by Joseph Kanon
“Nothing to it,” Leon said, uneasy.
“Then why did you bring a gun?” Alexei said, looking to Leon’s pocket.
“In case,” Leon said vaguely.
“In case I run?” Alexei said. “So careful, the Americans. Where would I go? In Washington let’s hope they’re not so careful. A long job, if they don’t believe me.”
“Skip the Soviets’ man there, then,” Leon said, trying it. “If you want to build some trust. Or was he just for me? Keep me interested.”
Alexei turned to the bridge, not answering.
“In high places,” Leon said. “The one nobody knows. Who isn’t there. Is he?”
Alexei was quiet for a moment. “He must be,” he said finally, “don’t you think? Someone must be. A safe move.” He turned back to Leon. “To keep me valuable, that’s all.”
He pulled up the collar of his jacket, hunkering down. “What does he think he’ll find?” he said, looking at Altan in the front of the boat, still scanning the bridge.
Leon joined him on the seat, their jackets touching.
“Ten minutes,” Altan said over his shoulder. “Get ready.”
Alexei pulled the duffel bag closer. “Well, then it’s good-bye,” he said to Leon. He looked down, oddly hesitant. “You know that job—training your people—the one I talked about? If you could mention it to someone. If you think it would help. A word from you—”
Leon nodded, cutting him off, each word like a tug on his sleeve.
He got up, leaning against the gunwale, as if there were something to see in the water. “Tell me. It can’t matter to you now. I mean, we’re here. So what I think doesn’t—”
Alexei lifted an eyebrow.
“What did you do at Străuleşti?”
“Why do you ask this?” Alexei said.
Leon looked at him, waiting. Make it easier for me.
“It’s not enough, your ship?”
“I want to know.”
A long silence, Alexei looking at his hands.
“What you told me—” Leon said.
“What? I don’t even remember anymore. What I said. But you have to know. Something that happened—” He looked out toward the old city. “In another world.” Quiet again, then turning back to Leon. “Outside. Only outside. I never went in. Didn’t I say that? It’s the truth. The meat stamps, the hooks—I wasn’t part of that. Craziness. I was outside.” He stopped. “Like a guard. Of what, I don’t know. Outside.” He looked up. “But I could hear. Is that what you want to know, what I heard?”
“No.”
“No, it’s better. Don’t listen. Someday maybe somebody asks you,” he said, looking at Leon, “and what do you say? I had to do it? All you can say is, I was there. But outside. I was outside.” He stopped. “Do you think it would have made any difference? If I hadn’t been there?”
Leon said nothing.
“None. Maybe a difference to me,” he said, his voice lower. “Not to hear it. But not to them.” He took a breath. “So. Now stop asking me this. Wait a few years, when you see what things are like. Then ask.”
“And that’s the truth.”
“Didn’t I say so?”
Leon nodded. “Everyone else is dead.”
“That’s right. There’s only me to say. Everyone’s dead. Not just them. Everyone. People I knew.”
“But you weren’t standing outside then.”
“You want to blame me for this? There has to be somebody? So it makes sense?” He waved his hand. “Go ahead. And will that make any difference, either?” He shook his head. “They’re dead. You want justice for them? Not in this world.”
“All right, let’s go,” Altan said, motioning the driver to pull up to the jetty. “Careful of the step.”
Alexei stared at Leon. “That’s what things were like, that time. It’s different now.”
Leon looked back. No squeals this time. Nothing to hear. A simple exchange, people passing by.
“Good luck,” Altan said, taking Alexei’s hand to steady him for the climb out of the boat. Friendly, helping him along.
Alexei made it in two steps, the duffel following.
“Gülün and his men will be at the top of the stairs,” Altan said to Leon, glancing toward the bridge. “Don’t look for him or the aslan will know,” he said, sarcastic. “Just the two of you. Until it’s too late. Then bring Melnikov’s man back. Let’s hope he’s not a Turk. After all this.”
Leon stood, not moving, eyes fixed on Altan’s upper lip. No moustache.
“All right?”
All right. A matter of minutes, that’s all. Something Alexei had done—how many times? What he wanted to do in Washington, handing over names, already had done for Altan at Lily’s. It gets easier. But just then, lifting himself out of the boat, the minutes felt endless. Altan waved and pulled away.
They made their way to the bridge through the Karaköy market, sidestepping pools of melted ice streaked with fish blood, strands of wilted greens. Cats lurked behind the stalls, waiting for scraps. There was more food near the steps of the bridge, stuffed mussels and braziers with chestnuts.
They stopped for a minute on top, catching a breath before they waded into the crowd. Don’t look for Gülün, anybody, just start walking. Meet in the middle, no advantage on either side. Not too fast, as formally paced as a gunfight, except in a Western there’d be no one else in the streets, the townspeople cowering and Melnikov dressed in black, to make everything clear. Instead there were water salesmen with silver canisters strapped to their backs and hamals wheeling carts and a simit peddler with a tray of bread rings balanced on his head.
Leon felt the gun in his pocket. Not something you’d want to use in a crowd, just in case. In case what? They had to shoot their way back? Altan had never said, but now that they were here Leon knew. Alexei would recognize Melnikov, not a stranger, and might have to be persuaded to keep going, prodded forward. Maybe even shot if he tried to bolt. In the foot, a knee, somewhere to keep him alive for Melnikov. The gun was for Alexei.
And Melnikov would have his own, ready to use on the other side, his man unsuspecting too until the final minute. Maybe until he recognized Leon. Someone who’d killed Frank and would kill again, meanwhile betraying them all to the Soviets. There were two people in this trade, not just Alexei. A frontier justice, maybe the only kind there ever was. Think of it as bringing someone to trial.
“What kind of car?” Alexei said. “American?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t say. In front of the mosque, that’s all.”
Each step a foot closer. His eyes darted over the fishermen lining the rail, waiting for one of them to turn his head as they passed, not a fisherman. What it must feel like hunting, preparing to kill, a lion watching the grass.
They were on the Horn side of the bridge, traffic coming from behind. Maybe a burst of gunfire from a passing car. The Russians were capable of anything, any deceit. But all he saw were taxis on their way to Sirkeci. Don’t look back, Alexei sure to notice. So far not even wary, trusting the car to be there, trusting Leon. Everything as planned. Then why the dismay, this constriction in his chest, Leon feeling that it was he who was being brought to trial. Betraying, Alexei had said, gets easier. Leon glanced over. Now eager, almost boyish, what he must have looked like in Bucharest.
Leon scanned the crowd up ahead. Maybe a quarter of the way across now, Melnikov here soon. I think you may be surprised. Some teenage boys ran out of the stairway from the restaurant level below. Where he and Kay had had lunch, looking at minarets, Ed embarrassed to stumble on them. Years ago.
How many times had he walked across this bridge, feeling lucky to be here? Now, a shiver, he sensed everything was about to change. Even in this half-light things seemed sharper, as if they knew he’d have to remember them, be asked about them one day. And what would he say? I was outside. Listening. He glanced over at Alexei again. A head snapped on a bathroom floor because it was in the way. I’m not you. A wave of pa
nic rose in his throat, like bile. I’m not you. But everything now set in motion, Melnikov already somewhere in the sea of heads coming toward them. The simit man was back, partly blocking the view. Leon leaned a little to his left.
And saw the hat. The same floppy brim she’d worn at Tommy’s service, just in from Ankara. Not sure if it was proper to smoke in the street. Later, shy against the window light. Walking now with Melnikov. No. He kept moving. Kay raised her head, looking into the crowd. Looking for him? Or for some story Melnikov had made up to put her at ease? Part of him visible now, just over her right shoulder, as if she were a kind of shield to use before he threw her away. Someone in Ankara. The Russian desk. No. Leon hearing her voice, not the traffic, everything she had ever said, almost dizzy with it. Any of it real? None of it? Still coming toward them.
“What is it?” Alexei said, alert, a scent in the wind.
“Nothing,” Leon said, his voice hollow, emptied out.
Nothing. Wrong about everything. Walking, unable to stop. A life can change in a second and never be the same. A hand sliding away in the water. A shot fired on a quay. More voices, then Altan’s on the terrace. You have to think what’s important to you. Meaning something else. But what was? Not even a second, less, and everything changed forever. One more, and he would be them. Not an accidental killer. One of them. Twisting necks, throwing people away. Maybe he already was, the second already passed. Alexei not seeing them yet, wondering what kind of car it would be.
“No,” Leon said out loud, not even bothering to lower his voice.
Alexei turned to him, all attention, head up. A twig snapping in the woods.
“Don’t. Don’t look. Listen.” Quick, his mind racing. The others still coming. “It’s a trap. See the stairs?” Just ahead, no more than a minute at this pace. He took out the gun and slipped it into Alexei’s pocket, a thief’s movement. “Give me the duffel.” One hand over the other, then only Leon’s. “When I say, head for the stairs. After that—”
“Run,” Alexei said, finishing it.
“I’m sorry,” Leon said, the word not big enough.
“And you?”
But there was no time, not for an answer, anything. Almost at the stairs.
“Ready?” Leon said, lifting the bag. “Now.”
He pushed into the simit peddler, a shove with the duffel. The man pitched forward, teetering, the tray sliding off and spilling simits into the crowd, away from the stairs. Noises of surprise, everyone looking, then rushing to help the man, a general swarming. Leon looked up, Kay seeing him now, Melnikov coming from behind, his gaze to Leon’s right, past the commotion to the blur of Alexei running away. Alexei stopped, recognizing him, then looked back to Leon, mouth open, moving pieces. A second, just long enough for Melnikov to raise his gun and fire. A sharp, clanging noise, the bullet hitting iron, then shrieks, sounds of panic, the simits scattered again as people ran for cover. Another shot as Alexei disappeared down the stairs. Melnikov started running, pushing Kay aside, everyone scattering, ducking against the bridge railing. When he reached the stairs, he glanced over at Leon, panting, his face almost a snarl, before he plunged down.
From below Leon could hear screams, shouts of protest, people being shoved. He remembered the crowds shopping, lined up for the restaurants. Another trap. Why had he sent him there? But where else could he have gone? A head start, at least, a minute to save himself.
Melnikov’s men raced after him to the stairs. Leon swiveled his head. Gülün’s men, invisible before, were rushing down from the Karaköy side. Bottling him up. Leon imagined downstairs, women crouching, men yelling, Alexei running toward the freedom of Eminönü, seeing Melnikov’s men coming down. Frantic, back and forth, the stalls a maze. Batteries and shoes and toys, knocked to the floor as people were crushed against them. Another shot, the sound different.
The bridge was still emptying, people hurrying to the ends, afraid now of being caught in any cross fire. A tram, unaware, had begun to lumber across and a few people ran over to it, hanging onto the side. Kay stood, still looking at Leon, her face bewildered, jumping when she heard the shot below. What was she seeing now? Before? Wrong about everything.
She looked behind her, a quick check, then moved toward Leon, another woman following, not a Turk, western dress. Someone Leon knew but couldn’t recognize, out of place. And then, even more confused, he did. Dorothy Wheeler. Who knew where all the files were, what Frank must have found. Who’d been walking behind Kay, next to Melnikov. I think you may be surprised. More shots from below, coming from both ends, as if they were firing at each other.
Then suddenly Alexei was at the top of the far stairs, a backtracking maneuver, his head poking up like a rabbit out of its hole, no, a fox, eyes desperate and calculating, trying to outrun the hunt. He looked around, the road almost empty, traffic stopped at either end, and started back to Karaköy, sprinting, wiry arms pumping as he came toward them. Leon could almost feel the surge of adrenaline, faster. Not far, a minute of luck, that’s all. But the fox never won. Leon saw that the bridge was like a broad open field without cover, an illusion of escape. He hadn’t saved Alexei, he’d only given him a head start to be killed. But at least running, all anyone could really hope for, a running start.
“Leon.” Kay, heading toward him too. Dorothy had disappeared. “Thank God.”
“Stoi! Jianu!”
The blast of a shot, Melnikov firing from the top of the stairs, more screams from the railing. Alexei turned, looking back over his shoulder, catching a second shot in his chest. The force of it almost spun him around, his body slumping over, then forcing itself back up, the last ninth life, just enough strength to lift his gun. Hand shaking, trying to keep the shot from going wild. Leon pushed Kay to the ground, covering her.
“Stay down.” Sounding like someone else, hoarse.
Another crack in the air from his right. He heard Melnikov grunt, then yelp, surprised, and looked up. The eerie quiet of a moment of elastic time. Melnikov slowly dropped to his knees, a forest trunk falling, holding his side, Alexei still bent over, but starting to move, awkward steps, staggering to some invisible finish line. Then Melnikov fired, a miss this time, but the sound speeding everything up again. Alexei tried to run faster, but his feet splayed, tripping over themselves, until they finally stopped and he crumpled onto the road, the gun clattering away from him.
“Don’t move,” Leon said to Kay, then got up and ran to Alexei, blind to everything around him, Kay’s voice behind, men rushing toward him, the fishermen at the rail lifting their heads to watch.
“Jianu!” Melnikov called again, weaker this time.
On the stairs there was a clomping of feet, Gülün barking out some order.
Leon dropped next to Alexei. He was gulping for air, blood pouring across his upper chest.
“The gun,” he said, raspy, moving his eyes to the side. “Get the gun.”
Leon picked it up.
“Jianu!”
Leon looked behind. Melnikov getting up, holding his stomach.
“So,” Alexei said, still breathing in gasps.
“Hold on. We’ll get an ambulance for you,” Leon said. But who wanted him?
Alexei shook his head, then blinked at the gun.
“You do it. Not them.”
Leon froze, the gun suddenly cold in his hand.
Alexei nodded. “It’s time.”
Leon stared at him.
“My friend.” His eyes locked on Leon now. “Not them.”
Leon heard the scrape of a shoe on the road, Melnikov moving.
“What are you doing?” Kay said to Melnikov, somewhere in the distance.
“Do it,” Alexei said, another blink, some awful permission. He moved his hand, limp, covered with blood, to touch Leon’s arm, his eyes sure, so wide that Leon thought he could see to the back of them, who he was. “Please,” he said, his voice fainter.
Leon knelt, paralyzed. One second. Alexei looking at him as if there was no one el
se on the bridge. Please. Leon fired. Alexei’s body jerked, an electric jolt, his eyes even wider, then everything settled, quiet.
“Are you crazy?” Melnikov was yelling, close now, the bridge noisy again with men running.
Leon turned, as if he were protecting Alexei, already dead, with his own body. But Melnikov wasn’t aiming at Alexei, his other hand still clutching his side, bleeding, eyes rabid with fury.
“Durak,” he said, spitting it.
When the gun went off, Leon was too surprised to duck. Here? Like this? Why now? What was the point? Shooting him no more to Melnikov than stamping his foot. Then the fire exploded in his chest, literally the heat of flames, and some force, like a hand in his face, pushed him back, falling over.
“No!” Kay yelled, hitting Melnikov, but he was pointing the gun again, feet planted apart, rooted. She reached for it, trying to force it up from the ground. Melnikov knocked her away.
“Durak,” he said again to Leon, then looked up as more feet approached and raised the gun, a reflex. Some shouts in Turkish and then an explosion, so loud Leon thought it came from behind his ear. This time Melnikov didn’t make a sound, just looked down at the new hole in his tunic and dropped. Leon could make out Gülün kneeling by the body, gun in his hand. Something garbled in Turkish, orders.
“Leon,” Kay said, her face over him, her voice high-pitched, almost a keening. Kay only a shield. Dorothy. But what could she have known? Passed on? Why do it? Money? Maybe like Georg, lost in an idea she couldn’t let go. Now there’d be questions. Months of them, squeezing. A trial, if that was useful. Housecleaning. Protecting flanks. And then a new Melnikov would plant a new Dorothy and it would start again. Dorothy traded away. All Alexei was worth at the end. Leon heard more voices in the road, loud, then fainter, receding, the dusk suddenly getting darker.
And in some part of him, aware of what was happening, he was curious. Would it really be a white light, appearing from the end of a tunnel and enveloping him until he was part of it? What Alexei must just have seen. But it wasn’t light, it was faces. Hazy, like underexposed film, but moving closer, until they were right next to him. Phil in his cockpit, waving. Georg walking his dog in Yildiz. Mihai at a boat rail, the faint suggestion of a smile. And then Anna. In Lily’s garden that first spring, worried because they were happy. Before anything happened. Her face so close now he felt he could touch it. All the faces of his life. Then they went away.