He laughed in a mocking tone. “Atatürk International Airport. Welcome to your homeland, Madison.”
Twenty-eight
“We’re supposed to be going to Baghdad, to that address I gave you.”
“You’re complaining about a visit to the land of your birth?”
Lazarus chuckled at Ward’s remark. I told him to eat it. “What’s going on, Ward?”
“Just a short detour,” he replied. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Customs went smoothly. I cooperated because of the memory of Laurel’s voice, stretched thin with fear. Nor did I doubt Eris was capable of deploying the poison. I had to find the right opportunity and some way to make sure Laurel was protected before I tried to escape. That meant waiting to make my move when they were distracted or I was alone with one of them.
According to the airport clock we arrived at 10 P.M. At night through the car’s windows I could see little more than quick slices of the city. I thought I glimpsed the dome and exotic spiked minarets of Istanbul’s magnificent Blue Mosque, but that may have been just my imagination.
A couple of weeks before my ninth birthday, Samuel had written to say that he’d be leaving his work site in Mosul to spend a few weeks in Turkey. I pleaded with him to let me join him. Evelyn warned me not to get my hopes up, but, as a surprise to us both, he said yes, I could come. She bought me a book filled with pictures of Turkey and I pored over it again and again until I swear I had all the words memorized. I still remember the image of the green pools of Hierapolis, white marble Roman columns submerged beneath the pond surfaces like watery ghosts from a dim past. Days before I was due to fly over, Samuel wired to say he’d had a change of plans. I felt as though he’d slammed a door in my face. It took me months to recover from the disappointment.
That experience had played a major role in my lack of interest in my birthplace. From then on, it meant little more to me than a line or so on my naturalized American citizenship papers. Added to that was the sour aftertaste of the story I’d been told about the relatives who’d abandoned me. So the burst of pride I felt at seeing Istanbul for the first time, even as a blurred cityscape through a car window, caught me by surprise. And now my first reunion with the country was marred by its brutal circumstances.
The Mercedes eventually pulled up in front of an exceptionally beautiful building of ivory limestone, its facade richly ornamented with sculpture and decorative flourishes.
“The Grand Hotel de Londres,” Ward announced. “We’re stopping here.”
One step into the hotel transported us back to the previous century—elaborate leaded-crystal chandeliers, Victorian wallpaper, golden art deco statuettes poised on either side of a grand staircase. Once a rich burgundy, the velvet upholstery of the furnishings had faded with time.
Ward gave the room a quick once-over when we entered the lounge, glanced at his watch, and barked at Eris, “I don’t see our contacts. I thought they were supposed to meet us here.”
“They’ll show. Must have been held up by the traffic or something,” she said.
“We’re paying them enough to be on time,” Ward snapped. “Let’s get a table then—I’m starving.”
He went over to the bar while we settled into chairs. I saw him talk to the bartender and hand over a sheaf of bills. The room maintained the Victorian theme, so much so that it could double for an English colonial movie set. Live parrots fluffing their brilliant chartreuse feathers swung in bamboo cages. Every now and then the birds would let out a squawk, but whatever they had to say, it wasn’t in English. I half expected to see Graham Greene’s Myatt from Stamboul Train perched on a bar stool, sampling a gin and tonic.
Ward’s mood had improved when he returned. The expansive personality of the jovial professor was back. I thought it a talent of his, this ability to flip so quickly out of the dark side where his natural personality lay. “Our contact phoned the hotel. He’ll be here soon. I was told it isn’t customary to eat in the bar but I managed to persuade the bartender. I ordered us some food and drinks.”
“We’re staying here tonight?”
“No. Just here for a while then we’re off. It’ll take five hours to reach our destination.”
“Afyon—that town you mentioned?”
“North of it.” The bartender interrupted with a tray of drinks and served Ward first instead of Eris. He almost bowed in deference, appreciative no doubt of the very large tip Ward must have passed his way. I played with the idea of getting a message to the New York police through him but doubted I’d manage to talk with him alone.
Ward decided to show off, still in full professor mode. “The hotel has one of the best views of the Golden Horn in the city. It’s off the beaten path now, which is why I like coming here. This place was built in 1892, soon after the Orient Express line came to Istanbul. The trains brought a new wave of invaders, English tourists in search of Near East mystique. Agatha Christie wrote Murder on the Orient Express at the Pera Palace Hotel just down the street, and in the 1920s Ernest Hemingway sat in this very bar.”
“It seems a bit genteel here for Hemingway. I remember reading that in China he drank wine from a jar with eight snakes in it.” I enjoyed the look of irritation on Ward’s face after I butted in.
Two men appeared in the entrance. Eris smiled, with a touch of relief I thought, and beckoned to them. I guessed one was somewhere in his thirties; the other, with a peppering of gray in his dark hair, close to fifty. They wore casual suits, no ties, and sunglasses, even though it was long past sunset. The younger guy had a gold watch with a heavy linked band. They looked as though they’d just stepped out of Godfather III.
Ward made a show of offering them drinks, which they declined. Eris didn’t bother with introductions, or at least it seemed that way because she launched into a short speech in what I gathered was Turkish. When she finished, the gray-haired man glanced at Ward and nodded.
“Ask how long ago it was when they saw him,” Ward said to Eris.
She translated, got an answer, and said, “Last night at the tomb. Mazare”—she indicated the older man—“confirmed he’s still in the area.”
Who were they talking about—Tomas? He’d told me the treasure originally came from Anatolia, and we knew there was a Phrygian connection, but I couldn’t believe they’d find anything in Turkey. Ashurbanipal’s plunder was supposed to have been removed to Assyria thousands of years ago. I couldn’t be certain, though, that Tomas had told me the truth.
“Where exactly are we going then? I don’t want to head off on some wild goose chase,” Ward said.
Eris spoke to the older man. He got out his cellphone and placed a call, speaking rapidly in Turkish, and spoke to Eris again.
“He’s in one of two places,” Eris said, “the villages of Yazilikaya or Ayazinköyu. Mazare has watchers in both locations. They think he’s holed up somewhere for the night and won’t make a move until morning. If he tries to leave they’ll keep him captive until you arrive.”
Ward’s face reddened in annoyance at the vagueness of the answer and at having to cede control to Eris, who had command of the language.
“You’re referring to Tomas Zakar?” I directed this to Ward.
He hesitated then decided to give me the truth. “He’s here, not in
Iraq as you believed. Thought he could put one over on us I guess.” I still had strong doubts about this but kept them to myself. The food arrived. A couple of appetizers, one served with cacik, a yogurt dip, along with stuffed eggplant, pilav, and doner kebab, a phenomenally tasty grilled lamb dish. We raced through the meal, as Ward was anxious to get away.
Back in the car I was once again stuck in the middle between Eris and Lazarus. Our original driver had disappeared and Mazare took the wheel, pushing the car to top speed. His companion followed behind in a blue Ford Econoline van. It would never keep up with our Merc, I thought.
I hated the scent of Eris’s spicy perfume and the unpleasant proximity of the jester’s hard
, angular form. I remained wide awake for the entire ride despite the late hour, my internal clock thoroughly blown from the flight.
Through the front windshield I could see light beginning to filter through the eastern sky with the approach of dawn. We were in hilly country—reddish ground, tufts of dark green scrub, and vegetation punctuated by ravines and occasional stretches of fruit orchards and farms. I felt another tug at my heart. What I wouldn’t give to have the freedom to get to know the country.
I kept my eye out for road signs, trying to get a sense of where we were headed. At one point we skirted a major city, Eski˛sehir, then continued east on the E90 highway. I realized soon after that we’d lost the van. As we approached a town about twenty minutes later, our driver turned around and spoke to Eris. “We’ve reached Çifteler,” she said to the rest of us. “We turn here.”
We veered off to the right onto a one-lane paved road until we reached a settlement. The car jerked to a halt, and Mazare pointed to a clutch of buildings ahead. “Yazilikaya,” he said. We got out of the car.
“Which way?” Ward asked testily. Mazare must have understood some English because he again pointed ahead. The sight took my breath away. A gently sloping hill rose before us, dotted with rustic, tile-roofed houses and outbuildings. Behind them reared a high ridge of cliffs made up of rock towers, soft volcanic stone shaped by wind and water over millennia into gigantic sculptures. Centered in the ridge and rising almost the full height of the cliffs, at least sixty feet, a magnificent tomb face had been carved into the rock. It took the form of a simple rectangle with a peaked roofline. The rising sun shone directly on its surface, the pink tones of the stone dazzling my eyes. With the special effects of the morning light and the contrast between the tomb and the rough surrounding stone, it looked as though a magic doorway had just appeared on the cliff face.
We circumvented the village, the few people about at this hour paying us no heed. I assumed they’d long grown used to tourists. As we got closer I could see the structure was covered with intricate geometric designs and at its base was a deep niche. There was only this facade; the interior had never been completed.
Ward couldn’t resist stopping in front of it. “The tomb of Cybele,” he said, indicating a series of markings. “This is one of the best examples of Phrygian writing to be found.” He turned to me. “You know the story of Cybele?”
“Some of it,” I said, remembering what Phillip Anthony had told Laurel and me.
“She was a sister goddess to Ishtar, and like her, an emblem of fertility and blood lust. In a jealous rage Cybele slaughtered the woman her lover Attis desired. Attis severed his own genitals with a sharp flint in despair.” Ward smiled. “Not a lady you’d want to tangle with.”
We left the monument behind and walked toward a staircase hewn into the rock face. Eris walked beside Mazare, speaking quickly to him. Lazarus positioned himself at the rear of our little delegation. We reached the staircase and began to ascend. The stairs were uneven, crumbling in many places, and no handrails had been provided. Corrugated walls of rock towers hemmed us in on either side, making the path seem like a cathedral aisle. The scene resembled some wild, inspired Gaudi fantasy.
Even this early in the morning the heat was sweltering and Ward, the least agile of us, huffed and puffed. I’d taken a position directly behind him and noticed his legs shaking, either because of the physical effort or, more likely, fear of the height. Every so often a gap in the rock walls would open, the path dropping away sharply. One little push, that’s all it would take and he’d plummet over the side. I could scramble down after him, get his phone, and try to run. Maybe. But Eris and Lazarus would be after me like a pack of dogs.
The stairs led to a natural archway in the cliff and through it shone a circle of azure sky. When we emerged out the other side we found ourselves on the flat crest of the ridge. Ruins of an acropolis stretched before us. Stone altars and strange robed figures with conical hats had been carved in relief out of the rock face. A faint wind ruffled my hair. I was awestruck by the enchantment of the place.
Our guide waved us over and crouched beside another section of cliff edge. Eris bent down and peered over. “There’s a ledge jutting out from another tomb entrance about thirty feet down. Lazarus and I can check it out.”
Ward flicked a glance my way and said, “No. One of you has to stay with me.”
I swore silently under my breath. For a fraction of a second I’d hoped the group would divide and I’d be left alone with him.
We watched as Eris picked her way down. With her strong, athletic body it took her no time at all to reach the extension of rock. As she stepped on the platform the guide’s phone rang. He had a short, terse-sounding conversation then yelled down to Eris.
She swore and began climbing back. “Mazare’s told me they’ve just sighted Tomas at the other village,” she shouted up to us.
Ward rounded on Mazare and hurled a series of accusations at him, punctuated by some choice obscenities. The guide spit words back at him in Turkish.
“I’m getting sick of this.” Ward glared at Eris when she reached the top. He looked ready to hit her. “They told us Zakar was here.”
She’d had enough and laid right back into him. “What he actually said was Tomas had been seen here last night. Look at this land—it’s full of caves and twisted rock formations; Tomas could easily have slipped away. At least they’ve found him again. Dump your tantrums and focus on us getting over there before we miss him a second time.”
Seeing the sense of this, Ward swallowed his rage and we hurried back to the cars.
Mazare drove again. The big Merc tore along unpaved roads, rocks and grit slamming into the undercarriage, the vehicle swinging wildly and spraying dirt at the turns. Soon we arrived at another village much like the one we’d just left. The van had somehow made it here before us. It was parked, empty, at the side of the road. Eris, Ward, and our guide huddled together for a few minutes, talking among themselves.
This area too was peppered with cliffs and strange volcanic rock chimneys. Holes and shrines had been hollowed out in a number of places. I assumed we’d head straight for the cliffs, but instead we took a steep, winding path of cobblestones running through the village. As we turned a corner a massive shadow darkened our path. Shim stepped out of a recess between two buildings. Behind him was the man who’d accompanied Mazare. He’d gone somewhere to pick up Shim. I cursed. It had just become that much harder for me to get away. Six of them now against one of me.
We walked to one of the houses on the outskirts of the village. The two-story home, painted a bright canary yellow, was built into the soaring rock face behind it and surrounded on its other three sides by a six-foot-high wall. An abundance of flowering vines spilled over the top. Our guide banged on a wooden door built into the wall and called out. A few minutes later we heard steps scraping toward us and the door unlocking. It swung open to reveal an elderly white-haired man who gave us a broad, warm smile. He welcomed us in Turkish and held the door as we entered. The courtyard we passed through was cool, shaded by fruit trees; I could hear the sound of a fountain somewhere.
When Shim passed by him as we went into his home, the old man took a good look and then cowered and threw his hands up, screeching something. Fear darted from his eyes.
“He doesn’t want Shim in here,” Eris told us. “Bringer of bad luck into the house.”
“Ask him if he wants our money or not.” Ward pulled out his wallet, peeled off a couple of hundred-dollar bills. He’d undone the top buttons of his shirt and was perspiring profusely. He was moments away from another blow-up.
Mazare took the old man aside and spoke to him quietly, then motioned for Ward to hand over the money. Our host grabbed the bills and hurried off. “Fucking creep,” Lazarus said.
Eris was closest to the door. The elderly man reached for the handle, turned it. Eris moved nearer to him. I assumed she was going to bid him goodbye in Turkish. He looked up at her, s
miling at the pretty woman, and began to edge the door open. Grasping something between her thumb and forefinger, she made a rapid movement, appearing to clutch his neck in an odd gesture of farewell. A startled look flared in his eyes. Then he clasped his neck and tried to say something. He dragged in one deep breath and didn’t fall immediately but seemed to fold into himself, putting one hand out to stop the impact with the floor. The first spasm of his body hit. His legs jerked out. I think he bit his tongue. The seizures came fast then, one on top of the other.
Twenty-nine
Shim smashed me against the wall when I tried to run over to help the old man. Mazare was shouting. I didn’t need to understand Turkish to read the anger in his voice.
“Tell Mazare to calm down, Eris,” Ward said.
When Shim released me Lazarus and Eris had their pistols out.
Mazare and his companion fixed the group of us with a hostile glare. Ward ignored them and rummaged in a bag and pulled out jacklights.
I was panting with fury. “Why kill the man?” I yelled. “You people are pigs.”
“The minute he’d left with his money, half the village would know we were here.”
“You murdered him for no reason. If Tomas is in this house he’s being damn quiet about it.”
“You’ve heard of Cappadocia?” Ward asked. “You know about the underground cities there, the ancient rooms and halls that descend eight stories under the earth?”
“What about them? We’re far away from there.”
“There’s a network like it here, although much smaller in size. Tomas has located a tomb by reading the engraving correctly. We can get to it through the cellar of this house.”
I almost laughed in disbelief but caught myself in time. If Ward wanted to think he’d find some treasure trove underneath us he was welcome to his fantasy. “What’s your source for this?” I asked him.
Ward jerked his hand in Mazare’s direction. “He’s a confederate of Tomas’s. He approached us through an intermediary, one of Eris’s trusted contacts. The tomb Tomas has located here has been sealed off since the fall of the Phrygian empire.”
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