Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (49 page)

A few days later Gül gets out of Solitary and returns to the coven of terrorist girls without fanfare.  Later, one of them drops a French newspaper on my bed with the words
bathroom
and
ten
penciled in the crossword puzzle.

At ten, I go to the bathroom.  Gül stands naked, washing out her underwear in the trough.  Bruises cover her thighs and back.  I tell her in French to be prepared for a terminal blackout.

“When the time comes, I need your girls to organize the women so they don't panic.”

“Why should I believe you?  Maybe you're setting us up to attempt a prison break, which will get us shot.”

“Why would anyone bother setting you up?  If they wanted to shoot you, they'd just shoot you.”

She shrugs.

“I want you to get the women out first.”

She ignores me and continues washing her lingerie.

Eid ul-Adaha

“Abeela Burakgazi!”

The cell door slams open, and a guard, accompanied by two Turkish soldiers, yells my name.  At first I don't respond, having forgotten my latest appellation. 

“Abeela Burakgazi!”

Belma jabs me with her elbow, and I stand.  The guard motions for me to follow.  At first I think I may have a visitor.  I put on my abaya and veil. 

The guard cuffs my hands in front.  They did not cuff me when Ana Luzzatti came.  And visitors don't visit at night.  This can't be good.

Instead of heading to the visitation rooms, we turn down a hallway to a different wing of the building.  West, I think. 

We enter a large room with windows.

Of all the horrors in the world, I can't imagine one worse. 

Shirzad Sahar sits behind a long table in front of me, with a
mutawa
on either side of him.  One
mutawa
is small and old, a round-faced owl with glasses, the other is tall and thin with a black beard that falls like an apron over his chest.  Both wear white caftans and red turbans.  Shirzad wears a suit.  He was always a natty dresser.

Why in hell is Shirzad here?
  All I can imagine is that he had me followed from Amsterdam to Turkey.  Leading him to Reynard—
just like Laszlo predicted.
  Guilt and dread make my head spin.

Maybe he doesn't know who I am
.

I am led to a square marked in yellow tape on the floor.  The guard leaves me and steps to the side by the wall.  I wonder why I have not been taken to a courthouse. 

There is no prosecutor, no witnesses, only these three grim faced men.

The owl speaks first, confirming my identification, date of birth, names of my parents, my nationality, my residence, my reason for being in Turkey.  The proceedings are slow, everything being translated from Turkish to English, and from English to Turkish.

Then Blackbeard
speaks.  “Abeela Burakgazi, you are accused of appearing in public without an escort, participation in demonstrations against the state, resisting arrest, and carrying a fire arm.  How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“Please tell the court how you came to be here.”

I give them my story.  “My husband and I are on
hajj
.  The train stopped in Istanbul for two days to allow the pilgrims to visit the holy sites and stretch their legs.  My husband and I went shopping for provisions for the last leg of our pilgrimage.  Somehow I got caught up in the crowd, torn away from my husband.  He had asked me to carry his pistol for him in my purse because he did not have pockets.  When the execution started, I stayed to see justice performed by the state.”

“Why has your husband not appeared to claim you?”

“I do not know what happened to my husband.”  I manage a frightened whimper, which is not hard to fake.  “I do not know why he has not gone to the police to look for me.”

One of the guards chuckles, and Shirzad gives him a scathing look.  Even the guards know that asking the police for a missing person only invites the prospect of getting arrested yourself.

The three men of the court lean their heads together, confer, and then nod.  The bespectacled imam
speaks.  “During the first ten days of Dhu al-Hijjah, it is most blessed to be charitable.  Today is Eid ul-Adaha, the Festival of Sacrifice, the most sacred day of the month, celebrating the willingness of Ibrahim to sacrifice his son Ismail, a blessed day for clemency.  We are inclined to believe you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.  It is a blessing to help those on pilgrimage.  However, we cannot release you on your own reconnaissance.  Your husband must claim you.  Provide the court with the name of your hotel, and we will send someone from the court to fetch him.”

I'm to be released?  Is it possible?

“
Tesh a kur,
” I say.
 
Thank you. 
“Allahu Akbar.”

Shirzad turns to the female guard.  “Take off her veil, please.  We need to verify her documents.”

She approaches and unfastens my niqab
.
  A bolt of terror shoots down my spine.  I pray to God Shirzad doesn't remember me.  The veil drops, hanging by a corner above my ear. 

Shirzad's eyes open wide; his habitual bland and impenetrable facade deserts him, his jaw agape. 
Oh, no.
He is getting up to take a closer look.  He stops in front of me and pinches my chin, turning it left, then right.

“
Krijg je niet rond
?” he says in Dutch. 
Don't you get around.

I begin to breathe rapidly, my face hot, my knees wobbly.

“Well, you are no coward, I'll give you that.”  He chuckles to himself.  “I'm terribly curious as to what brings you to the Islamic Republic of Turkey.”

His leering smile tells me exactly where his “curiosity” will lead him. 

He turns to the court.  “This woman is an impostor.  I knew her as Salima Sahin, who worked as a secretary for the Landweer in the Islamic Republic of Holland.  One of my subordinates.  There is every reason to believe this woman is a traitor.  I request permission of the court to interrogate her.”

#

Four guards drag me down a long hallway, lights flickering gloomily above. 

The floor slopes down, the air getting moister, cooler. 
Dear God, where are they taking me? 
To the bowels of the earth?  The corridor narrows, the floor gummy with clumps of ancient dirt, covered with a thick layer of loose dust.  An older part of the prison that was never reopened.  Small dank jail cells stand vacant on either side, doors open.  Rusty manacles dangle from the walls.   

This can't be good.

My knees give out.  The guards curse as they hoist me up by my elbows, half dragging me.  I cry and blubber, kicking and throwing my arms about, my toes and elbows scraping against the walls.  “
Please.
  Let me go.  I am innocent.  I am just a woman.”  I can't help myself.

The lights go out.  It is completely black.  A palpable living black.  The black of a deep cave.

“
Kahretsin!
” curses one guard.  “Where are the emergency lights?”

“Something must be wrong with the backup generator,” suggests another guard.  “It's supposed to kick in when we have a blackout.”

“Damn incompetents.  Can't they keep anything going around here?  Shit!  This flashlight isn't working.”

“Mine isn't working either.  Can't see a damned thing!”  I hear some more clacking on his belt.  Switching of knobs.  “The radio is fucked, too!”

“
Kahretsin!
”

“How come there's no siren?”

In the absence of electricity, there are no buzzing lights.  Only the echoes of yelling elsewhere in the building.  

“Let's go back.  We'll never find the interrogation cell in this.”

“Which way?”

I'm the only one who has not moved since the lights went out.  I hear one of the guards take a few steps right into the wall.  “Uuuuff!  Dammit!”

About three minutes after the lights go out, there is a loud bang, like a sonic boom.  Sound waves from the blast finally making it to earth.  I could tell them, but I don't.  The whole building shakes, and one of the guards cries out.  I can't see them, but I can feel the terror in their bodies, their voices pitched high.

“
I'm getting out of here!”

“Karga!  Don't be stupid!  Get back here!  What a coward.” 

“Hell, I'm not getting buried down here.”  Two other guards follow Karga, more slowly, running their batons against the wall to guide them.

The fourth guard is left with me.  “We can't leave a prisoner!” he whines.  “The emergency lights will be on in a minute.”  Their footsteps echo down the hallway.  “Fucking earthquakes.”  I hear him trying to flick on a lighter, and see a few red sparks.  He tosses it on the ground.

“Please don't leave me,” I plead, trying to sound small and helpless.  “At least unlock my hands so I don't fall on my face.”

“Okay.” 

I hear jangling keys.  Then he drops them, and curses again.  He feels the floor, cries out in panic.  “You find them!” he says, and rushes down the hallway.

Suddenly it is so quiet.  I hear the scuffle of rats, the clanking of metal doors and men's voices far away.

I am alone in absolute blackness, frightened, but not terrified.  I talk myself down.  Nothing has changed.  It's only the absence of light.  The floor is still there, the walls are still there.  

I'm surprised by the vertigo.  I squat, my heart beating a mile a minute.  I know my feet are pointed in the opposite direction I want to go.  I take a Quran out of my pocket and line it against my shoe.  I turn around, and line my foot up against the book, pointed, I hope in the opposite direction.  I feel around for the keys, my fingers touching dampness and dirt, and something furry and gooey—a desiccated rodent, perhaps—which is probably what frightened the guard.  The keys are different sizes, and I feel each one as I go around the ring.  The smallest must be for the handcuffs.  I scrape and poke a bit until I find the hole.  Finally I'm free. 

I feel around and find the lighter the guard discarded.  I flick it a dozen times, no flame, but enough spark to light the thin pages of the Quran.  Allah forgive me. 

Now, how to get out of here?

Holding the burning Quran away from my body, I walk quickly down the hallway, retracing my steps to the makeshift courtroom.  I hear voices, banging doors, shadows down the hallway of people running frantically, a few small lights darting like fireflies—I guess some of the flashlights work.

I drop the Quran where it will harmlessly burn out—I don't want to start a fire with people still locked up.

I hear women's voices, and feel my way back to my cell.  The guards are gone.  Jamming one key after another, I finally find the right one, turn the latch, and shove open the heavy door.  A tiny amount of moonlight shines from the two windows high above.  The faint glow of the propane stoves that never go out.

“Gül,” I shout.  “It's Abeela.  I'm at the door.”

I hear someone moving through the room, stumbling into bodies.  “Vous êtes la fille néerlandaise, oui?”  You're that Dutch girl, aren't you. 

“Hey, the door is open.  Where are the guards?” asks another woman.

I reach for Gül's arm and quickly tell her what's happening, that the guards have fled.  “It is time.  Round up the women and get them out.  Tell them to stay out of the cities.”

I barely see a wooden spoon sticking out of a pot of something over the fire.  I grab it and a handful of forks.  

No time for farewells.  No time to hunt down Belma and Filiz and Zaide and all the other women, without whom I never would've made it.  “
Tesh a kur!”
I shout as loud as I can.
 
Thank you.  Then turn and run.

I drag the wooden spoon down the walls of the hallway, feeling my way out.    Winding my way back up the maze of hallways, I don't find a single guard.  Some of the doors are locked.  I search for the right key, open them, bend the forks and wedge them beneath to keep the doors open.  Some of the women who had little to pack, push past me into the dark.

Six doors, that's what I remember, the last leading past the administrative offices.  I fumble through the keys to the last door, the women anxiously talking behind me.  My hands are sweaty, and the keys slip through my fingers like bait fish.  I finally slip the right one in, and push open the door, my shoulders jostled as the women scramble past. 

As I jamb a fork to keep it open, wedging it in further with my foot, I see scuffling in the offices, dark shapes grabbing things, running, someone yelling in Turkish, frustrated, demanding the guards keep to their posts.  A pistol shoots the ceiling.  Plaster rains down.

I take a step and turn—right into the chest of a man, who reels backward.  Thrown off balance, I slam heavily into the door jamb, numbing my shoulder.