“Good, because-” And then the line went dead.
Dagmar looked at her phone in annoyance. Lincoln’s window rattled to the sound of Eurofighters crashing the sound barrier somewhere above the Med.
“What happened?” Lincoln asked.
“I think he cut me off accidentally when he was trying to access Attila’s number.”
Lincoln sighed. “Is he crazy out of his mind?”
Dagmar considered this.
“Who am I to judge?” She shrugged. She hit Redial.
“What the fuck?” She jumped as Strange shouted in her ear before she even heard a ring signal.
“That’s what I want to know!” Strange said. “What the fuck? Double-you Tee Eff. Know what I’m saying?”
Persist, she told herself.
“Did you manage to get me Attila’s contact information?”
“Yeah. I got it right here.”
As he gave the number, she pressed the Write button on her handheld and scribed the number in the air and into her phone’s memory.
“Thank you, Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, when I hear anything about Judy.”
“Yeah,” Strange said. “Thanks.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Dagmar said. “We all loved Judy here.”
She pressed the End button and felt herself sag in relief.
“That seemed to go well,” Lincoln said dryly.
“I’m the envy of my friends,” Dagmar said as she connected. “Now I have two rock stars on my speed dial.”
“Let’s hope only one of them is crazy.”
The number answered after the first ring.
“Hello?” a Scots voice said. “Who is this? If this is aboot that pish on the telly…”
“Is this Mr. Gordon?” Dagmar asked. She wasn’t completely certain: when Ian Attila Gordon sang, it sounded as if he were from Memphis.
“Aye.” The voice was cautious.
“Mr. Gordon,” Dagmar said, “this is Dagmar Shaw. I’m the person you’re supposed to have hired to overthrow General Bozbeyli.”
“Thank fuck fir that!” Attila Gordon seemed relieved to have a fellow victim to talk to. “Ah jumped a fuckin mile when Ah heard the phone.”
“It’s pretty crazy,” Dagmar said.
“The arseholes even hacked the Web page! Aw that ‘revolution in music’ mince wasnae meant tae be there. We couldnae change it back, ’cause thid altered the passwords!”
“They’re very good,” Dagmar said, “whoever they are.”
“Look,” Attila said. “The guys are trying tae put thegither a statement denying the story. Maybe we should coordinate-”
“A denial isn’t going to work,” Dagmar said. “The story’s already huge; a denial will never catch up with it.”
“What the hell else can we dae!” Attila said. “Mah balls are on the rails here. I mean, I’ve niver even talked tae yi before, ken? Let alone hired yi-”
“I have an idea,” Dagmar said. “It’ll get you in front of the story, and it’ll put you on the right side of public opinion, but it all depends how much you really want the return of Turkish democracy.”
“Cannae hiv they Nazi cunts ruling the roost.”
“That’s good,” Dagmar said, “but when I said how much, I actually meant how much in pounds sterling.”
There was a long silence at the other end. Dagmar held her breath.
She was counting on the idea that rock musicians, when all was said and done, would much rather be God than just be the entertainment.
Please, she thought, please be a megalomaniac, and not a Scot who’s tight with his money.
“How much?” Attila said.
Dagmar let her breath out in a sigh.
She reckoned she had him.
I am Plot Queen, she thought.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
There he was on BBC One, Ian Attila Gordon, dressed in blue jeans and a vintage military jacket worn over a white ruffled shirt, with the ruffles dashingly unpinned and hanging over one lapel, a picturesque little piece of asymmetry. He hadn’t shaved recently, and heavy whiskers blued his cheeks and chin.
“I wonder who dresses him?” Dagmar said. “That outfit looks good.”
“But can he act?” Helmuth said. “The Bond movie sort of left the question open.”
“I guess we find out now,” Dagmar said.
The Brigade had left the ops room for Lincoln’s suite, which had a high-definition television and more comfortable furniture. During the course of the afternoon they’d discovered that four of their scavenged modems would actually function under MS-DOS and they set up their own DOS-based LAN. Instructions had been sent to Rafet and others to put together DOS machines.
But in the meantime, since the Internet was working again, they sent messages to prepare for a demo in Ankara the following day, place and time to be determined later. Rafet and the Skunk Works drones had been sent out to find a suitable place.
Lincoln’s rooms, intended for visiting VIPs, resembled those of an upscale hotel, with fabric flowers in vases, gold-and-white-striped wallpaper, and competent but soulless oil paintings on the walls. Lincoln had thrown a packet of Orville Redenbacher in the microwave, and the scent of buttered popcorn floated through the suite. Dagmar sat crosslegged on the floor in front of the television, leaning against the warmth of Ismet’s legs. Ismet had joined them in late afternoon, saying that he was bored in his apartment, and now sat on Lincoln’s mustard-colored sofa next to Helmuth.
Dagmar ate a handful of popcorn, passed the bowl on to Helmuth, and hoped that Attila would remember his lines.
Attila stepped up to a battery of microphones. He was on the lawn of his East Sussex home, with the last glimmer of the setting sun lighting the ivy-walled house behind him. TV spotlights glowed in his eyes.
Photo flashes lit his cheekbones. He offered a half-shy smile.
I bet he’d look good in a kilt, Dagmar thought.
“I’d like tae address the claims that Ah’ve somehow masterminded the revolution in Turkey,” he said. There was a light in his eye that seemed to suggest he found the notion absurd, that he was just amused by the situation and going through what celebrity and the situation demanded.
“First off,” he said, “I’d like tae express mah true love and admiration fae the folk of Turkey. I traveled through the country when Ah filmed Stunrunner last year, and I niver failed tae meet with anything but friendship and hospitality. I made some good friends who Ah’d hope tae see again one day.”
The amusement went from his eyes.
“I wasnae happy when Ah realized mah new friends would have tae endure a military dictatorship. The coup was an unexpected blow that knocked Turkey’s hopes of modernization aw tae hell.”
Laughter returned to Attila’s eyes. A cocky grin flashed across his face.
“And so Ah decided tae do somethin aboot it, ken? Ah’m here tae tell yis that the claims made this mornin werenae bullshit.”
Dagmar clapped in delight as a roar of interest rose from the ranks of the reporters. More flashes lit Attila’s face.
“The only bit o story they got wrang was that Ah’m doin all this fae money,” he said. “Ah’ve enough poppy nae tae sell oot mah principles fir a bribe. And tae prove it-” He raised a finger in the air and then brought the finger decisively down on the podium. “Tonight Ahm lettin’ yi aw ken that aw mah profits fae the new album Ararat will be put into the cause of freedom fae the Turkish people. Ahm committed tae this, and willnae rest until they generals are behind bars.”
“Yes!” Dagmar pounded fists on the floor, torn between joy and laughter.
Reporters were screeching questions. Attila pretended not to hear, laughed, then cupped a hand behind an ear, the gesture revealing the tattoo on his neck. He answered the question he wanted to.
“What exactly am Ah doin’ tae aid the Turks?” he said. He offered an apologetic grin. “Please, Ah cannae exactly go spoutin mah plans over the air, ken? These guys are haudin’ enough cairds as it is.”
One tenor voice lofted above the others crying questions. It was a nasal, braying cry that carried all the assumed cultural superiority of Thameside, a voice calculated to raise the hackles of anyone born north of the Humber.