Elena Discovers Sandi’s Real Value

Burçu’s warnings cling like residue, and in the sharp chill after her words, all the pieces realign: Sandi wasn’t just leverage. She was a courier—carrying business intelligence designed to shift regional bonds, physically holding information volatile enough to tip alliances against Erdoğan if it landed in a rival’s hands. Someone wanted her off the board, untraceable, before the handoff closed.

This wasn’t about ransom or negotiation. Istanbul’s intelligence web, tuned to threats traveling outside official state protocols, got there first—intercepting Sandi, containing the intelligence, letting Tarmo himself remain untouched for now. His immunity is earned and dangerous, a byproduct of maneuvering that spans the Horn of Africa to the Bosphorus, from Somaliland’s ports to high finance in Dubai.

Tarmo isn’t expendable—he’s a player at an altitude where extraction risks more than any one life. Taking him out would trigger diplomatic salvos, ripple up to state, regional, and even global rivals watching every chess move Türkiye makes across Africa. Sandi, as the hand-delivered messenger, became the easier target: if the message can’t be delivered, the chain breaks quietly.

Her disappearance, then, is not just a matter of hiding a friend—it is about locking down the next move in a contest where ideas, alliances, and leverage are more explosive than any hostage. Burçu, Erdoğan, every fixer, every rival: they closed ranks to silence her until the city’s deeper tides decide who gets to release the story or bury it for good.

If I want to find Sandi, I can’t just win a rescue. I have to understand this stake, and whose story—hers or Tarmo’s, Turkey’s or the rival’s—is allowed to shape what happens next.

---

I squeeze the last warmth from my coffee and close my portfolio, scarf smoothing like a flag of truce. Burçu’s handshake is brisk, the gesture of someone keeping questions banked for a quieter call.

“Thank you, Ms. Şaşmaz,” I say. “After CYcrds publishes Istanbul, you’ll have the first deck. It’s as much a gesture of thanks as of shared history.”

Her smile is fixed, polished. “Istanbul rewards good stories, Elena. Decide carefully which you want to retell.”

We part in the cool hush of the DEİK lobby. Towers flicker past my window, the city’s pulse rising with every kilometer toward Beyoğlu. On Istiklal, the chaos is easy—street hawkers, musicians, tourists, the ghosts of old secrets thick between soup stalls and bookshops.

Pera Palace welcomes me back with marble hush, velvet shadows, the scent of wood polish and memory. At the desk, a bellhop’s eyes glance at my bag—registering, perhaps, that I have come back changed.

No sign of Ekrem; the air is clearer for it. Tarmo’s presence lingers, more as a warning than an invitation.

Upstairs, I switch from diplomacy to investigation—kicking off shoes, opening my notebook, mapping connections from Burçu’s coded caution to the broader stakes. Sandi’s whereabouts are not the endpoint, but the lever for the city’s next move.

The city drones outside the curtains. My fieldwork and the “CYcrds” cover will get me back into the streets, tracking who’s watching and who’s holding back. Tonight, the hunt is mine—the city will speak if I ask with the right mix of danger and attention.

When the Door Opens

Finally, breath comes easy.

The day’s layers—silk blouse, tailored trousers, scarf that passed for armour—fall one by one to the antique parquet. This hour belongs to me alone. No more glass-and-steel pleasantries, no math over Sandi or Tarmo. Just the cool press of sheets beckoning, a rare moment to shut the city out.

Then: click.

Not loud. The kind of sound you only hear if you’ve been trained, or haunted. The lock changes state. I still. The latch yields, not to my hand.

He steps through as if daylight belongs to him. Tarmo.

No apology for bypassing reception, no visible weapon beyond posture. His gaze sweeps corners, skims my half-undressed body, fixes on the open CYcrds notebook.

“You’re alone.” He closes the door. “Good. We speak without distractions.”

I cross to the robe, take my time knotting the belt.

“If you want grace notes about our reunion, go play at dinner theatre. Today was consequence enough.”

He moves to the desk. Fingers graze pages—methodical, unhurried. Sandi’s name sits in the graphite between us.

“I’m not here for sentiment. I’m here for results. Burçu knows; Ankara’s eyes are on me. What did she tell you in the tower?”

I step close enough to reach. The notebook snaps shut under my palm.

“You should be asking what she didn’t say. Or why they left you on the board at all.”

Silence settles.

“Sandi was courier, not pawn. They pulled her for the deal she carried. You’re the problem they can’t move. Yet.”

His jaw tightens.

“You think that means I’m immune?”

I let the question thin.

“Immune? No. Just expensive. Too costly to remove, for now.”

Outside, a horn flares. The old pipes exhale.

“Leverage trumps altitude,” he says. “For now, the city isn’t burning bridges, just making sure no one else can cross them.”

I close the distance by a fraction.

“You’re not calling the shots here. Not in this room, not in Istanbul. You want results, you ask: civilly. Otherwise, try another door.”

He holds the silence. I don’t move.

The smallest nod.

“You always did write your own ledger. Altitude can fall. Even the untouchable can be played off the board.”

“Then get used to waiting.”

No slam, no gesture—just the soft click as he leaves. The air loosens by degrees.

This room. This tempo. This win: quiet, and entirely mine.

I.Ph.