by Sue Star
The man carried a briefcase and marched over to them. “Ah, Orhon,” he said to Hayati, “very good of you to bring them here for me.” Then he turned to Anna. “Miss Riddle, I presume?” He didn’t wait for an answer but extended his hand and kept talking, blowing little puffs of onion-laced breath in her face with each word. “Paul Wingate, U.S. State Department. I’ll bet you’ve had enough adventure for one day. Ready to go home? I’ll drop you off, as I’m headed up to the neighborhood now. We can talk along the way.”
His handshake was firm, and his palm, clammy. The tempo of his baritone voice resonated with efficiency. “Hardly an adventure,” Anna said, but she sighed with relief in spite of her quibbles with his word choice. She didn’t mind handing off her worries to someone else, and now she felt the tension that had boiled up inside her over the course of the afternoon slowly begin to drain.
He turned away, storming toward the exit, flinging a remark over his shoulder. “I’ll expect that report on my desk first thing in the morning, Orhon.” Then he stopped, noticing that Anna and Priscilla weren’t following him. “Chop, chop,” he said with a pointed glance at his wristwatch.
Chapter Five
Long after the American woman left and the reports started coming in from his junior officers, Veli Yaziz brooded alone in his office. Alone except for the ever-present shadow of Atatürk’s guiding spirit. The Eternal Leader.
Absently, Yaziz reached into his back pocket and pulled out his tespih, as he always did when he had worries to carefully turn over in his mind. His thumb slipped across and around the first bead of jet, feeling the trace of a groove in its cool smoothness.
She was hiding something, obviously. Although she’d witnessed the shock of death, she had not shrieked or wailed or succumbed to hysteria, as he would expect most women to do. As, for instance, her foolish but very attractive sister, whom he had met at numerous embassy receptions, would almost certainly behave. Miss Anna Riddle, he suspected, was not as innocent as she pretended to be.
He slid the bead along its string and fingered the next one. Henry Burkhardt was mixed up in this murder. That diplomat had provided the suit that the dead man had been wearing. Burkhardt’s name, although frayed from the bullet’s passage, was sewn into an inside pocket.
And Burkhardt had brought the woman here, under the pretext of caring for his daughter. Why? It was abominable to think the man had used his own child for another purpose. Yaziz had never trusted the diplomat, and with good reason.
Someone was lying, that much he knew for certain. His sergeants had already confirmed through their American embassy friends that the Burkhardts had left the day before from Esenboğa Airport, as Miss Riddle claimed. However, they had left for Frankfurt, with no connection to Nairobi. In fact, the airline had no record of any ticket purchased for departing West Germany at all. Why, then, had they not taken their daughter, in keeping with the woman’s lame argument of birthplace?
Then, there was the matter of Henry Burkhardt’s mission. It was common knowledge, that is, common under the table, that the reason he had been posted to Ankara was to keep an American eye on the Soviets. The Turks gave their unspoken approval to those affairs by not intervening. Turks did not want the Soviets to expand into Turkish territory, a strategic land bridge the Soviets had always coveted for its access to the Mediterranean.
The Americans did not make a public announcement of Burkhardt’s mission, but they hardly kept it secret, either. Yaziz couldn’t help but wonder what they did keep secret. What the Turks did not know.
Whatever the diplomat was up to, with perhaps Miss Riddle as his accomplice, Burkhardt had now crossed the line into Yaziz’s territory. An unknown man lay in a Turkish mortuary. Unknown, but not for long. Already Yaziz knew that the dead man was no Moslem. His genitals had told him that much.
A knock on his door pulled Yaziz from his thoughts, and he looked up at Suleyman, one of the junior officers with tireless energy.
“This is all we found, efendim,” Suleyman said, dropping a small bundle wrapped in newspaper onto Yaziz’s desk.
Yaziz unfolded the paper. In its crumpled center lay a jumble of blue beads, some of them crushed and slipping off their shredded string. “Where?”
“Behind the north wall of the Lions’ Road.”
With his tespih entwined around his fingers, Yaziz lifted the bundle to his nose and flinched at the faint animal stench. “Any identification yet?”
The ends of Suleyman’s mouth turned down. “The beads are coarsely made, like the type that would belong to work animals. Probably came from a source in Ulus. We’re showing the victim’s photo around there now. We’ll find him.”
“Good work, Suleyman.”
The officer left, and Yaziz returned to his brooding. The angle of the shot that had killed the non-Moslem told Yaziz that the shooter had stood to the north of the victim. Had the beaded animal in question belonged to him? Or to the victim? And what had happened to the animal? Perhaps there’d been another witness.
He set the newspaper bundle of beads beside the letter—his other piece of evidence—and resumed stroking his own slick beads of jet.
Whoever the victim was, the American woman hadn’t killed him. The shot had come from behind him, not at point-blank range. Furthermore, Miss Riddle was too much of a lady for such bloody business.
Yaziz prided himself on his ability to judge character. His wisdom came from his being koreli, a tag that gave him extra respect, all because of his army experience in Korea. The first time that Turks had gone to the aid of another nation had made them national heroes. But there were many things he still did not understand.
For instance, why had Miss Riddle attempted to meet the dead man at Anit Kabir? For an exchange of information? The question was, which one of them had intended to give the letter to the other? And, why? She had almost surely known the dead man, since she was anxious to have the letter. Perhaps it was her connection to him that she was hiding, rather than any involvement in Burkhardt’s plot.
But Yaziz suspected the two of them—perhaps all three—were connected in some way. He’d detected guilt on her as if she’d worn it in the form of a heavy perfume.
With his free hand, Yaziz picked up the plastic encased envelope and held it up against the light from the single bulb dangling above his head from the ceiling. Had she planted her own letter on the dead man? For what purpose?
Already, his sources at JUSMMAT, the Joint United States Military Mission to Turkey, had told him that the U.S. military could not find any records for any Lieutenant Rainer Akers. They were still placing phone calls, but Yaziz suspected that the records did not exist at all. The lieutenant was a fabrication on the woman’s part. That’s why the little miss was told not to talk about him. Miss Riddle’s face had gone white as Tuz Gölü—the salt lake—when he’d asked her about him. Fear. Of what was she afraid?
For her life, or for the coded message contained within the letter? Perhaps “Lieutenant Rainer Akers” was the code itself, and already a plan was set into action by the mere drop of this otherwise unimportant letter.
He sensed that some larger plot was brewing. Allah would reveal it when He was ready, but Yaziz could not wait until then. He had studied in the U.S. and learned too many western ways as a result. He’d learned western impatience.
The mid-afternoon call to prayer warbled in the distance. Automatically, he dropped his tespih and the letter next to the broken blue beads on the desk and pulled open his bottom drawer. Within lay his rolled-up rug, but then he remembered his student days in Indiana. He’d learned there that praying was a habit he no longer needed. He slammed the drawer shut.
What he needed now was information. He suspected the American woman was a key instrument in Burkhardt’s plot. Yaziz would get that information from her one way or another.
Chapter Six
Traffic was light as they drove under the canopy of chestnut trees in Paul Wingate’s green Buick. Anna felt grateful for the ride
. She and Priscilla had taken a taxi to Atatürk’s Tomb earlier in the day, and now Paul saved them from taxiing back.
He grunted. “I’m afraid today wasn’t much of a welcome to Ankara for you, was it?”
If he only knew, she thought. She didn’t want to inform him of the full story, especially not in front of Priscilla, who’d found a comic book that someone had left in the backseat. Paul must have children. Instead she said, “Thank you for sending that man to rescue us.”
“Just doing our job, keeping our people safe.”
“Is he your assistant? Why does he—”
“Orhon? Naw! Good Lord no. He’s just one of the Turks who work for us. A bunch of them went stateside to get their education.”
“He has a British accent.”
Paul shrugged. “By the way, I hope you didn’t talk to that detective before Orhon got there.”
“Well, of course I talked to him. It wouldn’t be polite not to.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know. Stuff. Stuff about our people. They’re always after that kind of information.”
“I don’t have any information.”
“Good. Best to keep it that way.”
“Frankly,” Anna said, “if I knew anything that would help his investigation, I’d tell him.” The killer would be after her next, she felt certain. She bit her tongue, refusing to say more. Her fears would only worry Priscilla.
“No need to tell him anything. That’s what I’m here for. My office will take it from here.”
“I don’t know what he’s looking for, so I can’t help, anyway.”
“Coming from your small-town background,” Paul said, “you may not realize that we have to be extra cautious these days. The Red Menace is a constant threat.”
Goosebumps crawled along her spine at the reminder. Only last spring one of the teachers from her high school had been discharged, all on account of suspicion. It was so unfair! “That detective isn’t a communist,” she said.
“Do you know that for a fact?”
She didn’t. “Anyway, what do the Soviets have to do with a Turkish police matter?”
“We can’t be too careful. The Reds try to infiltrate everywhere. They want Turkey for themselves, you see. They’ve wanted it for millennia—”
“Really. I don’t believe they’ve been in power that long.”
He laughed. “Okay, it’s an exaggeration, but you get the idea. Turkey could be the Russian gateway to the west. The free world won’t let them have it.”
“And you think Detective Yaziz is their agent?”
Instead of answering, Paul concentrated on his driving. He neither confirmed nor denied the suggestion. Anna shifted in her seat, feeling uneasy. She glanced over her shoulder at Priscilla, who appeared engrossed in her comic book.
“What do you know about Yaziz?” she asked, unable to leave it alone.
Paul shrugged. “Not much, really, even though we’ve crossed paths before, plenty of times. Yaziz spends a lot of time with a fellow over in JUSMMAT. Claims they’re buddies.”
“But maybe they really are friends. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Not really. Mind you, it’s no small task keeping the free world free. I’m just saying you can’t be too careful, that’s all. It raises eyebrows when a guy like Yaziz shows up at our embassy receptions and gets friendly with our people.”
“Why shouldn’t he? He has a university degree from the States, so why isn’t it reasonable to assume he has American friends?”
“Well, that’s what Yaziz wants you to think.”
“But I saw his diploma hanging on the wall back there in his office. What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing,” Paul said, “and neither should you. Here in Turkey, there’s the police, and then there’s the secret police.”
“You think Mr. Yaziz works for the secret police?”
“You’d better keep that to yourself. The secret is who he works for. What his instructions really are.”
She hugged herself, not liking his implications. “Your Mr. Orhon said that Yaziz works for a man named Bay Bulayir.”
“Ah-ha! And who does Bulayir work for, really?”
“How would I know? I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“Never mind. I’m just telling you to stay out of it. I’ll handle that Yaziz fellow for you. You should stay away from him. In case he’s putting together dossiers on all of us.”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
“You can’t understand because Turks don’t think the same way we do. They’re loyal and ferocious, almost blind with devotion. They make great fighters, as the entire world learned when they went to Korea, but as police investigators... Well, they’re not very objective. They’re more interested in saving face. It’s one of their Turkish concepts. If they don’t know something, you’ll never get them to admit it. They’ll just go on, pretending as if they do know whatever. Or they’ll make it up. You can’t trust anything they say. And another of their concepts that interferes with real police work is that the family unit is more important than the individual, so there’s a bit of a hive mentality. All that makes them follow a different set of logic from ours.”
“He seems well educated. His English—”
“Oh, he’s smart, all right. He just operates differently. Doesn’t matter where he went to school. He can’t help who he is. Don’t you worry about it.”
“I’m not exactly worried.” At least not about that, Anna thought. “And I will speak to the detective again if he needs my help.”
“Don’t ruffle your feathers,” Paul said. “I promised Henry I’d look out for you. It was part of our deal when we pushed through his paperwork post-haste. He got his home leave rather rushed, you see. He wasn’t scheduled for leave until June.”
“Next summer?” She glanced again at Priscilla, who flipped the page of her comic with a loud snap. If Henry had waited until the following summer, Priscilla could’ve gone with her parents without missing any school. “I wonder why he didn’t wait?”
“Henry gets special treatment as a reward for all his years of loyal service.”
“So, he used his seniority to change his schedule?” Anna said. “No wonder Detective Yaziz was suspicious about Henry’s home leave. I got the impression Yaziz thinks it’s not the real reason why I’m here. Maybe it’s only because Henry’s leave happened so fast, as you say.”
“Right. See what I mean? Yaziz is fishing for information. That’s why you need to stay away from him.”
“No, I don’t see.” Anna’s jaw clamped, the way it always did when someone tried to tell her what she could or could not do.
“Henry’s leave doesn’t have anything to do with what happened today at Atatürk’s Tomb,” Paul added.
“The poor man!” Anna shivered, wondering again who the dead man was and how he’d become involved with Rainer. And with Henry, too. She told Paul what Priscilla had said in the taxi about how the dead man knew the Burkhardts’ maid. “Fededa must’ve given Henry’s suit to him.”
Paul scoffed. “More likely, he stole it. With your maid’s help. He was just one more immigrant from a village no one’s heard of.”
“You know who he was?” Anna asked. “Did Hayati—that is, Mr. Orhon—tell Yaziz what you know?”
“Call it an educated guess. Villagers are flooding the city, thanks to Ankara’s building boom. They’ve been flocking here ever since Atatürk made this city his capital. Like rats swarming to dry land after fleeing the sinking ship of the dying Ottoman empire.” Paul laughed, apparently pleased with his comparison, but Anna’s spine prickled.
“Except rats don’t flock, do they?” he continued, still chuckling.
Anna thought his rumbling laugh was an ugly, out-of-place sound. She leaned against her door, trying to put more space between herself and this man’s tasteless comments. She wondered how he could work h
ere and maintain such a negative attitude toward his host country. She hoped other Americans didn’t share his views.
“How about leyleks?” Priscilla said, breaking her silence from the backseat with animated interest. “I’ll betcha they flock.”
“That’s ‘stork’ in English,” Paul said. “You and Tommy need to stop getting your languages mixed up.”
Anna felt a wave of dismay wash through her, and it wasn’t on account of mixed languages. She wondered how much of their conversation Priscilla had overheard, only pretending interest in the comic book.
Paul went on. “We have so many of them here that you could call this the city of storks.”
“We have a stork’s nest on our roof!” Priscilla slid forward and leaned across the back of the front seat.
“Sit down, honey,” Anna said. Her tone of voice came across too harsh, but her niece’s safety came first and foremost. Priscilla flounced back in her seat and crossed her arms.
Horrified, Anna stared glumly out her window. What on earth did she know about eight-year-old children? She was a high school teacher, not a babysitter. She’d agreed to this arrangement mainly because family need was far more important than the needs of her classroom. Besides, she regretted that she scarcely knew her only niece.
Priscilla said she’d talk to Fededa, but would she?
They sailed along Atatürk Boulevard, the central street running north-south through the city, and passed an ox cart hauling a load of crusty bread. Splashes of color were painted across the wooden side of the cart and swirled around the design’s focal point—a bold, blue eyeball.
Anna drew in her breath with a mixture of wonder, dismay, and delight, then turned back to Paul. “Do you have a translator at the embassy who could help me talk to Fededa and find out what she knows about that man in Henry’s suit?”