jeton to get on the ferry to Eminönü. Businesslike as she was, the woman gave off friendly vibes. Sultana tracked her for a few minutes, slinking quiet and invisible.
When the woman started to put her jeton into the turnstile, she turned and saw Sultana. “Why, kitty! Aren’t you the beautiful one!” Language is no barrier between a cat and those who love them.
Sultana allowed herself to be petted, then slunk back into the shadows. Her judgment of people was impeccable. That didn’t mean she felt safe being visible to everyone.
CHAPTER 7
“For heaven’s sake, madam, keep your voice lower…”
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
It was getting dark on the Eminönü pier, but a myriad of lights, ranging from neon to the chestnut roaster’s dim coals, made the area glow. Feeling a little shaky, I lost sight of my woman companion and pushed along in the rush-hour crowd toward the taxi stand, slipping on the cobblestones.
I finally got a taxi, looking over my shoulder the whole time. The leather-jacketed man had faded into the crowded scene. Thank God! I breathed deeply and put him out of my mind.
Back at the Pera Palas, the desk clerk gave me a note along with my key.
I went upstairs to the haven of my room using the broad marble stairs rather than the ornate open iron elevator. I locked the door and threw the note onto the nearest chair, a heavy Victorian piece that sat like a prim old maid at a tea party. I’d have to find my glasses to read the note. Blast. Having enjoyed perfect vision throughout my youth, this annoyed me more than it should have, I suppose. At “a certain age” manifestations of age become as intolerable as they are immutable.
Rummaging through my purse, I glanced down. The rose-colored carpet had a pansy-shaped brown stain. A blood stain? Could it have inspired Agatha Christie or Ian Fleming? 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
