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by identifying myself as a friend and colleague of Peter Franklin’s.

      Kutlu gave me a hard look and nodded brusquely. “That was a blow about Peter.”

      “It certainly was to those of us in Washington!” I wondered how much I should share. “Did you know Peter well?”

      Kutlu nodded through a haze of cigarette smoke. “Yes. Pretty well. Very well, actually. We worked together on some stories.”

      “So did I! Do you believe the police story about his death?” I was jumping in pretty fast, but I had no idea how long this busy journalist would put up with my questions. Why did I trust him? Was it the cat? I tend to give animal lovers the benefit of the doubt.

      After a long pause, Kutlu gave me a piercing look, as though he were weighing my trustworthiness, too. At last he said, “No.”

      A timid knock came on the door.

      “Evet? Come in, and put the chai in front of us. There. Close the door as you go out!” A semi-smile softened the harshness of the words.

      No sign of Sultana. I guess she had left for good.

      “So you agree with me that Peter would not have overdosed on drugs.” For the moment, I’d forgotten all about being a journalist. I was just a friend.

      “Not a chance. Somebody did this to him.” Kutlu took a couple of long puffs on his Yeni Bahar. Each of us lifted a glass of tea to our lips.

      “Any idea who?” I asked.

      “I’m working on it,” was the brusque reply.

      For some time, we sat without speaking. “Are you going to tell me anything more?” I ventured.

      “Soon,” he promised. “I think we should meet again. I’m working on an angle.” He got up, gave me a quick smile, and politely indicated the door. “But right now I have a deadline. Tomorrow?” he asked.

      Not satisfactory, but I had to respect a deadline.

      CHAPTER 36

      Tell us, giddy goats, the tale of Midas.

      Tell about the awful thing

      That happened to our noble King

      The day he stepped between two gods.

      Güngör Dilmen, “The Ears of King Midas” (play)

      Faye Mollington sat in the Altın Küpe, her favorite little restaurant up the hill from Cağaloğlu. The owners knew her preference for an anonymous corner half-hidden behind a screen and saved her that seat every day.

      Another set of regular customers played tavla, backgammon, at a table in the front. She could hear the roll of the dice and subsequent click of the wooden pieces counting down their moves on the inlaid board.

      It wasn’t time for dinner, but delectable smells seeped out from the kitchen not too far from her table. Köfte, lamb patties, vied with deep-fried potatoes and simmered eggplant mousakka.

      Faye enjoyed the smells and the presence of distant waiters who gave her warm smiles when she came in. Here, she could be alone but not alone, able to work in privacy without retreating into isolation.

      In many ways, working in plain sight was safer than hiding in a room, anyway. People don’t see what’s right before their noses.

      CHAPTER 37

      After leaving Galata you ascend to Beyoğlu or old Pera. The most direct approach on foot is via Yüksek Kaldırım, a lively street which climbs up the hill from the main square before the bridge, passing close to the Galata Tower halfway along.

      John Freely, The Companion Guide to Turkey

      Jean Le Reau rose early and went for a walk to the edge of Pera, from where he could see the Golden Horn. He hadn’t slept well. He’d never seen the dead man before. The modus operandus of the person who knifed him did, however, have a familiar feel. It looked professional. Trained.

      Why did the incident happen at the Pera Palas? Surely it had nothing to do with him. Or Elizabeth? He hoped not. He was beginning to like her, in spite of her snoopy inquisitions.

      As long as the murder didn’t interrupt his own plans, which had very little to do with AgroBusiness.

      He didn’t have time for extraneous murders.

      CHAPTER 38

      Let it play with your hair, this gentle breeze

      Blowing from the seven seas.

      Nedim, 17th Century Turkish poet

      Perihan Kıraz had mixed feelings as she tramped around the dig at Iznik. The old enthusiasm always returned when the work restarted in the fall. The hot summer months she spent in the university classroom made anthropology seem hazy and distant, full of facts or surmises but nothing hands-on.

      Here she inhaled the scent of freshly-cut wheat and soil dry from the rainless summer. The smells of Mother Earth. Her students’ eyes sparkled as they came across a bit of column or statuary—or even a piece of Iznik ceramics—after hours of fruitless digging, sifting, and hoping. Perhaps the brightest spot in this assignment was working with Oktay Fener, her university colleague. He was on the other side of the dig, laboring as hard as any of his students.

      Oktay. She smiled, savoring the warm glow that always accompanied his name. Did he feel the same way? If he did, he was far too loyal to his wife to say anything intimate to her, Perihan. She was satisfied with the bond she knew drew them together.

      He was a subject of attack by certain right-leaning newspapers who viewed with suspicion his close ties to universities in Hamburg and Chicago. The Turkish academic community was outraged at the newspaper attacks—especially since they were often followed by violence. Being an intellectual was a goal for many in Turkey. And it had become dangerous.

      She glanced over at him again, the cold bite of fear dimming her enjoyment of the day. She was even afraid for herself, at times.

      Oktay had been shot a few months ago—right here at the dig. His shoulder wound had healed. But the atmosphere of fear in the archaeologist community had not.

      Perihan shivered. She still could hardly believe it, a gunshot breaking the quiet at the dig. They had stopped work for more than a week as the police investigated.

      They had not found the perpetrator.

      He was out there somewhere. He, or she.

      CHAPTER 39

      The sun moved the shadows over me. Power and its crimes are remembered, the revolts against the decisions of the powerful all too easily forgotten.

      Mary Lee Settle, Turkish Reflections

      I wrote as fast as I could while my New Best Friend, Haldun Kutlu, filled me in on what was happening in Turkey and the stories I’d be covering. After the abrupt end to our conversation yesterday, I’d asked if I could come back at what amounted to the crack of dawn the next day, nine a.m. I’d said I needed a longer talk and advice about things other than Peter Franklin.

      To make sure I didn’t lose any of it, I was taping our session. Haldun’s concise and well-informed review indicated that his mind was more orderly than his office—and he gave unstintingly of his stored information.

      “As you know, the Kurdish question has vexed Turkey since independence in 1920. It’s not easy having a fierce, nomadic minority that spills across your borders into Iraq and Iran. Unfortunately, our army has usually tried to deal with Kurds by stamping out their individuality by force—I do not defend the tactics.”

      I was nodding and writing as he went on: “The result of a very complicated scenario is that now we have Kurdish extremists who receive training from other radical groups and set off bombs in our cities. They kill innocent people, just like the leftist groups back during the Cold War… And like more recent rightists… And, of course, like the secret police, that shadowy presence that

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