by Jay Amberg
As Travers looks down the gun’s barrel, the approaching balloon’s burner fires a third time.
“Those fuckin’ rugheads!” Lee moves another couple of steps closer.
Travers plants his feet. “Actually, they’re Brits. Allison Wade and her BBC crew. Shooting us live. And if you pull that trigger, the whole world will see you do it.”
Lee looks up into the blinding brightness, starts to raise the gun, and stops himself. His eyes narrow again, but the barrel of the gun, pointing once more at Travers, wavers. “Those letters’ll fuck everything up. Everything, goddammit!”
“Did you invoke God’s name when you pushed Kenan off that curtain wall? Did you, Charlie?”
Brandishing the gun, Lee shouts, “Yeah, I did. And you’re gonna meet that bug eater in hell!” He fires over Travers’ head.
Travers cringes as the shot echoes among the tufa spires. He takes half a step back, but there’s nowhere to go. “It doesn’t have to go down like this,” he says, though he can barely hear himself over the ringing. His breath is coming in short strokes that form a sort of chant.
“Like hell, it doesn’t!” Lee cocks his head.
“Nihat Monuglu is waiting out at the road. For me. For us.”
“That fuckin’ mudhead! I’ll never let those letters fall into the wrong hands!”
The wrong hands! “There’s no way out,” Travers says. “Except for both of us… Together…”
Lee’s face darkens, and he spits into the dust at their feet. His eyes are sharp slits the color of the Prescott sky.
“All right. Okay.” Travers takes a deep breath, loops the strap around his wrist, and raises the aluminum tube, which rotates in front of him like a chrome baton. When he glances over his shoulder, the bottom of the balloon’s basket is a brown rectangle within the balloon’s bright curve and the infinity of sky. Ravi is leaning out over the rail, aiming his minicam at the two men. Wade, standing at Ravi’s shoulder, is waving, crossing and uncrossing her arms above her head. When Travers gazes beyond them into the vast sea of sky, he becomes lightheaded.
Lee points the gun at Travers’ face. The tip of the barrel, only six feet away, shines darkly. His finger is on the trigger, but he doesn’t squeeze it again. He steps forward and reaches for the aluminum tube with his left hand.
Travers raises the tube so that Lee firmly grasps the other end. As Travers pulls back, his left foot slips on the trail’s loose stones. With his right hand, he slaps at the rock wall. His head swims, and his fingers scratch the flaking tufa.
When Lee jerks hard, Travers loses his grip on the tube—but the strap looped around his wrist tightens. If he flicked his wrist and let go, just let go, he would be free and Lee would stumble backward down the trail and step into sky.
The strap burns Travers’ wrist as he yanks the tube from Lee.
“Goddamn eegit!” Lee mutters. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. When he reaches for the tube a second time, animosity contorts his face.
Travers unloops the strap, raises the tube, looks Lee in the eye, and lets him take the tube.
When Lee takes a step back, his right foot slips on the scree. As the gun fires into the sky, Lee just catches himself on the edge of the precipice. His Dallas Cowboy cap flips off his head and falls toward the valley. He teeters for another moment before regaining his balance.
The balloon continues to close in on the two men. Gasping for air, Travers holds Lee’s gaze until the balloon’s shadow crosses them. Lee glares at Travers and then turns his face from the encroaching camera’s lens. Travers closes his eyes and presses his spine against the rock wall. The inside of his eyelids are a vivid, pulsing yellow and orange bordered with red. The air feels thin in his lungs and fragile around him, as though it might shatter. He takes a series of breaths but can’t stop the world from wheeling.
When he finally opens his eyes, Lee is gone. Time unfurls in air blasted with light. This rock wall he is braced against is not the curtain wall at Saint John’s, not Hagia Sophia or the Blue Mosque, not a morgue in Chicago, not a quarry in the National Forest outside Prescott. It is simply one of many tufa spires in Cappadocia, a rock rising into sky, as holy or unholy as any other. But he is here, planted, his eyes wide open. The balloon is coasting away, Ravi’s camera pointing down the trail. The air eddies, creating troughs and crests.
His hand trembling, Travers takes from his pocket the small digital recorder Monuglu gave him and shuts it off with his thumb. “It’s empty,” he says. “The case is empty, Charlie.” He’s standing alone, his body shivering and the tufa scratching his back. He can’t yet control his breathing, but he can finally surrender, completely and absolutely, to the present moment.
At first, he doesn’t remember the words, but they form gradually like glyphs scrawled across the sky. His breath still comes only in short strokes. “Each…morning…is…my…prayer,” he says, his voice staccato. “Every…day… is…blessed.” The sun is fully risen. The sky is luminous, the spires across the valley bright. He coughs, takes a breath, and, exhaling, becomes, if only for a moment, the still point between rock and sky.
79
The guard in the dark uniform and white helmet, gloves, and spats ushers Travers into the spacious office. Nihat Monuglu sits in a wooden armchair behind a massive hand-carved desk. Behind him, a large window looks out onto Ankara’s Museum of Anatolian Civilization’s lush garden. Monuglu’s blue suit is freshly pressed; his white shirt and red tie are immaculate. He has shaved, but his eyes are bleary, as though he hasn’t slept in days.
Without smiling, Monuglu stands and extends his hand to Travers. “It’s good to see you, my friend,” Monuglu says.
As Travers shakes his hand, he says, “It’s good to be here, Nihat.” He stands on the plush chamomile and indigo wool carpet for a moment until Monuglu gestures to one of the two matching straight-back chairs at the front of the desk. When Travers is seated, he gazes at the bronze bowl and small bronze lion set on pedestals against the wall to his left. On his right stands a stone relief of a sphinx. He wonders what Monuglu’s real office must look like, in what ministry building it’s actually located, and if anyone, Turk or infidel, is ever allowed in it. The desk here is clean except for a new brown leather briefcase set far to one side.
“Your accommodations are satisfactory?” Monuglu asks, still with no acknowledgement of what the two men have experienced.
“Of course,” Travers answers. The previous morning, he was whisked from Ürgüp in a silver Mercedes driven by Hulk Minor to the Kayseri airport where he was flown in a private jet to Ankara. The driver who met him there, a lean young man in a khaki uniform without insignias, took him directly to the Sheraton Hotel, gave him a keycard, and informed him that he should stay in his room and rest. His suitcase and clothes were already there. Room service was provided, but neither the television nor the internet was working. A somber, elderly doctor performed a perfunctory physical exam and pronounced Travers well and healthy despite his injuries. He was not allowed to leave his room, even for a walk to the hotel’s posh lobby.
“Excellent,” Monuglu says. “I am glad that you have finally found a place that suits you.” This time, Travers catches a touch of mirth in Monuglu’s eyes. “And I am pleased that you did not take any of your hikes.” He reaches into his suitcoat pocket and removes Travers’ passport, wallet, and cell phone. As he lays them on the table in front of Travers, he adds, “You will have some decisions to make in the next few minutes, my friend, but I assure you that you are free to do whatever you choose.” He nods to the briefcase just in case Travers hasn’t already concluded that the conversation is being recorded. “Your business here in Turkey is, I believe, almost finished.”
Travers nods. “Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate your hospitality.” He slips the passport, wallet, and phone into his pants pockets. “I do,
though, need to find out what…” As the office door opens, he looks over his shoulder.
Sophia Altay hesitates for a moment before striding toward the desk. Her pale green dress swishes as she walks, and her green head-scarf accentuates her eyes. She sits in the second chair, places her red and gold cloth bag on the floor in front of her, removes her scarf, and shakes out her hair. Only then does she look Monuglu in the eye.
He nods deferentially and folds his hands on the table in front of him. “Welcome, Doctor Altay,” he says, but he doesn’t smile. “Thank you for joining Mister Travers and me.”
“Mister Monuglu,” she says. Turning toward Travers, she adds, “I’m happy to see you in one piece, Joe.” A small scab mars the swollen cheek below her left eye.
Travers smiles at her. “Intact,” he says. “No shards.”
“That’s good.” As she turns again to Monuglu, her eyes flash. “I must know what you have done with Abrahim.”
Travers starts, then looks from Monuglu to Altay and back.
Monuglu lifts his hands, waves them as though telling her to slow down, and says, “I assure you, Doctor Altay, the young man is safe.”
“I need more than your assurances.”
He slides his hands along the top of the desk and then refolds them. “I understand. But first, I must congratulate you on your discovery of the first century ossuary and its contents.” He looks at her but does not quite meet her eyes. “And on behalf of the Ministry of Culture, I would like to thank you for your donation of the artifacts to the Museum of Anatolian Civilization. They are quite safe here.”
“What have you done with Abrahim?” Altay does not raise her voice, but her eyes are firing.
Monuglu smiles at her and turns toward Travers. “While you were hiking in Cappadocia yesterday morning,” he says, “an incident oc-curred at the archeological site at the Basilica of Saint John in Selçuk.”
Travers glances at Altay, but she is still glaring at Monuglu. “An incident?” he asks.
“An altercation.” Monuglu takes his cigarette case from his pocket but doesn’t open it. “I was here in Ankara yesterday, but I have read the various reports.” Turning the case in his hand, he finally looks into Altay’s eyes. “But the doctor was present. Perhaps she would…”
Altay’s eyes are fierce as she shakes her head.
“So far, Joseph,” Monuglu says, “the details of the altercation have not reached the attention of the media. But the Director of the Aegean Association, Herr Doktor Leopold Kirchburg, who you have met, was injured severely by one of his employees. The young man Doctor Altay has mentioned. Herr Kirchburg will eventually recover, but…” He turns toward Altay, places the cigarette case on the desk, and meets her gaze. “All of the consequences of the incident are not yet clear.” He cocks his head. “It is probable that any charges against the young man will be dropped, but Herr Kirchburg is yet to be convinced that it is in his best interest not to pursue the matter.” His smile is genuine. “And, Herr Kirchburg is, as you know, a single-minded man.” He shakes his head. “It will take some time, but I assure you that he will not press charges.”
Altay sits back in her chair, exhales, and looks at Travers.
“Is Abrahim in jail?” Travers asks.
“In custody, yes.” Monuglu spins the cigarette case on the desk and then looks up at Altay. “But not in jail. No. There are concerns about his health. The issue now is finding the most suitable situation for him while the matter is resolved. He must be kept out of the public eye but not himself be in any further danger. Something acceptable may be worked out regarding the boy even as we speak.” He continues to gaze at Altay as he adds, “But there is also, Doctor Altay, the issue of Charles Lee. His arrest in Göreme.”
“He’s in jail?” Her tone is scornful.
“Yes,” Monuglu answers. “He has very powerful friends, but they will not keep him out of a Turkish prison.” He glances at Travers and then spins the cigarette case again. “You’ve seen the video, Doctor Altay?”
“Of course,” she says, gazing at Travers. “It’s all over the television and internet.” She looks again at Monuglu. “And it completely exonerates Joe, despite that Fox News merde about Charles Lee, devout Christian and patriotic American, trying to recover the documents from the madman who stole them.” She gazes again at Travers. “In fact, many of the reporters, especially that BBC woman, are turning you into something of a hero, except, of course, that you’ve disappeared.” Her smile is ironic. “Or, because you’ve vanished.”
Travers sits back, looking from Altay to Monuglu.
Folding his hands over his cigarette case as though he is hiding playing cards, Monuglu says to her, “It seems Joseph shuns attention. A good idea for everyone involved. Still, he has been…associated…with two deaths here in Turkey. But he is not responsible for either… What is the English phrase? Correlation, not causation. I have already informed him that he is free to do whatever he chooses. And, Doctor Altay, he has decided not to speak with anyone in the media.”
Altay sits up straighter. “Where,” she asks, her voice tight, “is Abrahim? I traded the letters for his freedom.”
His hands still folded, Monuglu cocks his head, gazes at Altay, and says, “In point of fact, you offered those documents freely to the Ministry of Culture for their safekeeping and authentification. Did you not?”
“I did, Mister Monuglu,” she answers, practically spitting the words across the table.
“And are the museum’s experts already verifying that your versions released to the media are the authentic documents?” Monuglu’s tone is conciliatory, but his eyes have hardened.
“Where is Abrahim?” Altay hisses.
Monuglu waves his hand vehemently at her. “Answer my question, please, Doctor Altay.”
Altay swipes the right side of her face with her hand. “Yes,” she snaps. “Yes. Yes.”
“And did not the boy then attack Herr Doktor Kirchburg at Saint John’s archeological site? Injure him severely?”
“Only to protect…” Altay stops speaking. Her eyes blaze. “Pharisee! You…!” She curls as though she is going to leap across the table.
Traves puts his hand on her shoulder, but she shakes it off.
Her eyes unblinking, Altay turns on Travers. “Joe, I…” She chokes on her anger. “I trusted you.”
Travers gapes at Monuglu, who squeezes his cigarette case. The vast frozen emptiness that has too often suffused his life spreads, crackling, from his chest. “No, Nihat,” he says. His voice is brittle. “Don’t do this.”
Monuglu opens his hands, palms upward, but not apologetically. “Something must be done about the boy,” he says as he balls his hands into fists.
For a moment, Travers doesn’t breathe. A cold sweat breaks along his back and neck. “Nihat, you… I… We agreed.”
Monuglu waves a thick hand to silence him. “Doctor Altay,” he says, his voice low, “you must still trust Joseph. Much is at stake here.”
Altay stands and throws her bag over her shoulder. “Merde,” she mutters, shaking her head and glowering at Monuglu. “Merde!”
Monuglu stands, too, and presses his hands on the desk as though he will spring across it. “Doctor Altay, you misunderstand.”
Travers steps between them and lays his arm over Altay’s shoulder, feeling her ferocious energy. As she tries to pull away, he grasps her more firmly. Outside the window behind Monuglu, midday sunlight dapples the garden.
“Joseph,” Monuglu says, still looking at Altay rather than at him. “I am your friend.”
“Merde!” Altay shouts. She reaches up and yanks Travers’ arm from her shoulder.
Monuglu doesn’t respond to her. The three of them stand there for a moment, a trinity fixed and unwavering.
“Joseph,” Monuglu says again, “do
you remember the promise you made to me about your actions when these events were finished?”
“Yes.”
Altay continues to stand stiffly.
“And you will ensure that your friends honor that pledge, too?”
Travers glances at Altay who is glaring at Monuglu.
“You take responsibility?” Monuglu’s eyes have not left Altay’s face.
Travers gazes at Altay’s feline eyes, her thin nose, and her tapering face. At her hair tumbling over her scarf. “For not speaking about what’s happened, yes, Nihat,” he says softly to Altay.
“In Göreme and Selçuk?” Monuglu asks.
Travers looks at Altay’s shimmering agitation. “Yes,” he says, “as long as we can talk openly about the artifacts, the bone box and its contents.”
“Acik!” Monuglu shouts at the closed door across the room.
Altay turns toward Travers. The tension in her body doesn’t slacken, but her gaze is more quizzical than irate.
“This meeting is over,” Monuglu says more loudly than necessary. He nods to Travers and Altay and then at the door. “You are both free to go.” He then adds under his breath, “Do not say another word. Nothing.”
The office door is opened by the uniformed guard who escorted Travers from the museum’s entrance. Abrahim stands next to him. His shirt and pants are pale, clean, and a little too large for him. He looks into the room until his eyes meet Altay’s, but he doesn’t step across the threshold.
“Go,” Monuglu says. “Both of you.”
As though he has been forbidden to do so, Abrahim still does not enter the room. His feet take small steps without moving forward; his hands flutter. His mouth opens but emits only a low murmuring. Tears stream down his face.
Altay bumps the chair as she turns away from Travers and hurries toward the door.
Travers looks at Monuglu, whose expression is impassive. “Thank you, my friend,” he says.