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 gave Peter a mental salute and awarded him the Slob of the Year award, posthumously. His office in Washington had been on every employee’s tour of the paper. “And he has it organized in his mind!” they would say, in amazement.
A pang hit my solar plexus. Pain of loss returned. Peter had been a close friend and associate for a long time. I wanted to joke with him about his housekeeping. I wanted to hear his raucous laugh.
“I hope you like the office,” said Bayram, glancing at the mess. “Mr. Franklin told me never to throw anything away.”
“Hmmm. Yes, Bayram. You’ve done a good job. When we get a chance, we’ll toss the junk, and then I’m sure it will be perfect.”
I shoved some files aside so I could sit in the rotating editor’s chair behind the larger desk. Bayram wriggled into his own place, facing me. Except we couldn’t see each other because of the mountain of paper between us.
I asked Bayram to reorganize my dumped file, and looked over Peter’s desk.
From this vantage point, there was some order in the casual filing system Peter had established. The files on my right looked tempting, with that new-old look of off-white stiff paper that had the patina of having been handled some, but not too much. And Peter had kept them close at hand, ready for consulting.
Might be some good leads here. Let’s see. Silver Wolves, the extreme rightist organization—a sub-head under “terrorism.” Peter had them filed together with illicit arms trade and drugs. I picked up another file. Kurdish separatists. Different from the Silver Wolves, but under the same general heading. The same with the Islamist terrorists bent on restoring the Caliphate.
It was a tribute to Turkey that all these groups had not torn society apart. Not completely. The country’s reputation and appeal to tourists remained solid.
I closed my eyes, but behind my lids paced the slinking gray figures of my dream. I stuffed the Silver Wolves’ papers back into the file. They could be as dangerous as any wolf. Was I acting as one of those beautiful sheep dogs of Eastern Turkey—the great yellow-eyed guardians who wore spiked collars to allow them to fight off the wolves?
I threw those three files into my briefcase to be read back at the Pera. I left a very thin one marked “Misc.” on the desk.
My sloppy habits will do me in one day.
CHAPTER 16
These are nothing like the remains of great empires to be seen in western cities, preserved like museums of history and proudly displayed. The people of Istanbul simply carry on with their lives amid the ruins.
Orhan Pamuk, Istanbul, Memories and the City
At the U.S. consulate in Pera, next to the Pera Palas, work carried on as usual. Junior officers, supervised by their betters, issued visas to the lines of hopeful applicants. “Are you coming back? How long will you be gone?” All the answers were carefully rehearsed. Like people from other countries, Turks wanted
