My confidentiality? Did she mean my safety? Who did she think was listening to my phone? “Fine, whatever.”
“Let’s meet tomorrow evening at 7:30, in Üsküdar.” Üsküdar was on the Anatolian side of Istanbul. I had never been there. “Take the ferry to Üsküdar from Eminönü. When you get off the ferry, turn right. Walk up the boardwalk about half a block. If you look left, across the street, you’ll see a large Ferris wheel. Meet me at the base of the Ferris wheel.”
“Why Üsküdar?” I asked, expecting some cloak-and-dagger explanation.
She sighed deeply. “Because,” she said, “the only reptile vet in Istanbul is in Üsküdar, and I’ve got a turtle with shell rot.”
• • •
I caught the crowded ferry to Üsküdar just as the boat was leaving. There were no seats left, so I walked to the bow of the deck and stood outside. The boat took off at a surprisingly fast clip, rising and falling on the black water, illuminated by a golden harvest moon, trailed by wheeling gulls. Droplets sprayed over the bow, splashing my face with cool mist. On the shore in every direction gigantic mosques and minarets glowed like fire. The great Topkapi Palace, in the distance, reminded me of those old comic book advertisements for Amazing Live Sea-Monkeys Magic Castles. I’d been fascinated by those ads as a child, but even at the age of eight I was a sufficiently savvy consumer to guess that if I ordered a Magic Castle, it wouldn’t look quite the way I imagined it. Still, I always wondered if anything in the world really looked like that. Now I knew.
The strait was quiet and as smooth as black ice. A pimpled teenaged waiter in a white uniform came around to the deck with small glasses of tea as we neared the shore. Atatürk, somber as a sea captain, presided over the stairwell. Atatürk always dressed for the occasion. In restaurants, he was a dignified headwaiter. He became a striking martial figure at police stations. In schools he was a patient headmaster. The Turks saw in him whatever they needed to see, and who was I to laugh?
I still had not decided what to do.
The boat reached Üsküdar at 7:25. I stepped out into Asia, which looked, apart from the Ottoman architecture, like Coney Island. The boardwalk was packed with revelers. Merchants hawked festive food near the ferry dock: an elderly man was selling cotton candy from a churning vat built into the trunk of his car; ice cream scoopers made dramatic shows of waving their ladles, dipping cones into molten chocolate and nuts. Popcorn was popping; kebabs were sizzling; everyone was shouting—balikbalikbalik, balikbalikbalik, fishfishfish, fishfishfish. For three lira you could rent a plastic gun and shoot the colored balloons bobbing in a row in the Bosphorus, or throw a ball into a rubber basket for a prize. Hawkers selling live bunnies and chicks plied their wares beside hawkers peddling fake wooden snakes on strings. The bunnies and chicks looked freaked out by the snakes. I was sympathetic: they did slither in a disturbingly lifelike way.
Sally was at the Ferris wheel at precisely 7:30, dressed in denim overalls that made her look as if she’d just arrived from milking the cows. She was carrying a miserable-looking turtle in a plastic bag filled with water. When she saw me she waved, then walked up to me. “Hey,” she said softly. She gave me a light pat on the arm. “Glad you found it okay. How are you?” Her gentle tone of voice took me aback. I wasn’t prepared for that: I’d been expecting a brisk, professional, spylike encounter.
“I’m okay,” I said. The turtle was hurling himself frantically at the sides of the plastic bag, paddling his flippers like a windmill. His little reptile face looked more furious than frightened.
“This must be tough on you,” she said.
I searched her face for any sign of insincerity, a cold mask behind those sympathetic words, but I didn’t see one. “I’m fine.” I shrugged. I didn’t want to talk about my feelings.
“Want to walk a bit?” she asked.
“Fine.” I wondered if she wanted to keep moving so she could see if anyone was following us, then wondered how the hell you’d ever know in these crowds. There were thousands of people on the boardwalk, strolling and eating and inspecting the goods strewn across the pavement—clusters of nargile pipes, yo-yos, toy cars, balloons, carpets, plastic dolls, cheap crap of every variety.
“How are you feeling about what we talked about?” she asked as we walked.
“I want to know more about what he does on the Internet.”
“Beg pardon?” Once again, it was hard for us to hear each other. Across the street, a huge mob had gathered for an open-air concert with acrobats; parents lifted their children onto their shoulders to see. Through the windows of some kind of club overlooking the water, I could see men in uniform entertaining women in strapless dresses.
“You told me you knew what books he looked at on Amazon. What else does he do?”
“I don’t remember, off the top of my head. He looks at a lot of archaeology stuff. Why?”
“Is he writing to anyone else?”
“You mean, the way he writes to you? Are you asking if he has another girlfriend? No. He doesn’t.”
She had no reason to lie about that—not one that I could think of, anyway. If Arsalan was corresponding with other women, she would probably tell me. It would make me less likely to care what happened to him.
We walked without speaking for a few moments. The stairs between the boardwalk and the water were covered with woven carpets and embroidered cushions. Teenaged girls—some in head-scarves, some in tiny tight sweaters—had come out to flirt with the teenaged boys who were hanging out on the steps, playing Turkish folk songs on their guitars. “Let’s sit down,” I said, spotting two empty cushions.
Sally acquiesced, setting the turtle beside her. Across the black water, I could see the turrets and clock tower of the massive Hay-darpa sa train station. Arsalan had once told me the train to Teheran left from that station once a week. From Teheran you could connect to Isfahan.
“What makes you so sure he wants to speak to you?” I asked. I wasn’t sure what I expected her to say.
She looked as if she were thinking it over, trying to decide what she could tell me. Finally she said, “He needs our help.”
“With what?” What kind of help could he need? Was he in trouble?
“I’m just not at liberty to discuss that.”
“How do you know he needs your help?”
“Claire—” she said, and didn’t finish. At last she asked, “What difference would it make?”
It would make all the difference, I thought. But I knew she wouldn’t tell me. I watched the families who had come out for the evening with their children to sit on the cushions and watch the view. Near us, a woman swathed in a black hijab was trying to keep her hyperactive toddler under control. He was picking up and flinging the contents of his diaper bag with loud gleeful shrieks.
I didn’t know if I believed her. I had no faith in the competence of the CIA. I had no idea what Arsalan would want me to do. It was not his fault that the Iranian regime was barbaric. It was not hisfault that his government hated us and was building the Bomb. I studied Sally’s big freckled face. “Claire,” she said, “I can promise you—”
Suddenly, the toddler shrieked piercingly, and we both turned in the direction of the noise. “Oh, no!” Sally exclaimed. He had picked up the bag with the turtle. “No! Hayir!” She reached out to grab it back, but she wasn’t fast enough. It all happened in a split second. The child hurled the bag to the ground. The bag exploded. The turtle skedaddled. “Shit—find him!” Sally cried, dropping to her knees. The child’s mortified mother grabbed him by the hand and began shouting at him while apologizing plaintively to Sally in rapid Turkish, getting right in Sally’s way. The kid started crying hysterically. Sally was on the ground, feeling around for the turtle, but in the dark and the crowds and the chaos, she couldn’t see him; he was too small and too fast. I couldn’t see him either—he was probably in the Bosphorus already. At last, after crawling and patting the ground in every direction, she looked up at me. “Where could he have go
ne?” she asked helplessly. I noticed again how big her teeth were. She had never looked more to me like a giant rabbit. I watched the whole incident with horror, realizing that my fate and Arsalan’s would be in the hands of this frantic, incompetent woman who was on the ground on all fours searching for an errant reptile. I looked around too, but it was hopeless: the turtle had taken the Midnight Express.
So why, you might ask, did I agree to help her?
I agreed because however much I disliked Sally, she was right.
I knew what was at stake.
BACK IN PARIS, AGAIN
I have been Your lover and been with You a thousand times; Yet each time you see me, Your question is always “Who is he?”
—HAFEZ
CHAPTER SEVEN
Is the Central Intelligence Agency really as bursting with ninnies as is thought by many, including, it would seem, by Claire Berlinski? . . . It’s hard to believe America could have averted another 9/11 or similar calamity—so far, at least—if our intelligence providers had been quite as dimwitted as the book suggests.
—DAVID KLINGHOFFER,
reviewing Loose Lips for National Review
Imran was nearly a half hour late, which irritated me immensely, not only because Imran, I well knew, was carrying seven timepieces but because he had promised to bring an eggbeater with him on the Eurostar from London. I would have called him, but he didn’t carry a cell phone. Imran refused to carry anything made of plastic. The other guests would be arriving in thirty minutes. The lasagnas were in the oven—one meat and one vegetarian, for Lynne—and the Caesar salad needed only to be dressed. The wine was chilling. The table was set. But I hadn’t even started on the mousse. It seemed to me urgent beyond measure that I begin whipping the hell out of those egg whites.
I checked myself in the mirror again, then looked out the window at the scurrying umbrellas on the Place Dauphine. The cobblestones were slick and shiny. It had been raining implacably since my return to Paris four days earlier, and the Seine was foul and turbid. Dr. Mostarshed had left my apartment in seemingly immaculate condition; nonetheless, I had spent every minute since my return scrubbing and sterilizing it. When I took the sheets Dr. Mostarshed had used to the Laundromat to boil them, a car had rounded the corner and sprayed me with puddle-mud; I had returned with my jeans soaked.
Samantha and Lynne had been in Paris since that morning, staying at a romantic hotel on the Île St.-Louis. I had not yet met them. It had been easy to convince Imran to come; for him, it was only a three-hour trip, and he always enjoyed coming to Paris to shop for badger-hair shaving brushes. Samantha had required a bit more coaxing. Paris, I suggested to her at last, would be the ideal place to break the news to Lynne. It was the City of Love, after all. Lynne was sure to be too overwhelmed with the romance to focus on the little details. Samantha, grasping at any hope, thought it might be worth a shot; she had frequent-flier miles she had to use before they expired, anyway. She invited Lynne, and Lynne accepted, coyly telling her she would bring her best lingerie.
I would be the only one at the table who knew why Sally was really there. As far as everyone else was concerned, she was someone I’d met in a café in Istanbul who had come to Paris for a weekend holiday. Nor did anyone but me know the truth about Samantha. (Except for Imran, to whom I’d written about her, and Arsalan, to whom I’d also written about her, recounting the whole story, and Sally, to whom I’d also told the story, on one of our runs. So I suppose, actually, everyone but Lynne knew. But Samantha didn’t know they knew—I had promised to keep her secret. How was I supposed to know we’d all wind up like this together?)
The doorbell rang. About time, I thought, wiping my hands on my apron and preparing to chastise Imran for his tardiness. But when I opened the door it was Sally, which infuriated me. “You’re early,” I said pointedly. She was also inappropriately dressed. She was wearing that dowdy blue pinstripe consular officer suit again. This was a dinner party in Paris. Why did she look like some frumpy government employee? Didn’t they teach them anything about fashion at the Farm? Charlene, I thought, would never have made that mistake. I was wearing a black silk chiffon party frock with tiny rhinestones on the lace-up corset bodice, chandelier earrings, and my highest-heeled black sandals. Not only did Sally look matronly; she had succeeded in making me look overdressed. “You look wonderful,” she said, and handed me a bottle of wine. It was something cheap. I thanked her and stuck it under the sink.
“What a nice apartment,” she said. “It’s so cozy.”
“Yep.” I busied myself lighting the candles on the dinner table. She looked out the window. The doorbell rang again. It was Imran, at last—in a Haggarts tweed shooting suit with a waistcoat and matching tweed cap. “Where have you been?” I hissed. “You were supposed to be here ages ago.”
“There was a holdup on the train. Some grizzled chain-smoking multiple addict with anxiety up to his ears threatened to immolate himself in the station.” He kissed me on the cheek and handed me a bag with an eggbeater in it. “You look lovely.”
I looked at him, baffled by his outfit. “Are you going fox hunting?”
“Don’t you like it? I just bought the waistcoat today in St. James. I ordered a Gladstone bag in Havana brown from my luggage maker to go with it.” He spotted Sally, who had come to the door. “Hullo, I’m Imran,” he said in a basso voice, extending his hand.
“Sally,” she said. They pumped hands. “How do you do.”
“Very well indeed,” said Imran, smoothing his thick black hair. “An enjoyable day at work. Six compassionate hours. And you?”
“Fine, thanks,” she said, and smiled her friendly rabbit smile. “What kind of work do you do?”
“I run an entity called The Applied Philosophy Centre.” He said this grandly. “Which is, essentially, my Harley Street consulting room. The Centre offers cognitive, gestalt, psychodynamic, and philosophical approaches to emotional wellness. I am founder, chairman, treasurer, decanter filler, and dustbin emptier, with special responsibility for purchasing tissues and air freshener.” He raised himself slightly on his toes. “I hope to be promoted next year.” He lowered his spectacles and peered over them curiously. “And you?”
“Oh, I—”
“Why don’t you both sit down?” I interrupted. “Come in, come in. Just leave the umbrella in the hall; no one will take it. Can I get you a glass of wine?” I ushered them toward the old futon I’d dragged up from my storage room. I’d put it on cinder blocks and propped it up against the radiator to serve as a couch. With the futon, the folding table, and all the extra chairs I’d borrowed from my father, my studio looked cramped and tiny.
“Yes, and I’ll take a jug of water, too, thank you,” said Imran. “At least two pints.” Imran took hydration very seriously.
“I’d love a glass of wine,” said Sally. I went to the kitchen and opened the Gewürztraminer. When I returned, Imran was explaining to Sally his schedule for the coming eighteen hours. From 10:00 the next morning, when the stores opened, until noontime, when he would pause for light refreshment, he would look through the Marais for a particular shaving brush, one with bristles from the neck of the badger, not the back, gently tapered to a wooden grip made with finely grained Finnish pine and oiled to ensure its water resistance. After refreshing himself, he would shop for marigold-scented shaving cream at his favorite bespoke perfumer, whose boutique was orthogonal to the rue St.-Honoré. “You sound quite the collector,” Sally said politely.
“Quite. My mother was an exceptionally anhedonic woman. She refused to spend money on luxury consumption. No meals out, no theater tickets, no vacations. I make a point now of spending an amount more than appropriate to my income bracket on shaving equipment, antique watches, and handmade shoes. It’s a compensation for her inadequate mothering.”
“It is? Does it work?” asked Sally, with what sounded like genuine interest. Before he could answer, the doorbell rang again. My heart was thumping so stridently that I was
amazed Sally and Imran could hear each other over it. From the bathroom I overheard a snippet of their conversation; Sally was saying, “I must say she sounds quite a bit like my father. My father—”
Sam was standing on the doorstep holding a bouquet of carnations mixed with baby’s breath. His arm was draped lightly over Lynne’s shoulders. “Bonsoir!” they said in unison, his voice deep and resonant, hers high and girlish.
I was stunned. They didn’t look weird at all.
• • •
When Samantha had written to me about Lynne, I had asked myself repeatedly, How could this woman be so obtuse? I had thought it impossible that any normal woman could fail to notice, upon close inspection, that her boyfriend was in fact a girlfriend. But Sam did not seem to me, as he had in his photographs, even slightly effeminate. He must have practiced a lot since they were taken. He was a head taller than Lynne, fleshy but not fat, dapper in a navy suit with a red tie and suspenders. He looked every bit a man—from his shoes and his watch to his posture and his short gelled hedgerow of hair. His facial hair looked just like a real five-o’clock shadow. And were those Samantha’s real eyebrows? Not only were they bushy in a masculine way, they wriggled like male eyebrows. “Sam! Come in, come in!” I remembered to urge, and turning to the angular woman beside him added, “You must be Lynne. I’m Claire.” I kissed her cheek, and then Sam’s. His stubble felt just like stubble—he even smelled like a man; in fact, he smelled just like a British naval officer with whom I’d once had a summer fling.
Lynne was even more consumptive than she’d appeared in her photograph, a pallid, goose-bumpy creature with insect limbs, dressed in a short plaid skirt and pointy-toed alligator boots. “Come in, have a seat,” I urged again. “How thoughtful of you,” I said to Sam, taking the carnations. “Let me take your coat,” I said to Lynne. “Who wants wine? We all do, don’t we. I’ll get us some. It’s just about chilled. German. I have a French wine, too, if anyone wants one. Well, of course we do; we’re in France. So much good wine here. Not like Istanbul—that’s not a great wine-drinking city! I’ll just pour us a few glasses. You must still be so jet-lagged. Air travel is the worst. I’m always a zombie for days after that flight. I can’t sleep on planes, ever; I always look at people who seem to be sleeping so soundly in those little seats and wonder—”
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