Walter Williams - Deep State

Judy looked around with apprehension on her face, as if she were already seeing the tanks closing in.

“Where else can we go?” Dagmar asked.

There was silence for a moment. Then Ismet cleared his throat.

“Does it have to be Istanbul?” he said. “Can we move the players out of the city?”

“The players are already in Beyolu,” Judy said. “Can we do the event there?”

“Taksim Square?” Dagmar said hopefully. It was the only Beyolu landmark she could remember.

“No,” Ismet said. “Beyolu is full of foreign embassies. The security’s too high.”

“My wife and I live on the Asia side, in Uskudar,” Mehmet said. “We could drive the buses across the bridge, and stage the event there. There are plenty of parks.”

Ismet frowned. “And also the military barracks at Selimiye.”

Mehmet’s expression fell. The group stood for a moment, their general gloom a contrast to the cheerful green of the park, the packs of children with their ice cream, the teens with their MP3 players, the gulls calling overhead.

Ismet looked up and shaded his eyes with his hand. “Look there,” he said, and pointed.

Dagmar followed his gaze and saw a small aircraft silhouetted against the sky, orbiting a few hundred meters above the palace.

“Surveillance drone,” Lincoln said.

High-tech military surveillance drones-the kind that could fly thousands of miles, loiter for hours over the target, and drop bombs or missiles-these were expensive and cost millions of dollars each. But low-tech drones, essentially large model aircraft with Japanese lenses, digital video, and uplink capability, could be built in someone’s garage, for a few thousand dollars.

They were all over the place in California now, where Dagmar lived-floating above the freeways to clock speeders, racing to crime sites to track felons, shadowing celebrities on behalf of paparazzi, and ogling sunbathers at the Playboy Mansion. The drones were cheap enough so that the highway patrol could afford them, as could local TV stations, celebrity magazines, private detectives, and hobbyists who collected candid videos the way other people collected stamps.

“Do you think it’s tracking us?” Judy asked.

“Probably not,” said Lincoln. “I doubt we’re worth following. It’s probably looking for suspicious people around the historic sites.”

Anger simmered in Dagmar as she scowled up at the drone. If the military government was using these cheap flying remotes, they could shift their focus of attention from one place to another very fast. One place, she thought, might be as dangerous as the next.

She let her gaze fall from the bright sky and blinked the dazzle from her gaze as she looked at the silver-green bark of the nearest plane tree. The sound of a ship’s horn floated again on the air.

“There,” she said, pointing north, toward the Golden Horn.

“Yes?” Lincoln said. He peered at the tree-shrouded horizon and narrowed his eyes as he tried to see what she was pointing at.

“We have the event on the water,” she said. “Rent some excursion boats, take a cruise. They won’t be able to harass us unless they scramble the navy and board us.”

Lincoln turned to Mehmet.

“Can we rent boats for seven hundred people on twenty-four hours’ notice?” he asked.

Mehmet gave a slow, thoughtful nod.

“There are a lot of excursion boats in Istanbul, and a good many are tied up three deep waiting for customers. But it would depend on what you’re willing to pay.”

Lincoln raised a hand in a gesture of pure noblesse, like a grand cardinal-archbishop giving a blessing.

“Whatever it takes,” he said.

Mehmet smiled. So did Dagmar. She knew that she could trust in the Turkish willingness to inconvenience themselves in the name of profit.

“What shall I tell them?” Mehmet asked. “Bosporus cruise?”

Dagmar nodded. “Why not?”

Mehmet reached for his handheld and began to page through his rather substantial list of contacts.

Dagmar turned to Lincoln.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Lincoln. “I’d much prefer my brilliant PR coup not end in broken heads.”

Dagmar turned to Judy.

“I’m afraid this means we’ve got to come up with a whole new crossword puzzle by tomorrow morning.”

Judy was looking inward with her usual fierce concentration.

“I know,” she said.

“Can you do it?”

“I’ll have to, won’t I?” Judy looked across the park at the Golden Horn. “What’s on the Bosporus, anyway? What is there to put in the puzzle?”

“Dolmabahce Palace,” Ismet said. “The Bosporus Bridge. Selimiye Barracks. And…” His voice trailed away. “I’m not sure. I’ve never actually been up the Bosporus.”

“How,” Dagmar asked, “did the Bosporus Bridge avoid being named after Ataturk, like every other major structure in this country?”

He smiled. “There already was an Ataturk bridge, over the Golden Horn.”

“I am enlightened,” Dagmar said.

The party began heading upslope, back to their hotel.

“Fortress of Europe,” Tuna said, adding to the list of Bosporus sites. “Fortress of Asia. That big mosque in Ortakoy, I don’t remember the name of it.”

“Our hotel will have a brochure for cruises,” Dagmar said. “It should list the sights.”

Dagmar’s handheld began to play “ ’Round Midnight.” She reached for it.

“This is Dagmar,” she said.

“This is Richard. I had my phone off. What’s the problem?”

Dagmar was nettled that he had made himself unavailable during work hours.

“Why was your phone turned off?”

“I was with Ismet’s uncle Ertac, haggling over carpets. I didn’t want to be interrupted.”

Dagmar shook her head and sighed.

“What did you buy?”

“Six carpets. One runner for the hallway. Two kilims that I just couldn’t resist.”

She saw Ismet looking at her and lowered the phone to speak to him.

“Uncle Ertac just scored big,” she said.

Ismet laughed. Dagmar returned to her phone.

“Richard,” she said. “Have you ever been in a foreign country before?”

He was surprised by the question.

“I’ve been to Cabo San Lucas,” he said.

“When you went to Cabo,” said Dagmar, “did you buy everything that was put in front of you?”

“I was in college,” Richard said. “I bought all the beer and tequila in front of me, and maybe even some of the food.”

There was a buzzing overhead. Dagmar looked up to see the drone swoop low and then head out of the park toward the southwest.

“I’m kind of worried that I’ve led you into some kind of horrible temptation,” Dagmar said. “Are you sure you can afford all these things you’re buying?”

“I did have to call the credit card company and argue them into raising my limit,” Richard said. “But the carpets are actually investments. Now there’s more opportunity for women in this country, they’re not going to spend their time sitting at home weaving. The carpets are going to become more rare, and that means more expensive. In time, I’ll be able to sell the carpets for a profit.”

He spoke rapidly, trotting out these ideas with what sounded like considerable pride in their form and originality.

Uncle Ertac, Dagmar realized, might just be the greatest carpet salesman in the world.

“It might take you twenty years to realize your profit,” Dagmar said.

“It’s a more solid investment than the dollar,” Richard said. “Remember what happened to the currency a few years back?”

Dagmar remembered all too well. It occurred to her that she was perhaps the last person on earth to advise anyone on investment strategy.