Dancing for the General

by Sue Star

  Movement on the far side of the Americans’ backyard pulled Meryem’s attention away from the women. A retired, Turkish general lived up there, in a pink palace on the far side of the yellow stucco. Meryem knew from their pots that the general entertained lavishly, usually once per month. The general lived there along with his guard, the old asker who worked the black market and was the first one she’d thought of as buyer for the gun. So far he had refused her offers to perform at the general’s entertainments, but now that old fool would pay for his refusal. He would pay handsomely for the gun.

  Now, she could see the old asker on the other side of the Americans’ shady yard, on his knees, pretending to work in the dried-up garden of the general’s house. There was nothing more that he could do for the garden in this dry heat when not even weeds could grow. Which left only one possibility in Meryem’s mind. The asker was interested in whatever he was learning from these American women.

  This new piece of information tantalized Meryem with possibilities of how she could use it to her advantage.

  * * * * *

  The instant the cool metal touched her flesh, Anna recognized the relief of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, and the weary wanderer riding on the saint’s back. A white sapphire—it only looked like a diamond—was custom embedded over the saint’s head. Exactly as Rainer’s luck piece had been.

  Anna’s fingers closed tightly over the piece of jewelry, tightly to still the quiver that ran through her. She whirled around, turning her back to Cora as she struggled to catch her breath. Her entire core felt crushed, as if she’d been punched in the stomach. A stream of protests boiled up from within.

  How could this medallion possibly be the same one?

  But why not? The dead man had had her letter to Rainer, too. He must have known Rainer, if Rainer had given him her letter and his medallion. No, not his entirely. It hadn’t always been his.

  She felt Cora’s assessing gaze on her back. “Do you know what it is, dear?”

  “No, of course not.” The heat of the flush from Anna’s lie spread up her throat. She held Rainer’s medallion to her breast and closed her eyes. Her mind tumbled with memories of different places. Different times.

  Aunt Iris’s Victorian house, Anna’s house now, flashed before her. It was a place of lilac wallpaper and dark oak woodwork, so unlike this place of copper, brass, and Turkish rugs. Anna remembered Aunt Iris’s words that night as she unlocked her jewelry box and dug into its cedar-lined depths.

  I am but one old woman, she’d said. Your young man will need this more than I.

  It was September 1940, the night before Rainer left to join the British in their darkest hours. Aunt Iris—Anna was her companion, not really her niece by blood—pulled out of her jewelry box the silver chain with its dangling medallion. Aunt Iris had made her Saint Christopher unique by having a jeweler custom add a white sapphire, a gem of luck. The stone above the saint’s head suggested a halo and imbued the charm with extra powers of safety.

  Carry this with you, Aunt Iris had told Rainer, giving it to him, and it will keep you safe in your travels.

  But it hadn’t worked. As Anna had always known it wouldn’t. One should never put faith in superstition. That’s all faith was, masked under religion.

  “I think you do,” Cora said, intruding on the memory. “You recognize it.”

  Anna opened her eyes, feeling momentarily displaced by this Turkish change of scenery. She’d squeezed her fingers closed so tightly that the blood had stopped running to her fingertips. Slowly, she loosened her grip and examined the silver piece, smudged with the oils from her hand. A ray of light from the sun low to the west angled under the verandah’s roof and caught the stone, setting it on fire with sparkles.

  Cora’s voice rose in pitch. “You think it’s a real diamond? I know a jeweler who could tell us if it is or not.”

  Anna took a deep breath to still the way her heart thundered and turned back to Cora. The woman’s smile might have been innocent, but it didn’t feel friendly, not the way her head tilted slightly to one side and her inquisitive eyes, tiny black snake-eye nuggets, probed, always on the lookout for gossip.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Anna said, trying to feign disinterest. She strode across the verandah toward her purse. Quickly, she dropped Rainer’s medallion inside and twisted the catch firmly closed.

  Cora screeched. “What are you doing? I’ll give it to Paul. He’ll take care of it.” At the sound of her shrill voice, the soldier neighbor looked up from his work by the fence.

  Anna anchored her hands beneath her arms to keep them from shaking and to keep Cora from detecting her agitation. She didn’t trust Mitzi’s friend.

  Avoiding her, she fixed her attention on the backyard. Priscilla was slowly inching her way up the trunk of the mulberry tree.

  “Priscilla,” Anna called, “if you want to climb trees, then you need to change your clothes, as you were told by Mrs...” Anna turned and gave “Miss Cora” a quizzical look.

  “Wingate,” she said.

  Of course, Anna thought. The wife of the rude embassy man who’d driven her home. That’s why Paul Wingate had phoned up this particular, nosy neighbor.

  “Ah, do I have to?” Priscilla whined.

  “Yes, dear,” Cora said. “Now scoot. The faster you change, the more time you’ll have to play.”

  Priscilla reluctantly stomped up the steps to the verandah, where she paused to stick out her tongue at Anna. “I wish you’d never come!” Before Anna could find her voice and respond, the child disappeared inside the house.

  “Just a minute, young lady,” said Anna.

  But all that remained of the passage of the little tornado, her niece, was the swish of curtains.

  “You mustn’t mind Prissy,” said Cora. “She doesn’t mean what she says.”

  “I think she does,” said Anna. “But now she’s stuck with me.”

  Cora laughed. “Aren’t you the funny one? Seriously, dear, now that Prissy’s gone, I’ll just take that little charm of hers, so I can give it to Paul to handle.”

  “Don’t bother yourself. I’ll turn it over to the police myself.” Anna thought she had enough problems without the resistance of the Americans. They were all supposed to be on the same side.

  She took Cora firmly by the arm. “Look, you’ve been very kind, but I must ask you to leave now. Priscilla and I...need some time alone together. I’m sure you understand.”

  “But...” Cora protested, shaking her off. “You haven’t told me yet about all the fuss, and I’m dying to hear. Paul said that whatever you did to upset the guards today at the tomb was innocent, but really dear, you should be more careful—”

  “No, it was nothing like that.” Anna realized that Cora didn’t know about the murder. Paul must be protecting his wife from ugly news that he deemed unsuitable for a lady.

  “Atatürk is their national hero,” Cora continued, “and you can’t be too careful around icons to him. It’s awfully easy for Turks, especially the asker, to interpret disrespect when you’re really just going about your business.”

  “Oscar?” Anna wondered how Cora knew about Priscilla’s guard friend.

  Cora waved her hand with a delicate, Mitzi-like flick of her wrist. “Asker,” Cora said. “Not Oscar.”

  If there was a difference, Anna didn’t hear it.

  Cora explained. “Asker is the Turkish word for ‘soldier.’ That’s something else you have to respect. Their army. I’m surprised that Henry didn’t leave you a copy of the orientation memos. Everyone attached to USOM is supposed to read them. Oh dear. Paul will get you a copy. That will save you from further embarrassment.”

  Embarrassment for whom, Anna wondered. And she did have those documents. Why did everyone speak in acronyms here? It was the United States Overseas Mission. USOM.

  Anna had become the unwanted object of scrutiny, first on the part of Turkish police, and now, the nosy, American neighbor, Cora Wingate. Unlike her si
ster, who thrived under attention, Anna preferred not to be noticed. She would rather stay home alone than struggle at social situations with people she didn’t know.

  Prim and proper. Old maid schoolteacher. Yes. It was all true. Since Rainer, she’d dated a few times, but the right man had simply not come along.

  She’d made the decision to come to Ankara. No one had forced her. And now she would have to see her way through the chaos. She had never in her life gone back on her word. This matter was more than a question of giving one’s word. She couldn’t leave her only niece. Not now, when Priscilla obviously needed Anna more than she realized. No matter how hatefully the child behaved.

  Perhaps she should telephone her sister and insist that she return. For what? To show Mitzi that Anna had failed?

  Never.

  “You’re free, aren’t you dear?” Cora said, jolting Anna out of her thoughts.

  “Excuse me?”

  Cora sighed. “I should think a teacher would pay better attention. I was talking about the little party Paul and I are planning tomorrow night. An end-of-the-summer affair. Everyone will be there, including an eligible bachelor I happen to know.” She tittered and winked. “And a few of our, shall we say, more interesting neighbors?”

  After Anna remained silent several seconds too long, Cora went on. “You do have cocktail attire, don’t you, dear? If not, I’m sure you can find something appropriate in Mitzi’s closet.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t leave Priscilla—”

  “Tish tosh,” Cora said, flicking her wrist again. “You’re bringing Prissy along. She’ll keep Tommy company, and that’s settled. Well, I can see that you’re tired, so we’ll leave you now. Tommy! It’s time to go. Now! One...two...”

  The little boy scampered to Cora’s side, and they left, marching across the yard as if all along it had been Cora’s idea to go. Anna didn’t mind, as long as they did leave. But she wasn’t looking forward to Priscilla’s return, changed and ready to play with her best friend whom Anna had chased away.

  Chapter Nine

  Veli Yaziz rapped on the open door to the chief’s comfortable office of mahogany, leather, and silk. “We’ve identified him, efendim,” Yaziz said, feeling proud of his efficiency.

  Adem Bulayir waved his fountain pen at a chair that faced the broad desk where he sat. He’d been scribbling on a sheaf of papers. Hastily, he stuffed them into a folder, which he jammed into a drawer as Yaziz crossed the thick carpet.

  Yaziz dropped his typed report onto Bulayir’s now barren desk, and then stood, waiting for permission to sit while his boss frowned at the document before him.

  “Victim’s name is Umit Alekci,” Yaziz said helpfully, worried by the apparent distraction in the chief. Bulayir flipped through the pages, clearly missing pertinent details.

  “What is this?” Bulayir grumbled, not finding whatever it was he looked for in the report.

  “About the shooting today, sir. At Anit Kabir. My officers have tracked down the victim’s identity, and—”

  “You waste valuable resources on this, Veli Bey?” Bulayir flung down the papers, rose from his desk, and paced to the window.

  Yaziz hated being addressed in the antiquated way that Atatürk had worked so hard to reform, but he wouldn’t risk his position by inviting his superior’s anger. Bulayir could call him what he would.

  “Sir, it is my job to investigate. Because the Alekci family has connections to the copper trade—”

  “They’re tshinghiane, Veli Bey. Gypsies. Nomads. Thieves!”

  “Actually, sir, they’re not Turkish gypsies. This family survived the Nazi bombing of Bucharest, then years of Soviet persecution, from which they somehow escaped two years ago to Ankara—”

  “Enough. We have more important work to do than monitor gypsy squabbles.” Bulayir took a deep breath and stared out the window. The boulevard bustled with workers on their way home at the end of the day.

  Yaziz watched the chief’s back, the way it heaved in and out. Bulayir’s hands rested behind his back, the fingers of one hand barely bumping those of the other. A tespih dangled from his fingertips, and the fact that its beads hung unused indicated to Yaziz the extent of the chief’s preoccupation. Something greater than the aggravation of gypsies surely worried him.

  Bulayir turned suddenly from the window and strode back to his desk. His shoes squeaked, echoing the bluster that radiated from the man. Bulayir paused beside the handsomely carved mahogany of his desk and picked up the report on Umit Alekci, the only item occupying space on the glass-topped surface.

  “You have no time to waste on this matter,” he said, tossing the document back to Yaziz. “There is a plot brewing to take power away from the Grand National Assembly, and you will stop it. You will find the plotters and bring them in before they can do any harm to our lawfully elected Democrat Party.”

  Yaziz frowned. “May I ask what is the evidence?”

  The tufts of Bulayir’s eyebrows raised up, and at the same time the chief rocketed up on his toes, squealing his patent leather. Yaziz thought the chief would explode. “You have all the evidence you need,” Bulayir said, “when the minister’s office issues a directive.”

  “I see.” Yaziz’s frown deepened.

  Bulayir motioned Yaziz to sit in one of the leather chairs facing the desk, and then he sank down into the other one. He templed his tespih-entwined fingers beneath his chin. “How long have you been with us, Veli Bey?”

  Yaziz tensed. “Four years, sir.” Since returning from his duty in Korea. Bulayir knew that.

  “And you have been promoted three times already, have you not?”

  “That’s correct, sir.” Promotions came once every three years for officers of the National Police, but Yaziz was koreli. He’d been one of the first Turks ever to fight on foreign soil for a foreign cause. The honor sometimes gave him unexpected privileges, and he was gaining steadily on the chief’s position. Was that what worried Bulayir?

  The chief cleared his throat and assumed a solemn tone of voice. “The Minister of the Interior has asked for you personally to handle this matter. You will not embarrass me by failing him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, efendim.” Yaziz understood more than Bulayir probably wished. His chief didn’t think he could do it, koreli or no, Yaziz thought, carefully removing a piece of lint from his silk tie. “May I assume, then, that I should start my investigation of this plot in the military?” That’s why the Minister wanted him, an ex-military man.

  Bulayir frowned. “Do not take this lightly, Veli Bey. I trust you will be discreet in this sensitive matter.”

  “Of course.” Yaziz straightened with importance on the lumps of his chair. “I have an informant at one of the newspapers—”

  “The newspapers print nothing but lies!” Bulayir shouted. Then, with the speed of a cobra, he snatched up a copy of the Republic News lying on the small table between their chairs. “Lies are what fuel the conspiracy.” Bulayir smacked the paper against the wooden surface, hard enough to shake the brass table lamp. “But we will break it up.”

  Yaziz cleared his throat. “Sir, about the murder today—”

  “An unimportant matter. Gypsies fight among themselves all the time. Do not bother me with them again.”

  “I was thinking of the American woman and child who were witnesses.”

  The chief dropped the paper and leaned back in his chair. His fingers worked at the tespih, rattling its beads. “Ah, yes,” Bulayir said. “You are correct to be concerned for their safety. You must move with care in that matter. We cannot allow the Americans to become involved in our larger problem. They are valuable to us with their gifts of dollars, and we must not risk offending them, even though...”

  “Efendim, they are already involved. We found the name ‘H. Burkhardt’ sewn into the inside jacket pocket that Umit Alekci was wearing. You think the Americans—”

  “I think nothing, and neither should you, Veli Bey. You will find the plotters, a
nd you will see that the Americans remain our friends. That is all.”

  “Yes sir.” Yaziz recognized the dismissal and rose. The wound in his leg, a permanent reminder of his Korean experience, throbbed from his sudden movement.

  But he didn’t mind that pain, not nearly as much as he minded the pain in his heart. He despised what he had to do next. The responsibility did not go away just because he had received new instructions. Someone would still have to speak to the gypsy’s mother. Who better for that unpleasant job than Yaziz, a koreli?

  “And one more thing, Veli Bey. When you bring in the plotters, do not forget to bring in the evidence, too.”

  * * * * *

  Meryem tugged the eşek’s leather strap, dragging the reluctant beast out of the weeds of the vacant lot and onto the pavement of Yeşilyurt Sokak once again. If her brother had truly escaped the police, she thought, then he should surely have caught up to her by now. That he hadn’t filled her with unease. But she banished such worry to the back of her mind. Someone still had to bring home the lira if the family was to eat.

  The donkey’s resistance pulled her off balance, and she slipped, staggering backwards a few steps on the slick pavement of the hillside street. Perhaps her strength abandoned her while she was distracted with concern for Umit. He was clever, although not as clever as she, and now she worried that a gun could’ve undone his “quick deal.”

  She’d seen once before, long ago, back in the hills of Romania another face wearing that same look of desperation, of pure evil, that today’s gunman had worn. Evil had permeated that Carpathian foe just as it had scorched her today from the pretend peasant whom Umit’s donkey had kicked in the balls.

  Had that long-ago horror finally found the Alekci family here in Ankara?

  If Umit had also recognized that old evil on the face of today’s gunman—and why wouldn’t he?—then he would’ve gone into hiding. That’s why he hadn’t shown up this afternoon. He couldn’t risk leading the evil to Meryem and to the rest of the family. If that old evil found them, they would have to run again.