I PARK IN THE OTOSAN with the windows down, swigging cheap apple juice until nightfall, and thinking about the drive back. Between the mayor's i***t story and my photographs, I've all I need. The island's too small for a secret military lab – no Vozrozhdeniya here. At worst, it's some forgotten dump. Meanwhile, if Mustafa wants to catch Polat in bed with the PKK, he'll need to look elsewhere. I start the engine... and stop.
I want to visit this island. Not because I'm hunting mythical black foxes or abandoned anthrax drums – the chance of encountering either is nil – but because the place exists. For someone like me, it's the proverbial stone in the shoe. There's a full moon tonight too. All the better to see things.
I unload my inflatable dinghy from the passenger's seat and work the fo
