There were two bodies on the ground near where the men in overcoats had been standing. The wall sloped upward at a noticeable angle, providing a broad base of support for the eight-foot thick battlements at the top.
“Didn’t think relations between us and MIT had been so close since Ecevit was elected Prime Minister,” the veteran said, pumping them because it had always been his job to gather information.
“Watch the screen, please,” the woman said as Doug snorted and said, “No problem. Third Army Command, old buddy. No problem at all.”
Elaine paused the tape and gave her companion a hard look. Kelly faced the television and grinned, amused at the two others and amused at himself – for gathering data on a situation that didn’t concern him and which he wouldn’t allow to concern him, no matter what.
The tape resumed. One of the cars must have been driven forward as the cameraman walked up to the bodies, because his shadow and those of some others who had scurried out of the scene were thrown crazily across the basalt wall. The point of view moved even closer, shifting out of focus, then sharpening again as the cameraman adjusted.
The screen steadied on a head-and-torso view of a man facedown in a puddle with one arm flung forward. He wore a dark blue coat and a leather cap which had skewed when he hit the ground. A gloved hand on an arm in a black trenchcoat reached from out of frame, removing the cap and lifting the dripping, bearded face into full view of the camera.
“Son of a bitch,” Kelly repeated, softly but very distinctly this time. “Mohammed Ayyubi. He was one of my section leaders back, back when I was workin’ there and points south. … He was from the district himself.”
“Ayyubi has been living in Istanbul for the past three years,” Elaine said coolly, watching the screen to keep Kelly’s attention on it. “Recently he began to travel extensively in Central Europe.”
The hand holding the Kurd to the camera dropped him, letting his face splash back onto the puddled stone. It didn’t matter to Mohammed, whose eyes would never blink again until somebody thumbed the lids down over the glazed pupils; but Kelly’s own body grew very still for an instant.
“He had a brother in Istanbul,” the veteran said softly. “Think I met him there once. …” When the brother came to see Mohammed in a base hospital so expertly staffed that all but one of the Kurd’s fingers had been saved despite the ten days since they were mangled.
“Ahmed, yes,” said the woman as the cameraman walked his point of view over to the other body. The same hand and arm reached into the frame to angle the victim’s face toward the headlights.
Kelly glanced from the arm’s wristwatch, a momentary black smear on the screen before the cuff of the overcoat hid it again, to the Omega which Doug wore. The quality of the data proved nothing but possibility, and the possibilities were endless. … “I don’t know that one,” said Kelly to the television.
“No, you sure don’t,” said Doug, and there was more in his voice than mere agreement.
The cameraman had panned the second body only incidentally in maneuvering for a head shot. The figure appeared to be of average height, perhaps a little shorter if American rather than Anatolian males were the standard of comparison. Its clothing was ordinary, trousers of a shade darker than the coat – both of them brown or taupe – and a cloth cap that lay beside the head. The features were regular and unusual only in having no facial hair. In Turkey, where a moustache was as much a part of a man’s accoutrements as a pack of cigarettes, that was mildly remarkable.
There was a silvery chain and a medallion of some sort high up on the figure’s neck. The hand and overcoat sleeve entered the field of view to touch the bauble.
The camera jumped a moment later, the lens panning a crazy arc of the walls and night sky as the cameraman’s heels slipped on the pavement. Doug’s right hand gripped his left as fiercely as if it belonged to someone else and was holding a weapon. Elaine was taut, watching Kelly until the veteran glanced at her.