Shadows of Power

[Jay]

​

The chilly wind cut through the narrow streets of Istanbul, the city’s fall bite sharp enough to make Ayşe Çiller pull her coat tighter around herself. She moved at a steady pace as she scanned the bustling street. The small cafes and boutiques lining the sidewalks were a mix of the old and the new, brightly lit store windows showcasing the latest fashions, interspersed with more traditional Ottoman architecture that had somehow survived decades of change. The constant rhythm of the city’s pulse, footsteps, conversations, the hum of passing cars, was strangely soothing. But for Ayşe, it was just noise.

She knew that she was being followed, watched from a distance, just as they had been every day since she’d become leader of the CHP. Türkiye slipped closer and closer into a deep coma induced by authoritarianism. Nevertheless, for Ayşe the CHP was going to move away from being a rubber stamp and turn into an opposition party. It did not ease however the feeling of being watched, monitored, but never fully engaged with. Whoever it was, the intelligence services or the new gestapo-like agency, they usually kept their distance, blending into the shadows of the city.

She paused in front of a high-end clothing store, her hands slipping into her coat pockets. She casually glanced at the display. She took a look at the sleek overcoats and colorful dresses on display, nothing that particularly caught her attention. Her eyes flicked past the window, beyond the reflection of the store, into the street beyond it. There. A figure near the bus stop, tall, nondescript. Ayşe noted the posture, the stance. The slight shift of the man’s body when he noticed Ayşe looking. An amateur she thought.

He turned away from the window, his gaze now sweeping across the street at the other potential surveillance spots. A small van parked on the corner, windows tinted just a shade too dark. And the old man with the newsstand, he’d been standing there for hours, glancing at his watch, then at Ayşe, as if he had somewhere else to be but was unwilling to move. A team of the Gizli Müdafaa Teşkilatı. GMT operatives keeping tabs on her, amateurs, Ayşe thought.

She continued walking, her eyes scanning the street with a detached indifference. The GMT operatives, three men in total, were keeping their distance, each operating under the same protocol. One man trailed slightly behind her, moving with the crowd, not too close but not too far, just within earshot in case Çiller ran into anyone. Another was ahead of her, moving down the street, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. The third man was across the street, hidden among the pedestrians somewhere.

She approached her usual spot, a café with its warm lights spilling onto the street like a welcoming glow against the gray afternoon sky. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air. Ayşe hesitated at the door for a brief moment, her gaze sweeping across the cafe’s interior through the large window. The place was quiet, with only a few patrons scattered at tables. Nothing too unusual. Nothing to make her nervous.

She entered the café without breaking her stride, the bell above the door giving a soft chime as she pushed it open. Inside, the warmth of the café hit her immediately, a welcome reprieve from the cooler winds outside. She made her way to the counter, giving the barista a polite nod as she ordered her usual coffee.

Ayşe’s fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of Turkish tea. Her dark glasses were perched on the edge of her nose. Occasionally her eyes flicked over the cafe’s patrons, most of them disinterested locals wrapped in layers of coats, murmuring quietly amongst themselves. Since becoming the leader of the CHP she wondered if it’d place her friends at risk…and force her to change her return.

Just then she caught a glimpse of movement through the reflection in the window, a slim figure moving between the scattered pedestrians outside. She glanced down to her watch, taking note of the time.

A woman dressed in an elegant dark grey coat with a beige scarf opened the door to the cafe, the bells chiming as they did for Ayşe when she walked in. Her dark hair fell just past her shoulders. The lady ordered something at the front of the cafe before walking to take her seat. Her heels clicked sharply against the wooden floor. The woman’s approach was casual, almost unremarkable. She held a large handbag in one hand, her other arm hanging loosely by her side. But as she reached her table, there was a brief, calculated shift in her stride, just enough to make it seem like an accident when she bumped into her chair.

Her shoulder collided with Ayşe’s side, and for a fraction of a second, Ayşe felt a jolt of confusion ripple through her body. Her coffee cup wobbled dangerously, but she was already leaning down to pick up the bag that Ayşe had momentarily placed on the table next to her."Üzgünüm," she said in Turkish, her tone sweet as she straightened up and held Ayşe’s bag in her hands, offering it to Ayşe like an innocent gesture.

For a moment, Ayşe was caught off guard, the shove was rather rough."Endişelenme," Ayşe said back as she dusted herself and took the bag. Sitting down. The lady had already disappeared into the group of people behind her. She slowly sipped her tea, greeting a few patrons that recognized her.

As the time ticked slowly, she reached for her bag when she felt a paper along the brim. A small folded piece of paper. Just then a slight flicker of movement caught his eye, a man sitting near the window staring at her. No doubt tracking her. Ayşe didn’t react. She went to the bathroom, applying lipbalm but using the privacy of the female lavatories to read the note. Meet me at the basement of Topkapı Palace.

Her heart skipped. The note was thin, hidden in the lining of the bag. Her mind was already working out who she worked for. Worried that the GMT wanted to silence her already. Yildirm couldn’t be that brazen she thought. No…it must be someone else she thought. Afterall, why go through all the trouble, the GMT would just sweep her up off the streets.

She slipped the note into his beige overcoat, deliberately checking her surroundings as she left the cafe, walking past the guy at the counter. The cold air outside of the café hit her immediately as Ayşe stepped onto the Istanbul streets. She adjusted her turtleneck, her mind still racing over the note hidden in the lining of her bag.

Ayşe adjusted her pace slowly as she turned onto the busy street. Topkapı was only a few blocks away. The anonymity of it unsettled her. Whoever had planted it on her, whoever had sent her to that basement, had to know the risks. Ayşe’s eyes scanned the street, constantly moving, always alert. A group of teenagers were laughing and walking by, their faces illuminated by the orange hue of street lamps. Ayşe’s gaze flicked from side to side, but none of them held any significance to her.

​

Ayşe’s thoughts were still on the note. Topkapı had long since lost its significance before the fall of the Sultanate. Its faded pavilions and sun-burnished courtyards stood as relics of an age when Ottoman galleys had cast long shadows across the Mediterranean. Yet it was not history that unsettled her now. It was the basement. The idea of convening in that hollowed undercroft tugged at something instinctive. Too many narrow passages honeycombed the stone beneath the complex, too many forgotten chambers where secrets might gather dust, or where a person might simply vanish, if the right hands knew the architecture well enough to oblige.

Her gaze flicked toward the men in dark coats who loitered around the square in front of the palace. As she approached the massive building, she passed a group of tourists standing in front of the palace, admiring the imposing structure. The lobby was bustling with people, the sound of echoes from heels on the marble floor and conversations drifting up into the high ceilings.

As she walked inside the building, her brain began to put things together…she muttered under his breath, as she thought, was this message some kind of setup… a trap meant to pull her into something darker?

She glanced at her watch, only fifteen minutes had passed since he left the café. Time was moving slowly, but the tension in her body only increased. Her fingers grazed her coat pocket again, feeling the smoothness of the note’s folded edges.

She moved through the lobby, toward the staircase, which would take her to the lower levels. She checked for any signs of surveillance as she entered the lower catacombs of the building. The detail watching her were no where in sight.

Ayşe reached the stairs leading down to the basement and into the private parts of the Palace which used to house the Sultans of the 19th Century. She hesitated just for a moment, taking a moment to scan the area again.

As Ayşe got down, there he saw a well-built man. She paused…her heart beating as she thought it was over for her. The man simply raised his hand. “Durmak.” He said as he opened the door, allowing Ayşe to enter. Ayşe gulped as she went into the room. With that, he entered the room, private and away from any prying ears, to see an older looking man…the very one looking at his watch earlier on the street. He turned around and stared at Ayşe for a few moments before opening his mouth.

“Mrs. Çiller,” he began rather courtesyly for a man who had Ayşe's head spinning the past half an hour, “I regret the means by which this meeting was arranged. Were the matter anything less than urgent, I would not have resorted to such measures. Please… take a seat.” His hand extended gesturing to the empty chair beside him.

 

[Jay]

​

The streetlamps along the Boulevard switched on in sequence, their orange glow settling across the wet asphalt. Outside the headquarters of the Devlet Güvenlik Müdürlüğü, the black sedans of the Gizli Müdafaa Teşkilatı idled under the close watch of plainclothes men. Traffic thinned as the evening call to prayer echoed from Kocatepe Camii and filtered down the grey, rectangular streets of the administrative quarter.

Kınar Binevş left the marble colonnade of the Directorate at precisely 18:43, wearing a dark brown wool coat over his tailored charcoal suit. His security escort trailed behind him in a loose diamond formation, and four men, each former PKK paramilitary cleared by the Turkish Workers’ Party, had been deputized into the GMT’s executive security unit. Binevş did not look at them as he descended the steps.

He entered the backseat of the second vehicle in the motorcade, a Mercedes S-Class fitted with military-grade comms relays. He carried no briefcase and gave no instruction to his driver. The car door shut with a muted thud. The motorcade rolled northeast toward a coffee shop where a source was going to meet him.

He sat alone at a corner table of a kahvehane near the Boulevard. It was the sort of establishment favored by older bureaucrats and generals. It was a place where the soft scrape of porcelain cups and the muted scratch of newspapers mingled with the languid drift of tobacco smoke. The afternoon light slanted through faded lace curtains, painting the weathered wooden tables in sepia tones that belied the restiveness gripping the capital beyond its walls.

He scarcely glanced at the dog-eared broadsheet unfolded before him. The headlines were focused on the silent purging of the senior officer corps continuing apace. Kınar had been a man of the shadows long before his elevation to director; he recognized the tremors beneath Ankara’s neat façades more keenly than most.

Across the room, an old Bakelite radio crackled thinly with a broadcast from Radyo 1, where a party ideologue extolled the revolutionary progress of the new coalition. Kınar took a slow sip of dark Turkish coffee, its sediment clinging bitterly to the rim of the cup. His senses kept the man vigilant, not betraying none of the senses that threaded through his nerves. He had not survived the past decade of fighting the Turkish military as an insurgent without developing a particular sensitivity to moments when the ground shifted underfoot.

As he set the cup back on its saucer, he cast a faint glance towards the café’s long rear corridor. His bodyguards, both former PKK officers, had taken their posts as arranged, one by the entrance, another outside on the pavement, a third seated unobtrusively near the washrooms. They were men who understood discretion as much as they understood loyalty. Just then, someone left a yellow package on the table next to him.

Rising from his seat with the smoothness of habit, Kınar picked up the package and threaded his way past the worn tables, his heels tapping softly on the patterned tile. He preferred the back exit. He gave a subtle nod to his bodyguards, who left first to clear the path.

The alley behind the café was narrow and dim, hemmed in by tall ochre walls whose plaster had long since begun to flake. The murmurs of Kızılay Square felt distant here, muffled by the heavy Ankara air and the slow hum of evening settling in. His breath rose in the chill, wreathing faintly in the space between street lamps whose organged glow flickered intermittently.

He had taken only three paces before his gait slowed. The stillness was too complete. He turned, and found the alley bare. His guards had vanished. Instinctively, his hand drifted toward the sidearm holstered beneath his coat, but the movement froze midway. A figure detached itself from the deeper shadow beneath a recessed doorway, silent, assured, and unhurried. Before Kınar could react, a gloved hand swept his reaching arm aside, and the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed firmly into his ribcage. He did not bother to struggle. The small metallic click of a disengaged safety echoed faintly between the walls.

His eyes, dark and unblinking, rose to meet the face of the assailant. Only a grim familiarity. His breath left him in a quiet exhale.

The sound of the weapon’s safety clicking off. Kınar’s gaze locked onto the assailant. The man holding the gun was unmasked, and Reshetnikov sighed. “You,” he said. The alley was filled with tension as Reshetnikov looked at the shadow figure.

“Don’t move,” the figure growled. Kınar’s face remained stoic. He shifted slightly, angling his body to minimize the pressure of the gun. “They let you out of the black crypts now have they?” Kınar said steadily. “I thought they’d buried you all beneath Etimesgut by now.”

The other man stepped further into the anemic circle of light. “Ghosts, is it?” The man’s mouth curled faintly. “In Ankara, old debts never truly sleep. You knew this day was coming, Kınar.”

Kınar’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile touched by disdain. “Old debts? Don’t dress up revenge in the language of duty.” He said, laughing. “Look around you. We’ve won.”

“You confuse us for politicians,” the man said quietly, his eyes narrowing. “We don’t grovel at the first offer to become servants of an ideologue. They handed the republic over to traitors. Traitors like you. We will cleanse Atatürk’s republic from filth like you.”

Kınar’s gaze remained steady, unflinching. His words emerged clipped. “The General Staff failed to grasp the inevitable. The army clung to its parochial fantasies while the world moved past it…the people yearned for freedom, and we gave them that.”

“Freedom,” the other man replied sharply, though his tone did not rise. “Look around you Kınar…there is no freedom here…you should have never left the caves of the Qandil Mountains. You only made finding you all the easier.”

Kınar drew a long breath, his expression remote now, “You think a bullet will stop us? It only guarantees that you will suffer for a long time before they finally kill you. Turkish filth.”

The man did not answer. The muted phut of the silenced shot echoed softly between the brickwork, sharp and succinct. Kınar staggered slightly, then crumpled to the damp flagstones, his coat folding beneath him like a shroud. His eyes stared upward, glassy with a fading incredulity.

The assailant knelt, methodically searching Kınar’s pockets and jacket. A wallet and wristwatch were taken, scattered haphazardly nearby, the crude hallmarks of a botched mugging. Satisfied, he rose, casting a final glance at the fallen director.

Without hurry, he disappeared back into the narrowing shadows. The steady rhythm of Ankara, distant engines, faint radios, the slow murmur of a restless city, folded once more over the alleyway, as though nothing had ever disturbed it.

After a few minutes, he removed a disposable burner phone from his jacket and sent a single encrypted SMS to a number registered in Istanbul:

BAŞARIYLA TAMAMLANDI. TEMİZLİK BAŞLIYOR.
(Mission completed successfully. Cleanup begins.)​

He destroyed the phone in a drainage culvert behind the Patent Office before departing the scene on foot.

Several hours later.
Selçuk Demiralp sat alone at a table near the front window of the Küçükesat Kafe, a narrow establishment two blocks from the Polish Embassy. The afternoon sun reflected off the lacquered wood tables, muted by the gray veil of smog hanging over central Ankara. The hum of quiet conversation blended with the scrape of porcelain on ceramic; the waiters moved with unhurried precision.

The Cumhuriyet Gazetesi lay folded in quarters in front of him. He turned the pages slowly, his index finger tracing each column. The headlines relayed how protests were rising as Mosques were being shuttered under Article 17 of the new Internal Security Law. Clerics were being detained under suspicion of sedition. Protests had spread to Erzurum and Şanlıurfa.

He refolded the paper and reached for the glass of dark tea cooling beside his notebook. Across the street, two plainclothes men lingered under a fig tree. Both wore muted jackets, standard cut, nondescript. Selçuk’s gaze moved past them without pause.

At 0900, his mobile vibrated once on the tabletop. He answered without greeting. The voice on the other end was flat.

“Kınar’s is dead.” Selçuk’s eyes did not change. He set the tea back in its saucer.

“Time?”

“0450. Shot twice in Çankaya. No witnesses so far. His driver and bodyguards disappeared. The forensic report is incomplete. Two shots, single caliber. 9x19.”

He ended the call without reply. The street outside remained unchanged.

Selçuk Demiralp had been Kınar’s deputy at the Gizli Müdafaa Teşkilatı and always thought the former PKK fighter was a liability rather than an asset. Kınar’s elevation had been brokered jointly by the Turkish Workers’ Party and their new coalition partners from the Kurdish movement. His role had expanded beyond state security into oversight of the Gendarmerie and regional intelligence bureaus. His closeness to PKK-linked provincial governors had been a matter of record. Selçuk opened his notebook and marked three names in the left margin. He underlined each twice. His handwriting was compact, unornamented.

The facts, were these:

— Kınar dead.
— No external claim of responsibility.
— Security organs remained fragmented.

He closed the notebook and rose from the table. No signal was given, but one of the plainclothes men across the street stepped off the curb and began following at a measured distance.

Selçuk exited onto the street, his shoes clicking against the limestone pavement. He turned east toward the old parliament complex. A courier package awaited him there. Within it, an itemized list of the individuals. The matter of identifying the direct perpetrators of Kınar’s killing was secondary. The operational logic was clear. This was the first overt strike. Countermeasures would follow within forty-eight hours.

By that point, it would not matter who had pulled the trigger.

 

[Jay]

There was pause. Cemal nods toward the door behind her. It shuts with a mechanical thud, locked by the agent outside.

Çiller said nothing at first. She stepped into the room, her eyes scanning the corners. One bulb buzzed above them. No windows. Just pipes above them and vents funneling air through the vast room that used to be one of the Sultan’s private quarters. Her escort had taken her phone, checked her bag, and offered no words. They had swept for bugs, but she was still uneasy.

The man motioned to the empty chair. "You’ll want to sit."

"I’ll stand," Ayşe said, looking at the man. Trying to figure out who he was.

At that moment his burner phone rang, he looked at it seeing the following message. He closed it and placed the phone away as he looked at Ayşe.

BAŞARIYLA TAMAMLANDI. TEMİZLİK BAŞLIYOR.
(Mission completed successfully. Cleanup begins.)​

He showed no reaction. "I know this may be very frightening, Ms. Çiller, but I am not with the GMT or the Security Services. My name is Cemal. Head of the AİAB. I assume you've heard the acronym."

She nodded. "You run the intelligence wing of the general staff. You arranged this meeting?" She asked, looking at the man.

"I did," he said. "You came. That tells me you're smarter than your predecessor."

She finally sat. Her fingers interlaced tightly on her lap. "Why am I here…Do you do this often?

Cemal looked at her. “Only when the situation warrants it. Tonight it does.”

Cemal took his seat. He studied her, not with suspicion but with assessment. "Do you know why Kemal is stepped down?"

Ayşe’s voice was even. "He cited personal reasons. That..."

Cemal leaned back, arms crossing. “You knew about Kemal, didn’t you?”

Ayşe blinked, unsure where he was steering the conversation. “What do you mean?”

Cemal took a slow step forward. “Kemal was a rubber stamp. He nodded at every directive that came from the Workers’ Party. He made speeches about being democratic while watching passively as they purged the opposition.”

She looked at him, a flicker of confusion in her eyes.

“You forced his hand?”

“No,” Cemal replied, looking directly at Ayşe. “We showed him his own handwriting on the wall. Gave him a choicestep down quietly or be publicly discredited. He chose the door.”

Her voice dropped. “He told me he wasn’t ready. That he couldn’t stomach the compromises anymore.”

Cemal nodded slowly. “He couldn’t. But he also wasn’t going to fight. And we need someone who can.”

Ayşe crossed her arms, her voice cold. “So you decided the CHP is your last vessel within the system.”

“That’s right,” he said without flinching. “If we want to avoid a full military seizure, it needs to happen from inside. Institutionally. Publicly. With legitimacy. Otherwise, we’re back to tanks and curfews. People will feel under threat and fight back. The communists won’t hand over power peacefully. You think they will?”

“I think the people want something better.” Ayşe, leaned back into her chair.

“They do,” he said. “And that’s why you need to rally them. The Welfare Party tried like hell, Ayşe. Look what happened to them. They locked up Erdoğan for reading a poem.”

Ayşe’s hand trembled slightly. She hadn’t thought about that in yearshow a single verse had become an act of sedition. How easily the machine turned.

Cemal watched her closely. “I’m not telling you this to scare you.” He said, seeing her hand tremble. “I’m telling you because this is the only window we have. You lead now, or we do. And we both know what it looks like when the Army takes the reins without a civilian face.”

Ayşe looked down, then met his eyes. “I won’t be a puppet."

Cemal didn’t blink. "Good. Puppets don’t last." Cemal opened a folder, pulled out a photo. He placed it on the table and slid it toward her.

Your husband. Kıvanç. He filled out a disclosure form for assets last year. There was a company vehicle he didn’t list. It was under his name for two months. Registered as a business lease. When the communists go hunting, they’ll call it fraud. It isn’t. But it will be enough.

Ayşe tensed. ”He didn’t know. That was a loaner. The dealership said…”

Cemal looked at her. “I know. It’s a footnote. But Eda is the one overseeing the file. Personally. She’s waiting for a reason.:

Ayşe looked at him, for the first time showing fire in her eyes. “So you want me scared?”

Cemal held back a smile, finally seeing what others said about her. “I want you alert.”

She processes this, jaw clenched. Cemal didn’t press the point.

"You have no right…" She started with before Cemal cut her off.

His brow scrunched. "I have every right to protect this country. And if you intend to be a figure of opposition, you need to understand what that means."

A long silence. He let it settle. Then continued.

"Eda is preparing to move against you. She's consolidating internal security. President Arslan is in Spain for her summit. That leaves her. The PKK and TIP cadres are in charge of the ministries now. Interior. Justice. Communications. You are one step from the chopping block."

Ayşe's mouth tightened. "What do you want from me?"

Cemal took a sip of tea from a chipped white glass. He hadn't touched it before, not until now.

"I want to know who you are," he said. "Not your press statements. Not your party manifestos. I want to know if you're going to ask the army to step aside and let another regime take power."

"You mean democratic elections," Ayşe said, correcting him. She folded her arms. "I believe in institutions."

"Institutions are compromised. TIP has purged the senior ranks of the judiciary. Half the colonels in the Air Force are under house arrest. You think you can talk your way through this?" Cemal said, looking at her.

She stared at him. "I believe the people still matter."

"They do. But the people are scared. They want stability. Not slogans."

She leaned forward. "And you think you can offer that? With what? Another junta? You think they'll cheer your tanks in the streets?"

He didn't answer immediately. His hands were flat on the table. "We don’t want power," he said finally. "We want to restore order. Then hand it to people who can manage it. People like you."

Her laugh was bitter. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I expect you to understand what happens if we do nothing." Cemal said, looking at Ayşe. “They aren’t waiting around twiddling with their hands. Every day that goes by is violent. You want to know why it was urgent. The GMT leader is dead. We killed him. We did it because the communists are escalating and they’re after us. They won’t stop." Cemal said.

She looked up. "You assassinated him."

"Yes." Cemal retorted with a sense of irritation.

Her voice dropped from before. "Was that your call?"

Cemal's eyes narrowed. "It was the only option. We saw what they were planning."

She glanced at the door. "You said Eda is coming for me. When?"

"Within a few weeks. The financial crimes unit will make the case. National security will do the rest."

She inhaled sharply.

"We can protect you,” Cemal said, trying to reassure her. “But you need to start thinking strategically. You need to rally the CHP. Not for platitudes. For action."

She shook her head slowly. "You think I can convince the country to support a military-backed transition?"

"No, but give them hope for something else. The ones watching. If they believe you're a reformer, they will fight like hell to get that chance.”

"And after?" She asked.

He paused. "We install a caretaker government. Technocrats. You can even pick the faces. We clear the field. We disappear."

She stared at him. "You expect me to trust you."

"No. I expect you to survive."

The light flickered above as the two sat in an awkward silence.

She broke the silence this time. "I believe in democracy. The Turkish people have been told what to do for too long. First, by the military. Now by these so-called revolutionaries. Enough is enough."

Cemal chuckled. Dry, almost kind. "And now you think the CHP won’t be a rubber stamp for the Army? That’s rich."

She didn’t laugh. Her face hardened. "We were complicit. I won’t deny it. For years, we offered them legitimacy in exchange for the illusion of order. And now I see what that cost us. But if you think we’ll do it again, you’re mistaken."

Cemal leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "Like it is now with the communists? You’ve seen the purge lists, Ayşe. Or have they kept you in the dark like your predecessor?"

"Kemal knew what was coming. He saw what they were doing. And he did nothing," she said, voice rising slightly. "So they let him walk. Or made him walk. I don’t even know anymore."

"We did," Cemal said plainly. "We asked him politely, and then not-so-politely. He understood."

Ayşe’s jaw tightened. "Will there be violence?"

Cemal didn’t answer immediately. He studied her. Her face, her posture, the way her right hand gripped her wrist, the tension masked by control. He looked away, then opened a black folder resting on the table beside him. Slowly, he slid a photograph across the table.

The picture was high-resolution. A man’s body, limp and twisted in a position no living person could hold. His face was unrecognizable, caved in and mottled with bruises. One eye was swollen shut. Electrical burns scored his arms.

"That," Cemal said quietly, "was one of mine. Field agent. He refused to take a loyalty oath for the Party. Said he was loyal only to the Republic and its guiding philosophy of Kemalism."

She stared at the image. Her throat clenched involuntarily.

"His crime?" Cemal continued. "He wouldn’t be a yes-man. He believed the same things you do. That Turkey should be free. That the law matters."

She placed the photo back on the table, face down. Another silence.

"So yes," Cemal said finally, "there will be violence. I won’t lie to you. We can’t let the PKK or TIP leadership walk away from this. They’ve replaced the intelligence services with political commissars. They’ve built cells inside our bases.”

She nodded slowly. "And when it’s done? When you’ve cleaned house? What then?"

"Then," he said, voice steady, "we hand power to technocrats. They run elections. The Army withdraws. We fade."

She looked up at him. Searching for doubt in his face. "You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that just yet."

"I wouldn’t expect you to."

She stood, but didn’t move toward the door. “If I do this, I’ll be complicit."

"You already are," Cemal said, looking at her. “Every day you don’t do something, you are complicit in this whole system. In everything they are doing.”

“If I am going to help you, we are doing this my way. No military detentions and retribution. They all get a fair trial. I won’t sign off death sentences to people en masse. We must be different from them. We have to be if we are going to break this cycle of violence. You want the CHP to stand up? To rally the people? Fine. But it’s on my terms. Not yours."

He said nothing. Just watched her walk back up the stairs, back into the light. The air outside was colder now. The sun had set. Shadows moved along the old Ottoman walls as Ayse hurried back home. She walked alone toward her car. Cemal disappearing into the shadows once again, where he often lurked, wondering still…did she have it in her?

 

[Jay]

The glow of monitors bathed the windowless room in a sickly blue. Static hissed through headsets as the SIGNIT team traced the encrypted traffic. On the fourth floor of the Turkish intelligence services buried beneath layers of biometric checks, the air smelled of stale coffee and burnt circuitry.

"Another one," murmured Teğmen Aydın, his finger freezing over a waveform spike. His screen parsed the raw SIGINT feed—a burst transmission, routed through a military repeater near Etimesgut Garrison. The decryption algorithm churned, spitting out text in jagged fragments:

[REDACTED] to [REDACTED]:
"...Kara Kuvvetleri Komutanlığı toplantı... hazırlıklar tamam... Cumhurbaşkanı’nın Madrid dönüşünde..."

Aydın’s throat tightened. He glanced at Seda, her face lit by the same damning script scrolling across her terminal.

"This is the third one this week," she said quietly. "Same cipher. Same recipients."

Aydın exhaled. "They’re not even hiding it anymore."

Seda leaned in, her voice low. "That’s the fourth general officer this week. It looks like the Young Turks aren’t vetting as closely as they did before. Looks like they’re mobilizing now."

Aydın nodded. "And they’re moving faster than we predicted. Look at the recipient nodes." He pulled up a network map, red dots flaring across Anatolia. "Eighty, minimum. Maybe more if you account for repeat cryptonyms."

Seda’s fingers flew over her keyboard, cross-referencing the data. "They’re using private-sector relays. Zirve Telecom’s nodes, mostly." A grim smile. "Lucky for us, we built backdoors into those after ’95 ."

The door clicked open.

Albay Demir, their case officer, stepped inside, his uniform knife-creased despite the hour. He took in their expressions, the frozen screens, and shut the door behind him with deliberate softness.

"Report," he said.

Aydın hesitated. "Sir, we’ve intercepted coordinated chatter between General Staff officers. They’re discussing..."

"Timing," Demir finished, his voice flat. "I know. I just saw the report."

Seda broke it first. "It’s not just timing. They’re reaching out to operational commanders. That means they’re finalizing the plan. They’ll move by year’s end."

Demir didn’t react. He studied the network map, then tapped a cluster of nodes near İzmir. "No Navy activity."

Aydın shook his head. "None. And the Air Force is dark too. It looks like they've only been recruiting from the land forces."

Demir’s jaw tightened. "That’s a problem. Without the Air Force, they can’t secure the skies. Without the Navy, they can’t lock down the straits or the Thai fleet."

Seda crossed her arms. "A gamble they’re taking anyway. And if they roll tanks into Ankara without full support, it might end up like the ’60 all over again. Half the military fighting the other half."

Aydın zoomed in on a fresh intercept:

[REDACTED] to [REDACTED]:
"Madrid return date changed. D-Day to be reset. H-Hour aborted."

He looked up. "Looks like the failure at Madrid bought the President sometime. They’ll need a new launch date and it means they are going to be worried about what to do next."

Demir stared at the screen. For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of servers. Then, asked quietly, "You two are the only ones who’ve seen this?"

Seda nodded. "Raw SIGINT hasn’t been logged yet."

Demir reached down and wiped the transcripts with a keystroke. The screens went black.

"Good. Keep it that way." Demir said as he turned away.

Aydın stiffened. "Sir, if they’re this far along..."

"Then what," Demir cut in as he turned back to face the analyst. "The Party’s already hunting for plotters. If this leaks, the only thing those officers will see is a firing squad. And we lose the last leverage we have."

Seda’s eyes narrowed. "You’re not going to stop them."

Demir met her gaze. "No. I’m going to make sure they win."

There was a silence but then Seda spoke up. "We should file this. Immediately."

"There’s nothing to file." Demir replied.

Aydın joined in. "Sir, this is a direct violation of..."

"Of what?" Demir’s voice was a harsh. "The law? The same law that let them purge the judiciary? The same law that handed Interior to the Workers’ Party commissars?"

Demir leaned in, his breath sharp with nicotine. "You think I don’t know what this is? You think I haven’t seen the arrest lists?" He tapped the dead screen. "But if we report this, who do you think they’ll send to round up those officers? You? Me? Or their new ‘People’s Guard’? Do you think their red guards will stop with these officers?"

Seda’s jaw clenched. "So we do nothing?"

Demir straightened, "Yes. We do nothing. We allow what is in motion to proceed"

He left without another word. The door hissed shut.

Aydın stared at the blank monitor and rubbed his eyes as clouds outside the building erupted in thunder and poured down rain.

---

The rain had turned the cobblestones slick, the gutters overflowing with runoff from the presidential quarter. Albay Demir stood beneath the awning of a shuttered meyhane, its neon sign flickering like a dying pulse. He checked his watch as he looked into the mirror to make sure he didn't have any tails.

A black Renault Symbol glided to the curb, its wipers sweeping away the downpour. The passenger window lowered halfway.

"Get in," said the voice inside.

Demir slid into the car, the leather seats cold against his back. The Chief Aide, Albay İlhan Korkmaz, a wiry man with the posture of a career staff officer, didn’t look at him. The driver, a stone-faced çavuş, kept his eyes on the rearview.

The car pulled away.

"Your boys are leaving a trail of breadcrumbs," Demir said finally. He handed Korkmaz a folded sheet. "My field operatives managed to capture a group of them near Etimesgut. Amateur mistakes."

Korkmaz scanned the grainy stills of four officers in civilian attire entering an apartment block. He knew the men Major Tarık, Lieutenant Colonel Emre, and two others, all members of the "Young Turks Club", the informal cadre of reformist officers.

He exhaled through his nose. "They’re not my boys. The General Staff isn't running this operation."

Demir shook his head. "No. But they’re your problem now. If they are caught then the Prime Minister will use this to get rid of all of you."

The car turned onto Atatürk Bulvarı, the streetlights bleeding into streaks through the rain.

Demir tapped the photos. "Tell them to stop meeting in the open. The DGM has eyes everywhere."

"They’re impatient," Korkmaz admitted. "They see what’s happening, the PKK running Interior, the Workers’ Party gutting the courts. They think we’ve already lost. We're running out of time to act."

Demir stared out the window. A billboard loomed overhead, the president’s face smiling beneath a slogan "Yeni Türkiye, Yeni Güvenlik". The irony curdled in his gut.

"We lose if they’re reckless," he said. "Your Young Turks aren’t just risking a court-martial. They’re giving the Party an excuse to purge the rest of the officer corps. You need to be careful with the communication systems."

Korkmaz was silent for a long moment. Then he responded quietly "You could’ve reported this."

"And what? Hand the list to Eda’s red guard?" Demir’s voice was flint. "I didn’t join MIT to serve the PKK."

The Chief Aide studied him. "No. You joined to serve the Republic. Just like the rest of us" Korkmaz reached into his coat and brought out a packet of cigarettes. He offered it to Demir who declined. Korkmaz lit the cigarettes and let out a puff.

"They’ll be more careful," Korkmaz said at last. "I will speak with them."

The car slowed near Genelkurmay Başkanlığı, its gates visible through the downpour. "Why didn't you guys launch while the President was returning from Madrid?"

Korkmaz took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring in the dim car. The rain drummed harder against the roof.

"You knew about Madrid," he said, exhaling smoke.

Demir kept his eyes on the gates ahead. "We knew she cut her trip short. What we didn’t know was why."

Korkmaz’s fingers tightened around the cigarette. "We don't know either. However it made their plan far more difficult to execute.

Demir’s jaw tightened. "So she rushed back. Which means your timeline collapsed."

"Ours?" Korkmaz’s laugh was bitter. "You think this is just our operation? Without the Chief of the Defense Staff, the other service chiefs won’t move. They’re waiting for someone to take the first shot. It is a bunch of young officers who have a spine that their superiors lack."

The wipers thudded against the windshield.

"And who would that be?" Demir asked. "Who would take the shot? The Young Turks didn’t have a single general on board until last week. Now you’ve got Ergün, and with his 2nd Army you could probably take Ankara but not much else. That’s not enough."

Korkmaz flicked ash into the tray. "It’s enough to start. If we secure the Black Sea Fleet, the rest of the Navy falls in line. The Air Force will follow if they see momentum. I have a few air force pilots I can count on. Unfortunately Cemal is on the run from the GMD and the AİAB officers are either in jail or on the run."

Demir turned now, his gaze sharp. "And the AİAB? Their chief is missing. You can’t coordinate a coup without intelligence backing."

A muscle twitched in Korkmaz’s temple. "We’ll find him. But right now, we’re blind on the political front. The opposition hasn’t stirred the chaos we need. No protests, no unrest, just small scale build up."

Demir leaned back, studying him. "You’re not ready."

"We don’t have a choice!" Korkmaz snapped, then lowered his voice. "The GMT and HDMB took control the airport. far faster than we predicted. They're learning how to be an effective security force. They are not just the PKK fighters we used to neutralize...they've evlved. And if we wait, then they'll purge every officer they can get their hands on.

The car idled at the curb, the engine a low growl.

Korkmaz finally spoke, his voice quiet. "Our officers watching the President say she’s flying to Russia next. That buys us time."

Demir shook his head, "She is sending the Interior Minister. She is sitting this one out."

Korkmaz looked at him as he crushed out his cigarette. "How do you know that? Why is she sending the interior minister?"

"How I know is not releveant," Demir countered. "Right now, you’re a knife fight in the dark. The Interior Minister being abroad means that the organizatin around the GMD will be severely chaotic. It does help the AİAB killed their leader early on into this saga."

Korkmaz stared at him, then nodded slowly. "Still doesn't answer why the Minister is going."

Demir said nothing at first but then spoke. "There is a rift growing between Ayşa and Eda over what Eda has been doing while the President was in Madrid. The official inner-party narrative is that Ayşa wants to focus on her domestic credentials following the failed China and Spain summits. The unofficial reason...Ayşa's advisors are worried that Eda is making a power move to get rid of her."

Korkmaz nodded. "I appreciate the information...and the warning. I'll be sure to speak with the young ones later."

"The Party’s days are numbered," Korkmaz murmured. "But when the time comes, we plan to restore Kemalism, not another junta."

"You think the Army will step aside after?" Demir asked earnestly. The driver shifted in his seat, a silent cue. Korkmaz opened the door, the rain gusting inside.

"I think," Korkmaz said, opening the door, "we’ll both be on the right side of history."

"Be careful who you trust," Demir said as Korkmaz stepped out. "The DGM isn’t the only one with ears everywhere."

Korkmaz paused, then vanished into the downpour.

Demir watched until the shadows swallowed him. Then he pulled out his phone and typed a single name:

"Zelimkhan Abdulmuslimovich Yandarbiyev."

---

Several Days Later

The café had no name. Just a rusted sign above the door, its letters long since faded, and a single flickering bulb that cast jagged shadows across the cracked linoleum floor. The head of the GMD's interrogation unit, Erkan Başol sat in his usual corner, his back to the wall, a half-finished cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. The coffee in front of him had gone cold. He wasn’t here for the caffeine however. He read through GMD documents on opposition figures.

Outside, the streets were still, the predawn chill settling over the industrial district like a shroud. A stray dog nosed through a pile of garbage near the curb. A lone taxi idled at the intersection, its driver dozing behind the wheel.

Murat observed from the second-floor window of a derelict textile workshop across the street. Through his binoculars, he watched Başol check his watch for the third time in ten minutes.

"He’s nervous," Murat murmured into his radio.

"He should be," came the reply. Leyla, positioned inside a parked utility van down the block, monitored the café’s rear exit responded with. Thermal imaging showed no additional heat signatures, just Başol.

"No visible security," she confirmed. "He’s alone."

A third voice crackled over the comms, Cem Demirci, monitoring from an unmarked sedan three blocks away.

"Move in."

The café was a relic of a quieter Ankara, its walls yellowed with decades of cigarette smoke and whispered conspiracies. The air smelled of stale coffee and wet wool.

Kutay entered first, his high-vis vest glowing under the flickering neon sign. His shoulders slumped, boots scuffing the linoleum, the very picture of a municipal worker on a predawn break. He nodded at Başol as he passed, then slumped into a chair near the door, his back to the wall. His fingers drummed idly on the table.

It would be several minutes later when. The bell above the door jingled again.

Murat and Tekin stepped inside, their collars turned up against the damp chill. Murat’s hands were buried in his jacket pockets; Tekin’s swung loose at his sides. They moved with the casual aimlessness of men killing time before a shift.

Başol barely glanced up from his coffee until Murat slid into the seat across from him.

"Erkan Bey," Murat said, smiling faintly. "You look like a man who’s had a long night."

Başol’s fingers twitched toward his coat. "Who the hell are..."

Tekin’s pistol pressed into his ribs beneath the table, the cold muzzle biting through fabric. "Don’t."

A beat. The cafe shop owner, an old man with a face like crumpled paper, froze mid-wipe behind the counter. His eyes flicked to Leyla, who came from the kitchen, her suppressed HK MP5 leveled at his chest. He raised his hands slowly, the dishrag dangling from his fingers.

Cem stood, blocking the door, his vest now unzipped to reveal the Glock 17 holstered at his hip.

"We’re leaving," Murat said. "Quietly."

Başol’s jaw tightened. His eyes darted to the fire exit, a rusted door near the bathrooms, then back to Murat. "You’re making a mistake."

"Stand up," Tekin growled, digging the pistol deeper.

Başol stood up. They moved together, Murat and Tekin flanking him, As Kutay left the building and started up the car. Leyla swept the rear as she made sure no GMD officers were waiting for them. The taxi idled at the curb, its trunk gaping open like a mouth.

Then Başol moved. He drove his elbow into Tekin’s throat, twisted free, and slammed Murat’s head into the table. Coffee cups shattered. Kutay lunged, but Başol was already sprinting for the fire exit, shoving chairs in his wake.

"Kapı!" Murat barked, spitting blood.

Leyla rushed past the store owner and slipped over the ccounter. Başol hit the fire exit at full speed, shoulder checking it open.

When he did so, Devrim was there, a shadow in the alley, his boot lashing out. The kick caught Başol square in the chest, hurling him back into the café. He crashed into a table, gasping.

Tekin was on him first, swinging a right hook. Başol ducked, countered with a knee to the gut, then slammed a porcelain saucer into Tekin’s temple. Blood sprayed.

Murat tackled him from behind. They went down in a tangle of limbs, Başol snarling, his fingers clawing for Murat’s eyes. Tekin pistol-whipped him across the jaw. Bone crunched.

Başol roared, bucking them off, and scrambled toward the kitchen...Leyla tackled him, slamming his leg into the counter. Başol collapsed, clutching his thigh, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Murat wiped blood from his lip. "Told you we were leaving quietly."

They dragged him to the taxi, heaved him into the trunk, and slammed it shut. The engine growled to life. Behind them, the café’s neon sign flickered once, then went dark as they pulled away.

 

[Jay]

President Arslan was fast asleep. The clock on the bedside table read 3:17 AM. The soft glow of a bedside lamp dimly lights the room. The door then opened quietly, and an aide knocked twice before entering the room.

Gen. Esmail Ghaani saluted, looking at the President. "Comrade President, I’m sorry to disturb you, but it's urgent. Prime Minister Yıldırımis is requesting you to immediately."

Ayşa stirred her awake as she started blinking. As she stirred, she became aware of the urgency. “It seems there’s an emergency,” Esmail said, his voice heavy. Ayşa rubbed her temples before rising from the bed and slipping into a pair of neatly pressed pajamas. The Chief of the Revolutionary Guard Corps, Gen. Esmail Ghaani, stood silently in the hallway as Ayşa quickly dressed. The President rubbed her eyes and nodded to the aide.

Ayşa nodded “Let’s get going, Esmail.”

“Sir,” the aide said as he guided Ayşa through the dimly lit corridors of the Presidential Complex. They moved through the grand halls, their footsteps echoing softly in the stillness of the night. Eventually, they arrived at the office where the Prime Minister was waiting. Her face was etched with tension and illuminated faintly by the glow of a solitary desk lamp.

“Eda, what’s the meaning of this? Why rouse me at such an ungodly hour?” Ayşa asked.

“Comrade President, I deeply regret the disturbance, but there’s grave news. The Head of the Security Services, Kınar Binevş, has been found dead,” Eda responded.

Ayşa’s eyes widened, the remnants of sleep instantly replaced by a look of shock. Her expression shifted from confusion to alarm as he took a seat in front of Eda’s desk.

"Dead? What happened?" Ayşa asked, taking a seat in front of Eda.

“It appears he was targeted and killed, not in a random mugging, but by the Grey Wolves, who we believe are acting as a front for the Army. I wanted to inform you before the news breaks. We need to go public, as we’re moving to arrest the Chief of the General Staff and nineteen Grey Wolves members we’ve been monitoring. I want to use this as justification to go after them,” Eda responded.

"This... this is disastrous. Especially now.” Ayşa sighed deeply, rubbing her face in frustration.

Eda: “Indeed. We must contain the fallout and move with purpose. The far-right will waste no time in turning this to their advantage, and make no mistake, they will aim their barbs at you. But that is not our chief concern. This man was the head of our domestic security. If the Army can eliminate him with impunity, they will not hesitate to come for you next. As for the CHP, whispers already speak of Kemal Kılıçdaroğlu’s impending resignation. His likely successor is poised to rally the discontented behind a counter-revolutionary banner. The Army smells weakness, blood in the water. We must act now, decisively. It will rattle them. And it will send a message to whoever dares to step into Kemal’s shoes that we will act to protect this regime.”

“The Army had him killed?! Eda, I shouldn’t have been so naive? Are they out of their minds?” Ayşa’s shout echoed through the room.

“I understand, Ayşa. But they are vultures, and your position is not looking any better.”

“I’ll make those Kemalist swine f…”

“Ayşa.” Eda’s tone was firm as she cut off the President. “Calm yourself. We’ll handle this.” She picked up the phone and began dialing. “First things first, I need your permission to take over the security situation.”

“Why?”

Eda: “Because I am loyal to our cause, not the state. And right now, I need men who take orders without hesitation to protect this revolution.” She pressed the phone to her ear, waiting for the line to connect. “If the Army has made a move this bold, we can’t afford sentiment or confusion.”

Ayşa: Her voice faltered. “What are you going to do?”

Eda: “We need to show strength. Weakness will be a liability.” She turned away slightly as someone answered on the other end. “Selçuk, this is the Prime Minister. I’m invoking Directive 81. Take care of them.”

Eda ended the call without waiting for a response. She looked at the President. “We’re at war, whether we like it or not. If we hesitate for loyalty, we lose. You’re the President, but let me be your sword.”

As the call ended, Eda took charge, setting into motion the assembly of a task force and briefing the Guards Corps team. Ayşa, meanwhile, returned to her room, her mind reeling from the weight of the news.

She approached her bed, Irina, with a weary look, saying to herself. “I need some time to process all of this,” she said softly, though her eyes were troubled. She slipped into a more formal attire, preparing herself to face the grim reality ahead.

High-ranking officials entered the room with Eda, their faces etched with a grim expression. The atmosphere was thick with tension as they took their places around the long, polished table, each chair creaking as everyone took their seats.

Eda cleared her throat, the sound echoing in the somber room. “The assassination of the Director of the GMT,” she began, “Head of the GMT, right here in Ankara. How does such a thing happen? Right under our noses.” Her words hung in the air as his fingers tapped the table.”

Burak Aydemir, a National Security staffer with a furrowed brow, listened before speaking up as no one else would. “This assassination is a blow to us all. The loss of Chief Kınar is an endearing loss. It is a blow to our domestic intelligence operations and leaves us exposed by jeopardizing our international standing. The notion that the GMT Chief could have been taken out by a foreign power is deeply troubling. The President will need a clear and actionable strategy to address this crisis.

Can Tuncel, Director of the GMT’s Counter-Revolutionary Division, nodded thoughtfully before adding, “Our preliminary assessment suggests this was not a terrorist act. We’ve been closely monitoring channels in Central Asia due to the unrest in Afghanistan, and our office has not intercepted any relevant information from the Caucasus or from Syria, where counter-revolutionary religious identity grows fervently.

Can adjusted his glasses and leaned forward, “The murder of the Director is a grave blow to our efforts to contain counter-revolutionary momentum. The fact that he was killed on our own soil, in this very city, shows the brazen willingness of the counter-revolutionary forces to commit violence ot achieve their cause. Dare I say it is a stark intelligence failure? As of now, the GMT has no evidence suggesting this was a coordinated assault involving foreign intelligence agencies or their operatives. We are still assessing the motive and identifying potential suspects.”

Can paused as he glanced at his notepad. “We are still probing the motives, but this was clearly a professional hit. The assailant was up close and personal, and the Chief’s immediate details were missing from the scene. The methodical clean-up suggests high levels and sophisticated training, which narrows down our list of potential suspects and actors significantly.”

Eda fixed his gaze on the Deputy Director, his voice cutting through the tension. “Where did his guards disappear to?”

Can nodded. “At present, we don’t have answers. We are actively tracking down the missing agents. They have not reported back to the GMT nor returned to their residences. Our field agents are trying to narrow down where they could be.”

Can continued, as he looked around to gauge the tension in the room. “Our investigation team is diligently following leads. We have several potential suspects under surveillance, including the individuals identified as Grey Wolf members with the access and means to carry out such an operation. However, the defection of four GMT agents is a grave concern.”

Eda surveyed the room before addressing the issue directly. “Why are we so certain they are the Grey Wolves? There is an elephant in the room. What if it was the Americans? Or the British? For all we know, it could’ve been the Poles. Why are we so quick to rule them out?”

Burak nodded as he jotted down the Prime Minister's concerns before responding. “For starters, Poland lacks the sophistication needed for such a precise operation. If a foreign power was behind this, it would necessitate a large and coordinated team including a strike team or handler to recruit the GMT agents, a surveillance unit to monitor the Chief, a facilitator to smooth over the process, a clean-up crew, an exfiltration team, and, crucially, a handler within the Embassy. We have seen no significant uptick in activity from any of the relevant embassies.”

He continued, “Regarding the style of the operation, there’s a distinct tendency to leave minimal evidence to avoid drawing attention or implicating the perpetrators. Our methods are typically cleaner, focusing on subtlety. Western actors, in contrast, often employ advanced technology to conceal their presence. This operation, by contrast, lacked such high-tech elements. Lastly…the Americans have a knack for explosives and drawing attention to their operations.”

Nuh Mustafa, Head of the Ankara’s Internal Affairs Main Department, spoke up after Burak. “As far as the President is concerned, we should consider potential retaliatory actions once the perpetrators are identified. Additionally, we must enhance security for government officials…”

Bihter Ozturk, the Beştepe Spokeswoman, glanced down at her notes, her expression tight with frustration. “What should we tell the media?” She asked as she leaned her face into her hands.

“What we know,” Can replied firmly. “The evidence at the scene indicates a botched robbery. There are no immediate signs of foreign involvement. However, the GMT is investigating all possible leads. We have no further information at this time.”

Bihter raised an eyebrow, her irritation evident. “You really think that’s going to hold up? The media will be all over this. They’ll start asking if the Americans are involved or if there is factionalism within the party. I’m already dealing with whispers that President Ayşa ordered this hit.”

“Let them ask their stupid questions,” Can said dismissively. “We’re working down our leads. That’s all we have for now.”

Bihter shot Can a pointed look. “Really, is that all you…”

Burak interrupted her. “I won’t tell you how to do your job. Figure it out,” he said, standing up. “Prime Minister Eda, if the other GMT directors and I could have a moment to get updates from our teams, we’ll be ready to brief the acting director and prepare our efforts to arrest the Grey Wolf terrorists.”

Eda gave a nod, allowing the GMT and National Security Officers. “Bihter, head to the President’s office and come up with a statement, something tasteful, please, I want to pin this on the Chief of the Defense Staff…so write something that doesn’t make it difficult for us to walk back later. Burak write a classified memo for the Security Council to review later. I don’t need another protocol officer up my ass.”

The room acknowledged the Prime Minister’s orders with nods of understanding. Bihter, now clearly agitated gathered her things and left the room while. Eda motioned for Selçuk to walk with her.

As they walked down the corridor, Eda’s voice was low and concerned. “Selçuk, give it to me straight.

Selçuk’s expression was grave. “I have suspected for some time that the GMT has been a mess for the past few weeks. The situation has been deteriorating, and it seems the internal strife has only worsened.”

“Selçuk,” Eda said, his voice low, “So it is true that the GMT has been falling apart?”

“Yes, that would be my view,” Selçuk responded before adding. “The agency has been a shambles for the better part of two years now, plagued by infighting and poor leadership. If not murder, they are allowing their operatives to fail in the field.”

“Do we need to worry if the Americans were behind this?” Eda asked.

Selçuk shook his head. “The CIA wouldn’t have done this. They know the risks. The MİT has long suspected that the GMT has been infiltrated by PKK loyalists who have turned the agency into an extension of their organization. In essence, the GMT has been used to extract revenge under the guise of counter-revolutionary disputes.

To counter this claim, we formed our own internal group to monitor and address potential breaches. Kınar has been enabling his PKK warlord buddies to build up their networks in the Southeast. Moreover, he’s been using the GMT to arrest AİAB and Army officers who had been overseeing operations against the PKK. The man had made many enemies”

“So, Kınar’s death might have been orchestrated from within?” Eda asked.

Selçuk shook his head. “It’s increasingly unlikely. Kınar turned the agency into his own den of PKK loyalists. However, the fact that Kınar seems to have been killed by his own people would suggest a deeper level of corruption and factionalism. I’ll dig further into our intel, but for now, I’m inclined to believe the GMT with PKK loyalists is undermining our efforts to monitor for counter-revolutionary efforts especially by the military. I’d like to, once we’ve taken out the military collaborators who likely oversaw this strike, to begin cleaning house of PKK operatives within the security services.”

Eda nodded, her face rather tense. “If the GMT is indeed becoming a space for ethnonationalists, the ramifications could be far-reaching for the President…not to mention making picking a successor more challenging. Any…

Selçuk cut her off. “That’s a matter for politics to decide. I’m no politician, and frankly, I wouldn’t trust the people under me any more than I trusted Kınar when he was my boss. My focus is protecting this government from the Kemalist deep state. I’ll get you and update on whether it was intra-PKK infighting or the military that is responsible,” He said, ending the conversation and returning to the shadows where he came from.

A few hours later, Ayşa entered her office to see her advisors waiting for her. She sat behind his long, oakwood table that smelled of berries. Her fingers drummed a rhythmic and impatient beat as her eyes seemed distant, troubled by the unsettling turn of events. “Can someone give me some good news,” Ayşa asked looking around the room.

Eda leaned in, her expression grim. “Ayşa, the optics of this situation are a nightmare. The public is already swirling with rumors and speculation. Either way, we are in deep trouble. We cannot afford the scandal of suggesting that a foreign power was involved…neither can we afford for this to be a mugging of the head of our internal security services right in the heart of Ankara.

Selçuk looked around before speaking. “Our initial assessment was that this was a mugging gone wrong,” Selçuk said, turning to the screen in the President’s office. “However, our forensic team concluded that this pattern gives us reason to believe that a military-trained operative carried the hit.” He changed screens to show a list of countries: United States, Britain, and Russia. “These are the nations that have the capabilities to conduct an assassination like this. However, none of them have the profile or the reasons to carry out this strike and as such we’ve eliminated the presence of a foreign power being involved.” He paused, letting the President take it in.”

“To support our claim, the MİT agreed that it does not have any reason to suspect a foreign power was involved. Their counter-intelligence unit did not gather that from the operations in the city. Our sources do not tell us that these powers or other adversaries were involved in such an operation.” Selçuk said, ending his slides.

“Selçuk…what do you make of this,” Ayşa asked, pointing to the camera shots of Kınar in the alleyway.

“A good thief could’ve easily done this,” Selçuk said, almost brushing aside what he had said earlier. “There are parts of Ankara where crime lords and oligarchs run mini-republics. Places where if you cross the wrong guy…you end up like that.” Selçuk said pointing to Kınar’s body.

“Whoever killed Kınar is sending a message,” Selçuk said as he looked around the room. “Any one of us can be next. Do you trust your guards after what happened?” Selçuk asked the President as he paced around the office. “Perhaps Kınar’s death is meant to spur chaos.”

Ayşa looked rather annoyed as her gaze was fixed on the flickering shadows cast by the overhead lights. “Chaos…to what end. To bring what end?”

Selçuk answered. “Chaos isn’t a pit. It doesn’t lead to an end…but a beginning. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but they refuse. The climb is all there is. Whoever killed that man had a reason. I advise us all to forget the currents of politics and think of the deeper risks at stake. That of the revolution”

“Stop it, Director.” Ayşa said, having had enough of Selçuk elusive answer, “speak the plain truth or do not speak at all.”

Selçuk nodded. “Comrade President. The revolution is facing its most serious challenge since we took power. We face internal strife, growing bourgeois anger, and importantly, the military senses now may be the time to strike.

I believe the military ordered this attack to throw us off our game. We must strike back hard and fast to restore deterrence. More importantly, we need to reoraganize this government to end the widespread factionalism that has tak…”

Eda would try to step in but Ayşa would box her out. “Director Selçuk, I’m giving you twelve hours to give me a list of conspirators and the ongoing factionalism in this country. Eda, follow me,” Ayşa said, getting up and leaving the room. Eda nodded, recognizing that the President was getting tired.

As Ayşa left the room, she turned back to the Director. “I want a report on everything…no matter how high they go up. ” She said as she turned around and headed back to her office.

“Yes ma’am,” Selçuk said as Ayşa and Eda left the room and he began to pack his stuff.

“This could be a blessing in disguise,” Eda said, her tone low as she and Gen. Esmail walked to the garage. “Kınar was a liability. I’d heard whispers that he was planning something with the PKK’S parliamentary wing…”

Gen. Esmail glanced around before responding. “And the implications of this ‘attack’? If it’s seen as the military going on the offensive,e it would be just as damaging. If it gets out that we’re covering something

Eda waved a hand dismissively. “The blood is in the water, and the poison is in the air. What matters now is how we handle this. The President’s reaction will be crucial. We need to ensure that she sees this as an opportunity, not a catastrophe. It is time to clean up the legacy of Kemalism.”

Gen. Esmail laughed. “You want to fight the military.” He said, not believing it himself.

Eda looked around again before responding as they rounded a corner. “Kınar was becoming a problem. He was aligning himself with the PKK’s more radical factions, building stockpiles in the Southeast, and, more concerning, flirting in places he shouldn’t have been in Syria. These guys are shadows of what they were. They’ve allowed their agencies to become principalities. Carving out fiefdoms for themselves..”

Gen. Esmail shrugged. “You think it was the people who got Sultans ousted?” Burak asked Eda almost with a smirk. “The intelligence agencies are one thing. The bourgeois facitos are another. The military are something else completely. They are playing a different game, Eda. One well above our head.” He said almost as a warning.

Eda looked at his friend as they waited for the elevator. “I know one thing. Our revolution will not survive the next few years if we allow those doves to steer this ship into an iceberg. I’ll be damned if I let them allow the military to play their games at our expense.”

Gen. Esmail nodded. "Is that why you told the President it was the military but left it open in the council meeting?"

Eda nodded. "Yes, we don't know who we can trust. But I spoke with Selçuk before the meeting and I think he managed to play his part well enough. Now that the President sees the threat we can finally get to work."

Gen. Esmail smiled, as the elevator opened, ending their conversation. He handed Eda a file. “The revolutionary guard corps is ready to take on the military. The only question is will we launch the first strike or wait for them?”

Eda looked at him as he entered the elevator. “I think it is clear today who took the first shot…it is about time we responded.”