Liar's Candle

by August Thomas

  “When you said local partners, I didn’t think you meant the fucking Hashashin!”

  “If you’re that naïve Robert, I got an iceberg in Texas to sell you. Great price. And remember: location, location, location.”

  “Christina, so help me—”

  “You closed your eyes because you wanted to, Mr. Secretary. In any event, it’s all resolved now.”

  “You promised me what we were doing would never endanger American lives. You promised me it was secure!”

  “Situations evolve.”

  “You gave money to the Hashashin! How the fuck did you not see this coming?”

  “Let’s keep it clean, Mr. Secretary.” Christina tears open a second packet of Splenda. “None of this is my fault. I’d have thought Melek would have stronger security. Everybody gets a mole once in a while, but seriously—Kurdish peace activists? And, I may add, you gave us no indication that your cousin was quite so volatile.”

  “I’m sorry, do you people not run clearances? Isn’t this what the INSIDER THREAT program is supposed to catch? I haven’t even seen Jack for—God, eight years? We don’t even do Christmas cards. He’s my fuckup little cousin! He was always a fuckup. When he was fifteen, he got so high he burned down our grandfather’s summer house.”

  “Please spare me the family reminiscences.”

  “Why the hell was he even in on this at all?”

  “Obviously that situation wasn’t anticipated.”

  “Why wasn’t it anticipated?”

  “Mr. Secretary, hindsight is always 20/20.”

  Winthrop says through his perfect teeth, “Jack claims he has hard proof of our involvement in arming the Hashashin.”

  Winthrop’s lack of control irritates Christina. “I got the message, too, Robert.”

  “Is it possible?” Winthrop’s voice is a ragged whisper.

  “What do you want me to say, Robert? You want me to lie to you?”

  “My career.” Winthrop’s breathing is uneven. “I was supposed to run. What am I going to tell my wife?”

  “Stop being emotional. Focus on what’s important.”

  “If this gets out . . .”

  “Robert. You’ve got to keep a 10000-foot view. What we’re doing is in the national interest. We all condemn the embassy bombing. But at least it will enrich government spending on security—rev people up. After this NATO Summit, you’ll be the Secretary of State who brought peace to Syria and made America look strong again in the aftermath of a devastating attack. And when you run, it’ll be my honor to accept your appointment as Director.”

  “On your advice. We gave. U.S. taxpayer–funded weapons. To a pack of terrorists. Who used the money. To blow up our Embassy. At the Fourth of July party!”

  “In light of the recent leak, Robert, I question the wisdom of being quite so explicit, even on a secure line.”

  “You promised we could control them!”

  “Well, thanks to Jack’s little Mor Samuel stunt, our partners are all dead. So at least it’s a clean break. Now the only unstable element remaining is Jack.”

  “Well, aren’t you the little optimist.”

  “There’s no need for that kind of tone, Robert.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “You need to focus on the NATO Summit. It’s our best chance to salvage the peace process. Just do your job, and let me do mine.”

  “And what about Jack?”

  “I’m taking care of it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Robert. You’re asking questions you don’t want answers to.”

  “The Summit starts tonight!” Winthrop’s voice is the bitterest she’s ever heard it. “If I’m going to negotiate, at least I need to know who’s pulling my strings.”

  “It should be over by then.”

  He takes a deep breath. “What if it’s not?”

  “Then we work around it.”

  “Did you hear what he wants?” Winthrop’s whisper barely scratches through the connection. “A consulting contract for every Agency and DOS project that goes through Turkey? We’re talking tens of millions of taxpayer dollars. And it’s not even the money. He’ll have us by the short hairs for the rest of our lives! Christina, in three years, if I run—”

  “When you run. Like I said, I’ll take care of it. With Palamut’s collaboration, we’ve rolled up Eylo overnight. So as soon as we get Jack’s copy, we’re safe.”

  “If we get it.”

  “He’s on his own, Robert. Every trick he knows, we taught him. It shouldn’t be too hard.”

  40

  * * *

  SURROUNDED

  SULTANBEYLI SUBURB, ASIAN SIDE OF ISTANBUL

  19:12 LOCAL TIME

  “We’re making great time,” Sully chirps from the tour-bus speakers. “We’re entering the outskirts of Istanbul now. In about half an hour we arrive at in the neighborhood of Kadıköy, on the Asian side. We’ll stop for a traditional Anatolian feast at Çiya and then take the ferry across to our hotel in the old city!”

  “Chia?” One of the trio of thirtysomething redheaded sisters looks up from her phone. “Like, superfoods?”

  “Hey.” Connor glances over at Penny in the seat beside him in the third row of the bus. Her knees are pulled up to her chest. Her eyes never leave the shifting cityscape. She’s been quiet a long time, fingers tight around a paper sickbag. “You doing a little better?”

  Penny takes a shuddering breath.

  “Quit beating yourself up.” Connor holds up the plastic bag of evil eye bracelets. “Thanks to this—thanks to you—we have enough to tell the world. If we can get you to the NATO Summit, we can fix this.”

  “What happens when Zach realizes the bracelet I gave him was a fake?”

  “Let’s focus on the things we can control.”

  “You need to steal another phone,” says Penny. “If we get word out we’re still alive . . .”

  “One email, one post, one anything, and Christina will know exactly where we are.”

  “She can’t cover up everything. Not if enough people know!”

  “If she’s desperate enough to be using Reapers, we’d still be dead. And so would everyone else on this bus.”

  Penny holds her head in her hands. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’ll be in Kadıköy at seven. The NATO Summit keynote starts at eight forty-five. I say we go directly there. Istanbul’s got, what, fifteen million people? The odds are in our favor, as long as we keep our profile low.”

  “Even if we make it to the Summit, how on earth are we going to make it inside? Palamut’s Presidential Guard is going to be there. The Turkish military. American Diplomatic Security—”

  “The Kempinski’s a hotel, not a government facility. There’s got to be a back way in. Have you been there before?”

  “I’ve never even been to Istanbul, except to change planes on the way to Ankara. Ayla and I were supposed to stay here this whole weekend for the Summit. We’d planned out everything. Hagia Sophia, the cisterns from that James Bond movie, the Blue Mosque. Ayla said her mom used to take her to this wonderful little teahouse behind Topkapı Palace, where the old sultans’ rose garden used to be. . . .”

  “Come here.” Connor pulls her into a hug.

  “I only knew her for six weeks.” Tears are streaking down Penny’s face into his shirt. “How can I miss her so much?”

  “Nobody is ever made less by caring.”

  “It’s my fault.” Penny squeezes her eyes shut. “If I hadn’t trusted Zach—”

  “If I hadn’t trusted Christina, Faruk would probably still be alive.”

  “But that wasn’t your fault!”

  “And this isn’t yours.”

  “Zach must have known about the Embassy attack,” she whispers. “He must have helped the Hashashin plan it. . . .”

  “He’ll go to jail,” says Connor with conviction. “Christina, too.”

  “What about the scandal? Don’t your employe
rs prefer to sweep the bad stuff under the rug?”

  “Once the truth’s out, it’s out.” Connor’s pale eyes are bright. “When you walk into the main lobby where I work, there’s a quote from the New Testament carved into the wall: ‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’ We make plenty of stupid mistakes. But I believe in our country. I believe in our ideals. And we’ve got to be better than that.”

  They are quiet together for a while. Against all logic, Penny feels a deep, sheltering peace.

  “Connor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What were you saying, when we jumped out of the helicopter?”

  He laughs. “Pierrepont Sands, Pierrepont Sands, Pierrepont Sands. It’s a beach in the middle of nowhere, South Carolina. Alex and I drive down there sometimes. His parents have a little shack in the woods, a mile from the beach—really a shack, just a generator for the lights. There are pelicans and loggerhead turtles, and the best sunsets you ever saw. It’s where I go in my head when things get really bad.”

  She smiles. “To the turtles.”

  The microphone clicks back to life. Sully’s ballooning enthusiasm fills the bus. “We are now approaching Kadıköy! We learned what köy means—does anyone remember?”

  “ ‘Village’!” comes the prompt reply.

  “Penny.” Connor’s face is tense. “Do you see those two black SUVs?”

  Penny’s heart plummets.

  “One has been following us for a couple minutes. I wasn’t sure before, but another one just pulled up behind us.”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Reid! And Kadıköy means the ‘village of the judge’!”

  Penny whispers, “Those are Turkish government plates.”

  Connor straightens his collar. “Looks like we’ve got a bigger problem than Mr. Robson.”

  Penny struggles to keep calm. “How could Melek possibly know where we are?”

  “Gotta be Zach. Who else could it be?”

  “Known to the ancients as Chalcedon, Kadıköy was founded before Byzantium itself, over on the European side. The first human settlement here was over three thousand years ago!”

  “Back when I was growing up,” crows Mr. George.

  “The shoppers in our group—you know who you are—will love it,” continues Sully. “Kadıköy has one of Istanbul’s best street markets!”

  Penny digs into the plastic bag. “If it’s Zach, he’ll expect me to have the evil eye.” She leans down and clips a decoy bracelet around her right ankle.

  “An anklet?” says Connor drily. “Isn’t that a little tacky?”

  She sits up and meets his eyes. “You’ve got to take the real one.” She pulls it out of the bag. It’s easy to identify—the only one with a stained, fraying cord.

  “And how do we keep Robson from noticing my new bling?”

  Carefully, Penny unwraps the bandages at the base of his wounded hand. She fastens the real evil eye around his wrist and rewraps the bandages.

  The soundtrack of normalcy fills the bus: excited chatter, hushed predinner squabbles, the rustling of food wrappers and empty water bottles, Sully’s patter.

  At Fenerbahçe Stadium the tour bus turns off the Istanbul ring road.

  “Look at those big black cars,” exclaims Mrs. Cochrane.

  Mrs. Reid has an explanation at the ready. “It must be something to do with the NATO conference. I read that Robert Winthrop is giving the keynote. He spoke at our library benefit, when he was first elected to Congress. Such a charming young man, really presidential . . .”

  The SUVs flank the bus fore and aft.

  Closing in on them.

  Penny leans back into the plush of the bus seat. Panic slides in, swift and gentle as a needle.

  Sully frowns. He stoops to whisper to the driver.

  “We’re putting everyone in danger.” Penny turns to Connor. “It’s me they want. If I get out first and distract them, you can run. Just get to the NATO Summit, and tell them—”

  Connor shakes his head. “We’re in this together.”

  As the tour bus inches under the squat overpass and down Söğütlü Çeşme Avenue, Penny tunnels through thickening panic. Söğütlü çeşme. The fountain with willows. Boxy stores and residential blocks of stained concrete rise several stories high on either side; fast-food chains and offices. Hard to imagine swaying willow branches and icy water bubbling up through the rock.

  Flanked by the black SUVs, the tour bus pulls out into the wide square that abuts the Bosphorus. The blue water is hardly visible past the huge spread of asphalt, which is jammed with old minibuses and city buses bound for every corner of this rambling megalopolis. Beyond the parking lot, a low ferry terminal is just visible.

  The bus wheezes to a halt. The black SUVs swerve around it.

  “What on earth—” exclaims Mrs. Cochrane.

  “Keep calm, ladies and gentlemen!” urges Sully. “Do not be alarmed—they are police. There is no reason to panic.”

  “We’ll never make it,” says Penny.

  Connor frantically scans the scene. “If we can just get as far the crowd, blend in—”

  “How?”

  Four Kevlar-vested members of Palamut’s Presidential Guard step up to the bus, brandishing machine guns.

  Penny jumps to her feet. “Listen, everyone,” she shouts. “I’m Penny Kessler. The”— she winces—“girl with the flag. From the U.S. Embassy.” She grabs Connor’s arm. “My friend works for the American government. The Turkish police want to kill us. You’ve got to help us. Please.”

  Mrs. Cochrane holds out her hand. “It’s all right, dear. You’re—upset—”

  “I’m not crazy! Don’t any of you recognize me?” Penny turns to Sully in desperation. “Doğru söylüyorum! I’m telling the truth!”

  “Hay Allah.” Sully stares at her.

  Palamut’s Presidential Guards scream to open the bus.

  “Just let us off,” says Connor. “They won’t hurt any of you!”

  Sully turns to the driver. “Open the door!”

  The door wheezes open.

  Penny grips Connor’s left hand in hers as they step down onto the asphalt.

  A woman’s shriek pierces the parking lot, followed by gunshots.

  The Presidential Guards turn around.

  A motorcycle barrels straight toward the tour bus, scattering the screaming crowd. The rider is wearing a black helmet, visor down, and a bulky black vest.

  “TERÖRIST VAR! TERÖRIST!”

  41

  * * *

  LUCKY

  A widening black circle of empty asphalt spreads around the motorcycle. The crowd pulls back in a stumbling, frightened tide. One peddler selling köfte meatballs off a little charcoal grill jumps up so fast he knocks the coals onto the dry grass of the median, which catches fire.

  The four Presidential Guards advance cautiously.

  “Why don’t they shoot him?” cries Mrs. Cochrane.

  “He’s wearing a suicide vest!” Mrs. Reid screams. “If they shoot him, he might blow up the whole square!”

  “That bastard.” Connor pulls his hand free, grabs the large plastic watercooler from the front of the bus, and runs directly toward the motorcycle.

  Two more shots.

  “Connor! No!” Penny tears after him. “Connor!”

  Not fast enough.

  “Everybody back!” Connor’s almost there.

  The rider fires at him.

  Misses.

  Connor hurls the watercooler under the motorcycle’s front wheel. The motorcycle screams a wild half circle, straight into the smoldering dry grass of the median, throwing the rider across the asphalt.

  No explosion.

  The Presidential Guards head in.

  But the rider has one more shot in his gun.

  Just as the Presidential Guards approach the motorcycle on the burning median, he fires. Straight at the motorcycle’s fuel tank. For an instant, there’s nothing but the trickle of gasoline.
>
  Then the motorcycle explodes, knocking the guards to the ground. Connor tackles the rider, pinning him to the asphalt. He pulls off the rider’s helmet.

  The rider grabs Connor’s wounded hand and twists. As Connor doubles up, the rider sits up and smashes him in the jaw. The rider’s eyes fix on Penny.

  Zach.

  She turns and bolts. Zach races after her, and the guards follow Zach.

  Penny pounds past abandoned minibuses and screaming stragglers. She doesn’t dare look behind.

  She drops to the ground and rolls under a parked minibus. Gasoline fumes make her choke. Zach shucks off the vest and dives in after her. Penny drags herself out the other side. The asphalt claws into her palms as she springs up. She races out along the waterside promenade, up to the old white ferry terminal.

  The ferrymen are unlooping the snake-thick rope that ties the lumbering commuter ferry to the dock.

  The vest didn’t blow up when Zach hit the asphalt.

  Sometimes a black vest in summertime is only a black vest.

  Penny’s legs burn as she runs. Fresh blood is running down her asphalt-ripped palms.

  She has to get Zach as far as possible away from Connor. From the real evil eye.

  She summons every last fragment of strength and races into the ferry terminal. The bomb panic has spread. People are struggling for the exits. Penny hoists herself over the metal turnstile and scrambles toward the dock.

  “Penny!” Zach’s deep voice cuts through the screaming. “Penny, stop!”

  Angry shouts chase her through the high, white-plastered hall of the ferry terminal’s old waiting room.

  Stop!

  Where are you going?

  She races out the high doors and along the salt-worn concrete of the dock, against the brisk damp breeze off the water.

  The ferrymen are pulling away the two parallel gangways. Penny’s feet skid on the wet, ribbed-steel plank as she scrambles onto the ship. Surprised faces turn to her as she lands hard on the deck.

  “Are you all right?”

  She pushes herself up. “I’m fine—”

  “Late for dinner?” joshes a father, with a tiny pigtailed girl on his shoulders.

  Penny freezes.