Ararat is described on its own Web site as “a revolution in music.” The album is said to be inspired by Gordon’s experience in Turkey filming Stunrunner and features Turkish backing musicians.
UPDATE 0945. Mr. Gordon has not offered comment, but a spokesman reached early this morning seemed very surprised and said only, “That’s just pure loony tunes, ken?”
“Fuck me,” Dagmar said, as she followed the link to Gordon’s Web site. She had read the story on her handheld as Richard drove the party back to Akrotiri. Their guards followed in a Rover, and behind the guards was a Ford Transit that carried the guards’ communications gear, the stuff that actually worked under the influence of the High Zap.
Dagmar was staggered. The article had just enough truth to be believable, just enough power to send the movement she’d created rocking back on its heels.
If Bozbeyli had blamed the CIA for his troubles, it would only have been the sort of thing any dictator was expected to say. Few would have taken the complaints seriously, even if they were shown to be true. But blaming a Scots rock star at least had the advantage of novelty and would guarantee headlines in the tabloid and entertainment press.
If the U.S. government had been blamed, at least the U.S. would have been assumed to have acted for its own rational or political reasons. But bringing Gordon into it tainted the whole enterprise with celebrity and money-no one would want to risk their lives in a political action knowing that the whole point would be to sell records and make someone else famous.
And Dagmar had to admit that the timing was perfect. The story had broken when the Zap had isolated Dagmar in Akrotiri and when her people in California would be asleep. She had been unable to respond to any of the allegations, and any denial would never catch the original story.
The junta had restored the Internet to Ankara because the Zap was costing the local economy far too much money. And they’d restored it to Akrotiri because the damage was already done.
The road curved alongside the sea, a deep brooding azure. Cargo ships swung at anchor waiting for cargo, their waterline high above salt water. Far out to sea, Dagmar could see a patrol boat coasting in British territorial water.
“We’re being gamed,” she muttered.
“Sorry?” said Richard.
“I said,” she repeated, “that we’re being gamed.”
“Damn right we are!” Helmuth spoke up from the backseat.
Dagmar kept her eyes on the uneasy ocean. Her shock was beginning to fade.
She knew that there was only one thing to do when you were gamed by someone.
Game them back.
Jet noise was back, along with the Internet. The sound of turboprops thrashing air sounded through Lincoln’s office.
“I need to talk to Ian Attila Gordon,” Dagmar said.
Lincoln’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “You think I’ve got his number?” he said. “When I was working on Stunrunner, it’s not like I ever got to talk to the star-I only dealt with PR people.”
“Can you call any of them?” Dagmar asked.
“Yeah, sure. But I doubt they’ve got the star’s number, either. If we knew who represented him, we could get him through his management.”
Dagmar considered the problem.
“In that case,” she said, “I need to talk to Odis Strange.”
She had gone into conference in Lincoln’s office as soon as she had returned from her errand to Limassol. Richard and Helmuth had carried their spoil into the ops room to begin the business of putting together a DOS network.
Lincoln reached for his handheld.
“I’ve already had a conversation with Mr. Strange,” Lincoln said as he thumbed buttons. “He wants to fly his daughter’s body home, but the authorities are flying in a special pathologist from England, and he couldn’t come in because of the Zap. I think he’s upset-also, I think, high.”
“Judy said he was on the wagon,” Dagmar said.
“Maybe he was smart enough not to call her when he was out of his mind.” Dryly. “By the way, he kept asking awkward questions about what Judy was actually doing out here.”
“He’ll find that out later today if he tunes in the news,” Dagmar said.
“Here’s his number,” Lincoln said. He held the phone to Dagmar. Dagmar unholstered her own handheld, and Lincoln neatly transferred Odis Strange’s number to Dagmar with the press of a virtual button.
Dagmar pressed Send. Lincoln drew his own phone back.
“It’s very early in the morning in California,” he said.
“I’ll have to hope that Odis Strange keeps rock-star hours.”
The ring signal repeated five times before Odis Strange answered. During that time Dagmar paced back and forth along the two-yard-long empty strip in front of Lincoln’s desk and managed three complete laps.
“Hello.” He didn’t sound as if Dagmar had dragged him from sleep.
“Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said, “my name is Dagmar Shaw. I’m calling from Cyprus. I was Judy’s boss.”
“I already talked to that guy,” Strange said. His tenor voice was crisp, and the words came fast but distinct, rap-rap-rap, like the sound from a telegraph key.
“The person you talked to is the man I work for,” Dagmar said. “Judy worked directly under me. In fact, we were roommates.”
“I’d like to know exactly what Judy was doing out there,” Strange said. Rap-rap-rap.
“Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said. “I’m a game designer. Judy worked for me earlier this year, in the game we ran in Turkey.”
“I heard about that,” Strange said. “I’d still like to know what the hell was going on.”
Dagmar decided to evade that subject.
“The authorities,” she said, “tell me they’re doing everything they can to locate the men responsible.”
“The fucking authorities know more than they’re fucking telling.” Rap-rap-rap. “I should fly out there myself and bring my AR-15 and ask those fuckers some questions. That gun can fire damn near a hundred fifty rounds per minute, and that’s on semiautomatic.”
“Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said, “a situation has come up, and I need your help.”
“Fuck those people up!” Strange shouted. “Fuck them up with two-two-three rounds!”
Dagmar winced and held the phone away from her ear. Lincoln looked at her with saturnine amusement. She turned away from him and stared at the evil eye amulet on his wall.
“Mr. Strange-” she began.
“When can I bring Judy home?” Strange demanded. “Her mother’s a damn wreck. The people there are all giving me the runaround.”
“I don’t know,” Dagmar said. “But I promise I’ll find out for you.”
“I need to go down there and break some heads,” Strange said. “Bring a crowbar.”
“Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said. “I need your help.”
The statement seemed to surprise him.
“My help?” he said. “What the hell can I do?”
“There’s a false rumor going around,” Dagmar said. “People are saying that I-that Judy and I were hired by Ian Attila Gordon to overthrow the Turkish junta.”
“What in God’s name-” Rap-rap-rap and then a brief pause. “Attila was doing this? Attila was trying to overthrow the dictators?”
“Well,” Dagmar said, “no, he wasn’t.”
“It’s the CIA that put those guys in power,” Strange said. “Those Turkish generals are CIA way back. That’s how they got to be Turkish generals in the first place!”
Dagmar tried to stay relentlessly on topic.
“I need to coordinate with Attila,” Dagmar said. “I need to talk to him, so we can agree on what to say to the press.”
“If you’ve been fucking with the generals,” Strange said, “you’re damn right you need to coordinate.”
“I didn’t say we were doing that.” Dagmar couldn’t help herself.
“I still can’t figure out,” Strange said, “how Attila got into this.”
“Do you have contact information for him?” Dagmar persisted. “Judy said you knew him.” A verbal memory flashed into her mind. “She said you thought he was a tosser.”
Strange laughed. “Yeah, he fucking well is,” he said. “I’ve got it on my phone.”