In the leather interior of Ahmet’s car, a white Mercedes recently imported, Anna felt a growing unease. Aside from the events of the last two days, something else wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t put her finger on it.
Ahmet’s knuckles stood out against the grip-wrapped steering wheel. They sped a bit too fast, in her opinion, down the hill and onto Atatürk Boulevard.
It didn’t feel right to head off somewhere like this, without Priscilla. Or her purse. She’d only needed the house key, when they’d left to call on Ahmet, and she’d tucked it in the pocket of her skirt. Next week, when Priscilla would go away to school, Anna would have plenty of time to explore. Not yet.
She leaned back in her seat and tried to relax. “You said your father was military attaché in Berlin. That must’ve been interesting. Were you there, too?”
Ahmet chuckled softly. “My mother was German. I grew up there, until the Sultan needed Father on the home front.”
“After your father’s death, you returned to Germany with your mother?”
“No, she went back alone. I am Turkish, not German. I stayed on here with my aunt and uncle.”
“And became both a merchant and head of police. An interesting combination.”
“I am not the head of police.”
“Administration, then, that oversees the police. Does that answer your German half? And selling rugs, your Turkish half? How do you manage both sides at the same time?”
He took his eyes off the street. Glanced at her. She watched the road for him as they sailed past a donkey laden with sticks.
“One job is good for the other,” he said, slowly turning his attention back to his driving. “There are official matters with the Americans from time to time, and the rug shop allows me to establish a better...how would you call it? ‘Rapport,’ I think. Yes, that is it.”
“Did you have a rapport with my sister? Did she buy her rugs from you?”
“Yes, she is a good customer, as are many of the Americans.”
“I expect you know a lot of them. Fran Lafferty, perhaps.”
Ahmet laughed, which helped to break the strain of nervous energy in the air. “Fran? A smart woman. I will send for her as the representative from your embassy to advise me of the accident last night.”
Anna stared out the window at the palatial compounds that lined the street. “Regarding those accidents,” she said, “would you say that they’re normal? Detective Yaziz says that trouble seems to follow me around.”
“Yaziz said that?” This time his eyebrows arched to sharp points as he glanced at her.
With his curiosity aroused, Anna had to say something. So she told him about the incident in the shop the day before, when someone had tried to steal her purse after hitting her over the head.
Another coincidence, she thought, that the detective had mysteriously rushed to her rescue. Three times, now, Yaziz had intervened for her.
“Wherever you have large crowds,” Ahmet said when she was done, “there is always a greater chance for crime. But they’re thieves, not killers. As long as you are careful, you will remain safe. We are a safe country. It is only those troublemakers who wish to upset the status quo that we have to worry about.”
“Who are they? I understand there’s talk of a coup.”
He whipped around to look at her, even though they’d joined more traffic of taxis and buses the closer they approached to downtown. “Where did you hear such a preposterous claim?”
“At the party last night.” She waved away her words as casual chatter. “It was just gossip, which you said you wanted to hear. I thought you could tell me if it’s true or not.”
A sour moodiness descended over him as he turned his attention back to the road. “We will have elections next May, and then we will see if Menderes remains in power as Prime Minister.”
They drove on in silence, a queasy ache spreading at the pit of her stomach. She wondered what had provoked his apparent unhappiness—Menderes, or the need for elections? Or was it something else? Something that concerned her presence. She’d made a mistake, coming along today, and now she wasn’t sure how to recover.
Downtown, buildings squeezed closer together, taking on a bland, gray sameness. Ahmet turned off the boulevard onto a narrow side street, a more crowded place. Blocky buildings towered over them as they sailed past a neon sign for the Republic News.
“What do the newspapers report?” she asked. “There must be some news of unrest if there’s talk of a coup, whether or not it’s true.”
“It’s not true. Not even the brother of my future wife believes it is true, and he is a troublemaker who works back there.”
“At that newspaper office we just passed? Is he a reporter?” She wondered if Emin had ever worked there too as a photographer.
Ahmet scowled. “You will find no information from him, because there will not be a coup. Now then, you can rest more easily.”
If only she could. She remembered that Paul and his friends had said the night before something about a press law that restricted reporters from reporting anything negative. Hints of a coup. Still, she wondered what people in the business of digging up information—reporters, like Ahmet’s future brother-in-law, or perhaps photo journalists, like Emin—what they might’ve found out. Was that why Emin had died?
Perhaps she shouldn’t dig too hard for answers to the troubling questions that engulfed her. She could become the next victim. Her breath caught in her throat.
The car weaved through enough turns that Anna no longer recognized which way they headed. With each turn, the streets narrowed and the crowds of pedestrians thinned.
“I am driving around to the back,” Ahmet explained, “where there is a private entrance to my shop. That’s where I usually park.”
They drove into an alley and parked next to a cart filled with rolled-up rugs. No one was in sight, only the ox, patiently standing hitched to the cart. Ahmet turned off the ignition and slapped the steering wheel. He mumbled a few words in Turkish under his breath, then turned to Anna.
“New merchandise arrives,” he said, “and no one is here to protect it. Any thief could help himself.” A vein throbbed at his temple. He sprang out of the car and raised his voice, yelling something in Turkish.
Anna climbed out of the passenger side as a young, skinny man ran from the building and into the alley. He stopped in front of Ahmet, who unleashed a torrent of Turkish. Oaths, she imagined. The youth listened to him with his head lowered. The scene reminded her of last night, when Fran scolded the photographer. Anna blinked, pushing the memory from her mind.
Then Ahmet must’ve realized the spectacle he’d made, and he turned to Anna and wagged his head. “I’m sorry. The man is impudent, but I must forgive him. He is working alone today in my store, since the brother of Emin, your unfortunate photographer, did not arrive to work. I must speak with him in private. Would you mind waiting inside the shop? I’ll only be a minute, and then I’ll join you. If any customers arrive, or any thieves to steal my merchandise, just call out.” He smiled, but the vein still throbbed in his temple.
Anna agreed, eager to escape the stressed air of the alley. She hurried down a half flight of steps and through the door Ahmet’s skinny employee had exited. She found herself in a cramped storage room, behind the beaded curtain to the main area of the shop. Clicking through the beads, she strolled out into the showroom, stacked to each side with carpets. Carpets, hanging from hooks, defined the perimeters of the shop and gave her a snug feel, wrapping her in a heavy smell of wool. She didn’t feel very snug, though. She ran her fingers along plush fibers and waited.
She’d smelled a hint of wool only moments before the attack on her yesterday. Her attacker must’ve worn wool. Or else carried the scent of wool. Maybe he worked in a rug shop, such as this one.
What on earth was Anna doing here?
She waited, but Ahmet did not join her. She wandered to the front end of the shop, which opened onto a street of small shops. In spite of the chaos of movement around her, from feral cats to veil-swathed women, she felt alone. In her western dress, she hardly blended in. She scanned the cobbled street. It looked the same to her as what she’d seen the day before. Was it? She wondered which way were the shops she’d visited with Priscilla. Ozturk Bey’s evil eyes, jewelry, and copper must be nearby. Just down the hill was the covered bazaar where they’d bought the slippers with the curled up toes.
The beads tinkled behind her, and she whirled around. The skinny employee returned, and without looking at her, he busied himself, counting rugs in a stack.
Any minute, Ahmet would follow. His familiar presence would dissolve the lump forming in her chest. He was probably unloading the rugs from the ox cart all by himself. He’d only be gone a minute, he’d told her.
He did not appear.
She stumbled along the aisles between piles of rugs. At the back of the store, the attendant kept counting rugs.
“Where’s Ahmet?” she asked him.
He cocked his head at her, at first not understanding. Then he pointed to the door into the storage room and resumed his task.
She slipped past him and pushed through the beads. The door to the alley stood open. Outside, the ox waited, and the cart stood there with its load of rolled-up rugs. But the Mercedes was gone. Along with Ahmet.
* * * * *
Meryem lay crushed on the floor of the asker’s room, where he held her as his prisoner. No longer saved, she anticipated joining her brother. She willed herself to die.
She did not die.
She did not feel the pain anymore. She’d used it all up long ago, and now there was none left to feel.
She did not know when was now.
But eventually, a crash, then another one, somewhere in the distance, but not too far away, drifted to her consciousness. Only because the asker lifted himself from his torture of her body. Breath crept back to her ruined body.
“What?” the asker said with a growl, standing up. “What are the Americans up to now?”
It took all of Meryem’s strength to open her eyes. From her position on the floor, her gaze fastened onto one of the windows of the asker’s room. Through its glass smeared with grime, she saw the yellow stucco house next door like a slap in the face. She rolled into a fetal ball, as much as her bindings would allow, and pressed herself against the wall.
Someone moved through an upstairs window of the Americans’ house. She’d seen that clean-shaven face before. Somewhere. That face with the coward’s look of desperation lived somewhere in a distant memory. She searched her mind, her memories, and then it came to her. He was Stork. The partner of their liberator-savior-rescuer. He had abandoned them long ago. And now he’d finally come back.
The asker watched through a crack he’d opened in the door. The line of his body went rigid, and he cursed. Then he shut the door with a click and turned back to Meryem.
“What did you tell the secret police, whore?”
“Nothing!” Meryem made a whimpering noise.
“Don’t lie to me. What’s he looking for?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Pain stabbed with each gasp, and she welcomed the sensation, for pain meant the absence of numbness.
“He’s looking for something the Americans have, and you sent him there.”
“Maybe he’s there because of what you did to the American woman last night, that one who screamed. That’s why you’re worried.”
“You talk too much.” He snatched up the kerchief gag and lunged for her. Again.
With fire flowing back into her, she bit his fingers as he struggled to wrap the scarf around her.
* * * * *
Anna clattered down the steps into the back door of the rug shop. She whisked through the beaded curtain, tinkling its glass pieces as she moved. “Where did he go?” she asked Ahmet’s employee.
The skinny Turk glanced up from his task of counting rugs and frowned. He shrugged and gave her a look of sympathy.
“I mean, did he say when he was coming back?” Of course he was coming back. It was pointless to speak in a language that was not understood. She summoned what her scattered memory of college French had taught her, and she tried her questions again.
It didn’t work. The man responded in Turkish, a harsh, foreign sound that only made her feel even more isolated. Panic gnawed at her insides. She was not familiar with being helpless. It was a sensation that did not warm her.
“Is there a telephone I might use?” she asked, pantomiming a phone call to make Ahmet’s employee understand her. She’d phone Paul. But what was his number?
“Yok,” said the employee. No. No phone.
She glanced around the woolen cocoon of the rug shop. Back at the beaded curtain. Then at the employee. He seemed to have forgotten her as he counted his rugs.
Patience drained away. Why in hell had Ahmet abandoned her this way?
She stalked out of his rug shop and into the cobbled street, where her brief flare of anger evaporated into the exotic sights and smells. Women under head scarves. Carcasses of meat hanging in doorways. Children and cats darting through the crowds.
She had no purse. No money. How would she get home?
If she was lucky, she would stumble across Ozturk Bey’s shops. Maybe she’d get even luckier and Yaziz would rescue her again.
Just then she caught sight of a trio of boys, about eight to ten years old, snaking past shops and weaving around people filling the streets. They wanted to carry shoppers’ bags, Priscilla had told her. They fetched coffee for customers. One of them, with a shaved head, held out his hand to a likely target.
Then the shaved boy saw Anna watching him. He must’ve recognized her instantly, for he bolted away from his two companions.
“Hey!” Anna shouted. Without a second thought, she took chase. “Come back!” she cried out, but the boy melted into the crowd and darted uphill.
She followed, her Keds pounding along the uneven cobbles. “Hayir!” she thought to yell, although it hardly made sense to yell “no.”
A few heads of those nearby turned and gave her quizzical stares.
“I just want to talk to you!” No one understood her.
The two other boys spread out, separating into side streets, but Anna didn’t let them distract her. Continuing uphill, she ran through narrow, winding streets, up the sharp slope of the cone-shaped hill of Ulus. At the top of the hill, under a gate, she paused to gasp for air.
Nearby, a broken column lay on its side, looking as if it could’ve come from a Roman ruin. It tweaked enough interest on Anna’s part that her scan of the area lingered there a moment. Long enough to glimpse the crown of a nearly bald head, barely protruding above the column.
With her soft soles, she soundlessly crept around behind the boy who crouched behind the fallen column. At the last instant, he saw her and sprang to his feet. But she pounced on him faster than he could sprint away, and she pulled him out of his hiding place by his collar. Her fingers twisted around the fabric of his coarse shirt in a grip she’d perfected on a couple of occasions with unruly students.
The boy’s arms flailed about, but her arms were longer, and she held on, at distance. He screamed at her, and she imagined what the oaths meant.
“You’re the one who stole my purse, aren’t you? Did someone hire you to do that?” But it was pointless. He didn’t understand her. Finally, she remembered one of her Turkish words. “Nerede?” Where?
Her strength weakened as his thrashing grew more wild, and she knew she couldn’t hold him much longer. Their raised voices drew attention, and curious onlookers closed in on them. The closer they approached, the more they babbled and scolded, and the more panicked the boy’s face became. Finally, he stopped fighting her, and he reached into a pocket and pulled out Rainer’s silvery medal. He dropped it at her feet and used her flash of surprise to twist free from her grip.
The white sapphire winked up at her as the boy disappeared into the crowd.