In other words, the perfect foil for someone like Attila.
“Are you aware,” the voice said, “that it’s illegal for a citizen of the United Kingdom to attempt to overthrow a foreign government?”
Attila laughed. “Surely that depends on the government’s legitimacy, no?” He shrugged. “Besides, if it aw goes tits up Ah’ll only get banged up. Nae great shakes.”
Reporters continued to shout questions. Attila affected to be baffled by the volume, then grinned and waved.
“Nae more answers, then,” he said, and raised two fingers in a V. “Peace oot,” he said.
Brilliant, Dagmar thought.
“What the hell,” Helmuth said from the couch, “did that man just say?” English was his second language, and its remote dialects were clearly not his forte.
“He pretty much stuck to the script I wrote for him,” Dagmar said. “He just translated it into his own, ah, idiom.”
“Does he talk like that all the time?” Richard asked.
Dagmar reviewed their conversations that the afternoon, in which Attila had seemed perfectly competent in Received Standard English, at least when he wasn’t upset and in what Dagmar had come to think of as “balls on the rail” mode.
“I think he’s exactly as Robbie Burns as he wants to be,” she said. “I also think he’s underrated as an actor.”
Lloyd laughed.
“Imagine some poor bastard trying to translate that into Turkish for Bozbeyli. My god!”
“Are our people going to get it, though?” Helmuth said. “I certainly didn’t.”
Dagmar considered it.
“Attila was doing that deliberately,” she said, “and he was winking at the audience the whole time. He’s setting up a division between those that get it and those that don’t.”
“Just as we’ve been trying to do,” Richard said.
“Right,” Dagmar said. “You’re hip to the Scottish jive or not, just as you’re hip to Ozone or not. Our folks will get it, I’m sure.”
“Hip,” Helmuth said, “isn’t going to do much against guns.”
“No,” Dagmar said. “Events have demonstrated that well enough.”
The day’s news, generally speaking, hadn’t been good. At dawn that morning, under cover of the High Zap, the Turkish military had moved against Ankara’s former mayor forted up in the Ministry of Labor. The building had been stormed, apparently with massive loss of life. Now that the Internet had been restored, photos and video was being uploaded by those survivors who had managed to escape. There was little narrative to be discovered in these artifacts, only a lot of confusion, running, screaming, and the sound of automatic weapons fire.
The Turkish media claimed that Mayor Erez had been killed trying to escape custody, but had not as yet shown pictures of his body. That was promised for later.
If Erez had recorded any last message, any declaration of defiance or principle, it had not yet surfaced. Muzzled by the High Zap, he had died as anonymously and silently as so many of his followers.
Otherwise, as video uploads and Rafet’s drones showed, the day in Ankara had been mixed. There hadn’t been any big demos, but there had been constant skirmishing between protestors and the security forces. There were videos of a cop being knocked off his motorcycle by a well-thrown brick, an armored car smashing a storefront, ambulances screaming down Ataturk Boulevard, a screaming woman being manhandled into a police car by a party of sweating men in suits and ties. Piles of tires and debris had been set afire to block roads or rally resisters, and the names and addresses of Gray Wolves and police-and their families-had been posted in order to invite popular vengeance.
These scenes were duplicated elsewhere, though with less intensity. There was general unrest in many of the cities, but nothing as well-defined as the demonstrations and occupations of the previous day. It was as if, with the Lincoln Brigade sealed away by the High Zap, the opposition throughout the country was taking a breather and trying to work out a new approach.
The mayor of Bodrum, off in the southeast, still held out on his peninsula. The junta had so far ignored him, perhaps on the theory that his pitiful blockade did more to isolate him than to threaten the generals.
The BBC talking heads were discussing Attila’s address. One wondered if Attila weren’t taking the role of James Bond far too seriously. Another said that his claims that he was responsible for the disorder in Turkey were absurd.
“It’s not Attila Gordon who’s making the claim, however,” said another. “It’s the official Turkish media that’s claiming he’s responsible for the anti-government actions. All Gordon did was confirm their accusations. What are we to make of this extraordinary series of claims?”
Nothing much, as it turned out. They did agree that if any of this was true, Attila Gordon would shortly be in jail.
Dagmar had no worries on that score. The British government knew perfectly well who was stirring up trouble in Turkey and knew it was being done with Whitehall’s cooperation, from the Sovereign Base Area of Akrotiri. If they made the ridiculous mistake of arresting Attila, he’d walk.
The talking heads shifted to other news. Lincoln raised the TV remote and turned off the set.
He walked in front of the television and turned to the others.
“Helmuth’s right that we’re not much good against guns,” he said. “But please bear in mind that behind each of those guns is a person.” He looked at the TV remote in his hand, then placed it on the stand next to the set.
“The average Turkish conscript-in the country he’s known affectionately as ‘Mehmet’-has more in common with the demonstrators than with the generals,” he said. “When Mehmet realizes this and acts on it, the junta is finished. The officer class has a good deal more esprit and ideological solidarity, but they know full well how corrupt their leaders are, and they know how the junta is corrupting the military itself. The best members of the officer class are not natural allies of the generals but obey out of habit, or because they see no other path. When presented with alternatives, they may come over to our side.
“Mehmet is our target,” Lincoln said, “but we’re not firing bullets. If our people start killing soldiers, they’ll close ranks in solidarity. Our strategy has to be to split them, not force them to unite.”
“What are the officers going to make of Attila Gordon?” Richard asked.
Lincoln spread his hands. “Lord only knows,” he said.
“Well,” Helmuth said. “On that note…” He rose to his feet. “I’ll see you all in the morning. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”
Dagmar rose and helped Ismet escape from the spongy clutches of the mustard-colored sofa. She felt Lincoln’s hand on her arm and turned.
“Good save,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Guards took the Brigade to their quarters. Dagmar paused outside Ismet’s door and carefully put her arms around his strained ribs. He carried the scent of soap and antiseptic, as if he carried a part of the hospital around with him.
He kissed her carefully, pressing his bruised lips to hers.
“Were you all right last night?” he asked.
“Slept like a baby,” she said.
“Good.” His voice took on a precise cast. “You need to see a doctor.”
“Lincoln’s arranging it.”
Resentment crackled in her skull as she realized she didn’t want to be the subject of the conversation.
“And you?” she asked. “How are you doing?”
“Still enjoying the pain pills.”
She kissed his cheek, the point of his jaw under the ear. Bristles sang against her cheek. He rested his hands lightly on her hips, then kissed her mouth again, a peck that had the air of finality.
“I’m going to bed,” he said finally. She dropped her arms and stood back.
“Sleep well,” she said.
“You, too.”
His door closed behind him, and she heard the lock click. She turned in silence and walked to her own door, feeling all the way the eyes of the RAF Regiment guard posted on the landing. At least it wasn’t Corporal Poole who witnessed her rejection.