Free City of the Lost by Will Adams Page B

a wet match struck against a wet box; so that tonight was the first time in years that he’d felt even the possibility of flame. ‘How about a tsunami?’ he suggested.
    ‘Maybe,’ nodded Karin. ‘Except much of the destruction happened inland; and, afterwards, people settled on the coast, which you’d hardly do if you were scared of tidal waves. Besides, these cities were
burned
. I know you might expect earthquakes to knock over candles and oil lamps and so start fires, but actually it doesn’t work that way because—’ She broke off, however, looked around. They’d been talking so long that the restaurant was empty, except for staff leaning wearily against the walls, waiting to close up for the night. ‘We should go,’ she said.
    ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘We should.’

SEVEN
I
    It made for a long day, wondering whether you’d killed one person, five people, fifty. But, once Asena and Hakan had found themselves caught between police roadblocks, they’d had no alternative but to hole up in a tumbledown farmer’s hut and wait them out.
    The roadblock had lasted only a couple of hours beyond nightfall. No stamina, these rural police. They’d got back on her Kawasaki and headed on their way. A first drizzle at the forest fringes quickly turned into a downpour that made the track treacherous with mud and puddles and sodden leaf litter. With Asena’s rear tyre a little bald, and Hakan riding pillion, it kept sliding out of her control, so that they both kept having to thrust out their feet to stay upright. But they arrived at last at the lair of the Grey Wolves, eight large wooden huts hidden from spy planes and satellites by thick camouflage nets. She drove past the armoury, gave the engine a final roar as she pulled up between the horse-box and the other trucks, enough to bring Bulent, U ğ ur, Ş ükrü, Oguzhan and various others out of their cabins, most holding waterproofs above their heads. ‘Well?’ she asked, embracing them briskly in turn. ‘What news?’
    ‘A success,’ nodded Bulent, but soberly.
    Asena felt a twinge. Success was such a loaded term for operations like these. ‘How many?’ she asked.
    ‘Thirty-one so far,’ said U ğ ur. ‘Thirty-one and counting.’
    ‘Thirty-one?’ protested Hakan, appalled. ‘But you promised me we’d—’
    ‘That was a bomb we set off today,’ said Asena sharply, before he could finish. ‘Not a fucking hand-grenade.’
    ‘I know. But—’
    ‘One, two, ten, a hundred?’ snapped Asena. ‘What does it really matter? This is a war we’re fighting. A war for the soul of our nation. Or have you forgotten?’ She glared around at them all, daring one of them to challenge her authority. No one did. She stalked into the main cabin, poured two fingers of raki into a glass then splashed in water to turn it cloudy. Lion’s milk, they called it:
aslan suku
. She held it up as if in a toast then knocked it back and poured herself another. She could hear Hakan muttering with the others outside, but right now she didn’t care. Let them grumble if they must. As long as they obeyed.
    The glass casings of the oil lamps, blackened with soot, threw eerie shadows on the wooden walls. These cabins were fitted with electric lights, but they only used their generator once a day, to recharge batteries and put a chill on the deep freeze. She rinsed her plate, poured herself a third glass of lion’s milk. The rain had stopped, but still drip-dripped rhythmically from the eaves. Wolves howled in the distance. They were in good voice tonight. Usually the sound cheered her with its hint of camara-derie, as if some higher power was letting her know the justice of her cause. But tonight it merely made her feel all the more alone.
    The Lion and the Wolf.
    The milk wasn’t going to be enough. She needed to talk to the man himself. She needed his assurance that those thirty-one lives and counting had been necessary. She went to her room, set up her satellite phone, pinged