[b]Tasucu, Ottoman Empire May, 1960[/b] Cem yawned as the morning sun peered over the docklands and warmed the narrow streets of villages across Southern Turkey. All night, the Derin Gizli operative had slept uncomfortably in his black 1944 Atingucu, a common civilian car of government officials. It was parked awkwardly on a quiet street that hadn't seen a repaving since the Great War. Cigarette butts stained the passenger seat and Cem again felt tempted to relight the end of one to liven himself up. A quick rummage through the glove box confirmed that he may have to do just that. As he held the stale cigarette up to the match, a car began to roll slowly down the street towards him. It was a blue, Austrian style motor vehicle that purred as it pulled up beside him. Two men sat in the front seats and one raised a hand in greeting as it passed. It was Melik's men, clearly. No one in Tasucu was awake at this time. Especially those who drove unmarked, Austrian cars. Cem nodded in return and turned the key in his own car. It sputtered and protested before roaring to life. He rolled down the window and spat the manky cigarette on to the street. He methodically checked his watch before slowly rolling the ancient car down the road to turn around. Quarter past four in the morning. 2 hours late. The blue car moved slowly, almost frustratingly so, through the town, as the operative drummed him fingers impatiently on the wheel. His car stayed a few feet behind their own but he knew that on open road they could leave him in the dust. The town slowly fell way to rolling fields of olives and grapes yet Melik's men continued to move slowly. "Cheeky bleeders..." grumbled a tired Cem, his eyes firmly on the back of his guides. They stuck to the coast for what seemed like an eternity before crawling up the side of hill overlooking the glittering Eastern Mediterranean. The Austrian car, with a superior Germanic motor, flew up the hill with no issues but Cem's government issue banger struggled up the steep track. He could almost feel the motor of the car struggling like a fat man on a run. Ferries and fishing boats dotted the bay and if one squinted into a telescope in this morning light, they could see the tip of Cyprus. The road, which had by now become dirt, ended abruptly at the gates of a large villa. Green and white mould stained the sides of the walls and clung to the iron gates, which were firmly locked. The villa had seen better days and had obviously not been touched in decades. The locals had once called it the Big House but those days had been left with Ottoman dominance, far in the past. A lone Turkish star and crescent, limp with the lack of wind, hung atop of the gate. The blue car was waiting for Cem as his own sputtered up the hill. The two men leaned on it, arms crossed and casually smoking. They both wore western-style suits that were crisp and clean in comparison to Cem's own. They wore Greek fishermen hats but the operative wore only a head of greasy, unwashed hair. One of the men walked over as the operative pulled his car to stand still and turned off the engine. "You Cem?" barked the man, his Cypriot accent clear in the morning air. "Yep. You with Melik?" answered Cem, his own Ankara accent seeming bland in comparison. The man didn't answer. "Identification?" he asked instead, the cigarette staying between his lips. "One moment" the operative replied, diving into his glove department and returning with a Derin Gizil badge. He inspected it for a moment before turning to his friend and nodding. Cem took this as an invite to step out onto the ground and stretched his long legs. "Any of you gents got a cigarette?" he asked and Melik's goon gave him one without a word. "I'm not going to beat around the bush, boys. My superiors read Melik's proposal and they are, well, very interested in taking it to the first phase". "We're glad to hear. Those Greek bastards have begun seizing Turkish businesses" replied the other man, throwing his cigarette to the dew-covered grass in disgust. "We know. Operatives in Famagusta are concerned for our brothers and sisters in Cyprus. They believe tensions will be hitting dangerous levels in the coming months" nodded Cem, inspecting the Austrian-made car. The two goons seemed amused. "You like the car?" asked one, kneeling down next to Cem. "It's a step up from that thing" grimaced Cem, referring to his own vehicle. "And I have to drive the bloody thing back to Ankara". The other goon went to the boot of the car and opened it. "I think you'll like this even better" he called to Cem, inviting him over with a wave of his hand. Cem stood quickly and walked around to the back of the car. He whistled, impressed, a stream of smoke leaving his nostrils. In the trunk, three large briefcases were open, all filled with money. "Tell Melik he has a blank cheque, straight from the Sultan himself. We can help with money, guns, ships, hell, even soldiers" grinned Cem, his eyes never leaving the thousands of lira in banknotes. "As long, of course, that he agrees with our end goal". "We have the same end goal" replied the goon, picking up a briefcase and handing it Cem. "A Turkish, Islamic Cyprus". [b]Constantinople, Ottoman Empire[/b] The day was dying in the city once heralded as the second Rome but it still held on, streams of light still piercing the dusk. "Very good" replied Selim Pasha. "I will pass your dealings with these Cypriots onto the Sultan, he will be very impressed". Across from the Grand Vizier sat Mehmed Adil, the head of the Deren Gizli. Mehmed was to be trusted - he was Selim's, after all and years of loyalty to him had cemented him as a firm member of Selim's inner circle. The military may control the sultan but the internal security forces were damn well his. Selim rubbed his greying beard thoughtfully as Mehmed silently rummaged through his bag and produced a second document. "As for the Kurdish situation..." he began. "Ah, I suppose I did ask for the good news first" smirked Selim. "Yes" replied Mehmed simply. "The Kurdish situation is not looking as rosy, I'm afraid. We lost two operatives within the so-called Kurdish National Front this month and we believe our other five are at risk, save for one. Before received no reports from them, save for their last. Our cell believed there to be rumours of a document being drawn up that will be presented to the Sultan. A petition, we believe". He passed a folder to Selim, who opened it slowly. A frown furrowed the older mans brow as he read the final report of a certain Fered Izit, under the name of Hilkar Kemal. [i]5am, 26th of April, 1960 I was to sign a petition today. There were some grumblings in the Front about it but I believe they are trying to maintain an image of political legitimacy in the province. No developments on the arms deal with the Islamic/Arab militia. The commander is sending us to a town for guard duty tomorrow. The Police haven't been seen in the area for months and it's 'crime-ridden', they claim. I remain safe - they don't suspect a thing. [/i] "Famous last words" mumbled the Grand Vizier. "What happened to this man's handler?" "In a safe house in Izmir. We are instructing him to stay low for a few months, maybe take a holiday to Sofia" sighed Mehmed. "Allah save us" groaned Selim, closing the folder and placing it on the desk. "Are the Persians aware?" "I just got off a call with my counterpart in the Persian intelligence agency. They are concerned but are reluctant to take action on Kurds within their territory" replied Mehmed, placing the file back into his bag. "At least it's only a petition. If they start signing declarations, we'll be in trouble" said Selim, standing. He leaned heavily on his desk until his hand found a wooden cane. "Well, Mehmed, keep me up to date. It's a long journey back to Ankara. I'm scheduling a meeting with the police and the High Command this week. We may find the grounds to have these separatists arrested". "Very good, Selim Pasha. I'm on call if you need me" replied Mehmed, standing to his feet and shaking his superior's hand. As they walked to the door, the conversation became lighter. "That old war wound still acting up?" he smiled. Selim hobbled beside him. "I'll have to cut the bloody leg off soon" he grumbled, holding the door open. "You'll look like a Rhodesian Negro if you do" laughed Mehmed. Even that cracked a smile from the humourless Vizier.