Blue Voyage

by Diana Renn

  He studied the address. “Istiklal Caddesi? This is the main street in the neighborhood called Beyolu,” he said. He handed the scrap of paper back to me, took a phone out of his pocket and typed something, while I shook my head in disbelief. Clearly I’d wanted to make a call a moment ago; why hadn’t he offered his phone?

  Then Nazif showed me a map on the screen. “This. It is a mostly touristic place. People like to climb the Galata Tower and visit Taksim Square. Some famous churches and monasteries are also there.”

  “Can you search for the exact address for me?”

  He ran a Google search, but nothing came up. A little circle spun endlessly on the screen.

  “We have weak Wi-Fi signal here in this part of the building,” he explained. “Maybe you will have better luck in the lobby.”

  “Okay. Can I use your phone down there?” I asked, reaching for it. My hand accidentally brushed his. It felt incredibly soft.

  He practically recoiled from me, stumbling backward. “My father needs me downstairs right away,” he mumbled. “We have these Dutch guests who are having a difficulty, and—”

  “Fine. Never mind.” I didn’t know why Nazif was allergic to me, but I didn’t have time to figure it out now or even to be annoyed by it.

  I needed more details about that address, and fast.

  20

  While Nazif went downstairs in the rickety elevator, I sped four floors down the carpeted stairs to the lobby. Mustafa was there, trying to pacify three Dutch travelers who were upset about a leaky pipe in their room. One of the guests was on the public computer, threatening to find another hotel if the problem did not get resolved immediately. I hung back near the kitchen, pretending to be fascinated by some old musical instruments on the walls. I became an expert on the design of the Turkish oud, memorizing its strings and contours.

  The moment Mustafa went with the guests to inspect the pipe, I hurried over to the area with the low couch and the computer. There were two narrow windows on either side of the front door, covered by heavy wood blinds. Most of the light in the lobby came from the windows overlooking the back patio and garden. I peered out between the wooden slats and could see the plate and tile shop across the street. Lazar and Vasil weren’t there, but that didn’t make me breathe easier. They’d identified my aunt’s hotel as the place where I was staying, which meant they could come back anytime. Before I looked up that address from Sage’s note again, I had to tell Inspector Lale these creeps were in town.

  I reached over the front desk and picked up the phone. But I hesitated as my hand hovered over the keypad. I thought about all the times I’d hidden from the police at malls. I’d dived into bushes, escaping the cops who busted up my friends’ parties. I remembered dreading the sound of a phone ringing at home, wondering if it was someone calling my parents to haul me into the station. And now I was actually reaching out to the police, in a foreign country. I was reporting information, yes, but I was also inviting questioning.

  Still, I had to let someone official know that these two thugs were outside my aunt’s hotel.

  I took a deep breath and called the mobile phone number on Inspector Lale’s card.

  “Alo,” said a woman’s voice.

  “H-h-hello?” I stammered. “Is this Inspector Lale?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Is this Zan?” she added, almost eagerly, it seemed.

  “Yes! How did you know?”

  “The caller ID says Mavi Konak Hotel.”

  “Oh.”

  “So. Did you think of anything else you want to tell me? Or do you have any news?”

  “Not about Sage,” I said. “But I saw someone. Two people. Outside the hotel.” I took a deep breath, and quickly told her about seeing Lazar and Vasil.

  “I’m not surprised to hear they’re in Istanbul,” she said. “We ran a check on the Anilar to try to get information about them. Unfortunately, the Anilar is not properly registered, which means that American couple, the Clarksons, fell for some kind of scam.”

  My heart thudded. The Anilar was also a lie!

  “There are unfortunately some yachts in the harbor offering unlicensed cruises for under-the-table cash,” Inspector Lale went on. “So because the Anilar is not officially registered, we haven’t been able to reach the captain or any other crew. The coast guard is looking for the boat now. It seems to have gone off the radar.”

  “Oh my God. Did you find Ron and Judy Clarkson?” I asked.

  “We did. They’re safe, staying at a hotel in Istanbul,” she said. “I intend to meet with them in a couple of days when I get back to town.”

  I breathed a long sigh of relief.

  “They told me the first mate on their cruise hired the security for them,” Inspector Lale continued, “but they were not sure of the name of the firm. They were horrified when we told them the firm could be a scam, since the cruise itself was not a legal charter.”

  “So Lazar and Vasil are definitely not security guards,” I concluded.

  “Oh, no. They could be,” she corrected. “It will just take us some time to be sure. The number of private security guards in Turkey outnumbers armies in some countries. We have more than two hundred thousand guards who have gone through some kind of training. And well over one thousand security firms. We are contacting all of them, but as you can imagine, this will take some time.”

  “So what should I do about these guys?” I asked, a note of fear creeping into my voice. “Whether or not they’re really security guards, do you think they’re looking for Sage at our hotel, and maybe the figurines, too? Will they come back?”

  “It sounds to me like they’re casing the place, waiting to see who comes out,” she said. “Since they haven’t gone inside. But it’s worth paying attention to.”

  “Did you manage to contact her host family?” I said.

  “No. The school said she lived on campus in a dormitory, not with a host family.”

  Great. One more lie.

  “Listen, Zan, I’m detained here on the coast for two more days,” she went on, suddenly sounding rushed. “But I’ll send some of my team in Istanbul to inspect your area right away, undercover, and to keep a close eye on your hotel.”

  “Thank you.” I was so glad I’d pushed past my fear of the police and called her. I was about to tell her about the address I’d found in the Freya Stark book, but she continued talking.

  “In the meantime, please don’t go out alone,” she urged. “Stay away from those men if you see them. And call me at this number again—not the Istanbul police—if they reappear. This is very important.”

  “Is it because of what you said this morning? That some police are corrupt?”

  “Partly that, yes. I don’t want you taking any chances. But also because not everyone in the force takes me seriously. There aren’t many women in my position within the national police—or any police department here. I can’t take the chance that information might fall into the wrong hands and be used to take me down. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Got it. I’ll call you,” I promised.

  “Thank you, Zan. You’ve been a big help. Every bit of information brings me closer to shutting down this smuggling ring, and if these men are involved, believe me, I will get to them.”

  Finally, I had done something right. But I still had Sage to find. I folded up the receipt with the address and put it in my pocket. If there was any chance I could get in touch with her first, on my own, I had to try. And if this address wasn’t for a host family, what was it for?

  After I hung up the phone, I faced the computer terminal . . . and froze. Everything on the screen was in Turkish. I finally managed to bring up a search engine in English. I typed the address I’d found on Sage’s makeshift bookmark and it brought up a picture of a gray stone building sandwiched between two more modern ones. I enlarged the image and saw b
ars over the windows. Wrought-iron gates with elaborate scrolling covered the set of double wooden doors. On the wall to the right of the doors was a plaque, which I could just make out:

  THE LYCIAN SOCIETY

  I felt gut-kicked by disappointment. This wasn’t Sage’s host family’s house, or a friend’s house. It was the company that had arranged the Blue Voyage cruise. Of course she had this address written down. She was on the Blue Voyage herself, and would have set up the tour through them, too, even if she were working with smugglers. You had to book through the tour company in order to get on that boat. I felt like such an idiot, to think the address would magically lead me to someone who would know exactly where to find her. It was a good thing I hadn’t said anything about it to Inspector Lale—I would have felt silly.

  But since I was already there, I clicked on the link to the Lycian Society website, wondering if they’d have a picture up of Uncle Berk, or some notice about his death. They didn’t. It was just a simple, one-page website with information in Turkish, English, German, and Italian. I went to the English home page and read:

  We are an international organization of scholars, historians, independent researchers, and antiquity enthusiasts with interest in Turkey and Greece. We are devoted to the scholarship and interest of ancient civilization throughout Anatolia. We offer memberships at various levels. We also operate Lycian Tours, putting together educational package tours of archaeological interest along the ancient Lycian Way.

  Sensing someone’s eyes on me, I turned and noticed Nazif was back in the lobby. The moment I looked at him, he started watering a potted plant. Maybe he was nosy, or didn’t trust me. But I didn’t have time to think about Nazif. I finally had access to information. Ignoring him, I next Googled Amy Miller, Hawthorne, Oregon.

  There were about twelve Amy Millers in Hawthorne. After I weeded out the obvious—the real estate agent, the librarian, the wedding planner—the only information for an Amy Miller close to my age was a list of swimming statistics from a few recent years. Turns out she’d competed for the Hawthorne High swim team. They’d made regionals, and she’d placed first on her team. I remembered how Sage had swum so strongly on the Blue Voyage, beating me in every race around the rock tombs, and fearlessly striking out for the Anilar at night—even after a couple of drinks. This must be the same person, and I’d been right to guess she was a champion swimmer.

  Then my eye caught an obituary that dated back seven years.

  Eric Miller of Hawthorne, Oregon, left this world unexpectedly on May 25. Beloved son to Robert and Sheila Miller, brother to Amy Miller. Private memorial service. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Rehabilitation and Substance Abuse Clinic in Portland, Oregon.

  I stared at the page, and at the picture of the guy in a baseball uniform, holding a bat. This had to be Sage’s brother. He had a mop of curly red hair the exact same shade as hers, and similar features. So Sage had actually told me the truth about her brother dying—and about how he’d died. And although it was an awful thing to read and to think about, it brought me some comfort to think that at least one part of Sage Powell/Amy Miller had been authentic after all.

  I dove down ten pages into the Google results, but got nothing else on Sage’s previous identity. Her media footprint was strangely lacking. So next I searched her parents’ names. Now that I had their names, phone directory entries, employers, or email addresses should follow.

  I found two Sheila Millers in Hawthorne. One was a twenty-two-year-old college student. The other was a pediatric nurse at Hawthorne Hospital. Maybe that’s what Sage had meant when she said her mother was “in and out of the hospital.” Not sick. Working!

  I found Sheila’s photo in the staff directory, and immediately I knew she was Sage’s mom. The same mane of curly red hair, the same cat-green eyes. Only she didn’t have Sage’s fullness and vibrancy. She didn’t look directly at the camera but instead slightly off to one side. I recognized a similar quality in Aunt Jackie’s smile. The look of grief.

  I found an email address for the pediatric unit and immediately wrote to the head of the department:

  Greetings. My name is Alexandra, and I am trying to contact Sheila Miller, RN. I’m a friend of her daughter’s here in Turkey, and I need to reach Amy Miller. I’m hoping that Sheila has some forwarding information for her. Please have Sheila contact me as soon as possible.

  IT IS AN URGENT MATTER, I typed in all caps as an afterthought. That should get someone’s attention. Only after I hit Send did it occur to me that maybe my note would freak her out. She’d already lost one child; she might think the worst.

  But it was too late. I’d just have to wait for her response and hope I’d get some way to contact Sage, or some clue about where she might have gone.

  Finally, I checked my email. There weren’t many new messages, which was normal these days, since I had no friends anymore. There was an ad from Burlington Boulders about an outdoor teen rock-climbing trip I’d love to have been on, and a note from Dad, with the subject line: “Checking in with my world traveler!” I swallowed hard. It was surreal, seeing his name here, in another country, as if my two worlds were colliding. I didn’t feel like reading his note, so I moved to delete it. But I ended up clicking Open by mistake, and I couldn’t help myself.

  Hi Zanny! Are you and your mother at the hotel in Istanbul yet?? I’ve called there twice and nobody answered. Email me as soon as you get this. I want to know how you are, hear all about your exotic travels. Are you using the journal? Also would like to discuss the Victoria situation with you.

  A flame of anger flared up inside me. I banged out a response.

  Yeah, we arrived. We’re fine. But you want to talk to me about your mistress? Thanks but no thanks! I really have no desire to hear all the sordid details. Call your shrink.

  I hit Enter so hard, the whole table shook.

  I sensed, rather than saw, Nazif’s curious stare as I stalked past him on my way back to the elevator. I punched the elevator button, and suddenly he materialized behind me.

  I whirled around. “What is it?” I demanded. “Why are you following me?”

  “Sorry. The address you showed me. I do know of this place. It is the Lycian Society headquarters.”

  “I know. I looked it up myself.”

  “I’m sorry. I did not make this connection until I saw what you were looking at. I must tell you, it is not a safe place.”

  “What? That’s crazy!” I couldn’t help laughing. “It’s a historical society. What are they going to do, bore me to death?”

  He didn’t laugh. “I am serious. There are some bad people there.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. There was no way a dusty historical society and an archaeological tour operator could be dangerous. And that tour representative, Erdem Tabak, had been perfectly friendly, bending over backward to make up for the missing guest speaker and following through on his promises. Nazif was just trying to play with my head. Or he was trying to be funny and failing. But I was still mad about my dad’s note, and I was so discouraged that my one link to Sage had led to a dead end. So no witty retorts came to mind.

  Then the elevator arrived, and someone in the lobby rang a bell for Nazif. To my relief, he hurried away. I had enough of a mystery on my hands right now. I didn’t need to be analyzing and obsessing over this guy’s every word.

  21

  I woke up with a start, to the haunting call from the Blue Mosque muezzin. I rolled over and read the clock on the nightstand: 10:42 p.m. I moaned and squished the pillow over my head.

  Still, the chanting stirred me. In the darkness, I pulled on my hoodie and sweatpants and left the Harem Suite. I quietly pushed open the door to the stairwell and tiptoed up the winding wooden steps, all the way to the rooftop garden.

  The muezzin sounded so much louder outside. I walked through the trellis draped with grapevines, past a
cluster of tables and chairs, and over to a white-cushioned sofa set off by large pots of geraniums. I sank into it and tucked my feet up under me.

  Beauty was like this physical presence surrounding me. It changed the very air. One side of the roof offered a sweeping view of the Sea of Marmara, glistening in the moonlight, ringed by the lights of Istanbul that glowed like yellow gold. Was Sage out there somewhere? Was one of those gold lights hers? Was she hiding on the coast? Or was she somewhere in between?

  I shifted positions. The other side offered a clear view of the Blue Mosque. The sky was still dark, but the six minarets were all lit up. A crescent moon hung low, clinging to the edge of night.

  The building right next to the hotel also had a rooftop garden. There I saw the silhouettes of a family of three. They were sitting around a table, talking quietly, until the call to prayer ended. Then they turned their attention to the table, laughing and talking, pointing at things. I heard the roll of dice. They were playing a board game by candlelight.

  I smiled to myself, watching them, and took a few deep breaths. I smelled food, cooking meat, coming from somewhere, and tasted the nip of sea salt in the air. Now I understood what Aunt Jackie had meant by using the call to prayer to hit the pause button on your life. I felt alive, my senses as finely tuned as the strings of a Turkish oud.

  I usually only felt this way when I was climbing a rock wall and approaching the end of a route. I’d look down, and everyone below me appeared so small and far away. My worries would fall away, too. High on the wall, life became pared down and simple. Chalk on my hands. The click of carabineers snapping into place. The whizz of the rope through my fingers, leaving the slightest burn. The satisfaction of reaching a goal. Everything felt manageable and under my control. I made my own decisions, and was in charge of my own results.

  A few minutes later, the family on the rooftop next door cheered and applauded. They stood up and began to put their game away.