"Very impressive place you have here, Mr. Basaran," I say.

"Thank you. It's very gratifying to achieve the success one yearns for in one's youth and then still be alive to enjoy it."

"I'm particularly impressed with your airstrip. How do you use it?"

He shrugs. "We ship materials all over. Currently I'm in the process of building an elaborate indoor shopping mall in Northern Cyprus. That's a model of it over there on the table. Beautiful, isn't it? We ship materials daily to the island. As you can guess, I'm a firm supporter of Turkey's right to claim Cyprus. I'm helping the cause by building up the north, giving the people more modern facilities and attractions. This mall will be the largest shopping center of its type in the Middle East." He shakes his head and sips his tea. "The ongoing struggle with the Greek Cypriots there is tragic. Why can't they just accept us and be done with it? But that's a whole other conversation. Now. Tell me what brings you to Van, Mr. Fisher. I read your letter of introduction from Mr. Hamadan, and I see that you work for Interpol. How can I assist you?"

I give him my spiel on how I'm compiling an extensive report on terrorists in the region. Interpol will publish the report and send it to law enforcement agencies all over the world, but most important, it will help in combating terrorism here in the Middle East. "Mr. Hamadan suggested that I speak to you, as I hear you're an expert on terrorism here in Eastern Turkey," I say. A little flattery usually goes a long way.

"You give me too much credit," Basaran says, but he smiles and enjoys the compliment. "I wouldn't call myself an expert. That's ridiculous. But I do know some things. I've followed the various groups in this area for many years and even met some of the leaders. That is not to say that I'm friendly with any of them. As a Turkish entrepreneur--and a successful one--they probably hate me as much as they hate anyone else in Turkey who favors a Westernized lifestyle. I could probably talk for hours about terrorism, Mr. Fisher, so unless you have specific questions, we might need to postpone our meeting for another time. I am very busy today."

I decide to drop another name. "I see. Rick Benton also said you'd be very helpful."

I notice a flicker in his eyes. "You know Mr. Benton?" he asks.

"Only by his work," I say. "I never met the late Mr. Benton."

Basaran's mouth drops slightly. "The lateMr. Benton? Is he . . . ?"

"Yes," I reply. "He was murdered in Brussels just last week."

"That istragic. I'm sorry to hear it. Do they know who did it?"

"No, it's a mystery."

Basaran takes a sip of tea. "I met him one time. He asked me questions about some of the terrorist groups operating in this part of the country, just as you have asked. I assure you, I am compelled to speak out against terrorism whenever I have a public forum. It is important to me and to my family."

I'd like to find out more about his family but decide that now's not the best time.

"You do know about my charity organization, Tirma?" he asks.

"Yes, that's one reason why I wanted to meet you."

"Tirma is a personal project for me. I've pledged much of my income to help fight terrorism, and Tirma allows me to make a difference--if only a small one."

"It's not-for-profit, I take it?"

"Certainly. With an all-volunteer staff, I might add. If you'd care to quit Interpol and work for us for free, we would be more than happy to have you!" He laughed boisterously.

I laugh, too, but quickly swing the conversation back to the topic at hand. "Well, since you're pressed for time, I do have a couple of specific questions."

"Fire away."

"What do you know about the Shop and what do you know about the Shadows?"

Basaran nodded, as if he was expecting the question. "Mr. Benton asked me the same thing. Those two groups are becoming the hot topics on everyone's list. As far as the Shadows are concerned, our friend Tarighian has certainly taken the word mystiqueto a new level."

"Tarighian?" I feign ignorance.

"Nasir Tarighian," Basaran says. "He's the money behind the Shadows. Didn't you know?"

"I thought Nasir Tarighian died in the 1980s."

"That's what he wants everyone to believe. But he's alive and well, and financing and directing the Shadows' operations with a firm hand. I'm afraid that no one knows where he is, though. Or much about his personal life, either. He's a very mysterious man, just like his organization. It is said that Tarighian lives like a nomad, much like Osama Bin-Laden. He and his band of merry terrorists travel from one place to another so they can't be caught. I imagine they live in caves in the mountains somewhere."

"Any guesses as to what country they stay in the most?"

"I think it's Armenia, Georgia, or Azerbaijan. It's safer for them there. If they were in Turkey, they'd probably be caught. If they were in Iran, they'd probably be caught. If they were in Iraq, they'd most certainlybe caught. But I really don't know. Perhaps they move from country to country periodically."

"Do you know an Ahmed Mohammed?" I ask.

"Yes, indeed. He's the more visible leader of the Shadows. Perhaps leaderis not the right word. He receives instructions and money from Tarighian and then sees that things get done. He's very much a wanted terrorist, and I'm surehe is always on the run. He is a snake, that man."

"No idea where he is?"

"None. Anywhere and everywhere. Like Tarighian."

There's a knock at the door.

"Excuse me a moment," Basaran says. "Come in!"

A thin man with unkempt blond hair enters the room. He is a Caucasian and appears to be in his late forties or early fifties. "May I speak to you for a moment?" he asks Basaran. I can't place the accent, but it's European.

Basaran stands and says, "Professor, how many times a day must you interrupt me?" He winks at me and says, "The professor is a stickler for details. Please excuse me a moment. I'll be right back."

As soon as they are gone, I quickly stand, reach into my jacket pocket, and remove three miniature sticky bugs. They're a lot like the sticky cameras I use except that they're audio-only. I move to Basaran's desk and quickly stick one bug underneath, attaching it to one of the legs up high where it won't be noticed. I hurry over to the scale model and place another bug on the underside of the table. Finally I attach the third bug underneath the small table where we're currently sitting. I resume my place, pick up my teacup, and am mid-sip when Basaran returns.

"I'm sorry, please accept my apologies for the interruption," he says. "I'm afraid I must cut short our talk. Something has come up that requires my attention. However, if you are free for dinner tonight, I would be more than happy to meet you and we can continue our discussion."

I stand and say, "Why, I'd be delighted. Just tell me where and what time."

He gives me the address of a restaurant in the harbor area, and we arrange to meet at eight o'clock that evening. We shake hands and I'm escorted out of the building.

Idrive out of the Akdabar complex and park on the hill where I was earlier, turn on my OPSAT, and tune in to the little bugs I left in Basaran's office. Reception is very good, but I know the farther away I am, the less quality I'll get. I recognize Basaran's voice. He's talking in English with another man. It doesn't sound like the professor fellow I saw briefly.