Istanbul Passage

by Joseph Kanon

  “Somewhere near,” Frank said.

  Leon nodded. “Just a few blocks. Russian. You’ll enjoy it.”

  “Fine, fine. Give me ten minutes,” Frank said, leaving.

  Kay leaned back against the desk, the room suddenly quiet enough to hear the wall clock. An awkward silence, Leon fingering the folder, just standing. When he looked back up, her presence like a tug on his arm, he found her staring at him again, the way she had at the Pera. Another moment, still not talking, and then she looked away, breaking it. “Russian,” she said. “That’s funny. Here, I mean.”

  “White Russian. Lots of them came in the twenties.”

  “Another thing I didn’t know. More layers?”

  “When you’re there, take a look up at the balcony. Two ladies knitting. Another one’s behind the cashier. They switch around. All blondes. Well, used to be.”

  “They come every day?”

  “To keep an eye on the place. It’s theirs. They were dancers. Then friends of Atatürk’s.”

  “Friends?” she said, looking back at him.

  “Mistresses,” he said, bowing.

  “At the same time?”

  He met her eyes, amused. “That I don’t know. But when he got tired of them, he set them up with the restaurant. So they’d have something. Or so the story goes.”

  “Is that what they do here? I wonder if Frank would give me a restaurant when he gets tired of me.”

  “Maybe he won’t.”

  “No?” she said, then backed away. “Well, that’s lucky.” She picked up her purse. “How dressy is the party? What does Lily usually wear?”

  “Something floaty.”

  “Floaty.”

  “You know, long and—floaty. Like a sari. I don’t know how else to describe it. She always seems to be floating through her parties.”

  “That’s a help. So not the jersey. Maybe I’ll get some roller skates and we can float around together.”

  Leon smiled. “You’ll be fine in anything,” he said, indicating the clothes she had on. “Whatever you like.”

  “Only a man would say that.”

  “Say what?” Frank said, coming back.

  “That it doesn’t matter what you wear,” she said, suddenly jumpy, as if she’d been caught at something. “Ready?” She took his arm.

  “It doesn’t. You always look nice.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s because you never look,” she said, teasing.

  “Be careful with the Chicken Kiev,” Leon said. “The butter squirts.”

  She raised her eyebrows, not sure whether he was making a joke, holding his glance for a second, then led Frank away.

  Leon watched her go, not floating, high heels clicking across the parquet floor, legs long and sleek, pitched forward by the heels. Don’t ever wear skates. She must have once, a girl with freckles. Now it was high heels and soft blouses and a walk, something in the air. Marooned in Ankara, where Frank watched the Russians.

  Leon looked down at the folder in his hand. A lot of trouble to go through to distance the ambassador. A Tommy he hadn’t known, the best of him. How do you weigh all the sides of someone? What had the Russians offered him? Money, an idea? But then there was also this, something he’d been proud of, according to Dorothy. The same man who’d tried to kill him at Bebek.

  He took the folder back to his office and started reading through. What he’d been carrying on the train, history now. Still, why keep them locked away? The war was over. Or had Tommy simply forgotten about them? He read more, hoping to find something, but it was just what Dorothy and Frank had described, the Joint Committee, backdoor messengers, desperate trades.

  He looked at the drawer. So why there? Why the bottle for that matter? Everyone knew Tommy liked a drink, hardly a secret. He opened the drawer. A few more files like the ones he’d read. He paged through. More of the same. He stared at the now empty drawer. Not the bottle, not the files, neither worth locking up. But nothing else there. He started closing the drawer. Maybe just another of Tommy’s Hardy Boys games, a man who used alphabet code. He stopped. Who played at hiding things.

  He pulled the drawer all the way out and tapped a few places on the bottom then stopped, feeling silly. False bottoms? Not even Tommy. He felt along the sides and lifted the drawer off its runners, pulling it all the way out, feeling behind, then tipping it over.

  The envelope was taped near the back, away from the runners so that it would clear the bottom frame when the drawer was opened. He pried one piece of tape away, then yanked at the rest. A consulate envelope, not even sealed. He took out two passports. The same picture Enver Manyas had used. In one, Tommy was Donald Price, Rhode Island, in the other, Kenneth Riordan, Virginia. Turkish entry stamps, no doubt Manyas again, but nothing else. He’d never left the country.

  In the back of each passport was a narrow slip of paper. More of Tommy’s code, not alphabet this time. DZ2374, AK52330. Leon stared at them, trying to work out a key, but came up with nothing. It seemed absurd, all of it. He was sitting at a desk with a drawer turned upside down, staring at meaningless numbers. But they must have meant something to Tommy. A man with passports who didn’t travel.

  4

  KANLICA

  “I DIDN’T THINK ANYBODY was this rich anymore,” Kay said, looking past the bow of the boat.

  Ahead of them the jetty that fronted Lily’s yali had been lined with hurricane lamps and the jalousied shutters left open, so that the whole house seemed to be shining with light, the white neoclassical facade bathed in it, throwing its mirror image back to the water. Lily had been lucky in the weather, a mild evening, more spring than winter, but even so it was cold on the water and Kay was hunched into a caracul coat, too curious to sit inside the cabin.

  “The Vassilakos shipyards,” Leon said.

  “Her husband was Greek?”

  “No, no, a Turk. A Cypriot. The original owner was Greek. Lily’s husband bought him out during the population exchange. He kept the name, but he’s the one who really built the company.”

  “What population exchange?”

  “After the war with Greece. In ’twenty-three. Ethnic Greeks were sent home. Vice versa with Turks there. Whether anybody wanted to go or not. People who’d been here forever. It was a bad time. You go to Izmir, places like that, it’s still an open wound. Anyway, it gave Refik a chance to buy.”

  Kay looked up, about to ask more, then turned back to the house, too excited to be dragged into the past.

  “Here comes the return trip,” she said as an empty launch approached. “And another. My god, how many boats has she got doing this?”

  Lily’s yali was on the Asian side, near Kanlica, where people went for yogurt, and she had provided a small fleet of motorboats to ferry guests across.

  “This is how they used to do it,” Leon said. “Everybody went by boat. See the yali next to hers? With the big overhang? The boats would just slip in underneath, the way they do in Venice.”

  “Not anymore, I guess,” she said, looking at the dark house, half its timber fallen in. “What happened?”

  “Fire. They’re all wood, the old yalis. Heated by braziers. One hot coal and—woof. It’s a shame, that one. It’s as old as the Köprülü, a really classic yali. They’re all going, one by one. Arson sometimes, to collect the insurance. People can’t afford to keep them up anymore.”

  “Except Lily,” she said, looking at the house again. Houseboys in white jackets were helping people out of boats, lanterns flickering, the rippling water flashing back. She turned to Leon, her eyes catching the light. “Thank you. For bringing me.”

  He dipped his head in a mock bow. “Pleasure. No dancing, you know. Mostly just gossip. I hope you won’t be bored.”

  “I’ve never been less bored in my life,” she said, almost laughing. “I keep thinking a pumpkin’s going to come and take me away.”

  He pretended to look at his watch. “Not yet. Remind me to show you the garden before we leave. It’s famous
.”

  “This time of year?”

  “Well, you have to imagine it.”

  And suddenly he was seeing it, that first Bosphorus spring with Anna, everything in blossom, Judas trees and lilac and yellow laburnum, cherry and soft-green chestnut trees, pulling branches down to smell, dizzy with it. Years ago, when they’d been other people. He glanced over at Kay, still gawking at the house. As eager as Anna had been that day, bubbling over, catching his eye while Lily chattered away, a joke between them no one else heard. We talk about seasons, he thought, as if they repeated, came back, but they don’t. That spring was gone, irretrievable, a picture in an album, faces smiling, unaware of what would happen to them.

  “What?” Kay said.

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking the mood off. “You know the sultans used to light their garden parties with turtles? They’d put candles on their backs and let them wander around. Hundreds of them.”

  She looked at him. “The things you know.”

  He helped her out of the boat, handing her up to a houseboy, hand outstretched, the cabin passengers lining up behind them. He looked across the strait to Rumeli Hisari, just up the road from where Alexei had landed, not deserted tonight, busy with taxis dropping off people for Lily’s party. While Alexei sat smoking in Laleli, listening for sounds in the hall, turning the chessboard around—unless he was checking exits again. How much longer before something happened? Get the papers from Manyas and go.

  “You’re right,” Kay said, looking through the open doors. “She does float.”

  Lily was greeting people near the fountain that splashed softly in the center of the reception hall, now talking to Georg Ritter and a burly man Leon didn’t recognize. She was wearing a silk caftan with gold embroidery that billowed as she moved, her hair swept up, seemingly by the wind, in a high bun, held in place by two jeweled combs.

  “Leon,” she said, coming over as a boy took their coats. “How wonderful, you brought her. I’m so glad,” she said to Kay, taking her hand. “How pretty you look. Such a lovely dress.” She gave it an appraising look, which Leon followed, the first time he’d seen her without her coat. A long off-white dress with a deep V-neck, cinched at the waist by a silver cord, a simple butterfly pin near her shoulder, garnet he guessed, like a piece of red that had dropped out of her hair.

  “Thank you for having me. Your house—” She broke off, suddenly awkward. “I’ve never seen a yali.”

  “It’s not one of the old ones, though, you know. Just nineteenth century, when everyone was in love with France.” She gestured toward the facade. “Now the one next door—”

  “The one that burned?”

  Lily nodded. “Poor Selim. Now that was the real thing. Tulip Period. And now it’s gone. He says he’s going to restore it, but they never do, do they? Just build something new. Do you know Dr. Ritter? He’s at the university. An éminence grise.”

  “Grise? Blanche,” Georg said, pointing to his hair. He took Kay’s hand. “But delighted. Leon, I was hoping you’d be here.”

  Now introductions were made, Georg bringing over the other man. “Ivan Melnikov,” he said to everybody. “Mrs. Bishop. Leon Bauer.”

  “Melnikov?” Leon said involuntarily, hearing Alexei’s voice.

  “Yes, you know me?” he said, his voice direct, too blunt for the frothy room, someone who might bump into the furniture. A broad, weathered face, pitted, maybe scarred years ago by acne.

  “No. The name seems familiar, that’s all.”

  “It’s common, the name. Mrs. Bishop. The Bishop at the embassy?”

  “You see?” Lily said. “Everybody knows everybody in Istanbul.”

  “You know Frank?” Leon said, curious.

  “We have met.” He turned to Kay. “He’s here?”

  “No. Ankara. I’m visiting Istanbul for a few days.”

  “A beautiful woman alone in Istanbul,” he said, shaking his head, a stage gesture, trying to be courtly. “No Russian would allow it.”

  “I’ve got a chaperone.” She nodded at Leon.

  “Him? A chaperone?” Georg said.

  “You don’t think I’m safe with him?” Kay said, looser now.

  “Safe, yes. In the right hands, maybe not so much.”

  “Oo la,” Lily said. “And who do you nominate? You?” She turned to Kay. “Of course he knows everything about Istanbul. But no reputation is safe with that one.” A tease and a compliment to Georg, overweight and aging.

  “Maybe I should offer myself to the highest bidder. Like the girl in Oklahoma!”

  Leon could tell from the blank expressions that no one had really caught the reference, but Lily smiled anyway.

  “Then you must choose Melnikov. A true pasha. He brought caviar. Imagine, in Istanbul, where no one can get it. For love or money. A whole tin.” A sly glance at Leon. No one brought gifts to parties like this.

  “For a gracious hostess.”

  “You must have some before they eat it all up,” Lily said to Kay.

  “And me,” Georg said, offering Kay his arm. “Let’s have caviar.”

  “Always gallant, when there’s food,” Lily said, taking her other arm. “Come, I’ll protect you. Besides, I want to show you off. Such a prize, a new woman.”

  Leon looked at the room as they left. There were, in fact, only a few women, most of them European. In the old days they would have been in the other part of the house, having sherbet and coffee, watching the party through latticed grilles.

  “You’re working with Bishop now,” Melnikov said, not bothering with small talk.

  “News travels fast,” Leon said, off guard.

  “Maybe that’s where you heard my name.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or from Tommy King. Another friend of yours.”

  Leon looked at him for a second. “Everybody knows everybody in Istanbul,” he said, glancing toward Lily.

  “An old comrade. We met from time to time. During the war.”

  “Ah,” Leon said, noncommittal. Those drinks at the Pera, more information exchanged than Frank imagined.

  “To survive the war, then this.” He shrugged. “Now of course you want to find the man who did it.”

  “Well, that’s a police matter. Naturally we hope—”

  “I want to find him too,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Georg has spoken to you about this.”

  Leon looked at him carefully. “That was you? Offering the reward?”

  “You worked for Tommy. A man for hire. Why not for me? Avenge your friend’s death. Perhaps you could use the money. In these difficult times.” He paused. “The man belongs to us.”

  “And why would I turn him over to you? Assuming we found him.”

  “Self-interest. The Americans want him. We want him more. So we’re willing to pay. Are they?”

  “What makes you think—”

  Melnikov waved this off. “You can put your flag away. A man like you.”

  Leon felt a flash of heat on his face. “I don’t know where he is,” he said, keeping his voice even.

  “But you will. Now that you’re inside. It’s a bet to make anyway. Whoever’s protecting him, it’s not a stranger. Someone who’s part of this business. You don’t know yet? Here’s an incentive for you, to find out. Enough money to take your wife back to America. It’s a reasonable offer.”

  Leon stared at him. A hard face, lived-in, knowing eyes. Buying someone.

  “Go to hell,” he said.

  Melnikov said nothing for a minute, then looked away. “So. Then take a message. You know how to do that. Be a messenger.”

  “What kind of message?”

  “To whoever has him.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “It’s important,” Melnikov interrupted. “We are going to find our friend. And kill him.” He looked directly at Leon. “And his protector. If he would give him to us—a different situation. But if not, both are dead. Tell him that. We’ll kill both.”

  L
eon waited for a second, trying not to react. The chill of a death sentence, like a hand on your shoulder, the air still. Melnikov held his gaze, emotionless. How many had he already killed?

  “Is that a paid message?”

  Melnikov nodded. “If you like. And not as expensive for us.” He raised his eyebrows. “At first I thought it might be you. One of Tommy’s men. The question was, why? To bargain for Jianu? Get a better price? Then Bishop brings you in to help. Not a foolish man. So, not you. Now we only have to pay you for a message.”

  “You won’t have to pay for anything.”

  “Deliver it anyway,” Melnikov said, his voice thick. “To the one who helps. You might save a life.”

  “From you? You’d kill him anyway. For the sport.”

  Melnikov’s eyes clouded, as if he’d been offended, then darted over Leon’s shoulder. “Here’s Georg. Alone. He must have lost the bidding.”

  Georg, champagne flute in hand, was plodding toward them, feet heavy, older.

  “You enjoyed the caviar?” Melnikov said.

  Georg put his fingers to his lips in a kiss.

  “Then I’d better hurry before it’s gone,” Melnikov said.

  “The guest eats his own present?” Leon said.

  “I’m not so polite. A simple soldier. I was never taught these things.”

  “Lily’s very grateful,” Georg said, evidently the point of the gift.

  “An interesting conversation,” Melnikov said, nodding to Leon, a leave-taking.

  “Yes? What about?” Georg said.

  Melnikov ignored him, beginning to move away, then turning. “Mr. Bauer, if it is you—take the money.”

  He started to walk again and Leon followed, his back to Georg.

  “How about an answer? As a kind of down payment?”

  Melnikov stopped. “And the question?”

  “Why did your Romanian friend shoot Tommy? If Tommy was there to—”

  “Yes,” Melnikov said, a movement to his lips, almost a smile. “How the Americans must want to know that.”

  “Don’t you?”