22

All morning, Mom kept me in constant motion, which meant I couldn’t get to the computer to check for Sheila Miller’s response. After clearing and washing all the breakfast dishes, we pushed the housekeeping carts down the halls and tackled the guest rooms. I was grateful that only eight of the fifteen rooms were occupied, but there was still plenty to do.

I learned a bunch of stuff, all right, but nothing I’d put in a college essay. For example, I learned that people leave hair in the sink, don’t flush the toilet, swipe toiletries, smoke in non-smoking rooms, and expect maid service to pick up their underwear. I learned that if you’re pushing a supply cart down a hallway, you are invisible. Guests chatting about their sightseeing plans on their way to the elevator don’t get out of your way, or say hello. They pretend not to see you.

“This hotel is operating at a total loss,” Mom complained, flicking a feather duster over a mantel. “I mean, it’s high season. This place should be full. People should be banging down the door and paying big bucks for this level of charm in the heart of the Old City. I looked at your Lonely Planet guide last night. The Hippodrome. The cisterns. The Blue Mosque. Hagia Sophia. All this history right in their backyard.”

“I know. And speaking of walking distance”—I snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves and grabbed the toilet brush—“I was thinking of stepping out during lunch. Maybe go see the Blue Mosque, or even that bazaar at the end of the street.”

“No. We have a lot to do here. Your aunt cannot afford one more bad review.”

“I know. I’ll be fast. I just want to walk outside, up and down the street. Nazif said he’d show me around our block, just so I know where things are.”

Mom thought a moment. “I guess that would be okay. But no going over to his house. He seems like a nice boy, but you want to be careful not to step into a trap.”

I stared at her. “Why would I go into his house?”

“Because he just lives next door and he might feel inclined to, you know, seize the day.”

“Mom!”

“Pretty foreign girl? Empty house? It’s an opportunity, and boys are boys, the same all over the world. So I’d feel more comfortable if—”

“Wait. He lives next door?” This revelation was so huge it blotted out, for a moment, the fact that Mom still didn’t trust me enough to let me out of her sight for five minutes.

“Yes. I was talking to Mustafa earlier,” she said. “The Polat family are the hotel’s next-door neighbors. They have that gorgeous rooftop garden to our left.”

I stared at her.

“In fact, that’s how Mustafa originally got his concierge job,” Mom went on. “He got laid off from another hotel and had trouble getting work at the same level. He said he was really happy to get this position, and to go home for all his meals and see his family.”

So it was Nazif’s family I’d seen playing a board game last night. Nazif’s family I’d envied. And I’d traveled halfway around the world to meet the boy next door.

Now I was curious about Nazif for an entirely new set of reasons.

Aunt Jackie came back from her doctor appointment just as the muezzin was singing the midday call. Mom and I were sweating it out in the basement laundry room, folding stacks and stacks of towels. Aunt Jackie sank into a chair, breathing heavily. “Bad news,” she said. “My doctor’s putting me on bed rest.”

“Oh, Jackie.” A towel slid out of Mom’s hand and she didn’t bother to pick it up. “I’m so, so sorry to hear this. For how long? Did she say?”

“Could be a couple of weeks, could be longer. It’s kind of a wait-and-see thing.” She sighed. “There might be a problem with the placenta. I don’t have to be flat-out in bed all the time, but no lifting, no stairs. They want me to exert myself as little as possible and avoid stress.”

Looking at my aunt and the dark shadows that ringed her eyes, I wanted to cry. What if she had to stop working for the remainder of her pregnancy?

I untied my apron. “Can I take my lunch break now?” I asked.

Mom nodded, pressing some Turkish lira into my hand. “Go ahead. I’ll get Aunt Jackie settled in her room. If you could bring me back something small to eat, I’d appreciate it.”

I ran up to the lobby, but I couldn’t find Nazif. Or Mustafa. And one of the Swiss guests was on the public computer terminal, so I still couldn’t check my email. I peered outside, looking in front of the plate and tile store. No Lazar or Vasil. That was good. But where was Nazif?

I stepped outside and looked up and down the street, in case he’d stepped away from the building. Suddenly the smell of fresh bread hit me. This was a welcome scent after a morning spent inhaling cleaning product fumes. So even though Inspector Lale had warned me not to leave the hotel alone, I decided to find that bread and get lunch for my mom and Aunt Jackie while I waited for Nazif.

I didn’t have to look far. The bread was coming right toward me. A man was strolling my way, carrying a wooden tray on his head. Piled high on the tray were round brown things that looked deliciously like bagels. I had no idea how they stayed balanced up there, or how he walked with such grace under a board stacked high with bread. The man stopped in front of me, smiled, and pointed to the bread. “You would like?” he asked as he neared me.

“Yes. Three, please,” I said. Turkey was amazing. All I had to do was think of food and here was somebody bringing it right up to me.

The vendor reached up and took down three breads from his platter, handed them to me, and accepted my cash. The bread looked like a pretzel-bagel hybrid, dotted with sesame seeds. “Simit,” he said in a friendly way.

“Zan. Nice to meet you.”

“No.” He laughed and pointed to the bagel things. “Simit. You like?”

I took a bite and gave him a thumbs-up sign.

“One more thing,” said the simit vendor, lowering his voice.

“I’m good. Three is all I need,” I said through a mouthful of bread. I started backing away. Great, I thought. He was just another pushy vendor after all.

“No. One more thing,” he insisted. “I was sent to find you at this hotel. This is for you.” He reached up to the platter again, felt around, and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he handed to me. Then a large tourist group came up to buy simit, crowding me out, and he turned his attention to them.

I unfolded the piece of paper. It was a handwritten note. I immediately knew who it was from.

Zan, I know you must be really confused. I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly. I hope someday I can explain everything. But right now I can’t. And I urgently need that package I left with you. I can’t come out of hiding at the moment, so go get the package immediately and give it to my friend who gave you this note. Please. My life depends on it.

My hands were shaking so badly I almost couldn’t read the last words. Sage was reaching out to me, just like Inspector Lale had predicted! But I didn’t have the package of figurines to give her. And even if I did, no way would I hand them over without getting her side of the story.

I studied the handwriting. It was a jagged scrawl that didn’t look at all like the one handwriting sample I had from Sage: the name “Amy Miller” written in careful, rounded letters inside her Freya Stark book.

Wait. Maybe this was a setup, a way for Lazar and Vasil to get their hands on the figurines. The English was perfect, but almost too perfect—more formal than Sage would be with me. If the note were really from Lazar and Vasil, they could have commissioned some fluent English speaker to write it for them. They knew I was staying at this hotel. They could have had the vendor come deliver this note.

I pushed through the crowd of tourists and waved the paper at the simit vendor. “Do you know the person who wrote this?” I demanded.

“My English, not so good,” he said with an apologetic smile.

“Male or female?”

“So sorry. But I cannot understand.” He shrugged, and his simit tray didn’t even wobble.

“Does anyone here have a pen?” I asked the tourist group. They were from some other country and didn’t seem to speak English either, as confused murmurs spread through the small crowd. I pantomimed what I was asking for, and a businessman finally handed me a ballpoint.

I put the three simit pieces on my left arm, like bracelets, since my hand could fit through the middle. Now that I had both hands free, I ripped the paper in half, pocketing the note that had been written to me. On the blank half, I scrawled a note of my own, a note that would work for either Sage or Lazar and Vasil because it was the truth:

I don’t have any package.

The more I thought about it, the more strongly I suspected Sage hadn’t written the note. This had to be some kind of trap. And I wasn’t falling for cons anymore. I folded the paper and handed it back to the simit vendor.

He looked confused.

“That’s all I’ve got,” I said. “And I’m quite sure you understand me perfectly. Tell whoever sent you that I don’t have anything they want, and to stay away from my aunt’s hotel.”

Now I was late to meet Nazif. I jogged back to the hotel, pausing at a trash bin to shake the simit off my arm. Then I went to a kebab stand to get some lunch for my mom and Aunt Jackie. I didn’t get any for myself. The encounter with the simit vendor—who was possibly one of Lazar’s henchmen in disguise—had left a sour taste in my mouth, and I’d lost my appetite.