User Guide

[After untold centuries as an exclamation of
fond farewell, “Gule, gule,” or “go cheerfully,”
was transformed in just five short years into
a phrase whispered with dread, from the
darkest corners of the Stamboul quarter to
the gaudy, blood-stained sidewalks of Istiklal
Caddesi in Beyoglu. It seems fantastic that a
lone assassin, whose name to this day
remains unknown, had only to embrace the
innocuous phrase as his nom d’plume in
order to stain it forever. I arrived in Istanbul
after the disappearance of Gule Gule in 2009,
and so decided that the tales regarding his
exploits (some might call them atrocities) were
wild exaggerations, mercenary myths
designed to keep potential defaulters in line.
However, all my doubts were dispelled
when I received a phone call at the SUDDEN
DEATH editorial office late one August night
instructing me to cross over to Uskudar for
the story of my life.
We met at a deserted warehouse near the
Legionnaire Hotel, across the Bosporus in
Uskudar. He stood, and with a courteous,
soft-spoken voice that belied his powerful
frame, invited me to take the seat across the
table from him. He wore a simple black
British Commando sweater, reinforced at
the shoulder and elbow by rugged twill
patches, black cargo pocket trousers, a pair
of knobelbecher boots and a pair of kid gloves
that, even from a distance, I recognized as
powdered lead sap gloves, gentle to the fist
and deadly to the skull. As I took my place, I
could see no hint of the 9mm Heckler & Koch
P7M13 pistol I knew from reputation was
concealed on his person. Nor did I look for the
Gurkha Kukri knife sheathed in his left boot. I
knew from the stories that you never saw it
unsheathed unless it was about to be used. I
knew from the stories you never wanted to
see it, period. Far better the pistol than the
knife, hence the dreaded name, an exhor-
tation to “go cheerfully” — Gule Gule detested
cowardice. So long as none was displayed,
an easy dispatch with pistol was promised.
But God help the coward, begging for his life,
who saw that warped Nepalese blade sliding
out oh so slowly from its sheath, whispering
of the prolonged pain to come.
Once seated across the table from me,
Gule Gule introduced himself, and briskly got
down to business. He was disturbed by some
recent trends he’d seen in the Istanbul
market. Since his disappearance four years
ago, employers have lapsed into old habits,
in particular defaulting on payments to
mercs. Concerned that the money interests
have forgotten the name of Gule Gule, and
feeling something of an obligation to the
mercs of Istanbul “who consider me some-
thing of a folk hero,” Gule Gule wished his
story to be told.
“I want it known that I am not dead,” he
said with a smile hinting at a weary
sadness. “Retirement, success, these things
have been mistaken for defeat. Only in
Istanbul,” he laughed softly. Then his face
grew serious again. “I want the thiefs who
think they can cheat mercs to realize that
retirement can be reversed.”
What follows, then, is the story of Gule
Gule is his own words, as was told to me
that August night. I sincerely believe Gule
Gule when he says that he may yet come out
of retirement if the situation does not improve.
As the most infamous enforcer in Istanbul
history, Gule Gule would doubtless prove the
worst nightmare of any business interests
who have defaulted on blood money.]
22
July 2011 • SUDDEN DEATH
CONTRACT:
AN ENFORCER SPEAKS OUT
by “Gule Gule”