Shadows Over the Bosphorus

By Richard Hardenburg

British Salmoa Times Correspondent – Bureau, Istanbul, Turkey

The troubling events of the previous night lingered vividly in my mind. I resisted the urge to speculate, unwilling to let my thoughts drift into conjecture without firmer ground. Before pursuing that line, however, I turned my attention to the gentleman whose air of commanding self-confidence distinguished him as he issued instructions in the local tongue to several men in plain clothes who nevertheless bore the demeanor of law officers.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said with a heavy local accent.

“I am Agent Demir, from the regional Intelligence Division. We were contacted by the Crime Division to look into this incident.” He gestured with a measured hand. “Perhaps we should move to a meeting room for more privacy.”

As Dr. Marino and I followed, a uniformed officer with an MP5 fell in behind us.

“Do not worry about him; we are taking no chances after what happened last night. I’m sure you understand.” He opened the door to a conference room. “Please, come in. Make yourselves comfortable. Just one minor detail—I’d like you to sit next to each other, not across. Is my English clear?”

As he said that, we entered the meeting room and took our places next to each other.  Agent Demir sat at the end of the table, tilting his head slightly to face us. He spoke.

“The police officer who attended the initial call concluded that, given the nature of the guests involved and the circumstances of your trip, this was not a medical emergency. Foul play could not be ruled out.”

As he said that, I felt as if the room temperature had dropped.

He continued, his tone even, his composure unbroken. “We inspected Williams’ room carefully and took everything we needed. Nothing appears to be missing... although there is a sense of spotlessness that drew my attention.” He tapped his pen lightly against the notebook. “That is what troubles me.”

His gaze steadied. “For me, that makes this more than a local incident.”

He set a compact voice recorder on the table and straightened his posture. “Start from the beginning,” he said quietly, pen poised.

Agent Demir was a man in his late forties, with a thick mustache, dark complexion, and a slightly heavy build. He listened with unwavering attention as we explained that we had arrived in Turkey to board a plane bound for the Russian Federation, where we were to join the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition.

Dr. Marino recounted the night’s sequence in careful detail. After leaving the restaurant shortly after midnight, he watched Steve walk toward the elevator to his room. As was his habit, he glanced around the table and noticed Steve’s reading glasses left behind on the edge. He lingered a few more minutes, finishing his beer and taking in the view of the canal. When he finally went back to return the glasses, he found Steve’s door open just a sliver. He entered and called his name softly—no answer. Venturing further into the room, Dr. Marino found his friend lying face down. Leaning over and turning him, he feared the worst—that Steve was dead. He then ran through the hotel corridors seeking help until assistance arrived.

“Unfortunately, your plans, as of now, cannot proceed,” Agent Demir said. “Dr. Marino, in your case, you will need to surrender your passport and remain within the confines of the Marriott.”

“Am I under arrest?” asked Dr. Marino, visibly upset.

“You are not,” Demir clarified evenly. “However, we need to rule everything out, and you were the last person who saw Williams.” His eyes studied us in silence, weighing each reaction for clues that might warrant deeper questioning.

As Dr. Marino handed over his passport, the Agent added, “I advise you to contact the Canadian Embassy or Consular Attaché to inform them of your situation.”

“I will do that,” Dr. Marino said, when a light knock at the door drew our attention.

Agent Demir instructed the person to enter. An armed officer stepped in and whispered into his ear. Demir nodded, his expression unreadable.

“The officer just informed me that Williams is alive,” he said evenly, while the officer remained in the room, facing us.

“Thank goodness!” Dr. Marino exclaimed, his voice trembling with relief.

“It is good news, right, Agent?” I asked.

“Well,” he replied with a faint, dry smile, “alive is better than dead—but he is in a deep coma. He has been stabilized by medics and will be transported to a trauma center. We do not yet know how serious his condition is.”

As he stood, signaling the end of the interview, he said, “Dr. Marino, you will be escorted to your room by an officer who will remain outside your door.” Then, moving his hands slightly, he added, as Dr. Marino was exiting, escorted by the officer, “This is for your own protection. All right?”

Turning to me, he continued, “Hardenburg, I have no reason to ask you to remain in Istanbul, but it would be very decent of you to stay—for moral support to your countryman. Would you do that?”

“I wondered what I could do to help Steve and Dr. Marino. I am convinced of Marino’s integrity.”

“Very noble of you, Hardenburg, but I have everything under control.” Shaking my hand firmly, he added, “You seem like the right person to have as a friend in a moment like this.”

As I left Agent Demir, my thoughts lingered on the items from Williams’ room. Some things are worth more than their surface appearance, and I had the uneasy feeling that one small detail—one overlooked object—might yet prove crucial in ways I could not imagine.