Blue Voyage

by Diana Renn

  I didn’t have to look far. The bread was coming right toward me. A man was strolling my way, carrying a wooden tray on his head. Piled high on the tray were round brown things that looked deliciously like bagels. I had no idea how they stayed balanced up there, or how he walked with such grace under a board stacked high with bread. The man stopped in front of me, smiled, and pointed to the bread. “You would like?” he asked as he neared me.

  “Yes. Three, please,” I said. Turkey was amazing. All I had to do was think of food and here was somebody bringing it right up to me.

  The vendor reached up and took down three breads from his platter, handed them to me, and accepted my cash. The bread looked like a pretzel-bagel hybrid, dotted with sesame seeds. “Simit,” he said in a friendly way.

  “Zan. Nice to meet you.”

  “No.” He laughed and pointed to the bagel things. “Simit. You like?”

  I took a bite and gave him a thumbs-up sign.

  “One more thing,” said the simit vendor, lowering his voice.

  “I’m good. Three is all I need,” I said through a mouthful of bread. I started backing away. Great, I thought. He was just another pushy vendor after all.

  “No. One more thing,” he insisted. “I was sent to find you at this hotel. This is for you.” He reached up to the platter again, felt around, and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he handed to me. Then a large tourist group came up to buy simit, crowding me out, and he turned his attention to them.

  I unfolded the piece of paper. It was a handwritten note. I immediately knew who it was from.

  Zan, I know you must be really confused. I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly. I hope someday I can explain everything. But right now I can’t. And I urgently need that package I left with you. I can’t come out of hiding at the moment, so go get the package immediately and give it to my friend who gave you this note. Please. My life depends on it.

  My hands were shaking so badly I almost couldn’t read the last words. Sage was reaching out to me, just like Inspector Lale had predicted! But I didn’t have the package of figurines to give her. And even if I did, no way would I hand them over without getting her side of the story.

  I studied the handwriting. It was a jagged scrawl that didn’t look at all like the one handwriting sample I had from Sage: the name “Amy Miller” written in careful, rounded letters inside her Freya Stark book.

  Wait. Maybe this was a setup, a way for Lazar and Vasil to get their hands on the figurines. The English was perfect, but almost too perfect—more formal than Sage would be with me. If the note were really from Lazar and Vasil, they could have commissioned some fluent English speaker to write it for them. They knew I was staying at this hotel. They could have had the vendor come deliver this note.

  I pushed through the crowd of tourists and waved the paper at the simit vendor. “Do you know the person who wrote this?” I demanded.

  “My English, not so good,” he said with an apologetic smile.

  “Male or female?”

  “So sorry. But I cannot understand.” He shrugged, and his simit tray didn’t even wobble.

  “Does anyone here have a pen?” I asked the tourist group. They were from some other country and didn’t seem to speak English either, as confused murmurs spread through the small crowd. I pantomimed what I was asking for, and a businessman finally handed me a ballpoint.

  I put the three simit pieces on my left arm, like bracelets, since my hand could fit through the middle. Now that I had both hands free, I ripped the paper in half, pocketing the note that had been written to me. On the blank half, I scrawled a note of my own, a note that would work for either Sage or Lazar and Vasil because it was the truth:

  I don’t have any package.

  The more I thought about it, the more strongly I suspected Sage hadn’t written the note. This had to be some kind of trap. And I wasn’t falling for cons anymore. I folded the paper and handed it back to the simit vendor.

  He looked confused.

  “That’s all I’ve got,” I said. “And I’m quite sure you understand me perfectly. Tell whoever sent you that I don’t have anything they want, and to stay away from my aunt’s hotel.”

  Now I was late to meet Nazif. I jogged back to the hotel, pausing at a trash bin to shake the simit off my arm. Then I went to a kebab stand to get some lunch for my mom and Aunt Jackie. I didn’t get any for myself. The encounter with the simit vendor—who was possibly one of Lazar’s henchmen in disguise—had left a sour taste in my mouth, and I’d lost my appetite.

  23

  Nazif was pacing in front of the hotel. When he looked up and saw me, he seemed annoyed. “There you are,” he said. “I was wondering where you went.”

  “Where were you?” I countered. “I couldn’t find you in the lobby.” If he’d just been where he said he’d be, on time, I might have avoided that whole encounter with the simit-vendor-slash-bearer-of-creepy-notes.

  “A guest needed room service items delivered. We can walk,” he said.

  “Great. Let’s go,” I said, eager to get the story about the Lycian Society. I was also eager to call Inspector Lale and tell her what had just happened. But Nazif pointed at his watch and said we had less than thirty minutes to talk.

  “Is there somewhere a little less crowded where we could talk without people staring at us?” I asked. “I feel like people are always trying to sell me stuff here.”

  He looked confused, but my eyes pleaded with him not to ask questions. “Yes,” he said at last. “We can go to a historic place, not a marketplace. Follow me.”

  We walked rapidly for a couple of blocks, in awkward silence. It felt strange to be outside with Nazif. He was in his bellboy uniform, but not in a bellboy role. He was just a guy my age, probably wondering why I was furiously biting my thumbnail and glancing nervously over my shoulder every few seconds to see if the simit vendor—or Lazar and Vasil—were following me.

  He led me to Sultanahmet Square, where we came to a track flanked by two looming obelisks. One obelisk was smooth. The other was made of stones stacked together like Jenga blocks—as if you might pull out the wrong one and the whole tower could tumble down. A paved oval path encircled the two monuments. “This is the Hippodrome,” Nazif explained. “Even though the building is long gone, it still has the name, and the track marks where Romans once raced chariots.” He made a sweeping gesture, as if trying to paint a picture of long-ago athletic events. “But now all that is left are these ruins. Please. Sit.” He motioned for me to sit down. “I think no one will try to sell you something here.”

  I sank gratefully onto a bench beneath some trees.

  A man came up to us, lugging a big silver container on his back. He was dressed like the other food and drink vendors patrolling the Hippodrome, in a white shirt, gold-braided vest, and a red fez. “No, please, send him away,” I whispered to Nazif as the man approached.

  “I know you do not want to buy anything, but I will buy it,” Nazif insisted. “You should try this drink. It is very traditional in Turkey. Also, it is hot outside, and you look thirsty.” Nazif spoke briefly in Turkish with the vendor, who then leaned over and poured red liquid from the silver container on his back into a paper cup. Nazif gave him a few coins and handed me the drink. Only after the man disappeared and I was satisfied he wasn’t some spy sent by Lazar did I drink down five huge gulps. Nazif had been right. It was hot. I was thirsty. The drink was really delicious.

  “Fresh pomegranate juice,” he said. “Do you like it?”

  “Love it,” I admitted. “Aren’t you having some?”

  “I am not thirsty.”

  I drank while he waited, feeling kind of ridiculous, and then I set the empty cup on the bench. “So. Tell me about the Lycian Society.”

  “I will tell you what I know,” he said. He took a deep breath and continued. “In April, the Lycian Socie
ty had its international conference. Some of the after-hours meetings were held at the Mavi Konak. In the evenings, a group of people would come from the conference. They met your uncle Berk in the lobby, and he took them up to the Sultan’s Suite.”

  I sat up straighter. This was weird. Aunt Jackie had said the society didn’t accept Berk. But they still booked meeting rooms at his hotel?

  “Who came to the meetings? What kind of people?” I asked.

  “International people. Mostly European. Two Americans, I think.”

  “Do you remember anything else about them?”

  “Maybe eight or so came at a time. Their badges had black ribbons.”

  Onyx was black. Maybe this was that snobby group of Onyx-level members Aunt Jackie had mentioned.

  “Did my uncle stay for these meetings?” I asked.

  “He did.”

  “And where was my aunt? Did she meet with them, too?”

  “No. She was away that weekend of the conference. She has friends who run a cave hotel in Cappadocia. Your uncle encouraged her to visit and to get some ideas for improving their business.” Nazif twisted his hands in his lap and looked down. “I brought food and tea upstairs at these three evening meetings, and took the dishes away after. Your uncle made it clear to me that they were not to be interrupted, that they would ring for me when I was needed. But on the third evening, after I delivered tea and desserts, I realized I had left my set of hotel keys in the Sultan’s Suite. My father would be furious if he knew I had been so careless, so I went back to retrieve them. When I walked in, nobody seemed to take notice. Of course, I am used to this. Guests only see you when they want something.”

  I nodded. Now that I was a part-time maid, I understood.

  “But this time, they did not see me because they were all very busy,” Nazif went on. “They were in pairs and groups around the room, having serious discussions. A man was taking art objects out of a black suitcase. One person was counting money. Other people were looking at documents, or iPads, or books. Still others were studying art objects with special glasses, and taking notes. It was like the Sultan’s Suite had transformed into a museum.”

  “Were these things very old? Like antiques or something?”

  “Yes, very old. I saw jewelry, coins, broken pieces of what looked like temples and buildings. Some pottery. Even a marble bust. I began to feel as though I should not stay in the room. But I wanted to see what was going on. I had never seen such a business meeting as this in the Sultan’s Suite. So I quietly took my keys from the table where I’d left them and exited the room. But I left the door open a crack. I am a little ashamed to admit this, but I watched and listened through the crack.”

  “I would have totally done that myself,” I said. “What happened next?”

  “There was one square case on the coffee table, covered in black velvet. A man removed the velvet. Inside the case was only a pot, but everyone seemed very excited about it.”

  If actual horse-drawn chariots had been racing around the Hippodrome track, my heart would have been galloping louder and faster right now. “A pot? Like a cooking pot?”

  “No. I think not for cooking. It was too decorated. I think the English word is ‘urn.’”

  I let out a breath. “What happened next?”

  “Once people stepped aside, I could see it was the most beautiful object in the room,” Nazif went on. “Especially when a man removed the case and the urn was passed around.”

  “Who removed the case?”

  “I did not catch his name,” he said. “But he had a Bulgarian accent. There were two Bulgarians there, or they may have been Bulgarian Turks. I cannot be sure. For now, though, I will call him the Bulgarian, since I do not know his name.”

  I sucked in my breath sharply. “Go on.”

  “This man, he could speak Turkish and English and Italian, fluently, and a little bit of French. He answered many questions from the people in the room,” Nazif explained. “Some questions he avoided, such as where the urn came from. He said that he could not expose his contacts. This seemed to annoy some people. When they asked questions about the materials used in the urn and dating techniques, the Bulgarian made your uncle answer. Some people demanded documents for the urn, and the Bulgarian said your uncle would provide them within two weeks along with the ‘proper packaging.’”

  “So you think my uncle was working for this guy?” I guessed. “As an art expert?”

  “Yes, I believe so. After some time, when people had inspected the urn and made notes, the Bulgarian and your uncle spoke privately. They were near the door, so I could hear every word. Your uncle said he felt uncomfortable about documenting the urn. The Bulgarian insisted that it had to be done, and soon, because the clients were expecting it to be included in their final order. This order needed to be prepared for shipping. They argued quietly about this, back and forth. ‘An exception must be made. This item is far too valuable,’ your uncle said. ‘You have the opportunity to do the right thing. Come forward.’ The Bulgarian responded that until museums in Turkey were equipped to properly store and care for all artifacts, he was going to keep the urn.”

  “What did my uncle say to that?”

  “He said he would only provide documentation if it were taken directly to the Archaeological Museum to join the rest of the cache. That made the Bulgarian really angry.”

  I swallowed hard. A new theory was starting to hatch in my mind. A theory so sinister I was afraid to even voice it.

  “That’s when the Bulgarian opened up his jacket and showed your uncle a long knife.”

  My hands flew to my mouth.

  “He said that your uncle was putting the organization at risk, and that he’d better change his mind. Otherwise . . .” Nazif made a cutting motion at his throat. “Then the other Bulgarian came to stand by his side. And he was carrying a pistol.”

  I asked Nazif to describe the two men. The details he remembered—a tall man with a long nose and goatee, and a shorter, stocky man who seemed eager to pull the trigger—sounded like Lazar and Vasil.

  I shivered. “So I bet my uncle agreed to the Bulgarian’s proposal, right? He agreed to write up papers for something stolen. So that some illegal buyer could take it out of the country disguised and ‘authenticated’ as something else.” Or maybe even so innocent people could get out of jail. Now that I’d been helped by the power of a forgery, I could understand why people might take advantage of any insider they could.

  Nazif nodded. “After that, the Bulgarians packed up the urn in the clear case. Then they put that box into a black suitcase with padding. They gave the suitcase to your uncle. The meeting ended soon after, and the Bulgarians stayed while everyone else left. Your uncle took the suitcase with the urn inside. And then finally, the Bulgarians left. Unfortunately, they left so quickly I did not have time to get out of the way or pretend to be busy. They accused me of spying.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You were doing what anyone would have done in your position. Listening at the door because you were concerned.”

  “No, it is true, I was spying on the meeting,” he said, “because we had extra guests in the hotel and we knew nothing about them. And because your aunt and uncle could not hire proper security, I was acting as security. It was not just curiosity. I needed to know what was going on at that meeting. When the man confronted me, I thought to myself, this is good, now I can ask this man to his face. But he turned the tables around. He demanded to know what I’d seen and heard and who I was reporting this to.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Nazif folded his arms and hugged himself, as if he were cold. “He came right up to me with that knife. He laid the blade against my throat. He said if I uttered one word about that meeting to anyone, especially to the police, my father and I would both lose our jobs. He would see to it that we would be accused of stealing and would ne
ver work in an Istanbul hotel again. My father was out of work for many months, before your aunt and uncle gave him this job. My mother works as a dental hygienist, but only part-time. I could not put my father’s job at risk.”

  I nodded.

  “So until you came here and began asking questions, I have kept this secret inside me since that night. Three months.” He patted his chest. “It feels good to talk about it. Finally.”

  My mind churned over all this information. “So let me get this straight. It sounds like some of the Lycian Society Onyx members were buying illicit artifacts, and the hotel room was like a private showroom.”

  “Correct.”

  “My uncle Berk was asked to appraise an authentically ancient urn as a fake.” I considered this for a moment. “But you know something, Nazif? I think he double-crossed that Bulgarian guy.”

  “Double-crossed?” Nazif frowned.

  “Went against him. By not providing the documents. Or by not returning the urn. Or both.”

  He nodded quickly. “Yes, you could be right.”

  “And the Bulgarian guy who did most of the talking—I think I know him. I think his name’s Lazar.” Lazar, on the boat, seemed to be the more talkative guy of the two.

  “Why do you say this?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  “Please. I have told you what I know.”

  He was right. It was only fair to tell him at least a little about why I was intensely interested in all this. I took a deep breath and began. “Okay. So here’s the deal,” I said. “The Turkish police are interested in me because I got caught with some artifacts at the Dalaman Airport. They weren’t mine,” I quickly assured him when his eyes widened. “I was set up. But the person who put them in my bag—her name is Sage—she went missing. I’m trying to find her, or at least figure out why she planted artifacts in my backpack. So this Bulgarian guy we met on our Blue Voyage, named Lazar, followed me in Marmaris. He’s some kind of private security guard. He asked me if I know where Sage is. And then I saw him and his partner, Vasil, outside of my aunt’s hotel. Yesterday.”