Istanbul Passage

by Joseph Kanon

  Leon nodded.

  “Then a contact name in Athens. For later. After we’re there. Not before. No one knows, not here, not there. A surprise visit. You understand?”

  “I’ll need a day or two. For the papers.”

  “No more,” Alexei said, the officer in charge.

  “You have enough food? I don’t want to come back here.”

  “Yes,” Alexei said, then froze, lifting his hand up, a traffic cop. He crossed to the door in two steps, silent, leaning back against the wall, listening, drawing a gun from his pocket in what seemed to be slow motion, holding it up. Leon didn’t breathe, staring at the gun. A sound outside he hadn’t heard. Alexei listened for a few seconds more then lowered the gun, moving away from the door.

  “The couple at the end,” he said quietly. “They stopped in the hall. Maybe carrying something.”

  “You heard them.”

  “You learn to listen. Living like this.”

  “I see you found your gun.”

  Alexei nodded. “It’s not much. Two would be better. You never know how many of them would come.”

  Leon said nothing. What it was like, day to day, waiting.

  “And another gun would make a difference?” he said finally. “In that kind of shoot-out?”

  “No, it’s better to escape. But not always possible. So you listen. No surprises.”

  “Escape how?” Leon said, looking around the room.

  “The bathroom window drops to the courtyard. But there’s only one way out to the street, and they’d have someone there. You have to assume that. Utility stairs to the roof—they might not expect that—and it’s easy over to the next.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I tried it. A test.”

  “You went out? You’re supposed to stay here. I told you to stay here.”

  “Without a plan. Playing chess all day.” He shook his head. “How do you think I’m still alive? Listening to people like you? Who knows? Maybe waiting for you to bring them.”

  “Trust nobody,” Leon said, still imagining his life. “Then what do you do? Sit on a roof or walk around Istanbul? It would be a matter of time.”

  “A map would help. Also your phone number.” He fixed his eyes on Leon, a kind of challenge. “If we’re going to help each other.”

  Leon hesitated, then pulled out his wallet and handed him a business card.

  “Your home?” Alexei said, glancing at the telephone number. “Or the dried fruit?”

  “Office,” Leon said. “Someone would be there, if I’m not.”

  Alexei held the card for another minute, memorizing it, then handed it back.

  “Keep it.”

  “If they kill me and they find it, it leads them to you. Don’t worry, it’s here now.” He tapped his temple.

  Leon started for the door, then turned.

  “If someone else told them, there must have been two inside. Tommy didn’t know?”

  Alexei smiled faintly. “The Russians did that sometimes, put two in. More. You don’t want them to know each other—if one gets caught, it’s only one. He can’t lead to the others. Washington’s like that. They don’t know each other there.”

  Said casually, sure of it.

  “Sometimes it backfires. In Bucharest there was a case, they were watching each other. As the most suspect. Which was right, as it turned out. A typical Bucharest situation.” He snorted, the corners of his mouth creasing up. “I didn’t make the world. Someone else’s joke.”

  “But Tommy shot you without telling them.”

  “Yes,” Alexei said, nodding as if he were appreciating a move Leon had made. “I’m still thinking about that. Heroics, maybe. He liked to act alone? Of course they would want me dead. So he hands them a fait accompli. With you to protect his cover. Or something else. I don’t know—all we know is that he did. Maybe you can help. When you become him. Find out why he did it.”

  “Maybe he thought you deserved it.”

  “Maybe,” Alexei said, looking at him. “He also shot you.”

  Leon left by the back, checking the courtyard to see if Alexei had been right. One exit. He imagined him racing up the utility stairs, across the roof, like a cat burglar. On his eighth life. Near the bottom of the hill, he turned into a side street and waited to see if anyone had been behind, but no one passed except two Turkish women in ankle-length coats, carrying string bags. He stood for a minute, making a list. New papers.

  At the landing there were boats for hire to cross the Horn, the handful that hadn’t been put out of business by the bridges. Once the whole shore here had been lined with slips for caïques, Istanbul’s gondolas, slim and graceful in the old watercolor prints, the boatmen in turbans, ladies in veils on mysterious errands. Layers.

  This caïque was a rowboat with a small outboard motor, the turbaned oarsman an overweight old man who smelled of raki and complained all the way across about the price of gas. How was an honest man to make a living? Or a dishonest one for that matter, Leon thought, then raised his head, remembering the boatman in Bebek. Who’d been promised more money, a loose end. But that request would end up on Tommy’s desk and now he was Tommy.

  He got off near the Koç shipyards in Hasköy and walked the few blocks to Mihai’s office, an old industrial building given to Mossad by its Jewish owner before it could be seized for the wealth tax. During the war, Mossad had worked out of the Hotel Continental, and some of the staff still preferred it for the convenience, but Mihai had moved his unit down to the waterfront. Aliyah Bet, the illegal immigration, was like Noah’s ark, he’d said. It should have a water view.

  Only a few of the top story windows had one, though, a scummy stretch near the repair docks. The rest of the office looked like the sewing factory it had been, now divided by plywood partitions. Mihai’s desk, an old cutting table, was covered with what looked like passports stacked in piles and a clipboard of lists.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Leon said, loud enough to be overheard.

  Mihai looked up, surprised.

  “Anna won’t mind. We can take a taxi. You really don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” Mihai said, his eyes question marks.

  Leon cocked his head toward the door.

  “Give me a second,” Mihai said, a normal tone now. “I have to put these away. Destination visas. Gold.” He started to shelve them in a safe.

  Leon picked one up. “Honduras? That’s new.”

  “A generous host. No quotas.”

  Leon opened the passport. “Josef Zula, born Lodz. Going to Honduras. They buy that?”

  “The Romanians don’t care where he ends up, as long as he doesn’t stay there. The visas are official. Cuba’s drying up and we’ve got people ready to sail. Beggars can’t be choosers. How many would you like to take? The land of the free. Jews? All full.”

  Leon put the passport down. “Wouldn’t they be surprised in Honduras. If you did come. This must have cost you.”

  “What price would be too much for you?” He closed the safe’s door and twirled the dial. “So. Let’s not keep Anna waiting,” he said, raising his voice, then told the secretary he’d be at the clinic. Bases covered.

  “What’s so urgent?” he said outside. “Now I have to go to Bebek. And on a day there’s so much to do.”

  “I couldn’t think of anything else. They know you visit Anna. Why else would I come see you?”

  “My conversation? What’s wrong?”

  “I had a talk with the Emniyet.”

  “Welcome to the club. What’s so remarkable?”

  “At Tommy’s funeral. They want to know what happened. They know Alexei is here.”

  “So they talked to you?”

  “Not only me. A little warning, I think. They also warned me not to get involved with you. Aliyah operations. They thought because of Anna—”

  “That you might actually help, instead of making difficulties? How little they know you.”

  “You
don’t seem very concerned.”

  “The Emniyet and I are old friends. Sometimes they take an interest, sometimes not. Right now they’re taking an interest. The English insist. So Istanbul is becoming difficult. We have to send the convoys to Italy. Then all we have to do is get past the Mediterranean Fleet and the Coastal Water Blockade. A piece of cake—RAF expression,” he said wryly. “During the war it was easier. They had other things to do. Now they can turn all their attention to stopping the Jews. Let the Poles finish them off. But not these four hundred.”

  “With Honduran visas.”

  “Most. Some others. All good.”

  “You don’t happen to have a spare.”

  Mihai looked at him. “They’re already made out.”

  “I need another. A fresh passport.”

  “For him? The butcher? You’re asking me that?” He leaned against a chain link fence enclosing the scrap metal yard behind them, dull gray and rust. “A killer of Jews.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “No, easy. Why are you here? I thought—no contact. If the police—”

  “It’s not just the police now. It’s Emniyet.”

  Mihai stopped, quiet.

  “I thought you’d better know—where things are. It’s not easy. It’s complicated.”

  “So tell me.”

  There were no taxis waiting at the Koç yards, so they walked toward the Hasköy ferry stop, Leon talking, trying to put everything in order, like tidying a desk. Mihai said nothing, just listened. The ferry for Karaköy was docking when they got to the pier so they followed the crowd on and went out to the open stern to talk, everyone else huddling inside to stay warm. Mihai scanned the empty pier as the boat pulled away, spewing brown lignite smoke.

  “No one behind,” he said. “You’re not being followed. They’ll come and go. Now that they’ve made contact. It’s a way they have. To make you think they’re always there. You’ll get used to it.” He turned back, looking at Leon, as if he were still sifting through what had been said. “He’s a killer of Jews,” he said finally.

  “But that’s not all he is. I need papers.”

  “Not from me.”

  “Just an address. Who do you use.” He waited. “We have to move him. You know that.”

  “Not Mossad. We can’t. Not this man.”

  Leon nodded. “Not Mossad. Me.”

  “You. One man.” Mihai thought for a minute. “Get out of this now. Or you’ll never get out.”

  “Get out how? I’ve just been telling you—”

  “A man like this? Give him back to the Russians. Then no one ever knows. Any of it. Just give them the address and it’s over. He disappears.” He stopped. “And we’re safe.”

  “He’d be killed. You’d do that. Kill him.”

  “I wouldn’t have to. They’ll do it.” He rubbed his palms, a washing.

  “No,” Leon said quietly.

  Mihai looked away, not meeting his eye. “So. Make another knot. Tie yourself up. A Houdini. How are you going to do it? Get him out?”

  “First I get him papers.”

  Mihai took another minute. “You don’t need me for that. You’re Tommy now. You can make all the arrangements, right under the Americans’ noses.” A half smile. “While you investigate yourself.”

  The taxi to Bebek took half an hour. Leon talked to the nurses, so that their arrival would be noted, then went to Anna’s room. She was dressed, sitting in a chair by the garden doors, a cardigan draped over her shoulders. Mihai took her hand and looked into her eyes.

  “Hello, lovely,” he said, then to Leon, “She blinked. She knows my voice.”

  “Maybe.”

  “We found a boat,” Mihai said to her, his voice easy, making conversation. “Did Leon tell you? For four hundred. From the Greek. The one who sold us the Ida, remember? Ari says in pretty good shape. Panamanian flag. So we’ll see. Mostly from Poland. From the camps. You know some went back to their homes and the Poles—pogroms, after the camps.” He stopped. “But that’s over. In Constancia now. So we have to hurry. When you get better, you’ll see how much work. Bigger boats. In Italy they have one for two thousand. Imagine, two thousand at a time. The work, just to get them on board.” He trailed off, looking at her, then got up. “It’s always like this? No improvement?”

  “But no regression. The doctor says that’s the important thing.”

  Mihai stared at the garden. “Sometimes I think it’s my fault. That work. I thought she was like me. But really only a young girl.”

  “It’s nobody’s fault.”

  “I know. If this hadn’t happened, if that hadn’t happened.” He paused. “I knew girls like her. Everything for the family. The good dishes for Passover. My mother had a tablecloth—for once a year, special. She was like that. A daughter. That’s why she did it, I think. Somewhere in her mind she was saving her parents. And then the night the children drowned—it started then. But not all at once, remember? A little at a time, like turning out the lights. Until the house is dark.” He shrugged, his eyes suddenly moist. “No regression. What does that mean? From what, this? I remember when you came here. Both of you. The way you looked at her.” He faced the garden again for another minute, the room silent. “And what happens to her? If anything happens to you?”

  Leon said nothing, another knot being tied into place.

  Mihai turned back. “For a killer of Jews.”

  “I knew they’d bring someone in,” Ed Burke said, the pouches under his eyes pulled taut, anxious. “They think one of us did it.”

  “Nobody said that, Ed. They just asked me to go over the books.”

  “But they think it. Why not promote Phil?”

  Leon shrugged.

  “And why is Frank still here?”

  “He’s going back to Ankara. What’s the problem, Ed? They didn’t ask me to go over your books,” Leon said slyly, almost a tease.

  “Just Tommy’s. All right, don’t tell me.”

  “Ed, how long have you known me?”

  “It’s just a funny time for an audit.” He looked down at the folder in Leon’s hand. “The embargo list? That’s during the war. How far back are you going?”

  “Just getting to know the files. People have different systems. I still don’t understand the expense claims. You don’t have just one?”

  “Depends who’s authorizing the money. The consulate, use the white forms. If it’s direct from Washington, they have to go by pouch. The yellow ones.”

  “But it all gets paid out of the same office here.”

  Ed nodded. “Welcome to the US Government.”

  Leon got up and went over to the wall of file cabinets, pulling out a few more folders.

  “You think it’s one of them? Somebody he turned down?”

  “I don’t think anything yet,” Leon said, looking down at the file, then back up, a new thought. “Anyway, you said it was someone here.”

  “I said they thought so. Why else would the police be here?”

  “Still?”

  “All morning. Right through the consulate. ‘Where were you—?’ Alibis.”

  “Did you have one?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Come on, Ed. It’s just routine. To talk to coworkers.”

  “It gives you the creeps. Thinking it’s someone here. Walking down the hall or something, and you don’t have any idea.”

  Leon looked at him, not saying anything.

  An hour later, Frank called him into his office to meet Detective Gülün, a heavyset man in a gray suit, shiny at the cuffs, with what seemed to be a permanent five o’clock shadow. By that time Leon had had the filing system explained by Tommy’s secretary and had gone through every drawer, looking for anything not officially connected to Commercial Corp. But Tommy had evidently taken that part of his cover seriously—his other work had never existed, at least on paper. There were only a few personal items in the desk drawers, a datebook, check stubs, the white expense chit
s, breath mints, anybody’s desk. The bottom drawer was locked but shallow, just enough room for a bottle for an after-work drink. Would he keep records at home, vulnerable to theft? There had to be something. Maybe coded within the other files, memos that meant something else, trails that would take weeks to unravel. Money, however, was always accounted for. Tommy had paid his outside people. It had to come from somewhere.

  “I told Detective Gülün that you were helping us.”

  Leon nodded. “Anything yet?” he asked Gülün, who seemed startled by the question, defensive. A murder in the European community, the last thing any policeman would want. Angry diplomats demanding answers, calls from Ankara, people you weren’t supposed to intimidate. That was Altan’s world, full of resources and foreigners. Gülün was the kind of policeman more comfortable with car thieves in Taksim.

  “Some witnesses in the café.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “The car only. Unfortunately too dark to identify.”

  “But a car, not a taxi?” Leon said. “That narrows it a little, doesn’t it? Someone who can afford to run a car. With the gas shortages. I haven’t taken mine out in months.”

  A diversion, Gülün eager to take it.

  “As you say. Someone who can afford. Maybe black market connections.” Taking it even further away.

  “You’ve talked to people here?” Leon asked.

  Gülün nodded. “Of course we have to check their stories.” Hours wasted.

  “But nothing suspicious?”

  “No. But, you know, I didn’t expect—” he said, a deference. “I apologize if it’s inconvenient.”

  “No, no, you have a job to do. We want you to do it. If you think it’s someone here—”

  “As I said, I don’t expect that. A matter of procedure only. The likely explanation is a robbery, but the difficulty is the money. Mr. King still having it.”