Walter Williams - Deep State

“I was wondering,” he said, “if you can give me some advice.”

Dagmar blinked. “If I can.”

“I’m trying to work out how to get published in the States.” He frowned. “I get good reviews, but nobody in America reads reviews that aren’t in English.”

Dagmar almost laughed but caught herself in time. People were always asking her how to get published or how to get into game writing: they were always disappointed when the answer involved hard work instead of knowing some kind of secret password.

But Tuna wasn’t a wannabe; he was a successful author in his own country. So she gave Tuna what advice she could-which wasn’t very encouraging. American publishers would only look at manuscripts already in English, and even then-with the whole ramshackle edifice of publishing perpetually teetering on the edge of the void-the odds were not good.

“I can translate the work myself,” Tuna said. “But I’m not good enough to write literary English; it would need polishing.”

Dagmar said she’d try to find someone interested in polishing up the translation of a foreign writer. Tuna seemed disappointed-perhaps he was hoping that Dagmar would volunteer. But Dagmar had no time for such ventures, and in any case her connections in publishing were almost a decade out-of-date.

“Well, thanks.” Tuna stood, empty glass in his hand. “More drinks?”

Dagmar considered her mostly empty glass and was on the verge of saying yes when she realized what was playing on the jukebox. Ian Attila Gordon, pop star turned James Bond, singing the bombastic theme to the film Stunrunner.

“Hey!” Dagmar said. “It’s our theme song!”

They all listened for a second or two, and then laughter gusted out.

“Overproduced,” sniffed Tuna.

“We are Bond!” Judy cried, punching the air.

It occurred to Dagmar at that instant that they weren’t Bond at all, they were the sort of people that Bond routinely destroyed-the subversive technophiles operating from a secret headquarters on a sea-girt island, engaged in covertly, busily undermining the order that Bond represented.

They weren’t Bond. They were the Rebel Alliance from Star Wars, trying with desperate idealism and kludged-together tech to restore an imperfect republic that had barely worked in the first place.

Fortunately, she thought, Bozbeyli wasn’t Darth Vader, he was just a painted-up heroin dealer.

But Dagmar was very tired and a little drunk and felt unable to explain this to the others. So she punched the air and cried, “We are Bond!” and signaled Tuna to bring her another drink.

It was early evening, and the scent of jet fuel mingled with the charcoal smoke from the backyard barbecues. “Do you know,” Judy said as they cycled home together, “that you don’t have to be a Muslim to be a dervish?”

Dagmar looked at her. “Rafet’s kind of dervish, you mean?”

“I… guess so.” Judy’s eyes narrowed in thought, and she clacked her tongue piercing against her upper teeth. “He said that anyone with a heart open to the Divine was welcome at his services.”

Dagmar cast her mind back to the Web page of the Niagara lodge, the description of the services. She had to speak loudly over the sound of a landing Skylifter.

“Don’t they sing verses from the Koran?” she shouted. “I mean, they may be open to all faiths, but those faiths are going to spend a lot of time listening to the Complete Works of Mohammed and singing songs in praise of Allah.”

“Rafet only talked about the drumming,” Judy answered.

“But you and he are getting on?”

Judy seemed doubtful. Sunset colors glowed on her tattoo sleeves. She clacked her tongue piercing against her teeth in rhythm.

“I suppose. He didn’t ask me out or anything.”

“You could ask him.”

“Mm.” Doubtfully. “What’s my opening? He’s talking about God and mystic oneness, and I pop up and say, ‘By the way, Terrorslash III is showing at the base cinema, want to go?’ ”

Dagmar had no advice on this matter.

“Ismet offered to take me out,” she said.

Judy raised an eyebrow. “The quiet one? You like the quiet ones?”

“I like the intelligent and undemanding ones.”

“I see.” Nodding.

“You know,” Dagmar said, “this is a military base loaded with guys. Does it have to be the monk?”

Judy laughed. “He’s just so pretty!”

Dagmar could only agree. “Maybe that’s why God picked him,” she said.

Judy gave her an odd look. Then she shook her head.

“By the way,” she said, “my dad knows Ian Attila Gordon.”

Dagmar looked at her. “Really?”

“Yeah. Ian’s a big fan of his. Sometimes they do benefits together.” She laughed. “Dad says he’s a complete tosser.”

“I didn’t think he was that great a Bond.”

Judy winked. “We’re better, yah?” Dagmar smiled wanly. Judy jumped off her bike and turned up the short walk to their apartment. Dagmar followed.

“Dad said that he hoped Ian would make a success as an actor,” she said, “because his musical career wasn’t going anywhere.”

“He’s got a big album coming up in a few weeks,” Dagmar said. “I saw posters at the airport.”

Keys flashed in the light of the setting sun; the apartment door opened. Somewhere, a jet engine fired off its afterburner: the vast noise diminished to a muffled roar as soon as the door was closed.

“Ian’s album is a huge mess,” Judy said. “That’s the word from the producer. It should have come out along with the movie, but it was delayed.” She looked up. “Can I use the shower first?”

Dagmar gave a wave of her hand.

It was time to call California and get the bad news about the Seagram’s game.

“I’m sorry I was so evasive yesterday,” Lloyd said. It was early morning, and he had clearly been waiting for her outside the ops center door.

“No problem,” Dagmar said as she racked her bike. “We’re really not supposed to give personal information. Especially in public places like bars.”

“It’s just that my father is an Alevi Kurd and I have to be careful what I say around Sunni Turks.”

Dagmar opened her mouth, then closed it and nodded.

“I don’t know what their attitude is to Kurds,” Lloyd went on. “And I’m pretty sure Rafet would consider Alevis to be heretics-and he’s a Islamist and most Alevis tend to be secularists, and that on top of the Kurd thing… And of course he’s my roommate, so that makes it worse.”

“Right,” Dagmar said. “Understood.” Not understanding this at all.

Lloyd gave a nervous smile and touched her arm. “Thanks.”

“Rafet says that his outfit is open to all,” Dagmar said.

“By all,” Lloyd said, “he may not actually include Alevi.” He shrugged. “Or he may. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Dagmar said.

“Look,” Lloyd said. “There are a lot of Alevis in Turkey-more than most Sunni Turks think. The head of the last commission that was supposed to arrive at an estimate ended up dead in a mysterious auto accident, and that was before the military took over.”

Dagmar, pretending she understood, gave a careful nod. For a country of modest size, she thought, Turkey’s politics were beyond intricate.

“Sometimes,” Lloyd said, “they just kill us.”

“Ah.” This was the best response she could manage, given the depth of the sea of ignorance in which she swam.

She was unable to decide if Lloyd was a complete paranoid or not, so when she had a moment to herself she wikied as much of this as she could, and then understood even less than she had before.

Sometimes they just kill us, she thought.

Sadly, it seemed, there was no branch of the human race to which this statement did not apply.