Station was the train terminus on the European side of the Bosphorus—the end point once for the famed Orient Express from Paris. “Ahmet,” a common name in Turkey, could refer to anyone.
Peter’s scratched notes seemed to have been written in a moving vehicle: “Tpkpi,” again, then “Ҫengelköy.” Okay. One of the villages along the Asian side of the Bosphorus. A charming place. It would be a pleasure to check it out—if only I knew the object of my search.
Jet lag caught up with me. I must have dozed. Thuds from the carpeted hallway woke me. Heart lurching, I pulled myself from sleep to consciousness. Muted cacophony rose from the street below: the steady roar of motors stalled in traffic punctuated by horns and shouts from street vendors. “Aygaz!” Bottled gas. “Simit, simit!” Delicious, chewy, sesame-covered, bagel-like rolls. The calls soothed me.
The racket in the hall ebbed away. I cracked the door and caught a glimpse of a black uniform rounding the corner toward the elevator. Must be one of the staff.
I checked my watch. Yes, time to get ready. I dashed on lipstick and eye shadow and checked my green silk dress for wrinkles (which I found, but ignored). I glanced in the mirror to see if things were pulled together. In the low-wattage Pera lamplight, the green silk sort of matched my eyes. Everything looks better by lamplight, one of those truisms advancing age has taught me. Impression, not reality, is the more essential attribute. I grabbed my trench-coat and headed down to the lobby.
Even in the dim Victorian lighting of the Pera Palas lobby, I singled out Lawrence Andover. His sleek thinning blond diplomat hair, the immaculate raincoat over his arm, hat carried in his hand—above all, his lack of self-consciousness—gave him away.
When I stepped out of the fretted-iron elevator, Andover arose from a rose-velour stuffed armchair and came toward me. I got the full force of his personality.
I extended my hand. “Elizabeth Darcy…and you must be Lawrence Andover.”
“I am, indeed.” Andover’s gaze traveled over me from head to foot. More like a military inspection than a sexual appraisal. His eyes were light blue and friendly, but masked. Could he be a covert member of the CIA, known overseas as “The Company?” They’re trained to be hard to read.
Out in the autumn drizzle, we pulled our raincoats around us and waited for the gray diplomatic car called by Andover. A stone-faced Consulate driver sat behind the wheel. He looked like he doubled as a bodyguard.
“I thought we’d go to my place for drinks,” said Andover. “Is that all right with you? Do you have time?”
Under ordinary circumstances I don’t run off to a strange man’s house with him. Especially an attractive man. But Andover was a foreign service officer of my own country. A taste of home. Since we were going to Andover’s house, maybe he’d introduce me to other diplomats.
Never say no to an invitation on a journalistic assignment. All contacts can be useful.
CHAPTER 20
The purity of a person’s heart can be quickly measured by how he regards cats.
Anonymous proverb
Haldun Kutlu glanced unseeing at his cluttered desk. The Cümhüriyet newspaper office in Cağaloğlu had a strategic location. Out his window he could see bits of the Topkapı walls and the tip of Ayasofya museum. He’d had lunch a few blocks away at the Fountain Restaurant at the Covered Market.
It was time to go home. Ayla would worry if he missed the usual ferry. What a good wife she was! Always thinking first of her husband. She would have been a wonderful mother. Both of them felt pangs of regret over their lack of children.
He pushed that regret to the back of his mind. Peter Franklin. A man who could not be pushed to the back of his mind. The very night he died last week, they were supposed to meet at a party in Bebek. Peter had indicated he had something to tell him. They’d worked together, as much as journalists ever work together, on some interesting leads. Their newspapers were not in competition with each other.
Haldun had many questions regarding the death of Peter Franklin.
* * * *
Sultana the cat stretched as Haldun gathered his papers. Then she walked purposefully toward the basket under his desk and jumped in. Together they exited the office and took the tram to Eminönü wharf to catch the ferry to Üsküdar.
After the short ride, they disembarked at the busy wharf at Üsküdar and Sultana pushed her way out of the basket. She would soon be up the hill at Haldun’s house for Ayla’s fish and rice. But he understood the cat’s need for freedom.
CHAPTER 21
“Young women should always be properly guarded and attended, according to their situation in life.”
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
The sleek diplomatic car drove down Barbaros Boulevard, named after the famous Turkish pirate known to the West as Barbarossa. Yıldız Park lay up the hill in mist on the left. The shore road led past Dolmabahçe Palace, where rain dripped through the remaining vegetation on plane trees. Big orange and brown leaves that had fallen earlier became a slippery mass on the pavement, made even more gloomy by the dusk. They matched my mood, on which nameless fears and apprehensions had become a slimy mass of their own.
As we drove, we spoke of Peter Franklin, the link between us. I asked Andover what he knew of Peter’s death.
“Not much, I’m afraid. The police called us to say a body they thought was Franklin’s had turned up, and asked for our formal identification.”
“Were you the one who identified the body, then?” Fate had taken me much closer to the scene of the crime than I’d expected.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me about it?” I suppressed the desire to take out a notebook.
“Franklin was due at a party. He didn’t show up, but we all assumed that was because he had a deadline to meet or something. You journalists have a penchant for missing social functions, you know!” Andover chuckled deep in his throat. A pleasant chuckle.
“And?” I prompted.
“In the middle of the night, the police commissioner called me to say one more American had succumbed to drug use, and could I identify the body. That’s about it.”
“Were there marks on Peter’s body? Evidence of violence?” It seemed intrusive to Peter to be asking all this, but how else was I to find out?
“No. No marks except for the needle pricks in his arm.” Andover’s face twisted.
“But I don’t understand. If he died of an overdose, how did his body end up in the Bosphorus?”
“The police said he fell off a boat where he had been shooting up. It was just bad luck that the boat was upstream from the restaurant where the party was being held.” Andover stared ahead. “The body caught on pilings under the restaurant verandah. The police could not find the boat’s owner, so no information there.”
The graphic details made me sick to my stomach.
