by Leo Gher
It was early afternoon, and they had reached the turquoise waters of the Aegean. Tali was standing next to the railing, admiring the tranquil sea, when she quipped, “This trip is going to be fun.” But her fervor fell on deaf ears. Conor, on a well-pillowed sun-lounger, was sound asleep. She wanted to wake him, but for the moment, she enjoyed watching him. He looks so different with his eyes closed. Tali thought she could see Zarifa in him: her delicate bones, her pale skin, and her broad, heavy eyebrows. When Conor was awake, his eyes dominated his face and personality. Why this heavy burden? She wondered. He deserves a young man’s distractions: skiing in the Caucasus, shooting wild boar in the highlands, boating on the Caspian with me.
As she felt the warm sun and gentle breeze, Tali’s mind, like that of so many women of her age, drifted to notions of marriage. She imagined a quiet home away from the hubbub of Baku, and children, of course, a boy and a girl. But then she remembered certain discussions with her girlfriends, dreams of the idyllic life of Muslim wives. She thought them nightmares, really: stressful images of confinement, family obligation, and struggles to attain a high-ranking position among the elite families. Tali had rebelled against such ideas. But nagging at her every now and then was the question, will we ever marry? It was something she thought about from time to time but kept to herself.
The Corinthian’s first port of call was Canakkale, a city on the southern coast of the Dardanelles, made famous by the story of Hero and Leander. Today, it is primarily a tourist attraction for those who wish to visit the archaeological site of ancient Troy. There is even a wooden horse on the seafront. But such adventures require a small vessel like the Carpathian to navigate the shallow coastlines and estuaries along the river. Three thousand years ago, Troy’s location near the Aegean Sea, the Sea of Marmara, and the Black Sea made it a hub for military ventures and international trade.
The next day, Conor and Tali signed up for a shore excursion that took them a few miles to the southwest to Hisarlik, the Turkish name for the Trojan ruins. They hired a local guide, a guy named Bart – not his real name, but his customers were mostly English speakers so Barkant would not do in casual conversations. He had an old, banged-up Jeep that made sounds like a mad donkey. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s very reliable and perfect for exploring off-road archaeological sites.” They were up for an adventure, so they said okay.
Bart first took them inland across the Homeric plain to the place where the Achaeans had bivouacked near the mouth of the Karamenderes. “This is where they beached their ships and set up base camp,” Bart explained. “They believed it would be a short war, maybe take a month, maybe two at the most.”
Conor, taken aback by their guide’s words, turned to Tali, “Those are the exact words that Guliyev used for the war he is planning.” Tali shook her head in disgust.
Bart pointed to the east and continued, “The city stood on that hill, across the plain of Scamander, and that’s where most of the battles of the Trojan War took place.”
There wasn’t much to see. A visitor had to visualize the mêlée that took place three millennia ago: young men around campfires boasting of victories in Thrace and Macedonia; old widows railing at the death of kings; maidens bemoaning vanished heroes who were starved to death in dungeons; the sages of the day grieving for the insane queen, who believed she was formed from ice crystals. Yes, the spirits of the place traveled forward through the ages, meandering, mutable, still elusive.
Tali was somewhat skeptical of Bart’s story, “How do you know that?”
“In recent days, archaeologists have been studying the terrain, and have identified the ancient coastline, which has since been filled with alluvial material,” Bart explained, docent-like. “We are told the results basically corroborate the Homeric topography of Troy.”
Tali was impressed. “You’ve done your homework.”
The guide replied, “Not my work, just repeating what the scholars have reported.”
After their day trip, Conor and Tali went back to the Corinthian to clean the dust off their boots and get dressed. They decided to return to shore for dinner, so Conor asked the customer services clerk for a recommendation. She said the Seaside Diner was delightful and had a grand view of the Dardanelles. When they arrived, they asked for a patio table so they could watch the sunset. Like Istanbul, Canakkale was a city that reached across two continents. They could see Europe across the waters to the north, and from their high vantage point, Conor and Tali noticed a spirited ruckus just below. “What’s going on?” Conor asked the waiter.
“Hero’s Rush,” the fellow said. “Young men replicating the legendary swim of Leander across the Hellespont to prove their love.” The crowd began shouting when the first swimmer arrived on shore to claim the championship.
Tali asked, “But in the story, didn’t Leander drown?”
“No one drowns these days, miss. It wouldn’t be good for business.” Tali laughed and began clapping with the rest of the onlookers.
Conor, however, was silent, staring intently at the sidewalk below.
Tali noticed. “What is it?” But he didn’t respond. “Conor, what’s the matter?”
“That woman,” he mumbled.
“There are hundreds of people, Conor. Give me a better clue.”
“That same woman we saw at the Four Seasons,” he said, and then he tried to draw Tali’s attention to a sizeable gathering near the sidewalk where the champion was walking. “There, the tall woman in the tweed jacket, hair pulled into a tight bun.”
Tali still could not find the woman, and then she disappeared altogether. Frustrated, Tali threw up her hands. “You’re concerned? Why?”
“Probably nothing,” he said. “I guess I see troubles everywhere.”
“It’s this thing with Guliyev, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied. “And what bothers me most is that I haven’t heard from Rufet in several days.”
“Is that strange?”
“He usually checks in regularly.”
“But you said he was hunting.”
“Right,” Conor said. “Off on a mountain somewhere, and he can’t get an Internet connection.” Just then, the waiter interrupted with the meal. They forgot about the woman Conor called the Russian and enjoyed a relaxing evening.
After soaking up the sun in Athens and Mykonos, the Corinthian headed for Kusadasi, which was the jumping-off point for visiting the classical ruins at Ephesus. Many vacationers opted for the powdery, white-sand beaches on a low, rocky peninsula that jutted out into the Mediterranean, but Conor and Tali, along with eight other shipmates, decided to take the day trip offered by one of the tour operators. They joined a group of 18, and at 8:30, they all boarded the bus for the leisurely, 40-minute ride from the sea to Selcuk, where the ancient sites were located. Though Conor and Tali had vacationed on the Turkish Riviera many times, neither had visited Ephesus, nor any of the other historical attractions.
As was her hobby, Tali began reviewing the tour pamphlet. “Listen, Conor. The guidebook says: The Ephesus Day Tour includes calls on the ancient city Ephesus, once the economic center of the western Anatolia; the House of Virgin Mary, where Jesus’s mother spent her last days, the Temple of Artemis, which is known as one of the seven wonders of the Ancient World, and the famous Library of Celsus.”
“Library of Celsus?” Conor was bowled over. “Rufet once told me there was a famous Azeri inscription on the back wall of that library. But he said it was difficult to find. You have to climb the rampart.”
“Will they allow that?”
“Don’t know,” said Conor, “but we can ask one of the locals to help us when we get there.” The Kedar Bey liked to break the rules on occasion, liked to find out-of-the-way adventure, liked to see the unusual.
The Corinthian tour group arrived at the Celsus Library at 11 am – when the crowds were at their peak, maybe 300 peop
le jammed into the courtyard in front of the remaining edifice. Tali listened to the guide explain: “The library was planned by the Roman architect Vitruoya, and was constructed on a nine-step pedestal, leading up to the entries. The four sculptures embody the four excellences – Wisdom, Knowledge, Intelligence, and Virtue.”
Conor shouted at Tali, “Let’s go!” He had found his local, a guy hawking bottled drinking water. For a fee, he promised to take them around the buildings and out of sight so they could climb the outer wall to find the famous Azeri inscription.
As the sun approached its zenith, a lone motorcyclist appeared at the commercial gate behind the Library of Celsus. There were two armed men at the entry, one standing and the other sitting on a bar chair next to the armature that raised and lowered the gate. The standing guard flagged the rider to stop. “You cannot enter here,” he barked. He was a private security guard hired by the Ministry of Tourism, not Turkish military.
The rider stopped, flipped the helmet visor upward, and zipped open a bulky, black leather jacket. It was difficult to see the face of the rider, but the voice was that of a woman. She removed a map from inside the jacket. “I guess I’m lost,” she said. She spoke crude Turkish with a Russian accent and then offered the map to the guard. Take it, she thought, take it.
The seated guard turned away momentarily because he saw another group of cyclists coming up the road. The first man reached for the woman’s map, letting his Kalashnikov fall to his side. It was a fatal mistake. The rider reached inside her jacket and pulled out a Maxim 9 handgun. Ka-ping, ka-ping. The report of the two shots was almost entirely muffled by the integrated suppressor. Both men were dead before their bodies crumpled to the ground.
The assassin opened the gate as the other four motorcycles, each with a sidecar, approached. There were six men in the unit; the two empty sidecars concealed a cache of weapons. Together, the seven drove to the backside of the historic site, parked their motorcycles, and left them running for a quick get-away. Next, they hustled up the hill that overlooked the Library’s courtyard. While the assassin put her Bergara B-14 long rifle together, the other six began assembling other weaponry: AK-12 assault rifles, mortar tubes and shells, and rocket-propelled grenades.
This would be a full-out terrorist attack on one of the icons of Western culture.
“Alex, what are you waiting for?” demanded the gang leader.
After affixing the Bergara’s scope, the assassin began searching the packed Library courtyard. “I must find my target,” she responded.
“Time is limited, Alex. We cannot execute the attack without you,” he urged. “Take out the soldiers, now!”
The plan was simple enough, and the following week, newspaper headlines would read: “Al Qaeda terrorists attack European tourists!” They would be wrong, of course. Only two people knew that it was cover for the assassination of the Kedar Bey.
It was already too late to take out the guards. The terrorists had been spotted, and a volley of bullets came whizzing through the scattered stones where they were hiding. If it weren’t for the sun glaring directly into their eyes, the Turkish security would have had clear shots at the intruders.
“Damn it, get moving!” the leader shouted. As rounds ricocheted in all directions, there was a tense scramble of warriors searching for cover along the wall. The fighters had been given a direct order in the middle of chaos and were now engaging targets below.
A moment later, Alex found her target. Azreal, and there is the cousin too. They were at the far corner of the Library, in an archway, talking to one of the locals. She took quick aim and fired, but missed. Suddenly, they were on the move.
Behind the assassin, all hell was breaking loose. From the far end of the wall, two RPG operators were ready to launch grenades at the armored personnel carriers stationed at the Harbor and Marble Street entries. Ka-boom, followed by cracking of compressed air, the first one was tracking on target. Ka-boom, the second round was off. An instant later, the two vehicles exploded, roaring into flames and killing the soldiers nearby. The RPG operators dropped their launchers and raced away up the hill toward the others. The trigger flash and the blue-gray smoke gave a clear indication of the launch location, but now the gang’s escape was assured.
Next, the ping of a mortar shell leaving its tube and the simultaneous burp-burp-burp… burp-burp-burp of machine gun fire was deafening to everyone close by. Utter panic permeated the courtyard in front of the Library. When the mortar shells crashed into the crowd, there was a whoosh of sparks, like bottle rockets filling the air. No fewer than 50, maybe as many as 75 civilians lay dead or bleeding to death.
It would not be the end of the carnage.
But the assassin had missed her target. Aggravated, Alex shouted, “Keep firing for the next five minutes, then head back to the rendezvous. I’m going to chase down Kedar and his bitch. Meet you there in six minutes.”
Conor and Tali followed their new best friend. “Let’s get out of here,” he bellowed. “Follow me!” Conor nodded, grabbed Tali’s hand, and all three raced toward the stone wall at the back of the Library.
“Can you get us out of here?” said Conor. “I’ll pay you 1,000 Lira if you do.”
Tali stopped abruptly. “Conor, we don’t know this man. He could be leading us into out-and-out danger.”
“We have no choice, Tali.”
“Hurry!” The man shouted. “This way.”
As they turned the corner, they saw motorcycles stationed at the back of the Library. Crazy luck. Conor and Tali hid behind a pine tree while the street hustler set off to unravel the mystery. After a minute, he shouted, “They’re running!” Then the man motioned for Conor and Tali to hurry. “They belong to the terrorists,” the man said. “They left them running for a fast getaway.”
“You know the way?” Tali shrieked.
“Yes, just follow me.” Conor and Tali chose different bikes, and before he mounted his own cycle, the local man took out a blade and slashed the tires of the other bikes. Then he hopped on, and they were off along the commercial road. Almost at the same moment, Alex appeared at the far corner of the back of the Library. She saw three motorcycles racing for the exit. They were at least 300 yards away and moving fast. It was an impossible shot; there was no use even trying. There will be another time, she reasoned.
Instead, she hustled over to the two parked motorcycles. The tires of one were entirely flat, the other, only the front tire. It was decision time, so Alex sat down and waited for the gang members who had survived the bloody skirmish with Turk security. She barely had a moment. Seconds later, three men appeared. With their focus still on the pursuing soldiers, Alex killed them, one at a time. Then she hopped on the bike with the one reliable tire. It was a rough ride, but she managed to escape the carnage and the Turkish military.
When the trio of escapees reached the small town of Belevi, about 15 miles northeast of Ephesus, they stopped. They had been heading away from the Kusadasi port and their ship. Conor said, “We should separate.” Tali agreed and then began checking her smartphone for maps and directions.
The street hustler had no argument, “Okay, but you owe me 1,000.”
“Not a problem,” said Conor, as he reached into his wallet and took out two 500 Turkish Lira notes.
“What is your name, mister?”
Conor eyeballed the man incredulously, “Tartakov… we’re the Tartakovs from Grozny, in Chechnya.”
The man knew it was a lie, but he didn’t care. “I’m going south, into the country.” They thanked him, and he was off.
Tali said, “I have texted the pilot to pick us up in Izmir. No response yet.”
“How far is it?”
“Best I can tell, about 40 miles.”
Conor said, “I’ll text Rufet and tell him what has happened. He’ll know what to do.”
“There’s more to this than a terror
ist attack,” said Tali. “I have a bad feeling.”
“Me too. Now we have to get to London as soon as possible.”
“Text Mira and Rayna,” Tali urged. “Tell her she’s in great danger. Tell her to add security for Georghe and Seyfulla.”
“This is about the Dark Triad,” said Conor, “and the mess it has made… with us out of the way… well, you know.”
“Conor, should we warn Jake in the States?” Tali asked.
“Our first job is to get to London safely,” he replied. “We can deal with that in a day or two.”
Jake
Jake was Catholic, but he often wondered why. Long ago he’d given up his faith, but not its practice. Too used to the rhythms and rituals, he’d tell himself. His mother was Catholic and Polish, and that meant his entire family was umbilically tethered to St. Andrew the Apostle Parish and to the Archdiocese of Chicago. Maybe that’s why his father had had to get out of town. To keep his sanity, Tom Moynihan had spent most of his life in the Foreign Service, fighting terrorists – at least that’s what Jake supposed. As any kid might, Jake resented his father’s absence. Rightly or wrongly, he imagined that Tom preferred spending time with his other son, and he fumed about it regularly. Jake had seen his brother’s American passport once; it read Conor Moynihan. Conor had a second one, and it read Azreal Kedar, Azerbaijani.
When Tom died seven years ago – in Azerbaijan – Jake was filled with anger. But above all, he was mad at Conor and his alien, inexplicable family. Tom Moynihan was buried over there, and that was a mystery to the sixteen-year-old. So Jake Moynihan vowed to find out why and to learn more about his brother, his birthright, and the land where his father’s bones remain.
10
Jake and Lindy
A half a world away from Azerbaijan, Jake Moynihan and Lindy Bedrosian had boarded the Amtrak Saluki at Chicago’s Homewood Station. The train was now picking up speed past Kankakee, heading south through the fallow cornfields of central Illinois. Ignoring the bumpy ride and the blurry country scene outside, Lindy turned to her boyfriend and asked, “So, just where is this ghost town, this LaRue, Illinois? I cannot find it on any map,” she said. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”