by Jay Amberg
The reporters begin to fire questions.
“Where are the bones from the box?”
“I think I’ve already answered that. I don’t know.”
“Where is Doctor Altay?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you met with her?” This is from the CNN correspondent who has turned up the front of his floppy hat.
Travers feels the reporters and crowd closing in. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Where?”
Monuglu’s elbow digs into Travers’ arm. “She came to my hotel.”
“So she’s in the area?”
“She was yesterday. But I don’t know where she is now.” Glancing over, he sees that though Kirchburg is still under the tree, Lee has gone.
“You mentioned that you were beaten and knifed.” Allison Wade is giving him the opening he needs. Though her expression is serious, her eyes are twinkling as if she wants him to withhold any additional information about Altay until her exclusive interview. “Is it true that Günter Schmidt was involved in that incident?”
“Schmidt was not the man who cut me, but, yes, he was one of the men who attacked me.” As other reporters shout follow-up questions, Travers nods to her and clears his throat. “I look forward to discussing the translations of the letters. Remember, four this afternoon—sixteen-hundred —at the Sarihan Hotel.” He takes a quick awkward step to his right. “Any further questions about Kenan Sirhan or Günter Schmidt and the ongoing investigation would best be answered by Turkish officials.” He turns, gesturing to his left. “This is Mister Nihat Monuglu, who, I am sure, can answer your questions far better than I can.”
Monuglu’s scowl suggests that he’s really going to hurt Travers the next time they’re alone.
55
While Nihat Monuglu is fielding questions, Travers meets Allison Wade in the shade of a tree near the police station’s side entrance. Ravi is still shooting Monuglu so they have a moment alone. Almost as tall as Travers is, she carries herself erect, with her shoulders held back. She is in her late thirties, but her unblemished skin makes her look younger. Her smile is skewed to the left.
“It’s good to meet you, Ms. Wade,” Travers says, shaking her hand.
“Call me Al,” she answers. Her tone is amicable, but there’s fire in her eyes.
“Sure, Al,” he says, balancing on his right foot. “I take it you want an interview?”
“Righto, Joe. Absolutely.”
Leopold Kirchburg strides around the corner of the building but stops when he sees the reporter with Travers. He jams his right hand into the pocket of his light linen pants and glares in their direction.
“I’d like you to cover me retrieving computer flash drives along the road into Ürgüp,” Travers says. “In half an hour. I’ll also provide you…the BBC…with one of the drives.” He pauses. “I can give you exclusive access to other stuff, too.”
“Sophia Altay?”
“That, I can’t promise.” He smiles. “At least, not yet.”
“Well…” She cocks her head, looking askance at him for a moment. Then she nods. “Righto. Yes. I’ll get my crew on it.” Glancing at Kirchburg, who’s stalking in tight circles shouting curt German into his cell phone, she adds, “What about him?”
“You should definitely interview him, too.”
Her laugh is clipped. “You know I didn’t mean that. You’re the one he wants to…”
“Rip a new orifice for?” he says. “Yeah. And I do need to talk with him for a few minutes.”
As Wade pulls a small digital recorder from her black leather shoulder bag, she says, “It’s a long way from Chicago to Cappadocia.”
“Yes and no.” He nods. “It must look like a winding trail.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asks as she turns on the recorder.
“People need to know what the letters say. I’ve come to understand that.” He takes a quick step and rebalances on his right foot. “Both of them. John the Apostle’s as well as Jesus Christ’s.”
“Of course,” she says. “But, given the risks—two men already dead—you must have other motives, other reasons.”
He shakes his head. “The letters really are that important.” He sounds to himself like Altay.
“And?” The intensity in Wade’s eyes deepens, and lines form at the corners of her mouth as she tightens her lips.
“And…” He takes a breath. “And, we can’t change what’s already occurred, but maybe we can have some effect on what will happen.”
“Do you mean, politically?”
“Yeah, I guess.” He shakes his head slowly. “No. There’s more to it than that.”
She looks into his eyes as she asks, “Are you referring to Sophia Altay?”
He smiles again. “Not really,” he repeats. “She may be part of it, but there’s a lot more.”
“But I didn’t get any sense back there that you’re looking for that infamous American fifteen minutes of fame.”
“No, that’s not it at all.” He watches Kirchburg stuff his phone back into his pocket and strut toward them. “I’ll explain…” But he knows he’s not going to at this point. He’s not even sure he could, and so he adds, “Here’s your shot at Herr Doktor Kirchburg.”
“Herr Travers,” Kirchburg says as he approaches them, “I need to speak to you…” He glances at Wade. “…privately.”
Travers gestures toward the reporter. “This is Allison Wade, from the BBC.”
“Guten Tag.” Kirchburg nods to her and turns on Travers. “Now, Herr Travers.”
“Yeah, okay,” Travers says. “I need to talk to you, too. But somewhere outside.”
“Nein, we will speak…”
“Allison,” Travers interrupts, “wants to interview you.”
“Nicht jetzt,” Kirchburg says. Red marks rise on his cheeks.
When Wade shuts off her recorder, Travers turns to her. “Give me half an hour,” he says. “We’ll continue our business. On the road.”
“What business?” Kirchburg asks.
“Yes, Joe,” Wade says. “Righto.” She then turns to Kirchburg and holds out her hand. “We should set a time to talk, Herr Doktor.”
“Ja,” Kirchburg says. He seems to really notice her for the first time—the blonde hair and blue eyes and clear skin. He takes her hand but doesn’t shake it. “Fräulein…”
“Ms. Wade,” she says, her smile fixed. “This evening. Somewhere mutually convenient.” She lets go of his hand. “I’ll have my producer arrange it with you.” She turns quickly from the two men. Her gait as she walks away is strong and purposeful, with no hint she’s aware that Kirchburg is watching her.
56
Travers begins to limp across the police station’s parking lot in the direction of the Sarihan Hotel. The morning is clear and bright with little wind. Heat is starting to rise from the pavement. Travers’ mouth is dry, and each step sends currents of pain across his left foot and up his calf.
“Herr Travers,” Kirchburg calls after him.
Travers can’t outpace Kirchburg so he stops. When Kirchburg reaches him, he hobbles ahead without saying anything. John the Apostle’s words run through his head. I have come to love my neighbor and my enemy, he said, but he also admitted that it was diffficult.
“Your comments,” Kirchburg shouts after him, “were ill-advised, inappropriate, and counterproductive.”
Travers turns the corner, and, in order to avoid the town center and bus terminal, heads along a side street on which there are fewer people. Jesus of Nazareth’s words vie with those of John the Apostle: If you do not have a sword, sell your cloak and buy one.
Kirchburg catches up with him again, grabbing his elb
ow. “Herr Travers!” he says sternly.
Christ’s words still echoing in his mind, Travers says, “Get your hand off me.”
Kirchburg loosens his grip.
Travers stares into Kirchburg’s eyes and pulls himself free. “Inappropriate? Counterproductive? You had me beaten and stabbed.”
“I did nothing of the kind.” Kirchburg’s tone is spiteful. “You took from an archeological site something belonging to the Aegean Association. When… I would never order that.”
Travers shakes his head. He hasn’t eaten anything so he steps over and buys a loaf of flatbread and a half-liter bottle of water from a street vendor. Staring again into Kirchburg’s eyes, he asks, “Where’s Charles Lee?”
Kirchburg’s eyes shine with anger. “Your comments were not appreciated.”
“Not appreciated?” Travers opens the bottle, takes a long pull, and feels the water cool in his throat. Inhaling the bread’s aroma, he tucks the bottle of water under his arm, breaks off a piece of bread, and offers it to Kirchburg. “Where’s Charles?”
Glaring at the bread, Kirchburg says, “Herr Lee needed to contact his superiors in the States. Despite your performance, he still does not believe that the documents are authentic.”
Travers starts walking again, and Kirchburg follows. They pass an open two-story carpet store. The largest rug hanging on display would cover the floor of Altay’s cave church. “But you’ve read the letters, and you know they’re real,” Travers says. He takes a bite of the bread, which is still warm.
“I have not. I have never seen the documents.” Kirchburg rubs the tips of his fingers against the palms of his hands as he walks. Clearing his throat, he says, “I…The Aegean Association has made an invaluable discovery. The contents, the documents and the remains, must be returned to me. Those bones may be the Christ’s. Do you have any idea what that means for the field of archeology?”
Or the world! Travers thinks as he chews the flatbread.
“All of the relics must be turned over to me.” A thin sheen of sweat lines his mustache just below his nostrils. “Immediately!”
“That’s not going to happen.” As the two men turn onto the narrow cobblestone lane that leads up to the Sarihan Hotel, Travers takes another deep drink of water, finishing the bottle. The incline causes pain to fire in his leg.
“What is your business with the Englishwoman?” Kirchburg asks.
“Allison Wade is going to tape me.”
“You are taking the Englishwoman to Sophia?”
“No,” Travers says, though it’s not a bad idea. Cameras running when Altay comes out of seclusion would enhance, if not ensure, her safety.
“You know where Sophia is. Take me to her. I must…”
Travers shakes his head. “I’m not going to do that.”
They climb past a rough stone building with a thatched bramble roof. Telephone wires pass above it, and twenty yards beyond it solar panels line the roof of another building. Kirchburg’s leather slip-ons slide with each step on the cobblestones.
“Where is she?” Kirchburg demands. “I must speak to her about her responsibilities to…the Aegean Association.”
His tone is disdainful, but Travers thinks he hears another note as well. The ground beneath the Austrian is apparently shifting; tremors are rippling around him.
Breaking off another piece of bread, Travers says, “I really don’t know where she is. That’s the truth.”
Ahead of them, red roses bloom in the Sarihan’s courtyard. Light shimmers on the rock formation above the hotel.
57
Abrahim crouches next to one of the rough wooden stakes driven into the ground. His water long gone, he has crept down from the cave and skirted the valley until he found this grape arbor. His lips are cracked, and his tongue is bloated. The welt on his back stings like a cut from a lash. Grit covers his pants and shirt. The scabious cuts on his bare feet have torn open, but he bleeds little. He’s too dry, too parched, to bleed out.
The beauty of the day stuns him but does not, as he feared, break his heart. The sky is clear, the breeze soft, the tangled vines a sea of light and color—green here, russet there, rose, silver, even gold flowing like fire on water.
Although he is incorrigibly evil, he is somehow not damned. He remains very much alive in this world that is for him, as for everyone, not hell but purgatory. Though he has not yet punished himself enough, he can not resist life. He scuttles sideways, tears off a bunch of grapes, and huddles in the dappled shade of the vines. Each grape blushes, a delicate glistening beyond beauty. He pulls a single grape free, holds it up before him, and prays. His prayer is, as always, one of remorse and sorrow, but also, for once, thanksgiving as well. Gratitude for all he has been through. Everything.
When he bites the grape, the juice bursts in his mouth. It is both sweet and tart, cool and warm, a taste that’s life itself. Light shimmers in the sweet air. The juice of the second grape pricks his lips, but that of the third washes his tongue. And then he is stuffing the grapes into his mouth, juice drizzling down his chin and smearing his hands. He swallows seeds and skin, chokes, and goes on gulping, sinking his face deep into the bunch.
Suddenly, he jerks his head back, his mouth full, swallowing and gagging at the same time. It is all too much like his sin. The depth, the enormity, of his evil strikes him. He flings away the remnants of the bunch, spits gelatinous grapes into the dirt, and stares at his stained, shaking hands. He crawls away, climbs to his knees, and mutters, “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…” His hands, red from the dirt, continue to tremble.
The air goes rank. The tufa spires jutting above him become phallic monstrosities. The fairy chimneys are priapisms! He must suffer more for his sins. Far more. But, unable to stop himself, he rips off his shirt. Hyperventilating, he grabs three more bunches and rolls the grapes into his shirt. He looks up into the wide, blank sky and begs forgiveness.
58
As soon as the black Mercedes stops on the side of the road thirty yards from the crumbling stone wall, Joseph Travers pushes open the door to escape the cigarette smoke. When he steps out of the car, the air is still, the sky clear, the sun at its apex. The dirt and stubble and stone look bleached, the day itself high noon in the Arizona desert. He and Nihat Monuglu did not speak on the way out of Göreme. When Travers circled back to the police station parking lot to tell Monuglu that because he could not walk, they needed to go for a ride, the TV crews had already packed up.
As Travers limps around the front of the Mercedes, he can see Hulk Major and Hulk Minor staring fixedly through the windshield, but a blue fog of smoke obscures Monuglu. Travers is supposed to be providing theater, a sideshow for everyone, those in Göreme and those around the world, but the fierce tension in the Mercedes on the way here was all too real. Sweat is already rolling down his back again. He drank another half-liter bottle of water at the Sarihan Hotel, but it wasn’t really enough. He taps on the tinted backseat window. As the window lowers, cigarette smoke curls out. Monuglu scowls through the smoke.
“Nihat,” Travers says, “we need to talk.”
Monuglu flicks the Yenidje’s lit butt past Travers. “Making me speak to those foreign reporters,” he says, “was not a good idea.”
“You handled it well.”
“What,” Monuglu asks, “are we doing on this trip into the Cappadocian countryside?”
Travers touches the window’s well but then jerks his hand from the hot metal. “Retrieving the flash drives that I received from Doctor Altay.”
“A better idea,” Monuglu says. His smile is yellow with nicotine.
“She made a copy for the Turkish government,” Travers says. “She wanted to ensure that it got into the right hands.” This part is his idea, of course. Altay cares only about the preservation of the original letters. But he
’s certain that Monuglu will seize all three flash drives if he doesn’t offer him one. He glances up the road to make sure his timing is right.
“I see,” Monuglu says, taking a Yenidje from his case. “And you will retain a flash drive for yourself?” Hulks Major and Minor continue to stare straight ahead.
Travers nods. “There are three, one for you, one for me, and one to share with the BBC and other interested media. You could take that copy, too, but…” Stirring dust, the BBC van pulls off the road in front of the Mercedes. “…In a minute, the uplink will be hot, and Ms. Wade will be broadcasting everything live.”
Monuglu taps the cigarette fast and hard against the case. “These games you…,” he says, glaring past Travers at Allison Wade stepping out of the van holding her phone to her ear.
“This is no game,” Travers says. “Not at all. I’m trying to…”
Monuglu shoves the door open. As Travers stumbles back, Monuglu leaps from the Mercedes. Cat quick, he’s on Travers, yanking his collar tight around his neck, before Travers can get his balance.
“You son of a Greek,” Monuglu shouts in Travers’ face. Spit hits Travers’ nose and cheeks. “That ossuary… Those documents…” He twists the collar, cutting Travers’ breath. “Those bones… Everything belongs to the Turkish peoples.” He clamps Travers’ neck more tightly, an electric charge seeming to flow through his fingers.
“Hey!” Travers hears Wade’s voice. “What the hell…?”
As Travers turns his head away, his vision blurs at the edges.
“Look at me!” Monuglu growls.
His legs wobbling, Travers turns.
Monuglu’s glare is maniacal as he tightens his grip. “This is no game either. No threat. Your life is…” He presses his thumb against Travers’ carotid artery. “Understand me…”