The Satan Machine

By David Chacko

THE SATAN MACHINE is an organization that kills. It has concluded several of the most spectacular assassinations of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Until now, the identity of the people behind THE SATAN MACHINE has been obscured in layers of disinformation the likes of which have never been seen. Articles and entire books, most of them sponsored by intelligence agencies, have been devoted to the process of hiding what should have been plain murder.

THE SATAN MACHINE tells the story of two of the most outrageous assassinations of the past fifty years, both committed by the same man. It takes you behind the scenes to places that have never been explored by a writer who knows the ground better than any other. THE SATAN MACHINE is fiction, but more accurate that any of the non-fiction books that have been written on the subject.

This is a ride past the boundaries of facts to the more terrifying land of truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: foremost
• Release date: Jan 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781936154944

David Chacko

A lot of what a writer does at the desk is the result of research being plugged into what happened every day of his life up to that point. Where he's born doesn't mean a lot except that's part of what he brings to the work. So let's say I was born in a small town in Western Pennsylvania where the coal mines closed thirty years before, then let's say that I found my way to New York and Ohio and New England and Florida and Istanbul with lot of stops along the way.I don't remember much about most of those places except that I was there in all of them and I was thinking. One of the things I was thinking about, because I'm always thinking about it, is the way people and governments lie to themselves and others. Those two thing--the inside and the outside of the truth--might be the same thing, really. That place of seeming contradictions is where I live. And that's where every last bit of The Satan Machine comes from.The lies piled up around the attempted assassination of the pope like few events in the history of man. Most of it had to do with geopolitics, especially those strange days when the world was divided into two competing blocs that were both sure they were right in trying to dominate. So an event that was put through the gigantic meat grinder was one that would be mangled nearly forever.That's what I've been thinking about--the hamburger, so to speak. The results will be told in several blog entries from my website, so you might want to mosey over to www.davidchacko.com. I can guarantee you a good time.

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THE SATAN MACHINE

David Chacko

Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 David Chacko

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For Xavi

The gun was created, and manliness disappeared.

—Koroglu

(Note: Glossary at the end of the book)

EXORDIUM

Ribbibia Prison, Rome

December 27, 1983

Cell T4 was the same as the others along the narrow corridor. When the guard stopped in front of the door, he pushed it open to reveal a young man dressed in blue jeans and a blue sweater who sat at a table with two black plastic chairs. He rose instantly.

Wojtyla did not step forward. He looked at the young man, but spoke to the guard. I hope he’s not out-of-sorts today.

Not at all. Having a good one. He’s usually well behaved, Holy Father.

Never different?

Well, he was upset the day his family came to see him, said the guard. That’s the thing that makes Turks like Italians—they can’t bear to have their mothers see them in chains.

Encouraging, said Karol Wojtyla. A bond is always encouraging.

Yes, Holy Father. We’re all convinced he’s human now.

Wojtyla knew better than to spar with an Italian gatekeeper. The only thing they understood was higher command. Leave the door open, please, and have the guards stay back.

He bowed and did what he was told. Very quickly, Wojtyla found himself in the cell with the man who had tried to assassinate him.

The cell. How many martyrs of the church had spent their lives in cells cut from rock, where their beds were plank or earth? This man was not one of them. He was called Ali, and he was of no religion that had ever been.

Your Holiness.

Ali bowed. Aware of the cameraman who was ghosted behind Wojtyla, Ali put his hand forward. It was not an aggressive gesture. He kept it before him, still offered, his head low.

My son.

The Turk accepted the blessing of the Bishop of Rome. He took Wojtyla’s hand and pressed the back of it to his forehead and then kissed it. Or the ring. It was hard to tell. Most things were hard to tell with this man.

Wojtyla waited for the stills to be shot—the First Touch, he was sure they’d call it. And he kept thinking about the warm hand that for publicity purposes was still in his hand. Was anything left of the savage will that had sent this man to murder?

It did not seem there was much. Wojtyla thought he might feel the heat of a bullet again. The pain, the savage, all-too-earthly pain. But no. He felt nothing like that.

Thank you, my son, for your warm greeting.

"Papa, said Ali. Welcome. I am so happy to see you here."

He had learned the language of the guards. No one who had anything to do with Ali thought he was stupid. Some thought him mad. Others thought that he was intelligent enough to feign madness convincingly.

You may sit, said Wojtyla. Please, do.

Ali sat in his black chair. Wojtyla turned to the cameramen who were working, as they usually did, to enhance the veracity of the moment. Reality was not enough these days. It must be broadcast to the world as an event.

You may go now.

The cameraman and the lighting technician left the room, their equipment in packs on their backs like pilgrims to a star.

Wojtyla sat across the small table from Ali. Four bullets had struck the pope from a slightly greater distance the last time they met. Although he had recovered from the attack, Wojtyla would never have it all back. He still felt the shots that had passed into his body. Every time he moved he felt them. Every time he thought of them he felt them.

Today could bring an end to some of the pain. Wojtyla felt that it would.

I’ve come to confront my assassin, he said. I’m sure they must have told you.

Ali moved closer over the table. He nodded.

Do you understand my Italian? Do you know what I say?

Yes, Papa.

I want to meet you and reconcile with you, my son.

I accept to meet, he said. The second part, too.

Wojtyla hoped so. Although this man had spoken at length to policemen, prosecutors, reporters, and psychiatrists, nothing was really known of him. He was a cipher, a killer who fired and kept firing though he knew he would be caught. A fanatic. But one who did not answer to any cause.

I want very much to talk with you, Ali. We are two men who share an event. We know the same moment in time and everything about that moment. We feel it like no others feel it.

Ali nodded again. I feel it. I feel it as now.

Wojtyla touched Ali on the wrist. Again, he felt as if they were connected. Stronger this time. It was like a wire through time.

I’d like to know, Ali, why you think our paths crossed two years ago in St. Peter’s Square?

The young man looked ill at ease, as if he could not in his large repertoire locate the proper lie. Two years and seven months, Holiness. Do you know the word kismet? It is a Turkish word.

Fate, said Wojtyla. But destiny could be a better translation.

Then I would say that is the best way to see what happened. There is no other way, given the men involved. I was born as I am. You were born as you were. It is as if a machine had been set in motion.

If you’re saying we are ambitious at the bottom of our souls, I understand, said Wojtyla. I’m sure that is why I was put to the test.

A test, said Ali eagerly. Yes. That is so.

I always knew it would come, said Wojtyla. I wondered if I would have the strength to pass it. And to continue to the last phase.

The last phase?

The place where we’ve come on our journey, said Wojtyla. The last phase is where I grant you forgiveness.

He had a curious face with a gap in his front teeth that made him look fanged, though the rest was sane. Long, thin, moody and dark, the hollow angles of his face said he was sure something would happen to mark him from other men, as Wojtyla had been marked. Neither knew what those things would be when they began. Perhaps they knew now.

You do not blame me, Holiness?

No, my son. I forgive you. That’s why I came here today: to grant you the forgiveness of God, which is in my power to do.

So I have been . . . forgiven. From you.

Yes, my son. It is the same as if it came from God.

I see, he said, rushing his words like a boy at a game. But I have a question of interest. It’s of great interest to me. I need to know—what of the rest?

The rest?

The others, he said, twisting his long dark face closer across the table. The others whose path crossed mine. The ones I killed.

PART ONE:

BLOWBACK

i

December 23, 1978

At Marmaris

The Southern Coast of Turkey

Kurt made another pass around the terrace, his eyes toward the sea. It was a bay really, but a long rugged one where the mountains plunged into the sea as if to cool. And they had probably done that. Arising from the core of the earth, molten, moving with a force nothing could withstand, they finally slid into the sea with a gigantic hiss.

What chaos had left behind was the most beautiful bay on earth. The waters went deep and quick. The color was the blue of gems and dreams.

So this one is better, you say?

But not new, said Kurt. We used him before successfully.

Field tested, so to speak.

Exactly.

Kurt would agree to anything this man said. Colonel Arslan was like a phantom who appeared in his life, always in a different place but with the same urgent message. You couldn’t really say that he appeared, though. You knew he had been sent.

We set him onto a schoolteacher in Malatya, said Kurt. A troublemaker. They shouldn’t come into our cities and think they can do as they please. They shouldn’t be allowed to set children against their own people. But they think they can, and this man was the worst. He didn’t care what he said. Democracy. Free speech. It was sickening the way he talked.

I understand, said the colonel. "It’s the abuse of freedom that’s so bad."

Yes, sir. Our man was given the job of relocation. He took that left-wing degenerate where they all should want to go.

No witnesses?

None that have come forward.

I like a man who does his job without an audience, said Colonel Arslan, as he poured another raki for himself. The last one spilled that man’s brains right on the street in Istanbul. It’s a good thing the stupid bastard was beaten to death by those bystanders. What would have happened if he was like most Turks and managed to live on without any brains at all?

We could have taken care of our own, Colonel, no matter what happened. He did survive until he reached the hospital.

The death of an incompetent is never unfortunate, said the colonel. If he had the means to embarrass us, he’s better off dead.

Arslan, whose name said he was a lion, raised his head to the mountains that had forced their way to the sea. He had a full head of hair, a mane, brown with a flow of white at the sides. He was lucky to have that—the look of a lion with the wintriness of age—but it was not all of him. The colonel had charisma. That was what made him a man of the future. A prophet.

The hospital did its best, Colonel. Our man was in bad condition when he arrived due to the beating. He had no idea that the bystanders would react as they did. Conscience is an unpredictable thing.

Absolutely, said Colonel Arslan, smiling at everyone—all of us—as if recording the gesture. We must guard against it.

But nothing would have happened to him, said Kurt. The police in Istanbul are ours. Our only worry is having our people in the right places. They have to be there for us when things get tight.

They will be, he said. We’re the only hope of the nation. We’re the pulse of its blood.

Kurt was often uncomfortable when normally sane people ran on about things they could not see, smell, or in any way know. But he went along with it because he could feel it, too.

Everything we do is for the good of the Turkish nation, said Kurt. Eliminating everyone who stands to our left is a useful thing. I believe it’s recommended in the Kuran.

The colonel raised his glass. Or soon will be.

They drank to that as Kurt went to the table for food. He put the end of a toothpick into one of the pale feet of the octopus. The meat had been perfectly prepared, tenderized to shake out the ink and the rigor, then poached and pickled in olive oil and lemon. A fine complement to the raki.

I hope your recruit is up to a challenge, said the colonel. The target is a prominent man.

In public life?

You could say so.

A politician?

No. The editor of a newspaper.

That shouldn’t be a problem.

I don’t imagine so, said the colonel, though he is well known. It’s an exaggeration to call him a communist, but that does not change the fact that his silence would be a blessing. He speaks in his column for the things we abhor. He wants a movement toward peace with the Greeks. Moderation between left wing and right. They should not hate each other, he says. We should all be brothers.

The man is a fool.

Not completely, said the colonel, who turned serious on the barest provocation. He once wrote a column predicting that the nationalist forces, aided by the military, will escalate the violence in the streets to intolerable levels. When the situation seems irredeemable, the military will act to force a change of government.

A coup? said Kurt. "He is a dangerous man."

Exactly. The colonel took down his raki, the last third of the glass disappearing magically. We must make him aware that we are dangerous, too.

A campaign, Colonel?

I think it would be best to focus his mind on important things, such as his next breath. Do what you can to put him right with his God before he meets his God. Who knows, perhaps fear will encourage his better tendencies.

I understand, sir.

I know you do. I’ll supply a dossier on him. Make sure your man who has such a way with schoolteachers knows this. It’s best if he knows the reasons why these people are diseased, so he has no doubt about the things he must do.

Don’t worry, he’s a believer, said Kurt. Intelligent in mind but simple in soul. He’s from Malatya Province, like most of the others.

"Hemserilik, said the colonel with a friendlier smile. It’s a club you fellows have, isn’t it?"

We’re friends from the same part of the country, sir. It’s true.

Can you tell a man from your part of Anatolia when he speaks three words to you?

Usually, I can tell on the first.

An exclusive club then.

In a way.

A killer’s club.

At the service of the state.

Remember that, said the colonel. What the state commands is law. What the blood demands is the only higher law.

I’ll pass your words on to my friend, said Kurt. His name is Ali.

I don’t have to know that, said the colonel. I don’t have to know anything more.

ii

He does the same thing almost every day, said Ali, combing his dark hair with the tips of his fingers. But sometimes he goes to other places before he returns home.

Where?

"Once he went to a restaurant under the bridge where he talked with three others. They looked like men who had been in Istanbul long enough to lose their balls. White Turks. Another time he met a man in the Besiktas fish market. He pretended to buy a small kalkan, but was more interested in the man and what he had to say."

How long did they talk?

Fifteen minutes. They walked a circle around the market, looking at the menus on the doors as if they were deciding where to spend the evening. But they did not enter any of the restaurants. They did not eat. After walking the circle full and returning to the fish that lay dead upon the ice, they parted one way and the other. This man Ipekci left carrying the bag of kalkan, like a woman.

He went back to his car?

Yes. It was parked several blocks away.

No chauffeur?

No, he said. Never.

Then what did he do?

He went home to Nisantasi, said Ali, as if it were a sin. It’s a nice place, posh. The lobby is clad with marble—the kind with holes in it. You’d expect to see it in your toilet and nowhere else.

Simple in soul, yes. Kurt had once been to Ali’s town. It lay on a hill halfway up the skirt of a mountain with the rest of the mountain behind it, brooding. It was as boring as the rock from which it was made, but not without danger. One wrong step chasing a ball put the boy over the side into a drop of many meters. At the bottom of the fall was the same rock of the mountain. Hekimhan was the kind of place where children grew up looking for an altar to sacrifice themselves upon, and finding none, began to kill everything that was smaller.

Is there any chance Ipekci has seen you?

There’s always a chance, said Ali, flicking his fingers as if something were stuck to them. But I don’t think he has. He didn’t look my way with more than curiosity. He must put his faith in God more than his senses.

No, said Kurt. This man does not believe in God. Even less does he believe in blood. He has been to school, advanced schools even, where all they taught him was to value the opinions that others put into his mind. He takes his ideas from them and has no force of his own. He would like to be friends with the Kurds. Friends with the Greeks. Friends with all those who would do us harm.

A weakling.

An intellectual, said Kurt. He’s wrong in everything he believes, but strong enough to cause problems among other weak people.

I fail to see it, but you must be right.

I’ll give you help following this man, said Kurt. He must not become so suspicious that he recognizes you.

If you insist.

Have I ever given you bad advice, Ali?

No, he said quickly.

Then I’ll tell you about this man, said Kurt. "His seed. His blood. He comes from Greece—the old city of Salonika that