The driver arrived at 9:00 AM.
The car was a black sedan, clean and official, with a Turkish flag on the front fender. The driver was a young man in a suit who introduced himself as Lieutenant Çelik.
"The Professor will follow in a separate car," he said. "You and I will go ahead."
Mehmet looked at Rıza, who nodded. "It's fine. I'll meet you there."
The drive from Kızılay to the Presidential Complex took twenty minutes. They passed through the city center, then climbed a hill toward the Beştepe district. The buildings grew larger, more official. More flags.
The complex appeared suddenly—a vast campus of modern buildings, their architecture a blend of glass, steel, and traditional Ottoman motifs. The main administrative building dominated the landscape, its façade a series of sweeping curves and geometric patterns. Mehmet recognized the design influences: Seljuk star motifs, Ottoman tile patterns, the clean lines of contemporary Turkish architecture.
"The complex was completed in 2014," Lieutenant Çelik said, glancing at Mehmet in the rearview mirror. "It houses the presidential offices, meeting rooms, press facilities, and residential quarters. Over one thousand rooms."
"It's enormous."
"It had to be. The old Çankaya Mansion could no longer accommodate the needs of a growing Turkey."
They passed through a security checkpoint—ID check, vehicle inspection, a brief wait while guards reviewed their clearance. Then the gates opened, and the car drove into the complex.
Lieutenant Çelik parked near the main entrance and escorted Mehmet inside. The lobby was vast, its ceiling high, its walls decorated with calligraphy and historical maps. A guide—a young woman in a navy blazer—was waiting.
"Mr. Aydemir, welcome. I'm Zeynep, your guide. The Professor will join us shortly. While we wait, would you like a brief tour?"
"Yes, please."
They walked through the complex: the reception halls, the meeting rooms, the press briefing center, the library. Zeynep spoke with practiced ease, describing the building's design, its capacity, its role in hosting foreign dignitaries and international summits.
"The architecture is meant to symbolize Turkey's bridge between East and West," she said, gesturing to a carved wooden door. "The craftsmen came from all over Anatolia. The stone is from Diyarbakır. The wood is from Kastamonu. The tiles are from Kütahya."
Mehmet nodded, taking it all in. The building was impressive—not just in size, but in detail. Every surface, every corner, every window seemed designed with intention.
Rıza met them in the main reception hall, just as Zeynep was finishing the tour.
"Good timing," Rıza said. "The President is ready."
---
They were escorted to a small meeting room on the second floor—not the grand reception hall, but an intimate space with a large table, comfortable chairs, and a window overlooking the complex gardens.
A few minutes later, the doors opened.
President Erdoğan walked in.
Mehmet had seen him on television countless times, but seeing him in person was different. He was shorter than Mehmet had expected, but his presence filled the room. His handshake was firm, his eyes direct.
"Mehmet Aydemir," the President said. "Sit, sit. Please."
They sat. The President took a seat across from Mehmet, with Rıza beside him and two aides standing near the door.
"Professor Kaya has told me about you," the President said. "From Erzurum. Your mother had a stroke. You're studying medicine at Medipol."
"Yes, sir."
"And you found three Seljuk artifacts in a caravanserai near your village."
"Yes, sir."
The President nodded slowly. "Do you know how many people find such things and sell them? Smuggle them out of the country? Keep them hidden in private collections?"
Mehmet shook his head.
"Most of them," the President said. "Most of them. But you brought yours to the state. To your country." He leaned back in his chair. "Why?"
Mehmet thought about the question. He thought about Rıza, about the museum, about the law. But he thought about something else too.
"They weren't mine," he said. "They belonged to the history of this land. I was just the one who found them."
The President was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled—a real smile, not the one Mehmet had seen on television.
"That's the right answer," he said. "The right answer."
---
They talked for twenty minutes. The President asked about his family, his studies, his plans. He listened more than he spoke, nodding at Mehmet's answers, occasionally asking a follow‑up question.
At the end, the President said, "You don't want a reward."
It was not a question. Mehmet shook his head. "I didn't do it for a reward, sir."
"I know. That's why I'm going to give you one anyway." The President turned to one of his aides. "The file."
The aide handed him a folder. The President opened it and read silently for a moment.
"Your family is in Güzelyurt. Your father, Hasan, is a farmer. He was shot in the feet years ago and has trouble walking. Your mother, Hatice, is recovering from a stroke. Your sister, Belkis, is eight years old."
Mehmet nodded, his throat tight.
"A TOKİ house will be prepared for your family in Erzurum city center. Three bedrooms, one living room. Modern. Heated. Close to hospitals and schools." The President looked up. "Your father will be offered a position as a civil servant at the Erzurum Provincial Directorate of Agriculture. Light duties. Regular salary. Retirement benefits."
Mehmet opened his mouth, but no words came.
"And your mother will receive a full medical examination at the Atatürk University Research Hospital. All expenses covered. The best neurologists in the region." The President closed the folder. "These are not rewards, Mehmet. These are investments. You have shown that you love your country. Your country will show that it loves you back."
Mehmet managed to say, "Thank you, sir."
The President stood. "Keep studying. Keep being who you are. Turkey needs young people like you." He shook Mehmet's hand again, nodded to Rıza, and walked out of the room.
---
In the car, back to the hotel, Mehmet sat in silence.
Rıza did not speak either. He simply sat beside Mehmet, looking out the window at the passing city.
Finally, Mehmet said, "He knew everything. About my father's feet. About my mother's stroke."
"The state does its research," Rıza said. "Especially for people who come to its attention."
"I didn't ask for any of this."
"I know. That's why they're giving it to you."