LITMIR.BIZ

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penguin had returned to ask whether the new person at my table wanted anything, and was told no.

      “Excuse me, but I think you know Turkish?” My companion’s eyes twinkled now.

      “Well, yes. I know Turkish. I used to, anyway.” I was digging through my purse for my own business cards, which never seem to be at hand.

      “You have worked here before?” The eyes probed mine. Calm. Purposeful.

      I grinned to show I wasn’t hostile. “I am a journalist. I have worked many places.” My heart raced a bit from scrabbling under the table.

      “Perhaps you can, you know, help me?” said Mr. Le Reau.

      “What is it you need?” I hoped it didn’t sound rude. Ah, there were my cards. I got one out and pushed it toward him.

      “I am trying to negotiate some business (he called it beez-ness) with a Turkish firm, and I need, um, advice?”

      “Well, sorry, but I just got here myself and am not up on the business scene yet. Maybe you should try the English weekly, Business Turkey, for advice of that kind.” I made writing motions toward the waiter for my check.

      Jean Le Reau leaned toward me across the table. “Ms. Darcy. I think you are a person to help us. I see you are in a hurry now, but perhaps we can meet later? Here is the number of my room. Call me, please?”

      He was off, like Fred Astaire in one of those Paris movies. Something lingered in his wake. Not an aroma; more of an aura. Something that didn’t go with the pleasant, low-key exterior of Jean Le Reau.

      Glancing at Le Reau’s card, I saw his room was two floors up from mine, on the fourth floor.

      CHAPTER 12

      A wild mountain cat crept closer and closer, and Ihsan began to pet it, and give it bits of white cheese. It was so quiet that we were surrounded by the sound of the cat’s purr.

      Mary Lee Settle, Turkish Reflections

      In the midst of Cağaloğlu, the newspaper publishing area on the hill going up from the Spice Market, Haldun Kutlu smoked and read, made edit marks on a printout, and called for an assistant to take the copy to the reporter.

      The only other chair in the book-cluttered office was occupied by a regal white cat, one eye blue and one green. Sultana had the run of Cümhüriyet, but she claimed Haldun as her special friend and his office as her personal (daytime) space. Every evening, Haldun put her back into a basket to take the ferry ride to Üsküdar where he lived with Ayla Hanım, his wife. Sultana thus lived in Europe by day and Asia by night. People on both continents gave her respect—and treats.

      Sultana’s dignity befitted her royal heritage—that of the famous Van cats from Lake Van in the east. White cats that could swim and had varicolored eyes.

      Today Haldun was too engrossed to give Sultana her usual petting. He had a few things on his mind.

      Especially, he was worried about what had happened to Peter Franklin.

      CHAPTER 13

      The old-feeling neighborhood climbing up a hill from the Golden Horn into the New District is called Galata, and has a seedier, less-modern-European ambience than Taksim Square or Istiklal Street.

      Rick Steves’ Istanbul

      In the hotel lobby I greeted the young, self-important-but-rather-sweet Tribune assistant who had met me at the airport the day before. Bayram Çengel, dark eyes aglow, sat on the wine-colored plush of an uncomfortable fake Louis XIV lobby chair.

      “Hi, Bayram,” I said, gripping my briefcase tightly to avoid further disasters. “I’m ready to see the Tribune office.” Gentleman that he was, he offered to carry the briefcase, which I gave him gladly.

      On the sidewalk outside the hotel, under the faded Pera canopy, Bayram shouldered aside the doorman to help me into the taxi to Cağaloğlu, the office address. He might be junior to me in the office; he was senior to the doorman and needed to make that clear.

      The taxi waited while a small blue car inched past us in the narrow street. Glancing at the obstruction, I saw a Murat driven by a man both remarkable and familiar. He had curly black hair, a luxuriant mustache, and a hawk-like profile. On the seat beside him was a clean-shaven young man whose long eyelashes rested on olive-toned cheeks. Lashes any woman could envy.

      “Could be a Greek god,” I murmured. But no; no Turk wants to be called a Greek, even god-like. “Okay, a Hittite god.” Had the central Anatolian Hittites had multiple gods?

      Wait. I’d seen that mustachioed driver before. Yesterday, he had worn a leather jacket and been on my Bosphorus ferry.

      CHAPTER 14

      I can see the first leaf falling

      It’s all yellow and nice

      It’s so very cold outside

      Like the way I’m feeling inside.

      Lyric to Turkish popular song

      Leila Metin loved her work in Topkapı Palace and her identity as one of the respected curators, a specialist in Iznik tiles and ceramics. Nothing pleased her more than walking through the hallways and rooms of the old harem, where sons of the sultans were often held prisoner their whole lives, surrounded by spectacular blue-green or peach-colored tiles fired in Iznik, at the end of the Sea of Marmara. Tulips, carnations, scrolled Arabic letters…such beautiful tiles. Such a limited life for a prospective Sultan. For many of them, actually.

      Every fall Leila worked on the dig in Iznik, ruining her perfect nails but enjoying the comradeship. Her other work with these tiles? No. She fluttered her fingers. She was an artist, pure and simple. Artists do not have to explain their work.

      And they don’t have to explain all their relationships. Peter Franklin was gone. Not forgotten, but gone. No explanations needed on any score. Except Leila would have liked more explanations from Peter Franklin.

      CHAPTER 15

      “You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. . .”

      Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

      The streets in Cağaloğlu were even narrower and more congested than those in Pera. As we approached a four-story building covered with small billboards denoting publishing offices, Bayram signaled for the driver to stop, and paid the fare. We stood on the sidewalk while he argued over the last kuruş.

      I glanced at the traffic inching past. There was that blue car again, with the same mustached driver and handsome passenger. I stood staring, but neither the driver nor his companion seemed aware of my existence.

      One of those coincidences. Maybe they—or one of them—stayed at the Pera Palas, too. It’s not against the law to go out on the Bosphorus to play your music or to drive a blue car. Still, why be interested in me yesterday and not at all today?

      I shivered, then took a deep breath.

      Back to business. We waited for an elevator in the cramped, terrazzo lobby of the building, scented with that lemon cleanser all Turkish janitors and housewives use. Bayram filled me in on what a good location the Tribune had.

      “In these rooms, all around, are working the powerful newspaper writers from the whole political parties. The paper is lucky to get space here.”

      When I saw the cramped cubicle behind the door marked Washington Tribune, on the fifth floor, I wondered about the quality of the Trib’s luck. There were two desks, one bigger than the other, and Bayram and I would have to ask each other’s permission to change position at all. All the space around, above, and below the desks was covered in paper, and more looked as if it had spewed out from a wire service teleprinter in the corner. When will the Trib catch up to the modern world?

      Clearly, Bayram had not made this mess. His desk was as neat as his clothes. Even I would have had to work to accomplish this much havoc.

      I

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