by the name of Leila Metin who works at Topkapı Museum. She’s an expert on Iznik tiles and ceramics. There are rumors that her brother might be a member of the Silver Wolves.”
Aha. That was in Peter’s notes, too.
Haldun’s voice was matter-of-fact and his expression bland. “She probably will not tell us about that.”
CHAPTER 41
A cup of coffee commits one to forty years of friendship.
Turkish proverb
I jotted down the name: Leila Metin at Topkapı Museum. I’d go see her very soon. People were starting to demand Haldun Kutlu’s attention in the Cümhüriyet office, so I stood to leave.
I’d found a companion in the cynical, weathered journalist. Our search could be unpleasant, at best, and dangerous, at worst.
“Haldun Bey, I think we have a deal.” Our gazes met for a moment. The kindly intelligence reassured me.
“Before I forget, let me give you these papers,” he said. “Franklin dropped these by my house a couple days before he died. I have theories. It may be better I not have them at the office.”
And they were safer with me? A murder had taken place last night on the sidewalk of my hotel. Should I keep valuable documents there? I hadn’t even told Haldun about that incident. But he was clearly ushering me out. There would be time later.
He handed me the small packet of papers, which I received with the solemnity it deserved. It’s rare for journalists to share something as vital as information. This indicated trust.
“I appreciate this,” I said. “I’ll call you when I’ve finished.” Then I left with my briefcase bulging and a set of new theories in my head.
There was something gallant about Haldun Kutlu. It touched me. He knew we were wading into an unknown morass better than I. If he didn’t flinch, neither would I.
I caught a cab back to the Pera Palas. I didn’t want to walk the streets with valuable papers. It was good to get going on my basic missions, of covering the news while searching for the truth about Peter.
I went straight to the Tribune office, greeting Bayram and doing my morning read-in. I kept the papers from Haldun Kutlu in my briefcase, resting against my leg. It would be good to get those back to the hotel this afternoon. It would also be good to get back to Jane Austen. You wouldn’t find terror cells or murders of friends or even strangers anywhere near her settled village life.
CHAPTER 42
He will kill mice, and he will be kind to babies when he is in the house, just as long as they do not pull his tail too hard.
Rudyard Kipling, on the cat
Sultana sniffed the garbage at the house in Üsküdar not far from where Ayla fed her. Pink nose framed by delicate whiskers, she resembled an attractive coed doing a research project—probably one in a lab.
She had followed the young man who leaned down to pet her at the wharf. Sultana was a princess. She accepted homage from any source.
And, like cats of all castes, she was curious.
Most garbage in Üsküdar smelled rather good—some fish, a pile of chicken bones, left-over fruits and vegetables or rice pilav, a little oil or gas, odds and ends. This garbage smelled different—almost like almonds, though Sultana didn’t eat almonds.
Sultana didn’t know the word for ammonium nitrate, either. People used fertilizer in their gardens, where she dug holes for her own purposes. This fertilizer didn’t smell like donkey dung, however.
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