Deadly Web by Barbara Nadel Page B

brother’s chair and stood up.
    ‘Go where? To see who?’ Balthazar reiterated.
    ‘To see a man.’
    ‘Who?’
    Finally worn down by his brother’s questioning, Jak said, ‘He’s called Demir Sandal. I’m going to see him about belly dancing costumes for my girls. I want to do this Middle Eastern-themed thing. Why are you laughing?’
    Balthazar, wheezing through many years’ worth of mucus, nearly choked.
    ‘Because,’ he breathed, ‘Demir Sandal makes the filthiest video tapes I’ve ever seen. Now he is a pornographer . . .’
    ‘Well, he may be,’ Jak continued, unabashed by what his brother had just said, ‘but I’m going to see him about costumes. God, Balthazar, what kind of idiot do you think I am? If I want smutty tapes I can get them at home without having the aggravation of taking the fucking things through customs!’
    ‘I came into possession of one of Demir’s tapes once,’ Balthazar said – almost, Jak felt, dreamily. ‘Girls, with each other, you know.’
    ‘Lesbians.’
    ‘It opened my eyes,’ Balthazar laughed. ‘I had to have some of that and I did. British girls – they’ll do anything.’
    ‘My son is British, Balthazar,’ Jak said as he finally managed to tear himself away from his brother. ‘Be careful what you say.’
    And then he left.
    Balthazar leaned back into his chair once again and closed his eyes. His interesting interlude with the two British girls had been, now he thought about it, longer ago than he had originally recalled. It had to have happened back in the late eighties. God, but that had been good. Money well spent. Demir Sandal had to be getting on in years now – he’d been knocking out cheap photo books and videos for years. Balthazar wondered, idly, what the old pornographer was into now. Something, no doubt, of an extremely exciting nature. Balthazar smiled.
    Süleyman had joined them now, sitting in his chair, frowning. İkmen, who had brought a chair in from his own office, sat beside him, his face a picture of confusion.
    ‘Mendes is a hacker,’ Çöktin said. ‘He can get into and out of systems and you and I don’t even know that he’s been there. He, or she – it could be a woman, after all – is a legend.’
    ‘Hacking is illegal,’ Süleyman said sternly. ‘How do you know about this?’
    ‘I know because Mendes is sometimes discussed on some of the newsgroups I post to.’
    ‘Music groups?’
    ‘Some, yes.’ Çöktin turned away.
    ‘Some?’
    İkmen, who had, as was his wont, been considering more arcane aspects of what they were being told, cleared his throat. ‘You know the Goat of Mendes is a European Satanic figure. I don’t know much about it, but I do have a friend who has an interest in—’
    ‘Max—’ Süleyman began.
    ‘Yes,’ İkmen nodded. Max did, like all Englishmen, have a surname, but that wasn’t something he wanted Süleyman to share with anyone, not even Çöktin. ‘Do you think that this Mendes might be involved in some sort of Satanic practice, İsak?’
    Çöktin could feel his face redden. And although he was turned away from his superiors, he knew that they could see it. But in spite of the fact that everyone in the room knew it, Çöktin’s religion was not something any of them could or would talk about. An adherent of the native Kurdish Yezidi faith, Çöktin wasn’t comfortable with talk about Satanists. Known as the ‘Devil Worshippers’, Yezidis believe in a benign and restored version of Satan they call ‘The Peacock Angel’. Consequently, they are frequently misunderstood and confused with the Western conception of Satanists and the dark deeds those people perform.
    Realising that this was obviously proving difficult for Çöktin, İkmen added, ‘Not, of course, that you would know anything about Satanism . . .’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘But it is thought, is it not,’ Süleyman interjected, ‘that some of these kids who assume the “Gothic” lifestyle are interested in