The Meeting

Morning pries itself through Istanbul’s glass and minarets—a blue-gold light, soft and sleepless.
Sleep claimed me late, but the city’s hum—street vendors, ferry horns, muttered prayers—is relentless. The scent of Tarmo’s cologne, mint and pistachio from sweets untouched, clings in corners and to my skin. Istanbul’s lesson: nobody gives up their pieces—only moves them for higher stakes.

Mrs H’s message waits, not so much a summons as an order:
09:00 — Burçu Şaşmaz will see you. Don’t be late.
Translation: this meeting has been bought at a price.

I stand over my open suitcase, sorting attire like strategy pieces:
Black, cigarette-cut trousers—formal, flexible.
A cream silk blouse—absorbs early sunlight, draws none.
Muted teal scarf, woven with a gold Ottoman arch—a gesture of regional familiarity, not mimicry.
Hair knotted low, pins tight as resolve.
The old silver ring for myself alone.

I fit notebook, camera, and extra battery into my bag; portfolio tucked under my arm, Moleskine scuffed and ready. This is my “CYcrds” persona made material—what Mrs H would call camouflage by competence.

Stepping out, the lobby shivers with early business suits and the slower shadows of last night’s revelers. The tram dings along the avenue, Istanbul’s air thick with exhaust, coffee, and hot bread. My cab waits, driver jabbing the horn in an unhurried beat.

The route to Sarıyer braids the Bosphorus, bridges strung like rosary beads on the horizon. Beside us, glass and steel towers glimmer: Levent, Maslak, the Skyland twins looming ahead, staking out Istanbul’s north with the geometry of ambition.

Security clocks my ID, badge clipped fast to my lapel. Air in the elevator is chilly, perfumed with filtered citrus and anxiety; a security camera blinks reassurance. On Kat 21, sunlight spills through glass, mapping an Istanbul that stretches—bridges, domes, freighters, slender towers—endless.

DEİK’s reception is minimalist: dark wood, brushed steel, silk carpets underfoot, lilies nodding in slim vases. Staff move like chess pieces, calibrated and discreet.
A receptionist offers the day’s first real smile. “Ms. Elena. Ms. Şaşmaz will join you soon. Would you like Turkish coffee or tea?”

I answer, crisp, just a breath above a whisper: “Orta şekerli, please.”
A tiny test, my own rhythm measured against theirs.

I scan: framed photos of trade delegations in Ankara and Singapore; a brass DEİK crest, all hush and warning; laughter brittle, then gone, from behind a glassed door.

Burçu Şaşmaz makes her entrance like an answer—navy suit, cream blouse, scarf swinging geometrically at her collarbone. Her handshake is exact; eyes scan for asymmetry.

“Ms. Elena. I’m glad Mrs H encouraged this introduction. I’ve heard… interesting things.”
Her “interesting” is chess, not chat.

“Istanbul rewards interesting conversation,” I reply. “CYcrds is here to listen—to map the living city, not just its postcards. Your insight gives history a future.”

She gestures to a private meeting room, insulated glass framing the Bosphorus, sunlight dazzling over the water.

“In here,” she says, “we speak plainly, on or off the record.”

I settle; she pours coffee herself—deliberate, steady-handed.

“We support what honours Istanbul’s voice,” she says. “But not every story is meant to travel in daylight.”

I toast with the tiny porcelain cup, meeting her gaze over the rim.

“Some tales, surely, are better negotiated in the shade.”

I let my CYcrds notebook remain on the table, open—tracing Pera Palace ghosts, street food memories, sketches of city rhythms.

My pitch is authenticity tinged with wit: “Istanbul is a living memoir—bridges, bazaars, every Expo and alley a crossroads. CYcrds collects what endures, what compels the city to rewrite itself. Your work—hosting Helal and Ethno Expos, keeping balance—sits at the hinge.”

She studies me—a pause, a flicker of calculation. For a heartbeat, I wonder if she sees a researcher, a rival, or something unresolved.

She recovers, diplomat’s polish restored.

“You ask sharp questions. Here, curiosity is currency—and a liability. Our role is unity for the world, complexity for ourselves.”

Her words dance, diffusing risk. I follow with a sideways glance at the skyline, let the conversation slow, then nudge gently, “I met Ekrem in the lounge—he seems… resourceful.”

A shadow passes in her glance.

“Ekrem Gudadze operates for many, ours and theirs. He smooths complications, sometimes before we know they exist.”

I see her measuring me, deciding how much to risk.

“Did he help?” she asks, neutrality edged with caution.

“He showed me Istanbul’s rhythm: where to look, when to listen. I got the sense I’m not the only one searching.”

The city pulses beyond the glass: keys and gates, stories and threats. Inside, between CYcrds and coffee, our motives circle: not adversarial, exactly, but not harmless.

For now, the game is fluent.

Cards played, stories shaded, the city shining watchful just outside our reach.

I.Ph.