2
The inside of the terminal had been given a bit of a tart-up within the last decade or so, but it looked to me as though it had been done by the same crew who did the railways back home after privatization – the ones who’d given a lick of new paint to the old rolling stock and fixed for us to pick up a free magazine as we got on, in the hope that we wouldn’t notice that all the carriages were still in a shit state, the toilets didn’t work, and nothing arrived on time.
The immigration hall consisted of four passport control booths, each with a smiling young woman sitting behind a glass screen. I couldn’t make up my mind whether they were a girl band in their spare time, or Maria Sharapova’s training partners. I joined the visa line. So far, this country smelt of wet greasy hair.
Ahead of me was a column of raincoated Turks, staring daggers at the No Smoking signs. They obviously hadn’t been expecting them. Behind me, maybe six or seven people back, I heard a couple of Merseyside voices. I turned as casually as possible to check them out.
There were three or four of them, two with beards, all dressed in Gore-Tex jackets and practical walking trousers, and big practical boots. If it hadn’t been for the green flowery BP logos on the tags hanging from their laptop bags, I’d have assumed they might be here to open an adventure centre or run a management bonding seminar.
I turned back. At the head of the line, two immigration officers were too busy smoking and chatting to bother helping anyone get the paperwork necessary to pass through immigration and possibly be reunited with their bags.
The Turks were really getting pissed off. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the wait, or the fact that the immigration guys were hammering through the Marlboros while they couldn’t. At last, fag break over but still waffling to each other, the uniforms starting picking up passports and glowering at their owners. Charlie wouldn’t have had to go through this yesterday; he’d been waiting in Istanbul to arrange his visa in advance. He’d wanted to leave nothing to chance; unlike me, he hadn’t fancied the idea of leaving himself to the mercy of the Chuckle Brothers and the Spice Girls up ahead.
I finally reached the front of the line. The immigration guys sat behind a glass screen, at a Formica-covered desk about level with my waist. The younger of the two grabbed my blue US passport and arrivals form without even giving me a glance. He thumbed through the passport and finally raised his head. His face was completely expressionless. ‘No visa?’
Why the f*ck else would I bother standing in the visa line? I smiled. ‘I was told to get one from you.’
If I’d had the time to go and queue up all day and get one from the consulate in Istanbul, it would have cost me forty US dollars. Now that I was here, the price had gone up to eighty. That was the theory, anyway. I couldn’t wait to hear how far these boys thought they could push their luck.
He didn’t smile back. ‘Hundred twenty dollar.’
‘One twenty?’ I toyed with the idea of aiming him at the website, but immediately thought better of it.
‘Hundred twenty dollar.’
I pulled the cash from my wallet and handed it over. It wasn’t the extra dollars I begrudged, so much as the principle of the thing. He looked at me for a couple of seconds, his gaze level. ‘Hey . . . Why you come?’
‘To find my friend.’ The best cover stories are always based on the truth. ‘He has left his wife and is travelling here. I’ve come to take him home.’
He leaned across to his mate, who was still gobbing off to him about something or other. The old guy nodded and smiled; he’d probably clocked the fact that he could now afford to stop by a hooker on the way home.
My guy counted out the hard currency, stuck the visa into my passport, and even fixed me a receipt. It was only for eighty dollars, but at least the visa was full-page. I gave him a grin to show him I thought I was getting my money’s worth.
I picked up my carry-on and headed for passport control. The Spice Girls all wore shiny brown uniforms. Their new national flag was emblazoned on each arm: the cross of St George, with a smaller cross in each of the white quadrants. It looked like something Richard the Lionheart would have daubed on his shield before storming Jerusalem.