Walter Williams - Deep State

These scenes were duplicated elsewhere, though with less intensity. There was general unrest in many of the cities, but nothing as well-defined as the demonstrations and occupations of the previous day. It was as if, with the Lincoln Brigade sealed away by the High Zap, the opposition throughout the country was taking a breather and trying to work out a new approach.

The mayor of Bodrum, off in the southeast, still held out on his peninsula. The junta had so far ignored him, perhaps on the theory that his pitiful blockade did more to isolate him than to threaten the generals.

The BBC talking heads were discussing Attila’s address. One wondered if Attila weren’t taking the role of James Bond far too seriously. Another said that his claims that he was responsible for the disorder in Turkey were absurd.

“It’s not Attila Gordon who’s making the claim, however,” said another. “It’s the official Turkish media that’s claiming he’s responsible for the anti-government actions. All Gordon did was confirm their accusations. What are we to make of this extraordinary series of claims?”

Nothing much, as it turned out. They did agree that if any of this was true, Attila Gordon would shortly be in jail.

Dagmar had no worries on that score. The British government knew perfectly well who was stirring up trouble in Turkey and knew it was being done with Whitehall’s cooperation, from the Sovereign Base Area of Akrotiri. If they made the ridiculous mistake of arresting Attila, he’d walk.

The talking heads shifted to other news. Lincoln raised the TV remote and turned off the set.

He walked in front of the television and turned to the others.

“Helmuth’s right that we’re not much good against guns,” he said. “But please bear in mind that behind each of those guns is a person.” He looked at the TV remote in his hand, then placed it on the stand next to the set.

“The average Turkish conscript-in the country he’s known affectionately as ‘Mehmet’-has more in common with the demonstrators than with the generals,” he said. “When Mehmet realizes this and acts on it, the junta is finished. The officer class has a good deal more esprit and ideological solidarity, but they know full well how corrupt their leaders are, and they know how the junta is corrupting the military itself. The best members of the officer class are not natural allies of the generals but obey out of habit, or because they see no other path. When presented with alternatives, they may come over to our side.

“Mehmet is our target,” Lincoln said, “but we’re not firing bullets. If our people start killing soldiers, they’ll close ranks in solidarity. Our strategy has to be to split them, not force them to unite.”

“What are the officers going to make of Attila Gordon?” Richard asked.

Lincoln spread his hands. “Lord only knows,” he said.

“Well,” Helmuth said. “On that note…” He rose to his feet. “I’ll see you all in the morning. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

Dagmar rose and helped Ismet escape from the spongy clutches of the mustard-colored sofa. She felt Lincoln’s hand on her arm and turned.

“Good save,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Guards took the Brigade to their quarters. Dagmar paused outside Ismet’s door and carefully put her arms around his strained ribs. He carried the scent of soap and antiseptic, as if he carried a part of the hospital around with him.

He kissed her carefully, pressing his bruised lips to hers.

“Were you all right last night?” he asked.

“Slept like a baby,” she said.

“Good.” His voice took on a precise cast. “You need to see a doctor.”

“Lincoln’s arranging it.”

Resentment crackled in her skull as she realized she didn’t want to be the subject of the conversation.

“And you?” she asked. “How are you doing?”

“Still enjoying the pain pills.”

She kissed his cheek, the point of his jaw under the ear. Bristles sang against her cheek. He rested his hands lightly on her hips, then kissed her mouth again, a peck that had the air of finality.

“I’m going to bed,” he said finally. She dropped her arms and stood back.

“Sleep well,” she said.

“You, too.”

His door closed behind him, and she heard the lock click. She turned in silence and walked to her own door, feeling all the way the eyes of the RAF Regiment guard posted on the landing. At least it wasn’t Corporal Poole who witnessed her rejection.

Serves me right, she thought, for being crazy.

It was lucky that she was alone that night, she reflected later, because she had barely gotten into her own room before another flashback struck and suddenly heavily armed intruders were swarming through the door and the windows. They were soldiers, with black scarves wrapped around their faces so only the glittering eyes showed, and they wore the Keystone Kops helmets of the Turkish army. Dagmar lay curled on the couch, whimpering, as they approached.

She felt their hands on her. She felt their hot breath on her neck. Tears shot from her eyes as if under hydraulic pressure.

She remembered how Corporal Poole had returned her to reality two nights before, by calling attention to the ordinary objects around her, and she began to do the same thing, calling to her mind the color and texture of the robin’s egg blue couch, the furze of the carpet, the throb of the overhead fan. The soldiers faded.

She sat up, wiped tears from her face, blew her nose. That one hadn’t been too bad, she thought: there was no broken furniture, no guards hovering outside her door, no Ismet standing over her, his face alive with shock and embarrassment. She was fine.

Dagmar couldn’t face the bedroom. She had slept perfectly well the night before, but now the walls seemed to throb with menace. She couldn’t trust the bed that she’d carefully set at an angle-it had betrayed her, and now it looked like nothing but a trap.

She couldn’t trust a bedroom ever again. The alternative was simply not to sleep, so she sat up on the couch watching music videos on the telly and laughed when she saw Ian Attila Gordon appear to sing the bombastic theme to Stunrunner. They played a lot of Attila that night, seeing as he was in the news, and she heard a fair cross section of his oeuvre.

Harmless, she decided. The music wasn’t anything that others hadn’t done better.

But he dressed well. And she could imagine him in a kilt. And he kept her entertained long into the night, until exhaustion finally claimed her.

POP STAR ADMITS DECEPTION

Motivations of Anti-Government Movement Come into Question

Next morning Attila was discussed on all the news programs and one British comic appeared with a subtitled version of Attila’s address, in which his Scots was translated variously as “This is really all about me!” and “Can I have my Peace Prize now?”

The body of ex-mayor Erez was shown to selected representatives of the Turkish press.

The Brigade updated the rebel Web pages, editing and uploading the most recent of the videos and photos that had straggled in since the Zap had ended. Also uploaded were pictures of the junta with the label AW TAE HELL. The pictures went viral instantly, appearing on Web sites and blogs, being downloaded and then forwarded to millions who couldn’t have pointed to Turkey on a map and who then passed it on to others.

Richard went to work creating a memorial Web page for Erez. Helmuth built a page of worship for Ian Attila Gordon, featuring a video of his interview and a bulletin board for comments. This last was a mistake: it was soon inundated by trolls, ghouls, the insane, Scottish nationalists, Kemalist provocateurs, and dozens of mild Asperger’s cases arguing the origin of the phrase “tits up.”