and the PKK, for years the Kurdish group had used explosives to disrupt Turkish life. New linkages with Islamic extremists in recent years, however—and old linkages with communists or nationalists—made it hard to say just what the roots of terror were at any given point. Everybody seemed to have a cause they felt was worth blowing others up for.
Maybe because my Turkish was bad, maybe because apprehension lay under the surface, my attention wandered to last night’s note. What did “be careful” mean? Too vague to be useful. Was someone trying to scare me? Why not just explain the problem?
Yet this morning my spirits were high. Hard to concentrate on fear with the distraction of chewy light-brown Turkish bread accompanied by wild cherry jam. Fresh piquant goat cheese with briny dry olives seduced me from another plate. I chased my coffee down with water and a tangy sour cherry juice.
A man sat at a table near me. He wore a tan suit and was handsome in a French sort of way—and he stared at me. Did I button my blouse wrong? Did I have a coffee grounds mustache?
I passed a napkin across my lips and ordered more coffee. Ignoring the strange man’s stares, I retrieved the glasses I’d set aside and began looking through the file in my briefcase.
The polite waiter in his black and white penguin outfit brought the coffee. As I reached to help set it on the table, my files cascaded from my briefcase onto the floor. Mustering what dignity I could, I scrabbled around for the papers. The note with Andover’s name, number, and the party meeting time had somehow gotten in with my file stuff and lay on top.
As I tried to stand up with what I’d retrieved from the mess, I realized I was not alone under the table. Brown shoes attached to tan-covered legs blocked my way. There were even arms and hands reaching under the tablecloth.
“Excuse me,” I blurted out, furious at my situation and outraged that anyone would have the unmitigated nerve to offer, nay, insist on, helping.
Especially at breakfast, when one should always be alone.
“I am so sorry. Please let me show that chivalry is not dead.” “Chivalry” had the accent on the second syllable. It was, of course, that man from the next table.
Tan-suit’s charm was beginning to get to me, like a little rash that starts to itch. “I don’t rely much on chivalry,” I replied frostily, trying to push the hair out of my eyes and hold the strewn papers at the same time.
With the slipperiness of paper that has been refined, one little group detached itself from the main clump in my arms and slid to the floor. Where is nice, rough recycled paper when you need it?
The man picked up that bunch and handed it to me , looking kind but apprehensive. Did he fear my re-losing control of the situation? Or regaining control? I had to admit he was low-key about the whole thing. And I hadn’t been nice to him.
In a flash, the humor of the situation hit me. I laughed, and Tan Suit grinned back in apparent relief. Grabbing the last of the papers and stuffing them unceremoniously into my briefcase, I sat down fast, leaving the guy standing beside the table.
“Thank you for your help,” I said. Maybe that would get rid of him gracefully and let me organize myself.
But once you laugh with someone, you have a relationship, no matter how tenuous. I stifled a sigh. “Do please sit down.”
Mr. Tan Suit reached into his wallet for a business card and handed it to me. The card said, “Jean Le Reau,” and indicated he was some kind of engineer with a firm called Alcotec. His gray eyes smiled into mine.
The 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
