All the alarms had sounded then, and Addaio had named a successor, in case anything happened to him. Within the community was another small cell, which lived in even deeper secrecy. It would be they who continued the struggle if the main group were taken down-and they would be taken down; the hollow feeling in the pit of Bakkalbasi's stomach told him so.
As soon as they arrived in Turin, he took Ismet to Turgut's house. When the porter opened the door, he shouted in alarm.
"Calm down, man!" Bakkalbasi gripped the porter's arm and steered him inside. "Why are you shouting? Do you want to alert the entire cathedral?"
They sat down, and when Turgut recovered his composure, he filled them in on the latest events. He knew he was being watched; he had known it since the day of the fire. And the way Padre Yves looked at him… Oh, yes, he was very friendly toward him, but there was something in his eyes that told Turgut to be careful or he would die-yes, yes, that was exactly the way it felt.
They shared a few more minutes over coffee, and the pastor instructed Ismet not to leave his uncle's side.
Turgut would introduce him in the cardinal's offices and announce that his nephew would be living with him. The pastor also urged Turgut to show Ismet the secret door that led into the underground tunnels- some of the men who were coming from Urfa might need to hide there and if they did they would need sustenance that only he could provide.
Then Bakkalbasi left them. He had meetings to attend with other members of the community, in Turin and elsewhere. The time to act was almost upon them.
"What do we do?" Pietro asked. "Maybe we should follow him."
He and Giuseppe had rounded the corner of the cathedral, heading for the porter's apartment, just in time to see a man exit and move surreptitiously, it seemed, down the street. Something about him had looked off; he'd glanced back over his shoulder not once but twice.
"We don't know who he is," Giuseppe answered.
"He's Turkish, you can see that."
'All right, I'll follow him, then."
"I don't know-we'll probably get more here. Listen, let's just stick with the plan and talk to the porter; maybe we can get something out of him about his visitor."
Ismet opened the door, thinking that Bakkalbasi had forgotten something. He frowned when he saw the two men-cops for sure. The cops, he told himself, always look like the cops.
"Buon giorno, we'd like to speak with Francesco Turgut," Pietro said.
The young man shrugged and shook his head as if he wasn't sure what they wanted, and then turned and called back into the room in Turkish. Turgut came to the door, unable to control his trembling.
"Buon giorno, Signor Turgut," Pietro said. "We're still investigating the fire, and we wanted to see whether you might have remembered anything else, any little detail that was out of the ordinary."
Turgut broke into a stream of Turkish, waving his arms at them. He seemed to be on the verge of tears. Ismet put a protective arm over his shoulder and answered for him in pidgin Italian mixed with English.
"My uncle is old man, and he have suffered much since the fire. He is fearing that with his years they will think he not as good as before and kick him out, because was not watching enough. Can you not leave him alone now? He has told all what he remembers."
'And who are you?" Pietro asked.
"I Ismet Turgut, nephew of my uncle here. I arrive today. I come to Turin looking for job."
"Where have you come from?"
"Urfa… From Urfa."
"There's no work there?" Giuseppe asked.
"In oil fields, yes, but I, what I want do is get good job, save money, and go home to Urfa to have my own business. I have… not wife? Girlfriend?"
The kid seemed likable enough, thought Pietro, even innocent. Maybe he actually was.
'All right, that's fine. Does your uncle keep in touch with other people from Urfa? How about that other guy that just left? Is he from there?" Giuseppe asked.
Turgut felt a shiver. Now he was certain that the police knew everything. Ismet, once again taking charge of the situation, answered quickly, ignoring the question about Bakkalbasi.
"Yes, sure, he does, and I believe I try to be friends with the people from my town too. My uncle, you know, half Italian, but Turks never lose our roots-is it not so, uncle?"
The young man seemed determined not to let Francesco Turgut talk. Pietro asked, "Signor Turgut, do you know the Bajerai family?"
"Bajerai!" Ismet exclaimed excitedly. "I went to school with boy named Bajerai! I think here in Turin are cousins or something like that… not cousins of boy, you know, but cousins of boy's father."
"I'd like your uncle to answer my question," Pietro insisted.
Francesco Turgut swallowed hard and prepared himself to say what he had rehearsed so many times.
"Yes, yes, of course I know them. It is an honorable family that has had a terrible disgrace. Their sons… well, their sons made a mistake and they are paying for it. But they are good persons, the parents. Very good. You can ask anyone, they will tell you."
"Have you visited the Bajerai family recently?"
"No, my health is… not good. I do not go out much."
"Excuse me," Ismet interrupted with an innocent expression. "What have done the Bajerai?"
"Why do you think they've done something?" Giuseppe asked.
"Because if you, who are the police, come here and ask about the Bajerai, then they have done something, is it not? You would not ask if they had not, I think."
The young man smiled, apparently proud of his reasoning. Giuseppe and Pietro looked at him, unable to decide whether he was really as innocent as he looked or was a very good liar.
Giuseppe turned back to Turgut. "Let's go back to the day of the fire," he suggested.
"I have told you everything I remember. If I had remembered something more I would have called you," the old man answered, his voice unsteady.
Pietro pounced again. "Signor Turgut, who is the man who just left?" he pressed. "Is he from Urfa?"
The porter shook his head vehemently. "No, no! A friend, just a friend." He leaned on his nephew for support. "I feel unwell," he said shakily. "I must rest."
"I have just arrived," Ismet broke in pleadingly. "I have not had time even to ask my uncle where I sleep- can you not return another time?"
Pietro and Giuseppe looked at each other and seemed to reach a decision. "Give us a call when you're feeling better," Pietro said. "I think we have more to talk about." They said good-bye and left.
"What do you think of the nephew?" Pietro asked his partner as they walked away.