13 – The Cave of Montesinos)

CHAPTER DATE

Being The Beginning Sunday, January 23, 2011

Mistral

1 The Exchange Sunday, January 30, 2011
2 bildende Kraft Saturday, February 5, 2011
3 Gossamer Wings Friday, February 11, 2011
4 Nemesis Saturday, February 19, 2011
5 Odd Shoes Friday, February 25, 2011
6 al-Rûh Friday, March 4, 2011
7 A Love Supreme Thursday, March 10, 2011
8 The Three-Cornered Light Thursday, March 24, 2011
9 Serendipity Tuesday, April 5, 2011
10 The Watchman Friday, April 15, 2011
11 The Upright Way Sunday, April 25, 2011
12 Angels Wednesday, May 4, 2011
13 The Cave of Montesinos Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Meltimi

14 Idols
15 Nightingale
16 The Perfect Square
17 Haunting
18 The Uncontainable
19 The Ear of Malchus
20 Mauvais Pas
21 Sinan Qua Non
22 Spirit-Level

Sirocco

23 Witness
24 Alcibiades
25 Ney
26 Birdsong
27 The Vanishing Point
28 The Cat Walks
29 The Approximate Likeness of Being

Becalming Unscientific Postscript

Chapter 13

The Cave of Montesinos

“Tell me thy company, and I will tell thee what thou art.”

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Don Quixote

Flanagan re-reads the last entry in Rio’s diary again. ‘Shite,’ he whispers, relieved that Mac, if he was true to his word, had not read through it. January 29 was also the date, he suddenly remembered, that Mac had called him and said he had been brought in for further questioning by the police. The truth he knew now was that Mac instead of being with the police and being detained overnight had gone on a massive bender, pub-crawling any pub that would serve him. Flanagan also remembered that he had just arrived back at the Nomad hotel in Istanbul after a visit to Ismâil the bookseller’s specialist friend and not wanting to be alone had headed for the café across the street, looking for company when Mac had phoned, ranting…

––––––––––

‘I’m glad you’re ok, Mac,’ Flanagan said after waiting for the eruption to finish. ‘Though you do sound rough.’
‘Where the hell are you, Jaffa?’ Cormac McMurragh demanded, hurt in his voice.
‘Where do you think? Istanbul.’
‘You’ve left a sorry mess behind you here…you bollix!’
‘What do you mean Mac?’ Flanagan asked quietly, recognising that his friend was being deadly serious.
‘There’s an all points bulletin out on you with Interpol. They think you are responsible for the robbery and Joe’s death . . . and the disappearance of Phyllis. You’re not, are you Jaffa?’
‘Both you and I know I had nothing to do with that,’ he said emphatically.
‘Rio’s seriously pissed off with you Jaffa. She and her Uncle Jack are heading for Istanbul to fuck you over. He’s some sort of a cop, I think.’
‘Shit!’ he said loudly, looking around him, looking towards the shadows.
‘Yeah! And you leaving me to wallow in it,’ Cormac McMurragh whined.
‘I’m sorry about that Mac. Once I have the Book I’ll come back and explain . . . to Rio as well.’
‘If she doesn’t get to you first!’

There was then a long silence, and just the sound of their breathing transmitted as both gathered their thoughts.

Across the road, Flanagan could see, beside his hotel entrance was a shop selling carpets. Two good-looking men were sitting outside preening themselves, waiting to ponce and then pounce on any pedestrian who might show a half-interest in their wares. ‘Like Altisidora!’ Flanagan suddenly said, loudly, hoping Mac would remember better days: their schooldays and the drama enactment that had brought them together for the first time.
There was another pause but then at last it came. ‘Since thou, false fiend, When nymph’s thy friend, Aeneas-like dost bob her Go rot, and die, Boil, roast, or fry, With Barnabas the robber . . . Fucking apt all the same, ya bollix.’ Mac’s voice was brittle.
‘You remembered, Mac. We did have some great times. Didn’t we?’
‘What’s up with you, Jaffa? You sound weird?’
‘Na. Just tired.’
‘You and I both! Why are you pushing so hard for a bloody book? Do you think that you’ll find that it really does contain some universal secret, the answer to the world’s ills . . . or your own for that matter.’
One of the carpet sellers was looking at Flanagan intently, calculating. ‘You and I know there are no secrets, Mac, just distorting mirrors. No, it’s just something I have to do. . . must do before . . .’
‘Speak up, Jaffa. The line is shite,’ Mac shouted.
‘Any chance of you coming out here, Mac? I could do with your company,’ Flanagan asked,
‘You’re serious.’
‘Yeah. Of course I am. I’ll pay.’
‘Christ. You must be desperate,’ Mac said.
‘Dear Sancho. Pardon me that I have brought upon thee, as well as myself, the scandal of madness . . .’
Mac laughed, finally. ‘Alive or dead! The bounty hunters ride again!’
‘What do you mean by that, Mac?’ Flanagan asked cautiously, a serious edge in his voice; he wondered if his friend already knew.
‘Nothing and everything, Jaffa! It’s always been our way, you and I . . . you leading, me following, but with a duty to each other, to our purpose, our existence. The great thing is though . . .’ Mac slurred to a stop, was silent for a moment then continued, ‘The great thing is though, that to you and me, the bounty hunters of being, the reward is the same. Alive or dead, either way we get it.’
‘You’re right.’
‘Bollix I am!’
‘Get over here, Mac. I really need you.’
‘I’m on my way. If only to protect you from Rio.’
‘She’s some woman, Mac.’
‘The best, Jaffa! The very best.’

–––––––––––––

Flanagan cannot keep his eyes open any longer . . . and doesn’t.

Syria: Mea Culpa – Waterwheels, Torture and Misplaced Hope

Medieval Water Wheels

Following a visit to Syria in October 2010 I expressed the view, in the last paragraph of my blog of the 20 October, that I felt that secular political policies of President Bashar al-Assad offered the best possibility of a pragtopian solution to the widespread sectarian strife that exists in the Middle East.

How wrong I was!

The current brutal suppression of an ‘Arab Spring’ opposition to the policies of the ruling Ba'athist/Alawite minority shows that my assessment was utterly wrong and my hopes sadly misplaced!

I had based my assertion on a perception that Basher al-Assad’s had managed to marginalise the hard-liners in the ruling Ba’athist clique (remnants of his father’s ‘praetorian’ guard) and would be able to plough ahead and fulfil his promises to bring true democracy to Syria.

There is an old proverb that states, ‘No man steps in the same river twice.’ It is patently not true in Syria!

In 2011 it is Deraa and the killing machines of the 4th Armoured Division (made up of units of the former paramilitary Defence Companies or Saraya ad-Difa) under the command of Maher al-Assad, the President’s brother.

In February 1982 it was Homs, and the Defence Units under Rifaat al-Assad – the brother of Hafez Al-Assad and uncle of President Basher al-Assad – who suppressed a revolt instigated by the Muslim Brotherhood, with a massacre of about 20,000-30,000 civilians (as well as an estimated 15,000 missing and 100,000 expelled).

Some of the famous waterwheels (noria) of Syria, that have drawn water from the Orontes River in Homs since Saladin’s time, survived that bombardment in 1982 but now, when I look at the pictures from my visit, they carry a different resonance, a resonance of the torture wheels used in medieval times.

Wheels of Torture in Homs, Syria

The waters of Syria have stagnated and in those festering pools torture has once again become the primary instrument of the state and an instrument of dehumanisation. For any higher purpose (and almost certainly the Alawites must have some purpose in mind) there must first be belief and then follows faith. The majority of the Syrian population has lost any semblance of belief in a better life that they might have clung onto.

Mea culpa!

Windsong – Breath of Being (Chapter 12 – Angels)

CHAPTER DATE

Being The Beginning Sunday, January 23, 2011

Mistral

1 The Exchange Sunday, January 30, 2011
2 bildende Kraft Saturday, February 5, 2011
3 Gossamer Wings Friday, February 11, 2011
4 Nemesis Saturday, February 19, 2011
5 Odd Shoes Friday, February 25, 2011
6 al-Rûh Friday, March 4, 2011
7 A Love Supreme Thursday, March 10, 2011
8 The Three-Cornered Light Thursday, March 24, 2011
9 Serendipity Tuesday, April 5, 2011
10 The Watchman Friday, April 15, 2011
11 The Upright Way Sunday, April 25, 2011
12 Angels Wednesday, May 4, 2011
13 The Cave of Montesinos

Meltimi

14 Idols
15 Nightingale
16 The Perfect Square
17 Haunting
18 The Uncontainable
19 The Ear of Malchus
20 Mauvais Pas
21 Sinan Qua Non
22 Spirit-Level

Sirocco

23 Witness
24 Alcibiades
25 Ney
26 Birdsong
27 The Vanishing Point
28 The Cat Walks
29 The Approximate Likeness of Being

Becalming Unscientific Postscript

Chapter 12

Angels

“Her eyes consumed the beauty of his light, moving slowly down his

powerful body, the richly feathered wings, broad, elegantly flat torso,

the lovely girded loins, long leanly muscled thighs and calves.

Then she saw the feet . . .”

Thomas E. Kennedy

Angel Body

It has been a very long day and the clock shows 3.00 am. Flanagan, still standing in front of the computer, rubs his eyes. One more entry, he sees. Probably did not want to bring her laptop to Istanbul; and that’s why the diary finishes, he suspects. He wonders whether there is another handwritten diary somewhere. ‘Keep going’, he reminds himself out loud knowing that Jack Dawson was sure to arrive at an ungodly early hour. So what, he thinks, I’ll confront the bastard. Most of this mess is his fault, he decides: Jack should have known better; he should not have encouraged Rio to go to Istanbul and should have taken her away from here when he had the opportunity. Too late now, he thinks and opens the last file, still looking for answers.

Arm-pit Diary,

JANUARY 29:

Getting ready for departure tomorrow morning Walt. I am excited by it all. Busy all day. When Gerrit Flatley rang I had to dodge through the suitcases cluttering the hallway to get to the phone. His mood was light. ‘Are you all set?’ he asked. I tried to politely relieve of the need he felt to bring us to the airport. He insisted but wanted to talk to Jack first…

Rio brought the phone to where Jack was sitting at the dining table. He had spent the previous evening and most of the morning calling in favours from former FBI colleagues for their help in tracking down any information they could get on Flanagan and Ahmed al-Akrash. As Jack took the phone the doorbell rang and his eyes flickered anxiously for a moment, flashing a note of caution to Rio, before she went to answer it.

‘One moment, Gerry,’ Jack whispered into the phone as he waited for her to look out through slightly drawn back window curtains at whoever might be at the front door. Rio turned back towards him and gave a silent, thumbs-up before heading for the hallway.

‘Yes, Gerry. Go on. . . oh no problem.’ There was a pause for a moment as he listened intently. ‘No Gerry, best say nothing . . . gotta go . . . see you in the morning,’ he said, terminating the call as Rio returned to the room with another visitor behind her.

‘Say nothing about what? What did Gerrit want Jack?’ she asked.

‘Oh that. One of my contacts in the FBI had telephoned Gerry’s boss seeking some clarification on what I was up to. I was telling him to keep it to himself. He also wanted to know if there was anything more he could do before we left. Police work I mean of course!’ Jack grinned.

‘Don’t be so crude. He’s a nice man.’

‘He likes you Rosalind. Anyway you better introduce us.’ Jack looked over her shoulder at the visitor.

‘What! Oh I’m sorry.’ Rio apologised as she moved aside a little. ‘Jack Dawson, my uncle – James Somerville, the Western Curator in the Library.’ She was still somewhat surprised by Somerville’s unexpected arrival.

‘How do you do, sir?’ James Somerville leant forward, reluctantly offering his hand.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jimbo,’ Jack said, taking it.

It was a very brief shake and their hands seemed to withdraw from each other quickly. From the corner of his eye Jack could see Rio trying to stop her face creasing in amusement. ‘Please sit down, James,’ she said, composing herself ‘Would you like some coffee? I’ve no milk I’m afraid, as I’ve thrown it out. We’re heading off very shortly.’

‘No thanks Daw . . . Rio. I heard you were heading for Istanbul and I wanted to be as much help as I could.’ James Somerville was unable to stop himself blushing. ‘I think you were dealt with in a very unjust and undeserved way by the Museum and I wanted to try and make some amends.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, James.’ Rio smiled at him.

‘What do you mean, Jimbo?’ Jack was edgy and anxious for him to get to the point.

‘I’ve tracked down the names of all the dealers in Istanbul that Chester Beatty sometimes bought from. They, or their inheritors, might be able to throw some light on the parchment’s origins and perhaps give you a lead to its present whereabouts. If Jerome Flanagan has gone to Istanbul–’

‘How do you know that, Jimbo?’ Jack grunted.

‘I’d prefer James, if you don’t mind Mr. Dawson.’

‘Sure. How do you know that . . . James?’

‘Obviously Mr. Dawson,’ Somerville said a little pompously. ‘There is little else being talked about in the Museum at present. If Flanagan has gone there, then there is a very good chance that that is where the parchment is by now. I am hoping . . . no, I believe he is following rather than leading, if you catch my drift. Cormac McMurr–’

‘Right,’ Jack Dawson interrupted gruffly. ‘May I see the list?’

James nodded gravely as he opened a very old and very battered tan leather briefcase, to pull out three pages of neat, hand-written notes and lay them on the table. ‘Under no circumstances must anyone in the museum, particularly Aengus FitzHenry, know that I’ve done this. Is that understood Rio . . . Mister Dawson?’

‘Sure,’ they said in unison sitting down on either side of him. James squirmed with the close bodily contact.

‘What’s this one here?’ Jack asked as he pointed to one of the pages where there was a lot of underlining for emphasis.

James Somerville smiled. ‘I think that might be your best bet but also a little frustrating.’

‘Why?’ Rio asked.

‘There are three file entries relating to one Bay Arslan Nuzhet Bogac, a bookseller who had dealings with Chester Beatty, first as a guide to Beatty and his daughter in 1926 and subsequently, as a dealer between 1928 and 1947. One of the files is empty but is cross referenced with another in the archives.’

‘Why is the file empty?’ Jack looked at him suspiciously.

‘A few possibilities for that, Mr. Dawson. Sometimes it might have been only one page of correspondence or a bill of sale and it has been re-filed by mistake in a different folder.’

‘And the cross reference?’

‘Refers to another dealer called Malek Hakim, who brought a Qur’an to Cairo after the war for Beatty to look at. There is a letter to Beatty from this man complaining of his troubles with two or more other dealers in their attempts to get hold of the Qur’an. He calls himself a intermediary and said he was enclosing something by way of proof of his right to negotiate.’

‘Hakim! But–’ Rio blurted out before Jack quickly interrupted, ‘That’s very interesting, Jim . . . James.’

‘And he refers to himself as a –’ She started to say before Jack interrupted again, ‘Any record of this particular Qur’an in the Museum? Did Beatty buy it?’ Jack Dawson’s questioning was very business like as he looked at his watch.

‘No record, I’m afraid Mr. Dawson,’ James Somerville said apologetically, shrugging his shoulders. ‘As I’ve mentioned to Rio before that is not altogether unusual. Many of the files in the archives are just notes of the money involved and not the actual purchase details.’

‘Are you saying James, that this Malek fellow might have been an agent for another bookseller like say Arslan Nuzhet?’ Jack Dawson persisted.

‘The cross-referencing seems to point that way. However, you should realise at the outset that transactions with dealers of ancient and rare manuscripts is like walking into a hall of mirrors. Due to difficulties of provenance you can never be really sure of whom you’re dealing with. Even though Nuzhet and Chester Beatty had a long-standing relationship, the Turk was more of an intermediary than source of rare books. Other dealers would use him to make a pitch to Beatty. Malek Hakim might just have been another cog further down the line,’ James Somerville concluded with a smile.

‘I’d love a photocopy of that letter.’ Jack’s fingers were playing with his lips.

‘I thought you might,’ James said with a self-satisfied air as he pulled a sealed, brown envelope from his briefcase. ‘There is a photocopy of all the correspondence and also the addresses of all the dealers, in Istanbul at the time.’

‘That’s fantastic James. I could kiss you!’ Rio put her arm around him and hugged tightly.

The familiarity caused James Somerville to shoot up in almost ballistic fashion from the chair. ‘I . . . I’d better be going. I hope I’ve been of some help Rio and I do wish you the best of luck.’ He had retrieved his bag and was already bolting for the door as he spoke.

‘One more question, James,’ Rio called after him, trying not to laugh. ‘There is no mention of a Hekim or Hakim on this list,’ she asked without any undue emphasis.

‘No. As I said, it was a murky world,’ he replied.

‘Plus ça change,’ Jack Dawson said with surprising accentuation.

‘Please don’t mention my visit to anyone,’ James insisted, looking really worried.

‘We won’t. Thank you so much, James. Hold on and I’ll see you out,’ Rio said, getting up. She looked at Jack, in passing, and he had a wide smirk on his face, which was still there when she returned to the room.

‘I think I would have better luck with James than you,’ he laughed. ‘I could practice my sensitive side and if his limp handshake is anything to go by, Jimbo is one dude who likes to keep a distance.’

‘Don’t be so cruel Jack. Irish gays are the most homophobic homosexuals in the world. You’d need a complete makeover,’ she laughed back. ‘It was very kind of him all the same.’

‘Yes. It was,’ he agreed.

‘Why did you cut me off earlier?’ She asked sitting down beside him.

‘This letter that Somerville brought is in code, Rosalind. Somebody was alerting Beatty to the true nature of the Book of the Messenger. ’ Jack Dawson pulled the copy of Malek Hakim’s letter from amongst the enclosed pages. ‘I bet you that Hakim is not even the true name of the dealers agent. There was no need for Somerville to know of the possible significance of the word.’

‘Melek or malak means angel or God’s messenger,’ Rio added, suddenly realising what her uncle was alluding to.

‘I’m not completely ignorant Rosalind,’ he said defensively.

‘So do you think now that Jerome knew of this letter when he gave me the false name?’ Rio’s face betrayed the mixed feelings she felt about that possibility.

‘Perhaps. I don’t know. Flanagan worked in the Museum for long enough and has been looking equally long for the Book, his Holy Grail as he called it. He probably came across the letter but ignored or missed its significance at the time. However the ‘catchword’ or ‘Watchman’ that you found on the parchment sealed it for him and I suspect he already knows . . . or knows where to find out, about this intermediary. He’s after that Book, and the Book alone, the parchment is of no further interest to him. We’ll need to study this carefully. It might be our only lead to tracking him down.’

The doorbell rang again. Jack pursed his lips as he got up to go to the hallway. Rio could hear the door opening and then two voices talking but so quietly she could not make out what was being said. She was about to go out when Jack returned accompanied by Detective Inspector Gerrit Flatley.

‘I’m sorry to intrude Rio, but I called into say that I’ll not be able to take you to the airport tomorrow, something has–‘ the policeman said.

‘Phyllis?’ She asked – hoped, dreaded.

‘No word yet, I’m afraid. Sorry,’ Flatley said with genuine concern.

‘It was good of you to let us know, Gerry,’ Jack said, almost pushing him out of the room again. Rio followed them out to the doorway and down the path.

Gerrit Flatley turned to look at her. ‘If you run into any language or communication difficulties in Turkey give me a shout,’ the detective offered, hesitating before getting into his car.

‘Why? Do you know someone?’ Jack Dawson asked.

‘Yes.’ Flatley hesitated for a second. ‘Me!’

‘I don’t understand,’ Rio said, puzzled.

‘Gerit is the Turkish for Crete. My mother was the daughter of a Turkish diplomat and she named me after the island where I was conceived when on honeymoon with my father, although in Ireland they added the second “r” on my birth certificate. Turkish was the first language I learnt. Have a safe trip.’

So that’s where his darkness comes from, Rio thought, as she watched his car speed off. ‘Jesus! That’s a turn up,’ she said, turning to Jack.

‘Yeah. Isn’t it!’ He frowned. ‘Come on. Lets get some shuteye!’

Something was bothering Rio.

‘Jack,’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes.’

‘Why did you really – No. It doesn’t matter. Some other time,’ Rio said.

‘Right,’ he shrugged, and headed for bed. ‘Are you coming?’

‘In a while. I want to finish up some computer work before we leave,’ she said thinking of the diary and needing to write in it before leaving.

Later the unanswered question bothers me again Walt. Looking up, I see Jack has left his door open. What I had wanted to ask him is a question for another time, perhaps in Istanbul. Perhaps never!

I wonder why Mac hasn’t called back. No. I know why he hasn’t. Left a message on his machine telling him where we are staying. Will ring him again tomorrow. Need to make amends somehow . . . that night, ignoring him was a mistake. I know that now. I don’t do intense . . . or forgiveness well, Walt.

Right! Time to back up on disc and then bed. The thought of Istanbul is exciting…