LITMIR.BIZ

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The Pera was proud of having entertained those authors, among others.

      I bet Agatha Christie and Ian Fleming didn’t have a leather-jacketed man following them. Or maybe they did, and that also inspired them.

      At last the glasses were settled on my nose and I retrieved the note. It was on hotel stationery and had my room number on the envelope, no name.

      “Be careful. Lock your door.” Masculine writing, but neat, printed but sloping like italics. No signature.

      I froze in place for a minute and sipped water from one of the little bottles in the mini-bar..

      Tapping the note, I looked around. Not much to steal here. My travel clothes lay in a heap where I’d shed them before showering off the plane journey. I tucked the note into a nook in my black Eagle Creek travel purse, wondering what I’d do about it. No instructions. No timetable. Nothing to go on.

      I re-checked the door lock. That part, at least, I could take seriously.

      Then I put the dirty clothes in the laundry basket in the bathroom and got settled. Unwrap the bath soap; hang toiletry kit with its comfort supply: elderflower eye gel, skin cream, toothpaste. The familiar smells and tastes helped me shrug off my unease.

      Agatha herself hadn’t had an easy time in Istanbul, one had to assume. She’d sneaked away from London to Istanbul for twelve mysterious days in 1919. Perhaps she liked being free on her own. Or she may have sought anonymity as she pondered her unfaithful husband.

      The bathroom had an old-fashioned free-standing tub and a balcony overlooking the street coming up from Galata Bridge—allowing for a peek between buildings down the hill to the Golden Horn. Yes, I could even survey the view while sitting in the tub. No one could see in from outside.

      Now why did the shower scene from “Psycho” come to mind? Damn that note.

      Glancing into the age-pocked mirror, I gave my unruly hair a few swipes with my fingers and then reached for a brush.

      I took the note out of my purse and looked at it again. The longer I looked, the more ominous it seemed.

      CHAPTER 8

      I had come, as we all do when we go to a city we have heard about so much, to find an Istanbul I thought I already knew—my city of presuppositions—whispers and memories of pashas and harems and sultans and girls with almond eyes, the Orient Express of Agatha Christie, the spies of Eric Ambler, the civilized letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.

      Mary Lee Settle, Turkish Reflections

      I’d showered quickly, to not waste the precious substance, and begun to relax when the telephone rang.

      “Hello?”

      “Elizabeth Darcy? I am calling for Ms. Darcy.” An American woman’s voice. Thank goodness my rusty Turkish wouldn’t be pressed into service quite yet! I’d been quite good at one time, but that was several years ago.

      “Speaking.”

      “I am calling from the American consulate. Mr. Lawrence Andover would like to speak with you.”

      In a moment, a man’s voice came on. Articulate. Sophisticated. Under the current circumstances, infinitely soothing. “Ms. Darcy? This is Lawrence Andover. I work in the American Consulate and was told you’d be coming to replace Peter Franklin for the Trib.”

      “Well, I’m here for a while. I didn’t know they’d sent my name.” I dabbed Estee Lauder cream on my face as I talked.

      An appreciative chuckle. “Let’s say I have my sources.” Then his voice turned empathetic. “Peter was a good friend of mine. I was very sorry about his death.”

      “Yes. We all were.” My voice caught. There was not much else to say.

      Andover allowed a moment of respect to pass along the telephone line before continuing. “We at the Consulate like to meet new journalists as they arrive, especially American ones. Are you by chance free for a drink tomorrow?”

      Was I free? Sure, I was free. Having been in Istanbul only long enough to shower, change clothes and take my obligatory refresher Bosphorus cruise, I was free.

      “All right,” I said, as though looking over a busy schedule. “When and where?”

      “I’ll pick you up at five-thirty in your lobby?” The consulate was right next door.

      I jotted the appointment down on the hotel note pad.

      Should I have mentioned the unsettling note to this diplomat? No. It would make me sound hysterical. Maybe when we were face to face on the morrow.

      We signed off, great friends already. I had a plan and something on my social calendar. Until that happens, I don’t feel my assignment has started.

      Unpacking didn’t take long. I don’t carry a lot. Books, including a beloved, worn copy of Pride and Prejudice went onto the night table. I never travel without Jane Austen, and it looked as if this time I’d need her.

      At the moment, I couldn’t think of anyone to call about the note. Friends and family would get too upset. Things seem worse when they’re happening an ocean away and loved ones are, as far as one knows, on the scene and in harm’s way. I didn’t yet feel comfortable enough with the hotel staff. The police would blow everything out of proportion. Maybe somebody at the U.S. Consulate next door could be approached, though not till tomorrow.

      I went out on the bathroom balcony and tried to peer through to the Golden Horn, a poor sister to the elegant Bosphorus. A few elegant old Ottoman buildings raised newly-painted heads above a clutter of slums.

      As in every city, slums hold murk below the surface. I go into them to broaden my horizons, to get the other side of the story. Like their residents, I also look forward to leaving.

      A car on the street below honked an imperious horn. I looked down. A small blue vehicle made its way through traffic with aggressive intent. After pushing others to the side, it stood still near the hotel while other cars snaked along.

      I stepped back into my room and shoved the warning note farther into my purse’. Then I dropped onto the inviting bed without taking off my jeans or pulling the shabby drapes closed and fell into the deep sleep of those who have spent miserable hours flying across oceans and continents in steel conveyances with uncomfortable seats and less comfortable bathrooms and only their own apprehensive thoughts to keep them company—if you don’t count the loquacious water engineer sitting in your row.

      The next-to-last thing I heard as I fell asleep was the insistent honking of a car horn under my window.

      Sometime later, my door handle rattled.

      CHAPTER 9

      Tell me who your friend is, and I’ll tell you who you are.

      Turkish proverb

      Ahmet Aslan was eating mussels in the historic hangout of artists and poets, Ҫiçek Pasajı.

      The name meant Flower Passage. The aromas of carnations and jasmine and gladioli blended with the fishier smells of bluefish and shellfish from the far side of the alley.

      Tonight he was alone. It was too bad Peter Franklin could not join him. They had enjoyed many evenings together at Ҫiçek Pasajı.

      Here, the drink of choice was rakı, the anise-flavored “lion’s milk” that turned white when water was added. It added to the masculine atmosphere of the Ҫiçek Pasaji, although here and there, at tables for four, a few avant garde women authors and artists enjoyed rebelling against the strict Muslim norms.

      Peter Franklin, like Ahmet, had liked his rakı. They had come here together often. Ahmet missed Peter more than he had thought he would.

      A black alley cat, beautiful as all Turkish cats are, waited politely near Ahmet Aslan’s table, tail curled around its body, hoping for a bite of his seafood.

      Absently, he tossed a shrimp to the floor.

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