Walter Williams - Deep State

She’d seen it before, in all the developing world. She’d run games or consulted with other game designers in India and China, and she’d seen a revolution firsthand in Indonesia, where the children of poverty had overrun the glittering hotels and office blocks of the privileged.

Overrun them and dismantled them and carried them away to build new things with the scraps.

“We’re coming up to the palace now,” Ismet said.

A pair of armored cars squatted before the stone walls on either side of the bronze gate. Soldiers with white helmets and gaiters and chromed assault rifles stood on guard. An officer spoke briefly to the driver, glanced into the back of the car, and then signaled his soldiers to open the inner gate and pull up the spike strip.

Once they were past the barriers, a large, brilliant park opened on all sides. Ankara seemed to specialize in parks, but this one was truly exceptional. The grounds blazed with scarlet gladioli and purple lilac, brilliant lilies and soft-petaled lavender. There were several buildings, ranging from the old Ottoman mansion where Ataturk had first lived to modernist office blocks, but the reception was to be held in the president’s residence, a pillared mansion called the Pink Villa.

Dagmar tried to imagine an American president living in a pink building, and failed.

Pink stone pillars loomed above them as the Mercedes drew up to the steps. Functionaries in white jackets and aides-de-camp in uniform clacked their way down the stairs in hard leather heels to open doors and offer hands to the passengers.

Dagmar emerged into bright August light and blinked. The scent of lavender wafted to her nostrils. “This way, please,” someone said, but Dagmar waited for her party to join her before she followed the young uniformed man up the stairway and beneath the mansion’s pink pillars.

Here there was another security check and the party had to surrender their phones. Richard had to offer his chronograph and shoes for inspection; the rest passed. And then they were shepherded into a drawing room, where a trio of somber, dignified photographers snapped their pictures while other cameramen pointed video cameras at them. Dagmar patted her hair and waited, feeling unnecessarily self-conscious. Functionaries ignored them and talked to each other. Dagmar saw that two plush chairs had been placed on either side of a side table. She wondered if she was supposed to sit.

Then there was a stir among the onlookers. The military men clicked to attention, and everyone else straightened. Dagmar turned to the far door and saw the junta march in.

President Bozbeyli hadn’t been seen in a uniform since assuming office: today he wore a soft gray Italian suit and a dignified blue tie. He was very short, seven or eight inches shorter than Dagmar, which put him at an inch or so over five feet. He smiled warmly, took Dagmar’s hand, and bowed over it with olde-world politeness.

Dagmar gazed in surprise at the general’s lavish use of cosmetics. The makeup and rouge failed to entirely conceal the lines and spots of age-and she couldn’t help but see that his hair and mustache were suspiciously black.

Bozbeyli straightened. He and Dagmar held hands and smiled while the photographers’ flashes went off, the cameras went click-click-click, and Dagmar scrutinized the general’s makeup.

The cosmetics were clearly intended for the cameras, not for someone standing a short distance away. The effects were too glaring at close range.

Neither of them had yet spoken a word. It was all dumb show for the cameras.

Words might not even be necessary. The picture of Dagmar shaking hands with the president was probably enough for the regime’s purposes.

“Adoring American media figure endorses president.” That’s the caption they’d put on it.

Unlike the caption she’d use herself: “Dagmar Shaw sells integrity to keep dream job.”

The cameras stopped snapping as if someone had given an order. Then Bozbeyli introduced the prime minister, a white-haired former air force general named Dursun-he wore his age without quite so much cosmetic-and again Dagmar clasped an age-scored hand and gave a close-lipped smile while the photographers clicked away.

Bozbeyli introduced his minister of defense-an elderly admiral who still wore the uniform, along with rouge-and the photographers clicked again. Then there was a pause while the junta looked expectantly at Dagmar, and she realized she was supposed to present her team. She did so-the cameras clicked only a few times for each of them-and then with a gracious gesture Bozbeyli offered Dagmar a seat.

They sat opposite each other. Each entourage stood behind its principal. The cameras clicked some more. The admiral, distracted, fished in his pockets for cigarettes and a lighter.

“I would like to thank you for the work you are doing in bringing modern Turkiye to the attention of the world,” Bozbeyli said, in very good English. “Your efforts are inspiring many of the brightest minds of the nation. We are always conscious that the road to the future is paved with technology.”

Perhaps, Dagmar thought, that metaphor worked a little better in Turkish.

“The technology infrastructure here is very good,” Dagmar said. “We’ve had very few problems.”

She figured that Turkey’s IT backbone was a safe subject for conversation.

The little president gave a grand wave of his hand. “I gave orders that you be allowed to proceed without interference.”

Dagmar was startled.

“Thank you,” she managed. “Everyone has been very cooperative.”

“You wished to have your game in Anyt Kabir Park,” Bozbeyli said. “My security people said-” He changed to a mocking voice. “ ‘No, that’s too close to the Ataturk Mausoleum. There might be terrorists hiding in this game, and they might destroy the monument.’ ” Bozbeyli made an abrupt gesture. “I said, ‘No! This game will be good for Turkiye! Many people will play this game and see this film and then come to see our beautiful country!’ ” He shook his finger at imaginary security officers. “ ‘You must put more guards on the Mausoleum to keep it safe, but do not interfere with this game!’ ”

Bozbeyli sat back, crossed his arms like Napoleon, and smiled.

“That was very good of you,” Dagmar said.

“If anyone offers you trouble,” he said, “you will let me know.”

What power, Dagmar wondered, was Bozbeyli handing her? The power to have someone arrested? Beaten? Jailed?

Whatever power it was, Dagmar decided to ignore it.

“Everyone,” she said, “has been very kind.”

Behind Bozbeyli, the admiral lit his cigarette. Tobacco tanged the air.

“Under the former regime,” said the president, “I could not have guaranteed your safety. Extremists and terrorists were allowed to proliferate. Radical Muslims were on the verge of a coup d’etat. It was necessary to act.”

His hands made a series of chopping movements as he spoke. Maybe, Dagmar thought, he was simply unable to sit still.

“I’m afraid,” Dagmar said, “that your country’s politics are a little beyond my scope. I design Internet puzzles.”

She hoped to detour around the whole subject of the regime and its announced purposes. It was regrettable that she was here at all-but if she had to be in the Pink Villa with the generals, at least she could avoid an explicit endorsement of their rule.

But Bozbeyli persisted.

“Surely,” he said, “you must recognize the danger of religious terrorists.”

“The whole world has recognized that danger,” Dagmar said.

“Then you understand”-again the chopping gesture-“the need for action.”

“Civilization here is five thousand years old,” Dagmar said. “Can it seriously be threatened by a few madmen with bombs?”