Before 24 Billion and Counting

Chapter 13 Part 1 An engineering works in Istanbul

Ankara to Istanbul was superhighway trip. Access to the route was strictly limited to roadworthy vehicles - partly by a heavy toll to get onto the system and partly by some determined looking armed police, who examined each vehicle before entry to the toll booth, in a sort of combined bus terminus and service station. 

I saw some vehicles that didn't get on, being sent back. One family looked distressed as their overloaded pick-up and trailer was condemned as unfit. I reflected that if it had to travel on the ordinary roads it probably wouldn't survive either. Small single deck coaches from the Ankara streets were also being held up whilst squabbles broke out as to who would have to be left behind, so that there were no standing passengers. I didn't at first see why the driver had let the surplus on, although I had seen minor arguments arise when passengers were refused access on the street in Ankara. 

The situation seemed to be resolved by the enterprise of yet other small 'buses picking up the overflow at the terminal. The relationship between the drivers and the police made me suspect that the whole thing was a scam. The body language and the occasional smirk as yet another motorway bus made its way through the system. The surplus passengers had to go by the motorway bus at an inflated rate, and both sets of drivers and the police took their respective cuts. 

Thank God for Hertz and enough money to use them, I thought, as I paid for the whole 5OO km trip with the Amex, and got onto the highway at half past seven. 

I soon found out why the emphasis had been laid on road-worthiness. I was used to motorways in America where we all rode in disciplined blocks of traffic moving at a steady 80 kph. Here the only limitations on speed and lane discipline were the power of the vehicle, and the courage of your convictions. This was more like motor racing, which I did, but on the circuit I had some respect for the skill and competence of my fellow drivers. 

Keeping very alert I wound the big diesel up to 200 kph, turned the headlights on, and hoped that being within the top five percent of the traffic speed spectrum I could keep in the outer lane relatively free of flashing headlamps in my mirrors. The theory was not perfect. I still had to brake frequently and heavily to allow slower vehicles the use of the lane in front, whose drivers apparently believed mirrors were a decorative feature of no functional value, whilst the fast traffic in the outer lane apparently relied entirely for information on the sight of brake lights on the vehicle immediately in front, not the traffic pattern in general. 

The concentration required for the traffic, and keeping the boxy shaped, high riding four-track on course, didn't really allow me to fully appreciate the breathtaking engineering that had been executed to keep the highway's easy gradients and curves in the first mountainous 100 km of the drive. 

The speed dropped as the traffic thickened and by nine o'clock I had travelled about 180km, and was looking for somewhere to pull off the highway. Another service station came up and I slipped into the car park.

I phoned Makarios Engineering, but couldn't get past the telephone operator with any of the languages at my command. This could be awkward, as an address on its own was pretty useless without directions. I took the Mitsi' to the fuelling station and filled up with diesel. The small shop saved my bacon, by having a street map of Istanbul, albeit some years old, on the dusty shelves amongst the car cleaning materials and lubricating oils. I returned to the car park and worked out a route to the outskirts of Istanbul, trying to reconcile the modern roadmap's pattern of highways with the street network of the older map. 

Two hours later, I was over the Bosphorus on the six lane suspension bridge in a slow traffic stream, the spires and domes of the ancient city on my left picked out by the sun in a yellow tinged haze of exhaust gases. Half an hour after that I was in front of an old stone engineering works with a modern metal-clad box warehouse to one side, and Makarios proudly proclaimed on the frontage, with some following script meaningless to me but a number underneath which just had to be the year established - 1956. I parked the four track keeping clear of some railway lines that looked as though they were still occasionally used. 

I went through a door that looked office country and found reception. There was the young lady who I had failed to impress on the telephone, behind her instrument in a neat if somewhat sparse no nonsense area. There were some nice pieces of polished metal as examples of their work in backlit glass cases although I could only identify turbine blades amongst them. I tried to look at the same time impressive but charming, and gave the lady my card, and tried as before to ask for someone in sales or marketing. 

The brown eyes in the olive skin looked at me and she smiled, tossed her long brown hair, and said one word which was intonated like "wait a minute," and another with a wave to a chair which similarly was "please sit down," and disappeared through a door. 

I sat down and relaxed, and was almost mesmerized by the clatter and clash of bits of metal being beaten into submission by various tools and handling apparatus, to the accompaniment of a PA system with a rather unfortunate marriage of American and Asian music. The noise relieved my ears from the steady droning throb of the V8. No that was wrong, I was muddling memories with Chris again. He must have been here several times if this were the model makers. 

The door opened with a clack and broke into my consciousness. A young man in shirtsleeves and with a calculator and pen poking out of his breast pocket accompanied the receptionist, and I stood as he approached. In good English he said, "How do you do Mr Berisford - how may we help you?" 

"First thank the lady for me for finding you," I said, "and then I'll explain myself." 

He said something in Turkish which produced a smile in my direction from the receptionist who resumed her seat. I explained that the pottery received a calendar every year from Makarios, and that I suspected an order some twenty to thirty years ago had provoked this. I was interested to find out the history of this order. "You really want first the Sales Department. I'll take you there." 

The works was like an old cotton mill building with cast iron beams and columns, upon which a more modern North light roof system had been put. In a semi glazed modern cabin system were a series of offices, and I was led into one to meet an older man who was introduced as Sherdikov. "I'll leave you with Vladik." I thanked my guide. 

Vladik's comprehension in English was less than the young man's but we got on better in French, for he speeded up and I slowed down. After a false start or two Vladik took me to a terminal, and tapped out the name of the pottery, and then noted a number thrown up by the terminal. The field name was in Turkish but Vladik told me it was the contract number. I wondered whether they would keep information that long. The hopeful signs were in the obvious continuity of occupation of the old building. Vladik - got up and asked me to come with him. 

We were now in the drawing office. There were a couple of manual drafting tables not occupied, and three CAD terminals with operators producing images of, to me, unidentifiable parts. There was one desk with filing cabinets ranged behind, and a bookish looking man in his sixties with thinning fair hair and nordic in coloration sat at the desk with a small terminal to one side. 

Vladik explained in Turkish, and the man keyed in the number he had brought. The computer chirruped and the man interrupted Vladik with a wave of the hand. 

"I knew someone would turn up for this." he said, "Chris Williamson - yes?" 

"I'm not him," I said, "but you're talking about the right person." 

"No silly me. I'm Robert Cummings - Bob. I came to Turkey when I was fourteen, and started here. They've taught me all I know. I ran away from a care home in England and the Makarios family made me welcome and I've lived in Istanbul and worked here ever since. Chris's job was my first project on my own."